NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs:Five

2016-10-29T21:00:50Z

Vhaeryth:

{{Log
|who=Catling, N'rov
|what=N'rov looks in on the injured after the Fort Games. Catling's wrenched her elbow, among other things.
|where=Infirmary, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=27
|month=13
|turn=42
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.10.11
|quote="Was it worth it?"
|mentions=Mirinda
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon N'rov brim.jpg,
|log=Who needs faux Fall to be in the fall? The extra-cold air is an extra test, and so it is that in the sevenday before Turnover*, it's examination time. True to their usual ways, Onyx flies with several of the larger wings in turn, including an even snappier matchup with Sandstone and some search-and-rescue maneuvers. Of those larger wings, Slate performs with steady competency, second only to Jasper who's more than made up for their last games' debacle; Carnelian had wingrider Catling's elbow wrenched after attempting a difficult catch of a mis-thrown firestone sack (her Riyoth caught his first green a couple months ago at High Reaches, for anyone who's counting); and Flint and Sandstone have to intensify drills until the next Games, though no one does ''badly''. Drinks are on the house! 

* Some may wonder if the Weyrleaders are being stingy with their celebrations, holding them in such close succession; others just glory in having an 'elevated mood' for that much longer; still others note that a party is a party, and leathers just aren't the same as dresses for dancing, so ''there''.

----

She's been tended, Catling, and been helped into some regular clothing, since she is awkward one-handed. She's propped up in a bed and snuggled in blankets, looking rather pale. Her eyes are half-closed as she converses with Riyoth who has finally settled after having tried to get inside no less than five times. Her riding leathers are still draped on the chair beside her, as are Riyoth's straps; even injured, she takes care of him first. Now, though, she relaxes, or ought to be.

Dark metal, clear glass, faceted light: Vhaeryth's awareness stays even with uninjured Riyoth, dragon of his Weyr, a fraction that's one part of the whole. He hasn't encouraged Riyoth to settle, though surely he's noted with some interest how long it's taken; he doesn't now give warning when his rider saunters into the white-washed cavern and stops only to stare down at the girl.

It takes a moment for Catling to notice the Weyrleader, and when she does, her eyes snap fully open, and she lifts her hand in salute. It is her injured arm, of course, and she stifles a yelp, so that only a miniscule squeak escapes. Her breath hisses out, and she offers a wan, somewhat queasy smile. "Hello, sir," she murmurs.

He stares at her a few moments longer, gray eyes improbably placid, then returns that smile with a moment's flash of grin. "You caught it," N'rov says. "Was it worth it?"

"Was it?" Catling looks down a moment. "Yes and no. No because it is a preventable injury that will make duties rather difficult for a while. And if I am needed for something, well. Here I am and here's this arm..." She shrugs. "On the yes side, I have learned how *not* to do something, and have a good idea on what to do to correct it. Though part of it is.... I just felt suddenly off-balance." She sighs and looks down. "I'm sorry, sir."

While she talks, N'rov makes his way to the chair, and now starts rifling her straps with a knowing eye. "Off-balance?" he checks even as he checks them, noting the stitching and buckles but also any signs of wear.

"Aye sir. Almost like I'd been spinning around, but not exactly like that. It was only a brief thing, but it caught me off-guard." Catling, too, looks over at the straps. They are well-made, supple and smoothed to softness on the outside. They are also well-oiled, and the buckles gleam. Much more working of them would likely be an obsession, but as it is, they do not seem to be the culprit.

Though their quality must be clear at first glance, N'rov doesn't stop; he sees them through their entire brown-sized length, in case. As he does, "Felt that before? Caught yourself a cold, Catling? In Pass," he says consideringly, "we'd have to fly through it."

"No, I don't think it's a cold. I haven't had the sniffles or a cough. I've been tired and queasy off and on, but not sick." atling shrugs her shoulders. "And I was trying to fly through it. I promise you...." She draws in a slow breath. "I'll learn how to keep focus better."

"Credit," the bronzerider does determine, "for trying." Gray eyes cut towards where a journeyman healer's approaching. Perhaps it's an excuse N'rov extends, "Performing can bring nerves, in some. We expect them in initial encounters, but they can surprise us even after."

"I don't recall feeling terribly nervous." Catling frowns slightly, shaking her head. "I've felt some queasy off and on today, but that's...." She shrugs, falling silent as the healer comes closer.

The healer looks down at the young brownrider, then up at N'rov. He raises a brow, then clears his throat. "I understand you had some difficulties with the soup when you came in.... how long have you been feeling queasy? A few weeks?" For Catling answers in a bare whisper, that he asks for the repetition. "Yes, just sometimes. I see. And you're tired more than expected?" His lips twitch a little at the squeaky yes. "Have you had to use the necessary more often of late?" At this the girl squawks and turtles her head, barely managing a nod. The healer looks over at the weyrleader.

Said weyrleader contributes, "Speak up, Catling, there's a girl." N'rov gives the other man a wry glance, then proceeds to lounge against the wall next to the chair quite as though he belongs there, holding those very straps. "Do we ask about ''consistency'' next?"

"Secretions, consistency, and monthly bleeding, yes," answers the healer with a wry chuckle. He sits down beside the bed, palpitating the arm, and then bending his head to listen to Catling's answers. What she answers isn't necessarily loud enough for the weyrleader to hear, but the healer doesn't exactly relent. "Are your breasts--" The girl squeaks again, and the healer glances at N'rov. "Newer rider, holdbred, isn't she."

"She is," says the bronzerider as though he weren't holdbred himself, a tinge of 'what can one do?' in N'rov's easy and very Bollian baritone. "Her dragon has almost two Turns, but she can only be five or so herself."

"Five?" Catling's head lifts; that, at least, is enough to draw her out. "I have over seventeen turns, sir. Sirs." Yet she squirms a little as the journeyman examines her belly, though this may be more from discomfort or ticklishness than embarrassment. "And I ask pardon; it's just that this.... it's so.... I'm just--"

"Pregnant," finishes the journeyman.

As the healer examines her, it's not that N'rov looks away, but his focus drifts with interest just beyond the bed: as though a new set of straps were hanging right... ''there''. And then he laughs on that last word, and looks back, dark brows aslant in silent hilarity. "No, no, she can't be."

"Me, no, I... me? I can't be...." Catling blinks her eyes, looking shocked. She sinks back against the pillows, her good hand coming up to cover her mouth. "I mean, when Riyoth.... but...."

The healer nods. "Yes. That sounds about right." Then he looks at the Weyrleader, his own eyes crinkling with amusement. "Is there a reason she can't be, Weyrleader?"

"She's five," N'rov tells him with a shrug. "Look at her." He does, bemused and avuncular, and begins to loop her straps back so they'll behave. "How far along would you say, Journeyman? Twins or triplets?"

"Well, that catch was what, two months ago?" the healer asks Catling. When she nods, he nods and begins to palpitate again. "So, two months, N'rov, I would say." He tilts his head, then nods. "It's too early to say, and with her size, your size, Catling, it's hard to judge. A bit larger than expected, but right now...." He shrugs his shoulders. "It bears monitoring. At any rate, avoid between for the now."

"Just as well you did your elbow in, then. Unless you wanted to lose it," N'rov observes, stepping forward to replace the straps and, not coincidentally, get a better view of the girl's expression.

Catling looks nothing short of shocked. Her eyes are wide and her face is quite pale. She blinks once, twice, then shakes her head, looking over at the Weyrleader. "Lose it? Oh, no. No, I don't want to. I want the baby." Her lips twitch into an incredulous smile. "I... I had no idea...." Then she licks her lips, unsure of his reaction.

"Then you'll report to our Weyrwoman," N'rov says easily, and shares a glance with the healer who need not, after all, persuade her to keep the child to the Weyr's benefit. "Fly with Citrine while you can," and with that he spreads his hands, the chair's leathern contents replaced. "Carnelian is coming; you can explain, and I don't even ''anticipate'' yelling. I've a couple of singeings to check on myself." He gives them both brisk nods, then steps away to look in on his other riders... until, with his pause, there's one more thing. "And the sire is?"

"I...." Catling flushes. "The greenrider... had his own partner. So I.... Well. There was a circle of riders." She clears her throat. "I didn't catch the name of the man. It didn't seem important at the time. And he slipped out before I woke up. He was.... erm. Tall. Taller than you a bit, I think. Broad. Hair like straw." She reddens.

One brow rakes up; "Unusual," N'rov opines of the greenrider, though that brow is for ''her''. "I assign you the job of tracking him down. You must know someone there, or know someone who knows someone; envision the man, and someone's bound to recognize him. You may leave out, of course, ''extraneous'' details." His grin is quick. "Of course, if he's not from there, it might take longer... but it'll give Riyoth something to do while he waits for you. How many months ''can'' it take?" The tip of his invisible hat mimes 'good luck.'

"His partner was very nice. He told us that they were in a relationship. One that didn't include female riders. I didn't mind. Even if it was odd." Catling shrugs. "I'll find out who it was. And I'll be able to fly, just not between?" This is for the healer, and then she smiles at N'rov. "Thank you sir. For.... everything."

''Crazy habit'', implies N'rov's shake of the head, but then it's almost unheard of; still, with her taking it all right, with her ''thanks'' for himself even, he gruffly clears his throat and sets out for the other casualties of the night.
}}

Logs:Five

2016-10-29T20:58:41Z

Vhaeryth: Created page with "{{Log |who=Catling, N'rov |what=N'rov looks in on the injured after the Fort Games. Catling's wrenched her elbow, among other things. |where=Infirmary, Fort Weyr |involves=For..."

{{Log
|who=Catling, N'rov
|what=N'rov looks in on the injured after the Fort Games. Catling's wrenched her elbow, among other things.
|where=Infirmary, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=27
|month=13
|turn=42
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.10.11
|quote="Was it worth it?"
|mentions=Mirinda,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov.png,
|log=Who needs faux Fall to be in the fall? The extra-cold air is an extra test, and so it is that in the sevenday before Turnover*, it's examination time. True to their usual ways, Onyx flies with several of the larger wings in turn, including an even snappier matchup with Sandstone and some search-and-rescue maneuvers. Of those larger wings, Slate performs with steady competency, second only to Jasper who's more than made up for their last games' debacle; Carnelian had wingrider Catling's elbow wrenched after attempting a difficult catch of a mis-thrown firestone sack (her Riyoth caught his first green a couple months ago at High Reaches, for anyone who's counting); and Flint and Sandstone have to intensify drills until the next Games, though no one does ''badly''. Drinks are on the house! 

* Some may wonder if the Weyrleaders are being stingy with their celebrations, holding them in such close succession; others just glory in having an 'elevated mood' for that much longer; still others note that a party is a party, and leathers just aren't the same as dresses for dancing, so ''there''.

----

She's been tended, Catling, and been helped into some regular clothing, since she is awkward one-handed. She's propped up in a bed and snuggled in blankets, looking rather pale. Her eyes are half-closed as she converses with Riyoth who has finally settled after having tried to get inside no less than five times. Her riding leathers are still draped on the chair beside her, as are Riyoth's straps; even injured, she takes care of him first. Now, though, she relaxes, or ought to be.

Dark metal, clear glass, faceted light: Vhaeryth's awareness stays even with uninjured Riyoth, dragon of his Weyr, a fraction that's one part of the whole. He hasn't encouraged Riyoth to settle, though surely he's noted with some interest how long it's taken; he doesn't now give warning when his rider saunters into the white-washed cavern and stops only to stare down at the girl.

It takes a moment for Catling to notice the Weyrleader, and when she does, her eyes snap fully open, and she lifts her hand in salute. It is her injured arm, of course, and she stifles a yelp, so that only a miniscule squeak escapes. Her breath hisses out, and she offers a wan, somewhat queasy smile. "Hello, sir," she murmurs.

He stares at her a few moments longer, gray eyes improbably placid, then returns that smile with a moment's flash of grin. "You caught it," N'rov says. "Was it worth it?"

"Was it?" Catling looks down a moment. "Yes and no. No because it is a preventable injury that will make duties rather difficult for a while. And if I am needed for something, well. Here I am and here's this arm..." She shrugs. "On the yes side, I have learned how *not* to do something, and have a good idea on what to do to correct it. Though part of it is.... I just felt suddenly off-balance." She sighs and looks down. "I'm sorry, sir."

While she talks, N'rov makes his way to the chair, and now starts rifling her straps with a knowing eye. "Off-balance?" he checks even as he checks them, noting the stitching and buckles but also any signs of wear.

"Aye sir. Almost like I'd been spinning around, but not exactly like that. It was only a brief thing, but it caught me off-guard." Catling, too, looks over at the straps. They are well-made, supple and smoothed to softness on the outside. They are also well-oiled, and the buckles gleam. Much more working of them would likely be an obsession, but as it is, they do not seem to be the culprit.

Though their quality must be clear at first glance, N'rov doesn't stop; he sees them through their entire brown-sized length, in case. As he does, "Felt that before? Caught yourself a cold, Catling? In Pass," he says consideringly, "we'd have to fly through it."

"No, I don't think it's a cold. I haven't had the sniffles or a cough. I've been tired and queasy off and on, but not sick." atling shrugs her shoulders. "And I was trying to fly through it. I promise you...." She draws in a slow breath. "I'll learn how to keep focus better."

"Credit," the bronzerider does determine, "for trying." Gray eyes cut towards where a journeyman healer's approaching. Perhaps it's an excuse N'rov extends, "Performing can bring nerves, in some. We expect them in initial encounters, but they can surprise us even after."

"I don't recall feeling terribly nervous." Catling frowns slightly, shaking her head. "I've felt some queasy off and on today, but that's...." She shrugs, falling silent as the healer comes closer.

The healer looks down at the young brownrider, then up at N'rov. He raises a brow, then clears his throat. "I understand you had some difficulties with the soup when you came in.... how long have you been feeling queasy? A few weeks?" For Catling answers in a bare whisper, that he asks for the repetition. "Yes, just sometimes. I see. And you're tired more than expected?" His lips twitch a little at the squeaky yes. "Have you had to use the necessary more often of late?" At this the girl squawks and turtles her head, barely managing a nod. The healer looks over at the weyrleader.

Said weyrleader contributes, "Speak up, Catling, there's a girl." N'rov gives the other man a wry glance, then proceeds to lounge against the wall next to the chair quite as though he belongs there, holding those very straps. "Do we ask about ''consistency'' next?"

"Secretions, consistency, and monthly bleeding, yes," answers the healer with a wry chuckle. He sits down beside the bed, palpitating the arm, and then bending his head to listen to Catling's answers. What she answers isn't necessarily loud enough for the weyrleader to hear, but the healer doesn't exactly relent. "Are your breasts--" The girl squeaks again, and the healer glances at N'rov. "Newer rider, holdbred, isn't she."

"She is," says the bronzerider as though he weren't holdbred himself, a tinge of 'what can one do?' in N'rov's easy and very Bollian baritone. "Her dragon has almost two Turns, but she can only be five or so herself."

"Five?" Catling's head lifts; that, at least, is enough to draw her out. "I have over seventeen turns, sir. Sirs." Yet she squirms a little as the journeyman examines her belly, though this may be more from discomfort or ticklishness than embarrassment. "And I ask pardon; it's just that this.... it's so.... I'm just--"

"Pregnant," finishes the journeyman.

As the healer examines her, it's not that N'rov looks away, but his focus drifts with interest just beyond the bed: as though a new set of straps were hanging right... ''there''. And then he laughs on that last word, and looks back, dark brows aslant in silent hilarity. "No, no, she can't be."

"Me, no, I... me? I can't be...." Catling blinks her eyes, looking shocked. She sinks back against the pillows, her good hand coming up to cover her mouth. "I mean, when Riyoth.... but...."

The healer nods. "Yes. That sounds about right." Then he looks at the Weyrleader, his own eyes crinkling with amusement. "Is there a reason she can't be, Weyrleader?"

"She's five," N'rov tells him with a shrug. "Look at her." He does, bemused and avuncular, and begins to loop her straps back so they'll behave. "How far along would you say, Journeyman? Twins or triplets?"

"Well, that catch was what, two months ago?" the healer asks Catling. When she nods, he nods and begins to palpitate again. "So, two months, N'rov, I would say." He tilts his head, then nods. "It's too early to say, and with her size, your size, Catling, it's hard to judge. A bit larger than expected, but right now...." He shrugs his shoulders. "It bears monitoring. At any rate, avoid between for the now."

"Just as well you did your elbow in, then. Unless you wanted to lose it," N'rov observes, stepping forward to replace the straps and, not coincidentally, get a better view of the girl's expression.

Catling looks nothing short of shocked. Her eyes are wide and her face is quite pale. She blinks once, twice, then shakes her head, looking over at the Weyrleader. "Lose it? Oh, no. No, I don't want to. I want the baby." Her lips twitch into an incredulous smile. "I... I had no idea...." Then she licks her lips, unsure of his reaction.

"Then you'll report to our Weyrwoman," N'rov says easily, and shares a glance with the healer who need not, after all, persuade her to keep the child to the Weyr's benefit. "Fly with Citrine while you can," and with that he spreads his hands, the chair's leathern contents replaced. "Carnelian is coming; you can explain, and I don't even ''anticipate'' yelling. I've a couple of singeings to check on myself." He gives them both brisk nods, then steps away to look in on his other riders... until, with his pause, there's one more thing. "And the sire is?"

"I...." Catling flushes. "The greenrider... had his own partner. So I.... Well. There was a circle of riders." She clears her throat. "I didn't catch the name of the man. It didn't seem important at the time. And he slipped out before I woke up. He was.... erm. Tall. Taller than you a bit, I think. Broad. Hair like straw." She reddens.

One brow rakes up; "Unusual," N'rov opines of the greenrider, though that brow is for ''her''. "I assign you the job of tracking him down. You must know someone there, or know someone who knows someone; envision the man, and someone's bound to recognize him. You may leave out, of course, ''extraneous'' details." His grin is quick. "Of course, if he's not from there, it might take longer... but it'll give Riyoth something to do while he waits for you. How many months ''can'' it take?" The tip of his invisible hat mimes 'good luck.'

"His partner was very nice. He told us that they were in a relationship. One that didn't include female riders. I didn't mind. Even if it was odd." Catling shrugs. "I'll find out who it was. And I'll be able to fly, just not between?" This is for the healer, and then she smiles at N'rov. "Thank you sir. For.... everything."

''Crazy habit'', implies N'rov's shake of the head, but then it's almost unheard of; still, with her taking it all right, with her ''thanks'' for himself even, he gruffly clears his throat and sets out for the other casualties of the night.
}}

Logs:Play

2016-08-28T22:37:57Z

Vhaeryth: Created page with "{{Log |who=Catling, J'stain, N'rov |what=The weather sucks, but weyrlings have to shadow Onyx anyway. |where=Hangout, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=16 |month=13 |turn=40..."

{{Log
|who=Catling, J'stain, N'rov
|what=The weather sucks, but weyrlings have to shadow Onyx anyway.
|where=Hangout, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=16
|month=13
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.08
|quote="What? Did you think you would ''escape'' shadowing us today?"
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov.png,
|log=It's not like anything's new about the weather, this snow seeming to last interminably, barring the sheer fury of the blizzard that broke earlier in the day. Most of the Weyr's dragons lurk in the hatching grounds, those who hadn't cleared out before it hit; Vhaeryth is one of them, nowhere near the sands but high on one of the topmost ledges. His rider mock-squints his way out of the nondescript door into the nondescript corridor, a gleam in his gaze and beer on his breath; eyeing the pair of weyrlings with interest, "What? Did you think you would ''escape'' shadowing us today?" Them. ''Onyx''.

"I wasn't sure what to think, sir," answers Catling. She's wearing what she normally wears to fly in, minus the outer gear. "Still am not, to be honest. She takes a step back at the scent of beer on the man's breath. "So... ermm..."

N'rov swings the door wide, the wave of his arm grand as well as hurry-it-up: there's ''room''. The room itself isn't grand, not at all; comfortable, yes, with its couches and a low table that might as well have been born to bear boots, and not so brightly lit. There are men, mostly, not all of Onyx but much of it; a bluerider with a hooked nose smiles impartially at girl and considerably taller boy before she whistles. There's ''also'' a dartboard. "Do you play?" is N'rov's question, prepared to shut the door on their haunches.

"I... ermm... play what?" asks Catling, tilting her head from one side to another. "I don't see any instruments...." She looks puzzled, and she scoots forwards a few paces. She smiles shyly at the bluerider, then clasps her hands behind her back. "I'm sorry.... I'm confused..."

"Darts?" inquires one. "Dice?" another. They aren't laughing with anything except their eyes. "''Cards''," grumbles a third. N'rov: "Mercy." ''Then'' there's laughing. "We do that," says the bronzerider, affably. He doesn't lock the door, but he does pull the tapestry across as a second shield. Then they're split, the boy herded away to talk with a few riders, Catling left with this side of the room's crew. The bluerider pats the seat of the couch, beside her.

"Ermm...." Catling moves over to the couch, self-conscious and shy, her cheeks reddening with embarrassment. "No, no, and the only cards I've ever used are for wool...." The flush deepens, and though she sits down, she also ducks her head. "I really.... I don't...."

"Wool," says one man, knowingly. "Wool?" another rider, oblivious. "Tell us about this wool," N'rov invites, dropping into an easy sprawl in the singleton seat across the way. "We'll do all the flaming and dashing about another day. Tomorrow, if the weather breaks."

"Wool. You know. It comes on ovines. You wash the ovines. You shear the ovines. You wash the fleece. You card it, you spin it, you weave it...." Catling shrugs her shoulders. "Mostly I did the washing the ovines, the washing the fleece, the carding." She bites her lips. The ovines were rather stupid, and not as gentle as some people think. But they obeyed me...."

"Convenient," remarks N'rov not quite beneath his breath, all affable humor. "But what's the carding part?" presses brownrider J'stain; he ''sounds'' serious. Earnest, even. "Are you good at it? What are you good at?" "Good ''for''," teases the bluerider of earlier. She's been in Onyx for a couple months, now, longer than some of those who go to and fro.

"Am I.... I.... erm...." Catling blinks, flinching a little at the 'good for'. "I'm good at.... ah... I don't know. I don't know what to measure my ability with, anyway. I...." She sighs. "My dragon likes me...."

They see that flinch, at once, though J'stain's now frowning as he tries to meet their gazes: they could be ''nicer''. "It's called, 'being realistic,'" N'rov murmurs to J'stain out loud rather than through their dragons. Still, the brownrider's not entirely reconciled, even when the bluerider says warmly, "Of course he does, dear." (Possibly, ''because'' she says it.) "No, really," J'stain asks now, "What's carding?" He bites back any further questions, one thing at a time.

"They're like brushes. Have you ever seen a brush for a canine? Sort of like that, but they're wider with longer handles. There are thin bristles, a little hooked, and they catch the wool. You take a big hank of it and you brush it out and you make the fibers into a mat and then they can be made into thread or felt of things...." Catling shrugs again. "It's easier to show than explain, really," she admits. And then she looks over at N'rov, her brows quirking. "Sir?"

"You don't have one hidden under your jacket to show us, do you," N'rov supposes, if more hopefully than rhetorically. J'stain looks relieved and even says, "Thanks. I've seen that. I think I have. When they're working on it and brush it and then bits of plant pop out?" (The bluerider: "You ''hope'' it's just plant.") "Would you learn how to weave if the weavers let you? Or do you like sweeps better?" N'rov's turn to ''not ask'', an amused slant to his mouth.

"I know the basics of weaving," admits Catling. "But my stepmother was...." Her voice trails off. "I don't have anything from home, except for the shoes I was wearing, a set of clothes, and an old pack. I'm better with leather, actually. The tanner was disappointed I Impressed, I think." She sighs. "I like sweeps better. Weaving is too much of the old life."

A couple riders in their part of the room keep watching her, but their eyes get that ''look'' like they're not all there. "More than straps?" asks the brownrider; at least he's attentive. So's the bluerider, if only to hand the weyrling a beer handed over from someone else. N'rov's pulled out a slate and started to scrawl like he's actually taking notes... on ''something''.

"I've made some hats, some bags, belts. The tanner said I learned that quickly. So I was learning carryalls, shoes.... but I haven't had much time to learn more. But straps, I like making those, lots. Riyoth's are very soft, supple, but sturdy. Also, for some of mine, I've sewn wool batting in for padding." She blinks, seeing the distance in some riders' eyes. "Is... is something wrong? Riyoth's dozed off..."

"It's fine," says the Weyrleader, and not in a way that invites discussion. Rather, "What are your thoughts on the ways we can help our holders? And the ways that we ''should'' help our holders, which aren't always the same thing."

"Ermmm... It's hard to say. Some live very well. Some live in terrible poverty. Some get the best education Pern can offer. Some hope they might see a harper now and again." Catling moves slightly closer to the bluerider without seeming to notice. "Lords Holder, their families, the great folk.... oh, they do have the best. But cotholders, little farmers, little holders.... it's almost as different a life as being a dragonrider is from being a holder. If you're born in a poor family... oh, unless you get taken by a crafthall or Impress.... well... you'll die in a poor family. Or get married off." She shrugs. "How do you help fix ''that''?" The girl finally takes the beer, too, somewhat absently. She drinks a mouthful, then blinks and frowns, swallowing hard and doing her best not to make a face.

"Married into a non-poor family, one presumes." N'rov, certainly not loath to ''presume''. "Though much is said about 'the golden-hearted ones who till the land,' there's your wheaten gold again, for all that they don't swan around in sisal and satin. Most would however, one imagines," he'll do that too, "''want'' to. It is, most would say (if not necessarily defend to the death), each Lord's right and responsibility. To be respected." The bluerider doesn't seem troubled by the girl's reaction, but does seek to pat her on the shoulder reassuringly. "Should we step in, where the Lord has not seen fit to do so? Would you put your own shoulder to the plow?"

"I.... don't know. Maybe in another place," answers Catling. "I fled that life, was cast out. So...." She licks her lips, clears her throat, then licks her lips again. "We have the Records, along with the Harpers. Yet it always seems like the Lords Holder have most of the power. That just isn't right."

J'stain's gotten quiet; he doesn't interrupt when one of the other bronzeriders notes with a smirk, "They have Records too." Then, though, he meets his wingleader's gaze and gives a little nod before standing. "Let's play some darts, Catling. If you don't know how, we'll teach you." Says N'rov, "Catling, catch." Then, flipped on his thumb toward her, are three tokens in turn: good for a drink each but, properly bartered within the Weyr, exchangeable for other things. Provided, of course, one doesn't lose them all...

The girl catches the tokens with ease; she's been practicing catching things, and at least these won't knock her over. She looks at them, then gives a nod. "Thank you sir," she says quietly. She slips them in her pocket, then rises as well. "Darts. Yes. I would.... like to learn." She slips her hands in her pockets as well, looks with brief, almost frantic hope towards the door. Then she sighs and makes her way over to the others.

The door, behind its tapestry, stays cheerfully if unhelpfully closed. At least she'll have her fellow weyrling to learn with, there, while N'rov and a few of his riders (including some from the other side of the room) ''confer''. The weather must be better tomorrow.
}}

Logs:Three Seats Saved

2016-08-28T22:07:15Z

Vhaeryth: Created page with "{{Log |who=Catling, N'rov |what=Catling gets an extra-curricular assignment. |where=Living Cavern, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=20 |month=8 |turn=41 |IP=Interval |IP2=10..."

{{Log
|who=Catling, N'rov
|what=Catling gets an extra-curricular assignment.
|where=Living Cavern, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=20
|month=8
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.08.23
|quote="Why aren't we saving Pern?"
|mentions=Estanei,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov.png,
|log=Carnelian's just getting comfortable at its table... when a certain bronzerider who leads Onyx and the Weyr saunters along its length; it's nothing new for him to pause for brief, convivial talk with riders here and there, not even just its wingsecond and wingleader, but it ''is'' new for him to be so easily overheard saying to the latter something about 'borrowing' and 'Catling.' It has both men looking over towards her before Carnelian chuckles assent, Onyx silent with a not-quite-grin.

Catling is sitting halfway down the table, a plate with bread and cheese on it in front of her. And some fruit, there is fruit as well, but there isn't really a lot of it. She seems to have been nibbling, but she freezes with her hand halfway to her mouth. She sets down the roll of bread and clears her throat. "Sirs?"

"Just for..." N'rov's pause is considering before he flashes a smile, "No, even an hour seems unlikely." Her wingleader explains in his usual reassuring tone that the weyrleader's just checking with the riders of the last clutch, one by one, which lets said weyrleader be flamboyant with his grin. "After me," he directs the youngest brownrider, and diverts briskly to a four-seat table deeper into the cavern, ''just'' ahead of an approaching trio.

Catling nods, and she rises swiftly, just avoiding catching her foot on her chair. She smiles slightly, something queasily nervous in the expression, and she clasps her hands behind her back. She mutters something semi-audibly, but from her expression it is likely to be to her dragon. She scampers to keep up, her short legs not able to match the Weyrleader's stride. Her eyes flash irritation briefly, and then she sighs and makes it to the table, almost knocked off her feet by the same trio.

"Saved you a seat," says the Weyrleader, and gestures grandly towards the table's array. Beat. "Technically, three." He's taken one of the two against the wall, his chair angled to look out onto not just the table but the cavern; which will she pick?

"One for my rear, and one for each foot. Now that's convenient..." murmurs Catling, though her voice squeaks a little at the end. She doesn't seem to exactly fear the Weyrleader, but she's apropriately.... nervous. She takes the other chair against the wall, angling it so she can see the cavern and *him*, and she sits on it in a manner to let the shadows fall on her.

At which point N'rov reaches out and promptly adjusts the glowbasket, moving one of the small bottles of hot sauce in the process, so he can ''see''. He studies her expression, wordless, the single amused brow that had lifted at her murmur now drawn in with its mate. Studying her, he says nothing.

Catling blinks, and she shrinks a little, briefly, old instinct warring with the new. And then the new, barely, wins out, and she lifts her head to meet N'rov's gaze, her own brows rising. She pushes back a tendril of untamable hair that has escaped her braids, and she clears her throat. "Sir?"

He waits a breath after her word to speak, but his nod's weighted with approval. "How are you doing, Catling?" N'rov asks, as easy and open as that.

"Me?" The question comes in a half-squeak, and then Catling chuckles softly. "Not bad. It's different. The other dragons.... find Riyoth a bit.... weird. Different. Too full of advice, maybe. Too much wanting to know the whys. Too serious." She shrugs. "And sometimes frustrated that we don't seem to do ... well.... dragons save Pern." Her voice suddenly takes on Riyoth's cadence and tone. "Why aren't we saving Pern?" She sighs. "As for me.... half the time I seem at war with myself."

N'rov has his own chuckle, one that stays in gray eyes as he starts in on his own meal while she talks; that doesn't mean there's not a certain sympathy there for the ''different'', for the ''saving''. Still, "At war?" is another easy question, accompanied by a gesture with his cheese-layered roll.

"For years. Years. I put my head down and did what I was told. I didn't question, argue, or think more than I had to." Catling shakes her head. "It was the... best. Safest. So.... it became part of me. So much a part of me I didn't really remember being something else. Something more than a drudge. But.... coming here... was like waking up again. But people can't change overnight. But then.... Riyoth sees into what I used to be... and what I *could* be. And so.... I'm at war with myself. Part of me just wants to shut up, do my duty, be a good girl, useful, sturdy, hard-working. Part of me...." She flushes and shakes her head.

N'rov listens, observant in a casual-seeming sort of way, though there's also that lean of his shoulder that has his elbow on the table as though it could ground him out of a too-early interruption. For now. "...Savors your free time?" might be recommendation rather than encompassing guess.

"Ha! You're funny, sir." Catling shakes her head. "In my free time.... I study. I make up for all the time I lost. And I improve my leatherowrking. And I study more things. Tactics, flamethrowing drills, wing patterns, changeover, flight drills, anything like that.... that I can get my hands on." She flushes, looking down.

Looking down can make it difficult to see the sudden gleam in N'rov's eye. "Useful," he agrees. "Have you found that your wingleader demands all this from you, or does it, ah. Come from within?"

"Oh, no. I mean, he demands hard work but not.... extra work. Unless you've been an absolute numbwit, or showed up for drills hung over, or... well. You know what I mean, I think. The rest.... it's just me. My stepmother and even my father... they said, you know, idle time is for children. And I'm not a child anymore. it's so wonderful to be able to work at things *I* want to. And for some reason my choice of subjects pleases Riyoth to no end. If he were bronze, he'd be insufferable."

"We have enough insufferable bronzes. This is much better," N'rov assures; whether ''he's'' insufferable is in the eye of the Catling. "Are you afraid," he says the word lightly, without lingering, "that if you loosened the other part of you's rein, she'd take over all the rest too?"

"The part of me that Riyoth wants to turn into a wingleader?" Catling laughs softly. "There, I've said it. Oh, she might try, that's certain, but, well.... she's.... I'm not. Not a leader not that clever or brave or creative or someone people would follow. But Riyoth, ah, Riyoth, you know, he thinks I am so much more than.... me. So that part would try... and fail... and I would just be...."

Raw rider that she is, N'rov certainly ''seems'' to be taking her seriously; "Wingleaders are both useful and hard-working," he notes even so. "Tell Riyoth it's a long-range game; we're ''hoping'' not to have another plague to kill off our current crop. Tell him that you also need to," he considers, "learn to ''relax'', to have a good time with people, to be truly part of the group. Wingleaders don't spring full-bore from anyone's skull, even Estanei," though he spares his clutchmate a smirk. "If you don't let your hair down, you'll strangle yourself. ''Then'' you can get back to work."

"I... ermm... don't really know how to do that, sir," answers Catling. "How do I become part of a group? Truly a part of it? I.... I don't think that can be found in a scroll or anything. One on one it's.... not easy but... easier. But groups...." She shrugs and looks down. "And this is one place where Riyoth is as lost as I am. And besides, my hair's long enough to strangle myself with up or down. Sir."

"Throw yourself on the mercies of your wingsecond," N'rov recommends, after an amused, "So advised," regarding her hair. "Who knows, maybe he'll assign you a buddy to follow around and get ideas from. It's not like you drill daily, Catling; three days in a seven isn't much, and the Games ''are'' coming. Run off with the wing when it goes places, even gaming, so long as you don't get in over your head. More than you can afford, anyway," comes with the flick of a smile. "Listen to people, find yourself a small group within the big group. Ask people about themselves, they'll usually rattle on. Take a nap on a beach. Brush somebody else's hair. Social, Catling! You can do it. Tell Riyoth I said so," and despite the not-unfriendly humor in his tone, there's also a Weyrleader's gravitas.

Catling's look of queasy horror grows as N'rov speaks. It is a look normally associated with being asked to wrestle a trio of tunnelsnakes naked while suspended upside-down from straps attached to mating dragons. And likely Catling would prefer the latter, based on the growing unease in her eyes. Finally, though, she nods her head. "I... erm. Yes sit," she manages.

"'Sit,'" drawls out the sibilant with increased humor before clipping that 't' staccato. "Good. You'll do fine," or she won't, but N'rov's standing either way. He marks her with a crisp nod, and then leaves her to the tunnelsnakes and his plate, falling in stride with Carnelian's wingleader as that man's leaving. Whatever report he'd received before going on this miniature mission, no doubt he'll share his own commentary (at least ''some'' of it, and exaggerated in only the best ways) on the other side.
}}

Logs:Saluth

2016-05-20T00:35:23Z

Vhaeryth: Created page with "{{Log |who=E'ten{{!}}Esten, N'rov{{!}}Norov |what=Assigned to elder care, Norov takes a rider with a ''different'' sort of problem to see dragonhealer Esten. |where=Infirmary,..."

{{Log
|who=E'ten{{!}}Esten, N'rov{{!}}Norov
|what=Assigned to elder care, Norov takes a rider with a ''different'' sort of problem to see dragonhealer Esten.
|where=Infirmary, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=9
|month=12
|turn=27
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2012.02.01
|quote="It's her hide, boy! Her Threadscore. Her stitches just came out."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon e'ten.jpg, Icon n'rov norov.png,
|log=Mid-morning finds most already ensconced in their duties while the living caverns prepare for lunch. Still, there's always klah and that's exactly what remains handy nearby within arm's reach to Esten as he reviews notes. More and more notes, in lieu of having too many dragons to examine. That would be a bad thing, if what he reads is true. Without adding his own notes to an empty pad, finding the information that engrossing.

In the midst of reviewing those notes, there's a thump from one of the heretofore empty ground weyrs. Make that, a ''thump-thump'', and then another, too blunt to be a tap. A decrepit rider emerges, his skin lined and blotched with age and his eyes clouded with cataracts, clutching a young man with a candidate's knot with one gnarled hand and, with the other, jabbing his cane against the stone. "She'll see to it, see if she doesn't," he tells the younger man, who replies with a would-be calm, "As you say, sir. As you say." Spotting Esten, the younger man seeks to catch his eye, and direct a sharp nod towards the uncle he's escorting.

It was the sound of the cane that caught Esten's attention initially, a lighter gaze lifting from the books and halfway to standing fully by the time both arrive in the entryway. "Good morning. How can I be of assistance today," he remarks, taking in both under an observing eye as he gestures to an empty chair.

"Who're you, boy?" quizzes the old rider instead, squinting at the murky shadows in the direction of Esten's voice. "I want to talk to Beaulah!" Beaulah, who worked here three decades ago, unless he not only mixed up the times but mixed her up with someone else. "Sir," Norov repeats, more firmly by now. He doesn't sit either, but takes up a more stable stance, in case the rider starts lurching in one direction or other. He mouths past the old man's shoulder, 'Memory problems,' in a way that hopefully Esten can see. Says the rider, "That's wingsecond to you, boy. I need to take care of Saluth," this last more urgently, and surely real enough.

"My name is Esten and I can probably assist with whatever is troubling Saluth." To a degree. That goes unspoken as he looks to Norov in time to catch the mouthed words with the scarcest dip of his chin in return. Message received. "If it's something serious, I can have the Weyrwoman bespeak her for more information." Dragonless and a dragonhealer? Who would have thought! Still, he does fall into some semblance seriousness without amusement as he steps closer to be seen.

"I want Beaulah," the rider repeats, but more weakly: maybe it's Esten's apparent self-assurance that causes him to give way. Or maybe it's the mention of the Weyrwoman. "We shouldn't bother her," he mumbles, letting go of Norov's arm to reach out for Esten's face. Perhaps the candidate should stop him, but he's watching with a half-clinical fascination that breaks only with the low, throbbing warble from the ground weyr and the grayed muzzle that's poking through into this inner chamber.

"She hasn't been here for quite some time," Esten replies slowly, considering the rider's reaction as he quickly shoots his gaze towards Norov before he waits to see if he they'll step further into the infirmary. "Where is Saluth and what's bothering her?" He may need the Weyrwoman after all or another rider to play as intermediary.

"Can't you see her? She's right there," and the elderly rider leaves off reaching towards Esten in favor of clutching Norov's arm again, quick and strong enough in this one motion that Norov mutters something under his breath. "He says her skin is dry," Norov begins, as they make their thumping way across the infirmary and towards the ground weyr, but the rider interrupts partway along. "It's her hide, boy! Her Threadscore. Her stitches just came out," he tells Esten. "Give us a hand."

"I can bring what tools I have..." Esten has no other recourse but to signal Norov over with one hand to seemingly assist as he turns to gather what appears to be a pail meant for larger dragons. Or dragons in general. It's only when or if he other lad is able to make his way over that he'll quickly whisper a handful of questions.

A quick nod for Esten's signal, and Norov gets the rider all the way to his dragon, whose voice changes to a deeper croon at her rider's touch. Once they're settled, and it looks like the rider won't fall over, he hurries over to help with the pail and whatever else Esten has in mind. His voice is low: "What do you need?"

"Tell me why he thinks his green is in threadfall. Any why shouldn't I have the Weyrwoman bespeak his dragon to keep him calm." Asked firmly as he gets the pail for appearances, Esten doesn't pause in handing such things over to the poor lad as he reaches for the case filled with other items. Not to use. But to appear useful. "Doesn't he know that thread hasn't fallen in Turns??"

Norov lifts his hand like he's going to tap his head, but then, after a look back at man and dragon, turns it into an awkward scratch of his head and then into accepting the items Esten gives him. "It's his memory," he says in a low voice. "They told me when they sent me off that it's just like back home, we go along with the uncles and aunties as best we can, and that helps them. But is it different after all? ''Do'' you need to do something different? I'm assuming that's a dragonhealer's knot, since I don't understand it, but tell me if it's not." The rider, meanwhile, is running his hand along his dragon's neck and just to one side of the long-healed scar there, singing softly to her. For all that his voice too has aged, it's on pitch despite its roughened timbre, and gentle.

"Let's see if the dragon is in any pain," Esten suggests, gear slung over one shoulder in a satchel as he gestures for Norov to lead the way. "It's not much different, except there's a large draconic counterpart, I'd say. And we can introduce ourselves to her. For all of not being a rider, they understand me quite well. None have taken the time to nibble, snack or outright bite me," he notes with amusement before something does remind him as an afterthought. "This is a dragonhealer's knot. Trainee, as I said."

"Then I'll follow your cue on the introducing," Norov says plainly, for all that his steps don't falter when he approaches the green. Saluth's eyes whirl a little more quickly at their approach, but for all that they aren't as bright as they once were, neither do they show the yellows of distress. Her wings shift, making a little more room for them to approach with the gear. "Forgive me for not being convinced that understanding and... nibbling... necessarily exclude each other. Or perhaps the Weyrleader's dragon simply wanted to spook me, at which I don't mind saying he succeeded." After a second look at Esten's knot, "Have you encountered Bijedth?" Upon getting closer, it's easier for a trained eye to glimpse that the green's hide has gotten somewhat dry in the most difficult-to-reach cracks and crannies, though the rest of her is glossy with care.

"I actually meant the Weyrwoman's dragon," comes the reply with droll amusement laced in Esten's voice as he makes his way to the draconic pair. "But I have seen Bijedth from afar and met Elauruth. She's quite nice once you get to know her. I've been told that it wouldn't be a hinderance to have her bespeak any dragon. If necessary, though I'd rather like the direct approach," he says, offering the green a courtious bow in greeting. "Which, is why I'm introducing myself to you Saluth. My name is Esten. Trainee Dragonhealer, but if we need to bring in one of the more senior healers? We can." Speaking more fully after such a bow, he turns to Norov to follow him with a wave of his hand. "What we'll do make sure your hide is in good condition and well oiled. We'll be careful." That, spoken for both dragon and rider alike.

"''Oh''." Norov can laugh at himself, and does, though there's not a little wryness to it. "All right, then." He bows too, since Esten does: "Norov. Candi..." and here's where her rider turns and interrupts, "He's my helper-boy, lass. Come let them see what's what. Trainee, hm? Now, if Beaulah..." Indeed, Saluth sniffs at both young men as her rider keeps talking, though she doesn't come close, waiting instead for her to approach them. She'll stay still for their attentions, and she'll be careful as well, gentle especially around her brittle-boned rider. Norov's an obedient student, just now at least, watching what Esten does and mimicking it... though he does go quiet when one of those senior dragonhealers does show up: coincidence, timing, or called by Saluth?

Perhaps, a well placed note. Tucked out of the way in case any of the senior dragonhealers came looking for him, there would be no doubt were Esten was to be found in case of emergency or errand. So when the more seasoned rider appears, there's nothing but a respectful step backwards for the man. Though once the pleasantries are out of the way and an explanation of what had been done so far, the ending is quite likely an observe and assist with ample amounts of oiling where the hide is not touched by attentive care before both are dismissed for other duties. Or.. at least one of them.
}}

Logs:Grayer

2016-05-14T20:56:53Z

Vhaeryth:

{{Log
|who=Catling, D'vro, N'rov
|what=A couple of wingleaders scope out the weyrlings. Flame is involved. Then, introductions... and evaluations.
|where=Southern Bowl, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=16
|month=10
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.05.11
|quote="You were sloppy."
|weather=Although the clouds are patchy with glimpses of sky in the early morning, they turn gray but rainless around the time the sun comes up. The overcast weather, with a hint of humidity, carries throughout the day with early evening winds starting to break up the cloud-layer.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov.png, Icon d'vro.jpg
|log=The weyrlings are finishing the last of their flaming drills, dragons taking wing one by one, flaming a designatedd spot, flying past that spot avoiding char, and then landing once again. The theory behind this is to prevent the inexperienced weyrlings, riders and dragons both, from flaming each other. While waiting their turns, some of the weyrlings are chatting while dragonback. From the disgruntled expressions on some of their faces, this drill have been going on for quite some time and is getting tedious. Catling is listening to some of the discussion, but she shakes her head and looks at Riyoth. "No, I'll try giving you the firestone once we're aloft. Just because we're in an Interval, it doesn't mean we shouldn't try to become just as good as those who fought Thread. And we both need the practice." This gets her a few sullen looks from her weyrmates, but she appears to ignore this.

A couple of the waiting-around dragons are larger than the rest, and not just because they're bronze; N'rov's been eyeing the weyrlings off and on, and now he says to D'vro, "What do you think? Are they going to burn all the way through before we turn gray, and surprise a poor drudge on the other side?" not at all sotto voce.

Colsoth seems rather interested in the young dragons, watching curiously as they flame but leaving any commentary to himself. Even if the men nearby aren't being quite so polite. "I think I'm already turning gray," D'vro answers in a similar tone of voice, arms crossed over his chest while he observes the dragons and weyrlings in their drills.

Catling turns her head at the sound of the familiar voice, and she flushes slightly, then offers a salute despite the embrrassment. One of the other weyrlings tosses up a firestone bag mid-salute, and she has to scramble to catch it. Despite her size, though, she manages, and secures it as Riyoth leaps into the air. His takeoff is steep and corkscrewing, due to his larger size, perhaps, or maybe it is his preferred method. The girl presses herself against him, feeding him firestone, and after the first couple stones, in time with his wingbeats.

"Grayer," N'rov offers in lieu, his drawl distinctly deadpan. "Like ancient ice, grimed with the dust of yet more ancient crags. Think you'll have your pair whipped into shape by the time these are ready for the same?" He winces at the near-casualty, muttering something about salutes during ''lessons'', and tilts a look to watch the pair's ascent; in the next moment he absently thumbs up his collar against the clamminess of the air.

''That'' gray makes D'vro turn his eyes briefly on N'rov, though he doesn't comment on whatever crosses his mind before his attention has returned to Riyoth. "They're doing well. I can always make room for improving another pair." Probably also room for improvements in general, but no use saying that where weyrlings can hear him. "Have your eye on any of them?"

Climb to the right height. Check. Catling nods her head, then speaks softly to Riyoth. From her expression, they have a brief disagreement before she shrugs and nods, grinning. Of the two patterns that they have been flying, he chooses the one taking them closer to the cliff, his wings coming close, then closer to it. Yet there is nothing show-offish about his demeanor; his eyes are whirling in intense concentration. Nearing the target, he enthusiastically flames it. Maybe too enthusiastically, for the flame also hits the cliffside and washes back, and some of the flaming target breaks free. He tucks one wing very close, diving away from the flames and after the remnants of the target. He just manages a second burst of flame to finish it off. He pulls up sharply, and his landing, while controlled, is hard and fast to avoid hitting others, and rather rough on his tiny rider, who is pressed against him, her arms around his neck.

"At the moment..." N'rov gives considering silence to that moment, and then a second, but not a third. "You could say I'm holding my ''opportunity'' in abeyance. There's something to be said for waiting until one of you has had your way with them, much as I might like molding them in my image." That's dry too, but positive; he starts to speak, but then, ''alerted'', loosens hands tightened by that near miss. "Familiar with that pair there?"

Slate's wingleader watches the pair with a certain professional intensity, but that doesn't keep him from either listening to N'rov, or answering his questions. "That doesn't surprise me," grins D'vro, briefly and without quite taking his eyes off of the brown, in the Weyrleader's direction. "Only from a distance. I appreciate their dedication. What ''appears'' to be dedication, anyway." Appearances can be deceiving, after all.

Once the brown has stopped beating his wings, Catling begins an inspection of Riyoth, first from his back and then jumping down. She calls a question to the assistant weyrlingmaster, then takes her dragon off to the side to check him for any burns. Only when she is fully satisfied does she take off his straps. She leans against him, closing her eyes and brushing bits of ash from her flight jacket.

"Possibly to excess, if such a thing can exist," and N'rov's tone suggests that it might; possibly even that D'vro himself might be ''conversant'' with such a thing. "It's more that, I'm led to believe, if there's more than one way to attempt an exercise, they'll attempt the more difficult version ''and'' inform their classmates of how they could do it better. They look to be about done; why don't you let me introduce you." An elbow-nudge later, he's already in motion.

Judging by the sound D'vro produces from his throat, an ''excess'' of dedication simply does not exist in his world. "Something to be said for that," he's saying just before he glances over sharply at the elbow only to have N'rov already leading the way. So he follows, arms dropping as he walks, and eyes studying the length of the brown as they approach.

"No," Catling is saying to Riyoth as the two riders approach, "I know you weren't trying to kill me. But be glad I don't get airsick." She still has her eyes closed, and Riyoth's attention is wholly focused on her. "And yes, I agree, but if we're going to test backwash angles, we'll want to make sure we get that approved. I'll ask about wind, too, though I'd guess we'll be practicing different wind conditions...." She shakes herself. "Once we're dismissed, yes, go sun yourself." She lets out a deep breath.

Surely it's out of politeness that N'rov refrains from interrupting the girl, though his eyes are dancing when she stops and, stepping right into the breach, he clears his throat. "Riyoth, good afternoon," the Weyrleader says gravely. "D'vro, meet Riyoth's Catling. Weyrling Catling, I hereby introduce you to the master of Slate, he who determines destinies. At least, ''certain'' destinies. Killing is rarely involved."

"Riyoth. Catling," D'vro offers his terse greetings to the pair of them, eyeing the girl's face for a pensive moment. N'rov earns a sidelong look for his method of introduction, however, sparing the weyrling his initial commentary. "Only herdbeasts, wherries and the occasional Weyrleader," is a deadpan, overly serious continuation on matters of violence. And then right into, "You were sloppy." He tells this to the weyrling and her brown in a similiar fashion that another person might point out that she's wearing boots.

"Weyrleader. Wingleader." Catling jerks to rigid, if startled, attention, sketching a surprised, but proper, salute. And though the mentions of killing herdbeasts, wherries, and Weyrleaders, oh my! bring a faint smile, it quickly fades at the criticism. But there is no defensiveness, no protest. "Yes sir. We were. We made too many variations, however slight, from our last run. We should have left more leeway for correcting errors. We were too confident that success on the easier route would also mean success on the harder route. Though we learned a lot from what we did do, we pushed our limits farther than was wise for our experience." She has her hands clasped behind her back, and she speaks with frank honesty, her tone half-apologetic, and half-dispassionate, giving a critique of her own performance.

N'rov has a slow grin for D'vro, a slight inclination of his head playing along with the point; he listens, then, to what the weyrling has to say but with an eye for the wingleader's reaction as well. The wingleader, and any assistants or otherwise who might take exception to one of the weyrleader's sporadic visits now that he has others in tow.

"We learn most deeply from our failures." While ''failure'' might be an exaggeration of the drill, the way D'vro says it is more reassuring than it is critical, no doubt in part because of the thorough critique from the weyrling herself. "You'll want to see a healer, perhaps," is added, D'vro lifting a hand to gesture briefly at his own sharp cheek for reference.

For a brief moment Catling bites her lip at the mention of failure, but then she relaxes at the reassuring tone. "And it's better to understand how mistakes are made and methods to handle them.... during the relative safety of weyrling exercises. "Because everyone makes mistakes. But if we learn how to see early that we're making them and how to compensate and correct, it's going to be a lot easier to cope with than if we're out in a wing and never really learned. And..." She pauses, blinking. "A healer?" She touches her cheek, then winces.

Still N'rov watches; still he doesn't intercede. Not until he gauges a Flint wingsecond as approaching, perhaps keeping an eye on Slate; then, "Wash, at the very least," is N'rov's agreement. "Cool water," nothing she shouldn't know before he moves away to intercept with easy words and subtly inexorable direction. Others may have their turn: other weyrlings, certainly, and other wings... in time. Until then, there's always the meal line.
}}

Logs:Grayer

2016-05-14T18:08:46Z

Vhaeryth: Missing a pose at the end; add away!

Logs:Stranger on the Road

2016-05-12T06:08:45Z

Vhaeryth: Now sleep.

{{Log
|who=Ali, N'muir, N'rov{{!}}Norov, T'elo
|what=N'muir's first bagged candidate for Isyath and Riuscyth's clutch: Norov.
|where=Fort Orchards; Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, Fort Hold
|day=16
|month=11
|turn=27
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2012.01.25
|quote="Seriously? Do you have the Masterharper up there too?"
|mentions=Avaryk
|type=Log
|ooc=Includes unfinished T'elo scene, Ali/N'muir/Norov Search, Ali/N'muir, and letters from Norov.
|icons-new=Icon ali.jpg, Icon ali isyath.jpg, Icon n'rov norov.png,
|log='''Orchards, Fort Hold'''

By the side of the road, a thin trail of woodsmoke escapes up into the pale sky, as though it were trying to reach the noonday sun that hangs small and cold overhead. The nearby orchards are bare but for a flutter of leaves at their feet, and the road itself is barren: just the smoke from a small campfire, and the man who's hunched over it, feeding it.

The tidy rows of trees make it very difficult for a dragon to land among them, though Leareth circles a few times as though trying to eye a spot that he ''might'' fit. He may be small for a dragon, but he's still a dragon and far too large for the rows that are in the orchard itself. Lest T'elo be responsible for the tree carnage that might be wroght by the blue trying to land among the trees, he manages to get the dragon to land farther away which means closer to where the fire is along the roadside. "I ''told'' you there was nothing on those trees." T'elo gripes at the blue once they've landed, and hopefully not disturbed the campfire too much.

Not... ''too'' much, maybe, but the telltale smoke trail's been diffused by the wind of dragonwings, enough to make the man cough and step back some from the fire. Closer up, it proves to be set within a stone circle, and there's a tripod with a metal pan with something cooking upon it, but the man's not paying attention to that right now, not with the dragon on the road over there. Not that he runs off into the trees or anything. Instead, Norov hesitates, coughs again, then clears his throat. "Ho, rider!"

Leareth snorts, and as soon as T'elo wrangles himself free of the straps the blue is off to inspect those naked trees. Surely there was something on them not that long ago, though T'elo can't help but roll his eyes and watch as the blue slinks off before realizing he's been called to. "Fort's duties~" He responds with a quick smile, despite the fact he's just been abandoned by his ride who is -much- more interested in the trees. "Sorry, if we disturbed you... Though, I think he did better than he usually does."

Gray eyes give T'elo a quick looking-over, and Leareth too, beyond him. "No worries," Norov says, though as if to belie that, his answering smile broadens. "''But''... you could make it up to me anyway: tell me what the weather's looking like? I've been eyeing the clouds on the horizon, don't want to get drenched any sooner than I have to." His accent's pure Boll, and the smell of what he's cooking carries spices with it, too: some sort of soft raised rolls on one side of the pan, and on the other, small chunks of what might be sausage. He scrapes at them, turning them over to get the other side too.

If he knows he's being looked at, Leareth gives no indication of it - the blue isn't the attention seeking sort, wrapped up in his own interests, which right now is bare trees. T'elo lifts a hand to run through his hair and thinks a little, "Think it might rain here soon enough, but you can never tell with how the wind can change." He considers, then gives the young man a look over himself before his attention is grabbed by the food. "What're you making there?" He asks, stalking a couple steps closer to get a better look.

"Yeah?" Norov grimaces, looking that direction, then just shakes his head as he gets back to flipping the sausage again. "Maybe i should have stayed... well, anyway, it's lunch. Don't mind sharing, if you want something hot: bread's fresh, from the smallhold this morning, and if you haven't had Tennydale sausage, you really should. Unless," and he glances up at the older man, "you don't like it hot?" There's a note in his voice that hints at teasing: maybe it's too much for someone like T'elo, where it's not for a young buck like ''him''.

''RL interruption, never finished''

----

'''''Later that day'''''

By the side of the road, a little more than a half-day's walk from Fort Hold, a thin trail of woodsmoke escapes up into the pale sky as though it were trying to crawl up to the early-afternoon sun. The nearby orchards are bare but for a flutter of leaves at their feet, and the road itself is barren: just the waning smoke from a small campfire, withering as a crouched man attempts to kick sodden dirt over it. Although the sky is mostly clear and cold, clouds are coming in from the horizon.

It's possible that the bronze and gold that wink into the sky over the campfire out of coincidence but it is more likely that the smoke was spotted from over the Hold and the pair decided to fly in to investigate. The bronze glides down and lands on the road, keeping his wings aloft as he stares cautious, angry eyes at the crouched man. N'muir leans against the constraints of his straps and even with his goggles on he manages to both look and sound unhappy about finding the man there. "You there. What are you doing here? Are you alone?" Said as if a person can't be out making campfires along roadsides.

Isyath is calmer by comparison to Bidjeth, but then there's few times where she's not completely at ease. Ali's leaning forward within the confines of her straps, too, but it is towards N'muir, not Norov: "Sir!" she exclaims, shocked. "I'm sure he's just out here doing..." her gaze flickers towards the man, then back to N'muir, brow furrowed. "It's none of our business," she says, obviously ruffled by the Weyrleader's words.

Dragonwings and their wind: it flutters the remaining smoke this way and that, and Norov's coughing now at the sudden change, covering his mouth even as he straightens and turns. "Did you forget..." Bemused gray eyes narrow then, taking them in, his expression altering. While he doesn't back up, there are nerves in his sideways glance towards the rucksack nearby, at the still-hot iron pan and disassembled tripod next to it. "I was!" he calls back, though he takes a cue from Ali and adds a brief, "Sir."

N'muir gestures at Norov with a gloved hand while addressing Ali. "I'm only asking the boy a question." Or two. "Let him decide if he'd like to make it our business," he says. It is at this point that the bronzerider leans his elbows on Bijedth's neckridges, lifts his goggles up onto his forehead, and looks very expectantly at the stranger. And when he divulges something of an answer, N'muir simply can't stay satisfied and leave the poor lad alone, but a sidelong glance to Ali makes him choose his words wisely. "You were," he echoes, dubiously. "Hmm. Really. Alone." As much as he doesn't phrase the words as questions, the voice of doubt darkens them into near-sarcasm. "Interesting..."

There's a long slow sigh from Ali, though it's difficult to tell whether it's a sigh of resignation or just plain frustration. The junior is far too polite -- especially in the company of a stranger -- to speak further on the subject, however. Instead, she hunches into her flight jacket, twisting her head upwards as if to inspect the sky and the soon-to-be-coming rainclouds, with a frown. "What's your name?" she calls instead, with a smile. "I'm Ali -- this is Issy." A hand touches the dragon's hide. N'muir? Well, she leaves him to fend for himself by way of introduction. Isyath, for her part, seems restless, her tail twitching out behind her, wings rustling, as if she can't properly settle.

"Yes. Sir," Norov repeats, more steadily this time, in that accent that's flat-out Boll. He's squinting at the man's shoulder, but at that angle... it's easier to kick at the dirt again, smother that fire just a little bit more, not that it isn't dimming under its own weight in the cold, damp air. Easier, too, to go with, "Norov, ma'am," to match the sir, but with a quick smile that N'muir doesn't get. "...Issy." For real? By now, he's verging on gawking, though in that please-let-him-be-too-cool-for-it-to-show sort of way.

"-Weyrwoman of Fort Weyr," N'muir tacks on to Ali's introduction for good measure. Bijedth swivels his angular head to eye his golden companion with cerulean overgrowing the orange of angry caution for her benefit. Meanwhile, N'muir adjusts for nothing and no one, staring as he does down from his lofty seat. "And I'm N'muir, rider of Bijedth, Weyrleader of Fort," he introduces properly, as begrudged as he seems to be about doing so in the wake of Ali's relaxed greetings. Still, having said the words and made the association of name to stranger, the bronzerider settles into his straps having a slightly smaller chip in those broad shoulders of his when next he addresses the young man. "Are you headed somewhere, Norov?"

Dragon> To Isyath, Bijedth reaches with a tendril of electric current for Isyath, snaps of concern and crackles of curiosity bending and twisting the cord of energy. << Are you needing to return home? >>

There's a faint creak of leather as Ali's fingers tighten around the flying straps and she gives N'muir a sharp sidelong look that is, admittedly, rare for her, and fleeting, as she drops her gaze. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Norov," she murmurs, her gaze still cast downwards.

Dragon> To Bijedth, Isyath's mental tones are all stars and brightness, zooming through the dark sky: << Dull. This place is dull. >> Which is not exactly an answer, but it's about normal for the youngest Fort queen, at least. <>

Dragon> To Isyath, Bijedth tries to capture all her stars and brightness in a cushiony cloud of damp heat, to wrap her in his comfort and try to soothe her restlessness. And yet, a part of him buzzes with anticipation. << Soon enough. Would you like to play a game in the meantime? >>

"Nice big brow...''nze'' you have there," and that would be Norov hastily self-correcting what he'd been about to say on the heels of N'muir's introduction, a flush scraping up along his cheekbones... chased by laughter beginning to well up in his voice and brim in his eyes. "Pleasure to meet ''you'', too." A second is-this-real glance at Isyath becomes, "And I'm heading uphill, sir, hope to make it before the clouds come in." And ''then'' he just can't keep it all back because, "Seriously? Do you have the Masterharper up there too?"

Dragon> SNAPCRACKLEPOPEXPLODE. Bijedth's storm bursts across the sky. << ''DID HE THINK I WAS BROWN?!'' >> (Bijedth to Isyath)

Dragon> To Bijedth, Isyath projects, << Game? >> She's intrigued, that much is clear. But that fades almost immediately under the stormy onslaught that follows. Isyath, for her part, is amused: << Maybe it is the way you hold yourself? >>

N'muir returns Ali's sharp look with something akin to innocence, albeit a strange expression for the middle-aged man to wear. Unfortunately for Norov, that near-miss does not go unnoticed and brown eyes are narrowed at the young man. Even Bijedth snaps his head in Norov's direction, gawking at the lad with sharply swirling red eyes. N'muir twists in his straps, looking around himself and then around Ali, only to look back at Norov with a furrowed brow. "Masterharper...?" A hand lifts to swipe away his confusion. "You won't make it before the clouds come in." Bijedth takes a threatening step towards the lad, something dark and angry and twisted making strangled sounds in the pit of his chest. "Unless you run for it..."

Dragon> A crooked lightning bolt tries to blow apart the word 'game' -- and all of Isyath's amusement -- in a brilliant spastic display of neon colours that ricochet off one another like fireworks blowing apart. <> And a diva. The sky fills with fireworks and bursts of sound and excitement, balls of lightning flying here, there and just about everywhere is a rainbow of bright-hued shades. Who knew anger could be so pretty? <> (Bijedth to Isyath)

There's a flush of color to Ali's cheeks that might well be in response to Norov's slip... but is more likely, given the way she stares, chewing her lower lip, at Bidjeth, to what she can hear via her dragon of the bronze's response to that. "Weyrleader," she says, tentatively. "He didn't- it's getting dark very fast."

Dragon> The show entrances her. There is no doubt of that. And yet, inevitably, her nature is to pull him back, her influence slowly but inevitably weathering the storm and battening down the hatches, making it pass and fade. ''She'' knows what he is. She doesn't require the reminder. And ''she'' is who matters, right now. (Isyath to Bijedth)

What's left of embarrassment and sense-overriding astonishment becomes, well. Quailing. Much as he might like to stand pat in front of the girl, there's no thought involved in Norov's involuntary backwards lurch away from man and bronze, and little more in his his catching up his rucksack in one gloved hand and pan-and-tripod in the other. He glances back over his shoulder. The trees. They're close, surely? Leareth didn't go into them. Now he's half-turning, right on the edge, all set to make a break for it if he must.

Bijedth makes even more strangled sounds as if fighting some invisible force until he is subdued by it and sinking down onto his belly in the dirt like a feline with his claws sprawled out before his enormous body. N'muir frowns at Ali while Bijedth watches Norov very, ''very'' intently, talons digging into the earthy ground beneath them. "It is indeed," the Weyrleader murmurs and turns to eye Norov with as much interest as his dragon. "It sounds like you should spend some time at the Weyr, Norov. Stand for Isyath's clutch." If it's meant to be a request upon the boy, it certainly isn't phrased as one. And if the idea is sprung from rider or dragon, one may wonder what either have in store for the stranger off the road.

Dragon> Isyath is all that matters. Yes. The fireworks fizzle out into nothingness, leaving only black sky. Somewhere in the darkness there is a whisper: << He will be Ours. >> (Bijedth to Isyath)

Ali's entire attention is focused on Bijedth, as is Isyath's. Strangely - unusual for her, anyway - the gold is perfectly still, not even her tailtip moving as they ''watch''. Like a switch abruptly flicked, their combined intentness fades: the junior releases a sigh, and then her mouth twists into an oh of surprise as her gaze flickers from N'muir to Norov. She bites her lower lip, watching the young man.

Dragon> Silence and darkness follow, and the pressure eases. Isyath is still present, in the darkness, a single star glowing on the horizon, and she radiates pleasure at the whisper. << Yes. >> (Isyath to Bijedth)

Those strangled sounds only intensify Norov's lean, pushing him a step back and then another, not ''quite'' turning his back on that dragon and not even thinking to look at the other one: not even when the Weyrleader's words sink in, not until he shakes his head to hear his brains rattle. "Why," he says more than asks, hitching his rucksack onto his shoulder. This is his plan, isn't it? and yet he can't be unfamiliar with the darker side of temptation, with how it could just be to get him out of there. And then the man does turn back to Ali, with a look of appeal. "Can I trust you?"

N'muir wouldn't say a word against Ali and her queen but the look she gives her for the use of that force says bounds - although bounds of what is fairly questionable as the man looks both irritated and impressed by the young woman. His mouth twists into a smile and he laughs shortly at her antics before returning honey brown eyes to the lad on the ground nearby. "Why?" the Weyrleader echoes in disbelief. "Whatever the 'why', you either come with us and Stand or you don't. If you want the chance to be a dragonrider, Stand. Otherwise, go up your hill and get rained on. Your choice."

"Me?" Ali's surprised enough by the question - or likely being ''asked'' that question - that the response just slips out before she can catch it. "I-" she darts a glance towards N'muir - there is ''nothing'' apologetic in that look - then back towards Norov. "Yes, you can." And then, with a smile, "If it helps, I'm hold-born and bred."

It sounds so simple when N'muir puts it that way, doesn't it? "Well," Norov says, and clears his throat, for all that he surely can't make out the subtleties of what passes between them. He's standing straighter now, as a cloak for tattered confidence. And he glances briefly at the older man, for all that he doesn't give him the answer he deserves: it's Ali he's waiting for, and it's at her avowal that he nods. Once. "All right, then. Never liked the rain anyway." With that, he kicks at the all-but-out coals a few more times, eyes the sky for more than just show, and sees about wrapping up the pan for safety in its hide sack now that nobody's likely to get burned. After ''that'', in all his effrontery, it's Isyath he approaches.

As soon as it's clear which dragon Norov will approach, Bijedth throws himself skyward, N'muir firmly strapped into place. With the wind beneath his sails, Bijedth lets out a bugle - one that clearly says << We got one! >> before winking ''between''.

If she was surprised before, the junior is flummoxed now, Ali watching Norov's approach with a visible fluster. She lifts her hand as if to gesture in the Weyrleader's direction... just as Bijedth launches skywards. Isyath is, perhaps, ill-pleased. Although it's probably difficult for one unused to dragons to interpret that flickering of tail, the shifting color of whirling eyes. The brief tightening of her jaw suggests cause of tautness of her voice as she leans down to offer a hand to Norov. "Have you flown before?"

Indeed, Norov treats Isyath with the same wari... the same ''respect'' that he might have had if she'd been altogether placid. Make that, intrigued respect: he's watching her movements as though they were some code he could decipher, even if he doesn't understand them now. "I don't, ma'am," he says when he looks back up at her rider. "Advice?" And perhaps it's his mother's advice that has him add a politer, "Thank you, Issy," before he takes that hand and starts to climb wari... cautiously up, bag and all, more awkward than someone accustomed to dragons but at least trying not to be.

"Hold tight," is Ali's amused advise, waiting until Norov is settled in behind her. Then she sets about strapping him in, firmly - which might seem odd at first, for such a short trip from here-to-there. Moments later it becomes apparent why, though: barely a second after the goldrider's hastened, 'Hold on', Isyath pushes aloft, impatience driving the sharp, jarring leap upwards and the breathless, abrupt disappearance into the cold of between a heartbeat later. One, two, three heartbeats... and they're out again, above Fort Weyr, circling down to the bowl below.

There's a half-stifled shout into the wind as Isyath jumps... and that's just the first noise to assault poor Ali's ears as their passenger, who'd started out hanging discreetly onto those straps, clutches for her more reliable-seeming waist instead. But it's an exultant shout, if followed by a, "Freezing!" and then... and then Isyath's circling and he's leaning out and looking and, "Don't stop, all right? Don't stop!" That too-cool pose of his? He can get that back later.

Ali's laughter is probably audible above the wind, mixed in with Norov's exultant shout: Isyath needs no such encouragement, her path downwards sharp and dizzying. Finally, though, they touch down. Ali casts about briefly for any sign of the Weyrleader or his bronze, before twisting to help free Norov from his straps. "Careful, getting down. It's higher than it looks," she warns.

The Weyrleader is there, yes, and Bijedth, who is no doubt casting a call to the dragons close enough to the Bowl to gawk at the newcomer. N'muir is on the ground, hurrying them along with a waving hand. "Yeah, don't jump and break your neck or we'll take you right back to that road we found you on," N'muir remarks on the heels of Ali's kind warning. A grin flashes up at Ali more than Norov. "I'm kidding," he assures before trying to help Norov find his feet beneath him. "Follow me and I'll get you set up in the barracks where you can tell all your future friends that the junior weyrwoman Searched you." But if N'muir's laughter is anything to go by, that is quite the joke in itself.

Isyath lands, Norov takes it with the jolt of the unsuspecting, and probably he'll feel that later, too. Still and all, he's quick to let go and at least try to deal with his own buckles before she does. "Right," he says distractedly. "That was something else." He looks at Ali, looks at Isyath's side, looks at the ground, and... right. Down. Down to N'muir. "Right," he repeats, and makes as though the gold and her straps are a tree, all but crawling as far as he can get and then jumping off the rest of the way... only to have the pan in its sack bang him in the side. So maybe he will need some of N'muir's help after all, but he's straightening quickly, trying to do less gawking ''back'' at anyone who might be eyeing him and more, "Right," he says to the Weyrleader all calm-like, as though the third time's the charm. "Thanks again, ma'am. Issy."

Ali, doesn't follow Norov down off Isyath's neck: her gaze fixes on the Weyrleader. "We'll have words later," is all she says. From anyone else but sweet, innocent Ali, it'd be ominious. But she can't really pull that off, not well at all, and so she settles for a reassuring smile to Norov in response, "I'll come by later and check that you've settled in." And then the pair are aloft again, for the much shorter glide over towards the junior ledges on the far side of the bowl.

----

'''Candidate Barracks, Fort Weyr'''

"-And don't knock anyone up or we'll throw you and your new wife out of the barracks," is the last of N'muir's explanations of the many rules placed upon the newly-minted Candidate Norov on their way through the caverns, the bronzerider's long-legged strides carrying him effortlessly along the passageways he knows as well as his own hands. The barracks are given a broad sweep of the hand, all-encompassing. "Pick a cot, introduce yourself to any other Candidates, and watch the posts on the board that will tell you what chores you're assigned. The trunk at the end of your bed is for your belongings. Any questions can be directed to the Headwoman and her staff, all of whom you will come to know very well whether you want to or not." Warm brown eyes swing to the young man, the Weyrleader's temper seemingly a distant memory from his current, cheerful self. "Oh - and there will be bow lessons with Storeskeeper Avaryk. If you don't learn to use the bow, you leave. Got it?" N'muir doesn't wait for an answer. "Welcome to Fort Weyr Candidacy."

Norov sizes the place up as he goes along, hard on N'muir's heels, the better to later not get lost and then lost some more. As much. The barracks themselves get a longer, assessing look, up and down the long room, and at the man's instructions he tosses his rucksack onto a not-too-close cot and the sack onto its neighbor: less taking possession and more taking time to decide. Then he's regarding the older man, the ''Weyrleader''. He smiles back, charmingly wide. One more time: "Right." And for good measure, "Sir."

N'muir nods his head once very succinctly and takes a step towards the door, pausing long enough to throw a kind word over his shoulder. "You keep this up, lad, and you'll do just fine." Kind words, however, do not last long it seems, for when N'muir makes for the door it is with a dark chuckle that echoes off the stone walls of the ancient Weyr. "-- Unless Bijedth decides to smear your guts across the Bowl."

----

'''Bijedth's weyr, Fort Weyr'''

It's somewhat later in the evening, shortly before the dinner hour, when steps become audible on the ramp up to the Weyrleader's ledge. Ali's subtle check - via Isyath and Bijedth - assures the junior that he's in, and she arrives carrying a cloth-covered tray. "Sir," she calls, "Are you-" decent? Wearing pants? The sentence isn't completed, as the speculation has the dark-haired Fortian flustered. Isyath is in her normal place in the sky, circling and enjoying the last of the day's warm thermals before they disappear, having coaxed some of the smaller dragons into joining her in the skies.

The Weyrleader's weyr is decorated from one end to the other in various things, from high-fashion but completely insensible straps dangling from hooks to the fur-lined stuffed mattress that pads Bijedth's wallow better than most cots in the resident quarters. Every visible luxury is within sight of the luscious wallow, and beyond it is an area so plain and undecorated that it is almost a painful contrast. The sound of water comes from deeper in the weyr and N'muir comes out a lengthy moment later dripping wet but wearing pants and a shirt that he is still buttoning as he pads barefoot across the dirt floor. "Weyrwoman, I-" The tray is eyed and his steps towards her slow, suspicion tainting the angles of his dark brows. "What is that?" A long finger, stained and worn by the Turns, points to the tray.

The suspicion, and the finger pointing, makes Ali blink up at the Weyrleader. "Dinner," she says, in a tone that somehow manages to convey an unspoken but obvious, 'What did you think it was?' She steps further inside, and unless he stops her, heads for the table with the intention of setting the tray down there. She looks utterly relaxed as she pulls the cloth off the tray and sets out plates, one for each of them, and begins heaping servings of food on each.

This version of woman - the sort to bring him dinner and set out plates and serve him his meal - is foreign and treated as the alien she is. N'muir stares at her, warily watching her every move while pensive drops of bathwater roll down his throat when it bobs from the effort it takes to swallow. One slow, cautious step and then another, and soon N'muir has no choice but to sit down at his own table or continue to stand uselessly nearby. The bronzerider folds himself carefully into a chair, fighting every nerve in his body that would try to inch his chair outside of her fist's range of motion. "Why did you bring me dinner?" Outside, Bijedth touches down and settles onto his cushiony wallow, watching Ali in much the same way N'muir does while reaching to greet Isyath wherever she may be.

There's something that's completely at ease about Ali's posture as she serves up the food. It's like, for her, it's such a familiar and known quantity that it puts her at ease, in contrast to his discomfort. When done, she seats herself, then tips her head to look at him. "Because I was hungry," she answers, rather straightforwardly, "And I figured you would be too. And we needed to talk." It's very possible she's blissfully aware of his wariness, reaching for her fork and spearing some of the greens on her plate. High above, Isyath's trilling acknowledgement of the bronze comes with an invitation to join her in the skies.

It's that very obvious calm that seems most unsettling to the Weyrleader. And then there it is, the reason for her visit. A Talk. N'muir takes up his fork after her, watching her stab the vegetables without taking anything on his own fork. It sits, suspended in mid-air much like his mood: waiting. "About?" Bijedth's current sways and hums quietly, reluctant. He searches for the feeling of the wind under her sails, silently encouraging but not leaving the comfort and safety of his wallow. There is unaired questions, curiosity that bleeps and buzzes, almost hinting at what plagues N'muir's mind but never quite divulging the secrets. Just... wondering. Nearly worrying. Almost enjoying.

Ali is several mouthfuls into her food before she seems to realize that N'muir isn't eating. She pauses, dismay painted on her expression, "You already ate?" She chews her lower lip, eyes the food as if trying to determine how much of it she can consume herself, and exhales the faintest of sighs. As to his question? "Issy," is all she says, before she takes another bite. The suspicious might wonder if she was drawing things out on purpose. But probably not; there's an air of discomfort that leeches into her posture, though she's trying not to let it show.

Maybe it's because of the look Ali gives his plate or maybe it's the change to her posture - whatever the reason, N'muir puts fork to plate and stabs his vegetables. Bite eaten, he waits. Perhaps he's waiting to feel the onset of poison. More likely, he's trying to let the silence of the weyr encourage Ali to speak her mind to open ears.

Reassured, even if it's a token effort on his part, Ali resumes her own eating. She shoots looks over at the Weyrleader, half-glances, or quick, darted glances. "I- I'm sorry about what Issy did, sir," she says, finally.

The fork clinks against the plate as its abandoned and elbows hit the wooden table so that hands might catch his head as it slumps forward, relief clearly washing over his features. "Is that what this is about? Faranth, Ali!" N'muir is wearing a smile when he lifts his head, honey brown eyes merrily glinting in the glowlight, and his hands drop - one to his fork, the other to the table. "You shouldn't apologize for that," he replies, voice brighten by genuine enthusiasm for his insisting words. "Isyath is a ''queen''. Bijedth is hers to command when she sees fit." The dark-haired man pauses, eyes combing the table between them. His hand reaches across it towards her, inviting but not demanding she give her hand to be held. "Bijedth and I got cocky and shouldn't have let a simple misunderstanding injure our pride." And likewise, Bijedth offers feelings of regret to Ali's gold counterpart up in the sky. "We wouldn't hurt that boy. I hope you know that. But regardless, Isyath was not out of line to make Bijedth submit to her will. You were being a good and proper weyrwoman today - don't ever apologize for that." He spears some more of the vegetables and considers the young woman across from him. "Are you okay with what you did?"

The Weyrleader's reaction, and in fact, his smile, if anything, flusters the young junior further. With a hitch of breath, Ali says, "It doesn't matter. She shouldn't have. You're the ''Weyrleader''." Chewing her lower lip, she eyes the offered hand with almost the same wariness he viewed the food earlier, but she sets aside her fork to take it, all the same, her touch light - tentative. "I didn't think you would, but I've never- he dazzled her with his emotions. I panicked," she confesses, voice faint.

N'muir actually laughs at her words. It's a hearty, masculine laught born decades into history and dragged from its ashy grave somewhere in the depths of his chest. "My dear, sweet Ali, you are probably the only person in this whole bloody Weyr who acts like my knot means anything at all," he remarks with amusement more than sarcasm. For her tenderness, N'muir returns in kind. He doesn't ''grab'' her hand but his has strong, confident fingers that are sure of their intention as they aim to hold her for a moment. Another laugh escapes him- this brief and light, and accompanied by a smirk. "He dazzled her, eh? Yeah, he's got a flare for it when he's insulted." Her hand is given a gentle squeeze. "''I'm'' sorry. Now, how about we eat dinner and talk about something that won't make you look like you're going to wither away on me, hmm? Tell me about what you did before you came to Impress Isyath?"

The look that Ali gives N'muir is somewhat bemused. "Of course your knot means something," she remarks, obliviously. His reassurance earns a smile, if tentative, that grows as he asks about her family. It's one of the topics, besides Issy, with which she speaks about in complete, relaxed ease. And so they pass the evening amiably, talking and eating.

----

Letters from Norov:

To: Gregor, River Rest Hold (outside of Fort Hold)

''Thanks for sending this on, G. I hope your aunt's gotten over it.'' '' --M.''

To: Tereran, Redfin Hold (outside of Southern Boll)

''Dearest T.,''

''I hope that this missive finds you in good health. If all goes as planned, it should reach you almost as soon as the last one, or even sooner!''

''It was a dramatic surprise, following as it did a more light-hearted encounter. While approaching my intermediate destination, whom did I run into but the headwoman herself? She is a formidable figure, and was sitting a chestnut gelding with very large hooves, who looked quite fierce despite what I understand to be its age. (Indeed, though I am loath to admit it, I did not have complete confidence in her ability to rein it in.) At first she questioned me sharply, but her assistant spoke gentle words, at which point she insisted that I return with the two of them, and naturally I was thrilled. Rain was threatened, after all! Her assistant is a dark-haired and kindly sort, whose sprightly palomino could and did carry two. (Why was I no longer with the wagons, you ask? For that you must wait until we are reunited.) He dallies in breeding runners and I hope that we will have much to talk about in the days to come. Indeed, I hope to learn much about this place, and I must say that the headwoman seemed much more welcoming when she assigned me to a cot than I might have imagined! I understand that there will be a Gather forthcoming, and I eagerly anticipate practicing the dances, in hopes of finding a handsome partner... if only I can fashion the right frock. Remember the yellow ribbon! And, be sure to tell me all about the cousins! I hope that they resolve their argument soon.''

''Your Margaret''

Sewn shut, but with an uncomplicated knot.
}}

Logs:Storm Watch T27

2016-05-12T05:58:48Z

Vhaeryth:

{{Log
|who=A'ryk{{!}}Avaryk, E'dre, N'rov{{!}}Norov
|what=E'dre has questions about Avaryk's standing out in the rain; new candidate Norov's just tracking down an archery teacher.
|where=Bowl Falls, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=19
|month=11
|turn=27
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2012.01.26
|quote="I don't think he's ever ''liked'' anyone. He doesn't even really like ''me''."
|mentions=Ebeny, Hattie, N'muir,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon E'dre Smile.jpg, Icon n'rov norov.png,
|log=Despite the ache the changes in air pressure cause to his injured shoulder, stormy days tend to find Avaryk outside at some point or other. Late morning on this particular day finds him out at the bowl falls, as is typical as close to the edge as he can safely stand; it's become his 'thinking spot' within the Weyr. The season has made the view a little less majestic and a bit more bleak, deciduous trees having lost all but the most stubborn of brown leaves, leaving only the evergreens to provide patches of dark colour amidst the gray of stone and brown of bark. The storeskeeper is protected from the light rain currently falling by his worn old jacket, and a wide-brimmed leather hat jammed down on his head. Hands stuffed in pockets, he looks out at the heavily clouded sky, watching the next in the day's series of storms roll ponderously closer, lightning flickering far off against the horizon.

Lightening, no matter its distance, gray clouds and storming weather always bring Wroth out to watch. This morning he would not be left alone to his musings and so his rider is equally bundled against the cold and drizzle. No hat is on his head, so he has to brush water droplets from his eyes as he and Wroth meander along the lake shore. It is the brown that alerts E'dre to Avaryk's position up by the falls, much to the brownrider's surprise. "Have you gone soft on me?" he queries of the brown, slapping a shoulder before he strides forward and makes his way up towards the place Avaryk has settled for. "Why are you out here in the rain?" he asks, by way of greeting, a confused smile on his face as he pushes damp hair out of his eyes. "You don't have a cranky brown demanding you stand in it!"

So lost in his own thoughts, Avaryk fails to hear any footfalls, turning with a start of surprise only at the sound of E'dre's voice. A smile is quick to form, and he frees his hands from his pockets for extra balance as he steps down from his precarious perch and moves to meet the brownrider. "I've always enjoyed storm watching," he replies as he reaches to pull E'dre into a hug, dismissive of mutual damp states. "Why don't you have a hat or a hood?" Taking his own off so that the brim won't get in the way when he leans down to offer a light kiss, and then moving to settle it onto E'dre's head instead of back on his own. "Or does he actually sometimes provide a wing for you to shelter under?"

E'dre returns the hug, damp or not, with as much warmth as he can put through his arms. He laughs as the hat descends on his head and shakes his head, moving to take it off and return it to the taller man. "I'm fine, honest. And usually he'll offer out a wing to let me stand under. If I ask. Sometimes even if I ''don't'' ask. He's in a good mood, I suppose. He's the one that let me know you were lurking up here." A step or two leads him to lean against a tree's trunk, it's sparse foliage and limbs lessening the light rain that is trickling down from the sky. He beckons to Avaryk to join him. "Though I probably won't stay out too long in the rain. No need to get a cold. That'd only irritate Wroth ''and'' N'muir." He winks, smile staying warm on his face. "What do you have planned for your day besides watching lightening flash in the distance and the storm clouds roam around the sky?" The falls seem to only be hosting these two gentlemen in the light rain, with a brown dragon further down the shore settled down to watch the skies above. It's late morning and with the weather as it is, it's unlikely that many will be venturing down to the lake.

So why is Norov doing exactly that, a standard-issue rain slicker pulled over his tall frame with its hood well over his dark hair? Maybe it has to do with how he's got a small slate sheltered under one arm, and with the other jots notes now and again as he looks around. Brown dragon, check. Brown dragon also gets a longer, interested look before he turns away, searching... there. Men. Evidently he's hunting for men, because he's now started their way. Unless it's just trees?

"Why does it not surprise me that he'd be in a good mood today?" Avaryk teases, resettling his hat back on his head. He does look a little surprised at the news that it was Wroth who gave a way his location, however. "Really? I thought you'd just done your usual trick of having him get Squeak to tattle on me." Not that he was hiding, or anything, his quiet laugh lending a joking quality to his words. He moves to lean a shoulder against the tree, angled slightly towards E'dre. A soft snort precedes the dry, "And we can't have ''that'' now, can we?" Though whether it's an annoyed Wroth or an annoyed N'muir he means, he doesn't clarify. "Not much beyond the usual drudgery in stores, really. Though if the storms get much worse today I'll probably wind up hiding in the galleries or the baths just for the heat, and try to work out a plan for setting up an indoor archery range. The weyrling complex hasn't really got suitable space for even a temporary one, unless I go into the barracks themselves." He makes a face, shaking his head. "What about you? Going to escape for a while or has Old Ironjaw got you scheduled this afternoon?" It's possible he's noticed the approach, but without any immediate recognition of the individual, he offers no hail.

E'dre lifts a hand to brush his hair behind his ears before crossing his arms in front of him. One leg kicks up to balance against the tree, while the other stays planted on the ground that is slowly dissolving into sticky mud. "If you need heat and the cold from the weather gets to be too much, just ask. Wroth and I can escape for the afternoon. We had dawn sweeps again and morning drills, so no, Old 'Ironjaw'," he can't help the snort of a laugh that comes out at N'muir's nickname, "is not likely to be looking for us. He's been remarkably civil lately. We went to Boll together, after all. And we didn't fight!" Such a shocker, right? A glance is tossed out towards where Wroth is settling and the brownrider notices the approaching figure. He lifts a hand in a casual wave to be friendly, though he's turning to refocus the conversation and his gaze on Avaryk. "I think Wroth likes you," he announces, "Which is a rare thing. Beyond rare. I don't think he's ever ''liked'' anyone. He doesn't even really like ''me''."

It's mud that Norov's traversing without apparent pleasure, his footfalls angled to minimize the sucking sound of its clinging to his walking boots. He does return the rider's wave, briefly, and his route cuts that much more sharply towards the private space they made for themselves. Only when he's fairly close, so his voice isn't even raised: "Good morning." His accent's pure Boll, unvarying right down to the, "Storeskeeper Avaryk. I'm guessing." That worthy gets a long look, but it's E'dre who gets the half-apologetic smile.

Avaryk grins, amusement causing murky eyes to shine, though the shadow from the brim of his hat might make that difficult to see. "Maybe he's worried you'll punch him again, and muss up his 'rugged good looks.' Not that I think Hattie'll be fawning over him any time soon after his latest stunt." Sigh. Bark scrapes against leather as he shifts his weight slightly, resettling his feet more firmly on the ground. "If I can get the time, I might take you up on that offer regardless of how my shoulder feels. There's not even any snow on the ground and I'm already starting to go a bit stir-crazy." Since he's been holding to his promise and not disappearing on a regular basis since it was made. He pauses, eyeing E'dre for a long moment before lifting his gaze to consider Wroth, lifting his hand to tip his hat back slightly to clear his field of vision. "Well... I guess that's a good thing? IT would make things rather difficult if your dragon hated me." He smiles, a bit crookedly as he looks back to the brownrider, "And I'm sure that's not true. How could he have picked you, otherwise? I--" Thought cut off as he shifts too look in surprise at Norov, a muscle jumping in his jaw at the young man's accent. However, his own Southern drawl is polite when he responds, "You guess correctly, though you have me at a disadvantage. You are...?"

"She really told me in no uncertain terms that I shouldn't punch our dear Weyrleader again," E'dre replies with a drawl and a smirk. He shakes his head, arms once more moving to fold in front of him. His shoulders hunch a little as he tries to draw more warmth from his riding jacket. The rain is persistent at moving down through the tree's minimal shelter. Pitter-patter, drop, drip, drop. A sigh and a nod at the mention of going stir-crazy, "It can happen quite easily. It took me turns and ''turns'' to adjust to Reachian weather. When poor weather hit Igen or Boll at least the rain was often ''warm''." Norov's approach and hailing draw a friendly smile from the brownrider though it stalls as the accent registers and he names Avaryk. "Ah, well. A new face. Must be a candidate?" he queries, trying to regain his composure as he shifts a little closer to Avaryk. "They've started bringing them in by dragon-loads," he quips to Avaryk, trying to gauge the situation a little better between the two.

It's a reaction, such as it is, that sharp gray eyes don't miss. "Would that all such disadvantages were so readily overcome. Call me Norov." He has a slow, sunny smile that only hints at apology, now: "I'm afraid I am seeking you in your... professional capacity. But if you like," he glances to E'dre, to how they're closer now, "I can wait." Indeed, he moves past them without looking back, though not far: just towards a nearby tree, his own sparse shelter.

It's the way E'dre's huddled into his jacket that prompts Avaryk to straighten out of lean and move to curl an arm about the shorter man's shoulders when he moves closer, though the action isn't likely to provide much in the way of physical warmth. He slants a rather confused look down at the brownrider after Norov has said his piece, shoulders lifting in a shrug, the silent message shared with expression and body language: I have no clue. Verbally, "Aye, and I've been tasked with teaching them all archery." Lifting his gaze again, he turns his head to find where Norov has parked himself, frowning. "I'm not sure what you could need that requires my specific attention, unless you ''are'' a Candidate?" Voice a little sharp there, meaning to call attention to the failure to answer E'dre's query.

E'dre doesn't seem overly bothered by the failure to answer his question, especially not when an arm is looped around his shoulders and he's tucking against Avaryk. He watches Norov out of curiousity, but answers Avaryk's earlier statement. "Oh? Archery? I don't get it. That doesn't seem a useful skill for future riders." He holds up a hand, "Do ''not'' say I said that in N'muir's hearing. He'll have my hide." Pause, then with a hitched grin and a glance up at Avaryk. "Or Ben. I'm sure she's already eying the potentials with trepidation. Weyrlings always wear her out." He finally stops his rambling chatter and refocuses on Norov. "Did someone send you to find Avaryk then?"

Had E'dre's question been directed to him? Norov's got a bemused expression when he turns around at last, adopting a casual lean against his own tree that's in such easy earshot. He pushes back his hood slightly then, but with some deliberation, lengthening the time it takes before he really notices the two men's closeness. At that point, though, his expression doesn't particularly change, any censure only in the way he keeps... looking. "I have that honor," he says finally, and still with some slight distraction. "And yes, rider, it was Storeskeeper Avaryk whom I was told to seek. I was told to seek these archery lessons from him, or else," and here that smile of his momentarily escapes safekeeping. "''However'', apparently there is a notice that said lessons are to be suspended. Now, as collaring the Weyrleader and asking him to clarify seems... inappropriate, I must ask our good storeskeeper. Am I to abide by your decision, Avaryk, or his? Forgive me for being unacquainted with your customs."

"Don't worry," Avaryk chuckles, giving E'dre a fond glance. "I like your hide right where it is. It wouldn't look nearly as handsome stretched out on Ironjaw's wall. Besides, I tend to agree with you. Most of the situations which an ordinary person could benefit from knowledge in wielding a bow will never apply to a dragonrider. I have taught several this turn, but they all chose to learn for their own reasons; my lessons weren't mandatory." Which E'dre knows, otherwise he'd have been ordered to attend them. But Aryk has a tendency to ramble, as well. Adding in a suggestion, "Maybe you should whisk ''her'' away, before the eggs're on the Sands and she's required to stay near for the Hatching? The summer Gathers will be starting down South in a few more sevens; might even be some early ones. You can pick out presents for her little ones while her weyrmate babysits." He doesn't seem to be particularly bothered by the way his closeness with E'dre is studied, nor does he appear to be engaging in such just for the sake of causing any discomfort. He's just quite casual and at ease, censure -- particular when stood in the middle of a Weyr -- far from his mind. "Ah, ''that.''" Realization dawns, but the enlightenment is only short lived, disappearing beneath a grimace. "Yes, that notice was posted before the Weyrleader chose to make his... request... that I provide Candidate lessons. My apologies, the situation is a bit... unclear. Hence why there's not been a new notice posted. Yet. Tell me, do you truly have an interest in learning, or would you simply be attending such lessons because of that 'or else?'"

"I can't see myself taking Hattie off on an escapade. I leave such things to your inspiration," E'dre answers part of that rambling with a laugh. The laugh is short for soon Wroth is tired of sitting on the lake shore and from the pained expression that flashes across the brownrider's face - demanding they move on. It's with a resigned sigh that he pushes off from the tree and untangles himself from Avaryk's arm. "I've got to move on. He wants to go to the feeding grounds. Then after I'm for a bath to warm up. See you later?" he asks of Avark, lifting up to plant a small kiss on the Storekeeper's cheek. He gives Norov a passing glance and a friendly smile, "Good luck with all of it. Avaryk is a good teacher, he'll have you up to speed on archery in no time." There goes another grimace. "Sorry, Wroth's ''really'' impatient." And off the brownrider trots.

Hides, walls, weyrmates, presents, Gathers, someone with the same name as Fort's Weyrwoman at the very least: Norov waits through it, wades through it, with a general impression of patience that lightens at the mention of Southern, of ''travel'', and the eggs that go along with it. When Avaryk poses his question, though, rather than reply immediately, he gives the other man a nod in favor of not interrupting E'dre's leavetaking. To E'dre: "Thank you, rider! A very good day to you." And that earlier kiss? It's so convenient how he 'd gotten to looking over at that brown dragon instead. But. Now E'dre's gone, and Norov returns his attention to the storeskeeper once again. "As to these lessons: it does sound like an interesting position that he's put you in, to be sure. Do such things happen often?" His smile reappears, full of easy warmth, and never mind the misty rain that lingers about them. "And as to my taking these lessons, let it never be said that I shy from learning something worthwhile. Count me in."

Amused, "Not Hattie, I meant--" Avaryk starts to clarify before the change in E'dre's expression cuts him off. The storeskeeper casts an irritated glance down towards the lake and Wroth, but is quick to smooth his expression and instead offer a smile to the brownrider. "Of course, love," he answers before the elder is having to hustle off to keep his dragon appeased. Shaking his head, the Southerner 'humphs' quietly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as he sidesteps to re-prop himself against the tree trunk. Attention refocusing solely on Norov, he chuckles a little and decides to provide a small amount of background, "I was a hunter at Southern Weyr before I moved up here. I think getting me to teach others archery was prompted by the recent dependence upon the dragons hunting due to the sickness the herdbeasts in the region suffered from recently. Dragons can't really fit in forests, after all." Shoulder bounces in a one-sided shrug, before he offers a carefully neutral, "As for the Weyrleader's reasons in requiring Candidates be taught, you'd have to ask him. Have you any experience with the long- or shortbow?"

Norov listens with flatteringly close interest, saying afterward, "I see. And it's a problem that the dragons had to do the hunting? I might have imagined that they would be... efficient." He tucks his slate away to better mime dragon claws, one hand jerking forward in a grab and then the other. "Forests aside. I'd go with the shortbow, more flexibility. You could say we've been introduced. There's always more to learn."

Avaryk shakes his head, freeing a hand from his pocket to rub it over his face. "No, no, not a problem. They were just having to do more of it these past few turns than normal. So more... in the eventuality that such a situation ever happened again, there wouldn't be quite such pressure upon dragonriders to be the sole providers of the Weyr's meat. Or... something like that. I don't explain these things very well, and I've not even lived here a full turn. You'd be better off speaking to someone else about the whys and wherefores." Nodding then, his grin settles easily into place. "I'm a longbowman, myself, but I think the short is better suited to the denser forests up here. Since you've got experience, you probably won't have to endure too many sessions with me. The Weyrleader hasn't asked me to turn you all into expert shots, just make sure no one's going to put an arrow through their own foot."

Norov nods right back, only then he says with a chuckle, "That's very well and all, but has he concerned himself with people putting arrows through ''our'' feet? Because if it's all the same to you, I'd like to skip that part, unless someone gives me warning to swap out shoes." He glances briefly, bemusedly at his. "As for Southern, I've heard all sorts of stories about it. Some might even be true. Did you even know about the plague, when you came?"

"That's my concern," Avaryk says, voice dropping slightly lower as this is no joking matter to him. "None of you, even if you're experienced, will be using tipped arrows. I've got special blunted ones that all of my beginner students are required to use. At the worst, an accident will result in a pretty bruise. And I ''do not'' tolerate any goofing around. The same will hold true with anyone I ask to assist me." Or else, implies the tone of his voice. Woe betide the hypothetical assistant who forgets to enforce the storeskeeper's rules! He gives himself a visible shake, and takes a couple steps away from the tree in search of a slightly drier -- or at least, stonier -- patch of ground to stomp some feeling back into chilled feet. "Some might, but I'd bet in finding exaggeration in all of them, of some stripe or another. After all, that's part of what makes a good story, eh?" Quiet laughter. "I knew ''of'' it, vaguely. There was a concern for a while that any dragons visiting up here might bring it back with them, particularly if they'd participated in a mating flight and blooded. But I didn't learn the full scope of it until after I moved."

As Avaryk explains, Norov tips his hood a noncommittal fraction further back, hooking his thumbs in his belt as he observes the other man. "Are you saying that even works for eyes, your blunted tips? Although if someone gets to that point, any old stick would do, or a thumb." He rolls his shoulders loosely, even brings back a smile for the other man's laughter. "I'll agree with you when it comes to stories, all right. At least you had some warning. Some don't. But I hadn't thought that this clutch might be... contaminated," and that's why that smile was so short-lived.

Avaryk flicks a finger against the underside of his hat-brim, causing a small waterfall of collected rainwater to spill down over his shoulder. "If anyone gets to that point," he begins darkly, "they'll find themselves face-first in the dirt with my bootprint on their ass. The first thing I expect my students to learn, before they're even allowed to pick up an unstrung bow, is that you don't point at anything you don't intend to kill. Blunted arrows or not." He pauses, eyeing Norov concideringly for a few moments. "I take the safety of my students quite seriously, I assure you. While I'm not so arrogant as to claim there is no possible way anyone can get hurt, I do everything I am capable of to reduce such risks to an absolute minimum." Confusion begins to take over, brows pulling together in a frown. "Huh? Where did you get that idea from?"

Right after Avaryk's first few words: "That'll be a sight," Norov says, his voice dry where the storeskeeper's hat, and Norov's own rain slicker, are not. "Don't worry on my account. I plan to follow the rules." As for the rest, "From you: what you just said about these... flights, the blooding, it seems to be called. Even I know that it's supposed to be done where they live, in seclusion. Correct me if I am wrong. I'd like to be."

Wouldn't it be? Dry tones are met with a bland look from the storeskeeper, but Avaryk chooses not to remark upon any perceived skepticism. Probably a good thing, if there was none intended to be relayed! "You'll be one among at least thirty, if not more," he points out. And the odds favour there being at least one idiot in the group. "Oh! Sorry. There's no actual risk of the dragons carrying the illness that struck the herdbeasts, even if they did blood from an infected animal. In the early stages of the plague, however, before that was discovered, it had been a concern," he's swift to, hopefully, reassure. He tilts his head, and doesn't quite manage to stop himself from the query, "You really know ''nothing'' about Weyrs, do you?" He turns slightly, waving his hand in what would only be recognisable as the direction of the feeding pens to someone familiar with the layout of the bowl. As it is, it may just appear to be a random gesture. Cue teacher-mode: "Typically, when a green- or goldrider recognises that his or her dragon is proddy, they keep them confined to the Weyr. In the case of golds, this is as much for the safety of everyone as it is their dragon, given the, ah... spillover. Nor does anyone wish to have their dragon call a pack of others down on some poor cotholder's herd. So yes, when a female rises to mate, if everything goes the way is ought, she'll do so from her home Weyr and she and the males who chase her will blood in the feeding pens. But some of those males might be visiting from out-Weyr. The bronze who caught our Isyath is from High Reaches, for example. Make sense now?"

'So you're one-thirtieth along," Norov comments with more cheer than the dragons and their blooding get, and keeps it up for an even more cheerful, "Nothing at all. You could tell me that everyone eats babies for breakfast and I'd ask, well, what do the babies eat?" Speaking of stories and exaggeration. At least he shuts up long enough for Avaryk to go into that teacher-mode with minimal disruption, though somewhere in there he pulls his hood further forward again. Spillover, packs, visitors, what he winds up with is just the important things: "So dragons, and ''those'' dragons still in shell, won't be hurt. All right." And then he tilts an assessing look at Avaryk. "So. You've got a lot to say about all this. Do you also Stand as a candidate for the dragons, or are your skills... more valued elsewhere?"

That first question earned Norov a snort of laughter, swiftly turned into a cough. Avaryk's long-winded spiel was probably given through a grin thanks to it. "No, they won't be hurt. You might hear some other things while you're here, concerning Isyath and how long she took to rise, and what her clutch might be like because of it. I'd ignore it, if I were you. It'll either be someone trying to pull your leg, or fishing for more marks for the betting pool." Spoken in the manner of friendly, if unsolicited, advice. Rather than giving a direct answer, he simply shrugs and says, "I'm Weyrbred. Both my parents are dragonriders. So...." He sort of grew up with it all. A growl of thunder in the distance makes him look up, frowning slightly as he gauges how close the storm has gotten during the time they've been stood around talking. "Looks like we're about to get hit again. I'm going to head back in; I need to get back to work anyway. It was good to meet you, Norov. I should have a new notice up about the archery soon, just as soon as I hear... a final word on it." With that cryptic comment, he turns and trots off, tossing a casual wave behind himself.
}}

Logs:Feeding the Bollians

2016-05-12T05:58:11Z

Vhaeryth:

{{Log
|who=Brakef, N'rov{{!}}Norov
|what=After less than half of Boll's autumn tithe shows up, and N'muir sends the train's guards to the cells, Bollian candidate Norov goes to try and figure out what's going on... and help.
|where=Lower Caverns, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, Southern Boll Hold
|day=28
|month=11
|turn=27
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2012.01.29
|quote="Blood has been spilled. There'll be accounting for that."
|mentions=Bronnard, Jivrain, N'muir
|type=Log
|st=Ali
|icons-new=Icon n'rov norov.png,
|log=''It was late afternoon on day 28, month 11, turn 27 of the 10th interval when the tithe train finally arrived from Southern Boll. While the weyrfolk were set for a celebration, the mood quickly turned sour as it became apparent that the actual goods didn't meet the listed manifest. Accusations and threats were made, some even say the guards were hogtied and dragged - and did you see the blood coming from that poor driver? - and the end result was the imprisonment of the three Southern Boll residents who had escorted the tithe. There's little doubt that this incident - whoever is responsible - will do little to heal the fraying relationship between Fort Weyr and Southern Boll. The only question now is - just what will Lord Jivrain do?''

Everyone would've heard about the ruckus that happened during the arrival of Southern Boll's tithe train. It would be difficult ''not'' to have heard. Norov managed to secure himself a place in the kitchen, assisting with the preparation of the feast to follow the unloading, and thus for him, it was all heard second hand. He is still working in the kitchen much later when one of the cooks presses a tray of food towards him, and tells him, "For the prisoners." Prisoners? A query of this or that weyrfolk directs him though the maze of caverns. A pair of bored dragonriders play poker at a table outside, and look up at him expectantly.

Secondhand news, made the more troubling for comments about the Glass Fountain... of Blood! and the like. Norov licks his lips before taking the tray, but does so obediently enough, and along the walk tries to erase the worry he has to know is in his expression. There's no erasing his Boll-bred accent, but he does keep to a mumble when he addresses the guards, his gaze low, like maybe he just isn't too smart. "Cooks said, for the prisoners," and proffers the tray: do they need to look? Poke through it? Snag the good bits?

The riders stare for a while. They've probably secretly got some bet about who can do the most intimating stare. It's the sort of thing idle riders do the pass the time in boring circumstances. One of them, finally, jerks his head, which seems to be an indication to pass. Down a short corridor, on either side of which are metal bars welded into the stone itself. Three men: one older, and by his knots on his uniform, in charge. One younger, looking frazzled, curled up into a ball on the cot. And a third, uniformed man, a bandage around his head. Norov recognizes the older. A friend of his uncle's, perhaps? The name escapes him. Benji? Brend? Something.

Not long into that staring, Norov brings the tray closer to his body again and waits with his head slightly lowered. Maybe he'd like to stand stock still too, but as it is, he shifts sometimes from foot to foot, and maybe that better pleases them anyway. As it is, he's slow heading down that hallway at first but then every step takes him a fraction faster, and he's looking through each set of bars until he gets to the right one and... "Sir?" He says it quietly, but it's riven with worry, the more so as he catches sight of that... of that ''bandage''. "Guardsman Br....e.... I'm sorry, it's been so long. I'm sorry."

The older guard looks up. There's a puzzled expression in his features as he stares at Norov. "Brakef," he finally says. Then recognition kicks in. "Norov. Bronnard's nephew." One of the benefits of being a guard is remembering random people, random names. Or not-so-random people. He stands and steps closer to the bars, leaning to see if he can see the riders from this angle. Then, "What are you doing here, boy?" he hisses.

All of which sends Norov's sneak-away-from-home plan right down the tubes, but: priorities. Besides, he made it. "Right," he says quickly, keeping his back to the guards, attention trained on the senior man. He glances back over his shoulder too, but it's brief: Brakef's paying attention for them all. "They took me to Stand for the eggs. But you, what ''happened''? I've got food for starters, here," and only belatedly seems to remember that he's supposed to give them the food, that there's supposed to be clanking of him setting the tray down and checking for a pass-through slot or just handing individual items through the bars. "This isn't supposed to happen."

Brakef's fingers grip around the bars, knuckles turning to white as he looms forward. It would be a lot more intimidating if the bars didn't prevent that movement going too far. "You're ''Standing''? What are you thinking, boy? Does your father know about this?" He releases a breath, glances over his shoulder at his fellow cellmates: no movement. One's sleeping, and one's unconscious. Convenient. "Don't worry about me, boy. They," a jerk of his head indicates the dragonriders out there, or possibly the Weyr-at-large, "Haven't a leg to stand on. Treachery, indeed! The Lord'll have us out in a couple of days, and he'll be hopping mad about it, too."

And it would be even more intimidating if scrawny Norov hadn't toddled after Brakef, or rather, toddled after his brother who scrambled after their uncle who hung out off-duty with his fellow guardsman. As it is, it's somehow reassuring, and he stays close. "Of ''course'' he doesn't," he says of his father, all do-you-think-I'm''stupid''? and adds, "Long story." Maybe Brakef's going to be fine, but Norov's gaze can't help but track toward that man with the bandage. "Is he going to be all right, though? Did they bring a real Healer? I'll help how I can." It's simple food rather than sweetmeats from the feast, but fresh: bread and meat and cheese wrapped in cloths. No implements, not even plates. "It's got to have been a mistake."

There's a look in Brakef's gaze that says, ''yes'', he really does think Norov is that stupid. After all, he's ''here''. At Fort Weyr. Roughly, he answers, "They brought a healer. Whether it was a 'real' one or not-" he shrugs, takes the tray, transfers it to the tiny table in the center of the room. The smells don't stir the other occupants. Then he's back to the bars, to Norov. "Not sure what it was. The Steward at Boll checked the contents twice before they sent us out. Good man, not one to risk the wrath of his betters." Which leaves either Lord Jivrain's orders, or... something else.

Norov's mouth compresses in a grimace. "It better have been," he says. He glances back towards the guards again, then backs up half a step, assuming an at-ease stance that he as quickly breaks for a hands-behind-back head-slightly-down pose that's at odds with the sharp upward look through his curly fringe. "I heard there was something missing? Can you say what? There were rumors all over the place. Were there any strange stops along the way? Were..." This time, when he stops and presses his lips together, it's to stifle even the wry possibility of a laugh. "''Not'' meaning to try and teach you to suck eggs, sir."

"''They'' say lots of things were missing." Yet Brakef's very tone casts doubt on that assertion. "Thought for a moment they were going to string us up somewhere. What's gotten these people so riled up? I've seen murderers treated with less contempt." He glances over his shoulder at the driver, chewing his lip. "Blood has been spilled. There'll be accounting for that." He shakes his head firmly. "Lots of stops, none strange. We had to detour via Fort Sea to weather out a bit storm, otherwise we would've been a day sooner, maybe two."

Surprise shocks Norov's features, and he starts to repress a scowl before just letting it loose. "I don't ''know''. There was that plague... but they say that's over. I saw the Weyrleader once," one way of putting it, "and he has a temper," though by the younger man's tone that's hardly unusual in a leader, "but he turned around neat as you please. This just doesn't seem right. it's not like the kitchens were raving for anyone's blood, not that I saw anyway, most folks have seemed upright enough so far. And, well, it's Interval, and people know where their bread's buttered."

"...he has a temper?" Brakef repeats that with no small amount of bemusement, shaking his head. "He was the calmest head ''there''." His fingers clench around the mental bars again. "Well, as long as you're here, if you can talk sense into this folk without getting yourself in... here, I'd appreciate it. The Lord would too, I suspect." That's said in a lowered voice, brows rising. "Probably about time you started writing home, isn't it, boy?" Is he... suggesting what Norov thinks he's suggesting? Probably.

"He was?" Norov bites off a nervy laugh, and listens. In the end, "I'll do that, talk to them. I don't know how much it will change, not like I'm going to be taking tea with the Weyrwoman or whatever she does, but a lot of them do have sense," and he's got to believe that. "As for writing..." a flush has risen up his cheekbones. "I got one written already, was going to ask tomorrow about how to send it. Only it was to Tan, if you see what I mean. I was playing around, figured that anyone could open it."

"It's worth a shot. Saner heads have to prevail." Brakef's lips thin for a moment, until Norov speaks again, and his eyes widen as he mentions his letter. "That's fine, boy, that's fine." There's an air of approval in the older guard's expression. "You'd best get on now, before those dragonriders start to wonder why you're lingering so long talking to my ilk."

There's a moment there where Norov hesitates: what if the older man thinks he meant a letter about ''today'' already, not just keeping in touch with his brother on the silly-sly? But he doesn't risk losing that approval, and says only, "Sir." A last worried glance for the out-of-it men, a longer look at his uncle's friend who's responsible for those men, and he turns to head out with his head still low, but a little more purpose in his stride like he's on duty again. Maybe they'll be busy with their game. Maybe they won't bother with him. Maybe he'll just get to go.

They don't try and stop him. In fact, they barely look up, in the midst of a particularly high spirited deal. One of them grunts, "Come back for the tray in an hour," and that's it.
|Categories=Plot Logs
}}

File:Icon n'rov norov.png

2016-05-12T05:57:05Z

Vhaeryth:

Logs:Feeding the Bollians

2016-05-12T03:13:13Z

Vhaeryth: *reminisces* Ali STed this. Good times.

{{Log
|who=Brakef, N'rov{{!}}Norov
|what=After less than half of Boll's autumn tithe shows up, and N'muir sends the train's guards to the cells, Bollian candidate Norov goes to try and figure out what's going on... and help.
|where=Lower Caverns, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, Southern Boll Hold
|day=28
|month=11
|turn=27
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2012.01.29
|quote="Blood has been spilled. There'll be accounting for that."
|mentions=Bronnard, Jivrain, N'muir
|type=Log
|st=Ali
|icons-new=Icon n'rov.png,
|log=''It was late afternoon on day 28, month 11, turn 27 of the 10th interval when the tithe train finally arrived from Southern Boll. While the weyrfolk were set for a celebration, the mood quickly turned sour as it became apparent that the actual goods didn't meet the listed manifest. Accusations and threats were made, some even say the guards were hogtied and dragged - and did you see the blood coming from that poor driver? - and the end result was the imprisonment of the three Southern Boll residents who had escorted the tithe. There's little doubt that this incident - whoever is responsible - will do little to heal the fraying relationship between Fort Weyr and Southern Boll. The only question now is - just what will Lord Jivrain do?''

Everyone would've heard about the ruckus that happened during the arrival of Southern Boll's tithe train. It would be difficult ''not'' to have heard. Norov managed to secure himself a place in the kitchen, assisting with the preparation of the feast to follow the unloading, and thus for him, it was all heard second hand. He is still working in the kitchen much later when one of the cooks presses a tray of food towards him, and tells him, "For the prisoners." Prisoners? A query of this or that weyrfolk directs him though the maze of caverns. A pair of bored dragonriders play poker at a table outside, and look up at him expectantly.

Secondhand news, made the more troubling for comments about the Glass Fountain... of Blood! and the like. Norov licks his lips before taking the tray, but does so obediently enough, and along the walk tries to erase the worry he has to know is in his expression. There's no erasing his Boll-bred accent, but he does keep to a mumble when he addresses the guards, his gaze low, like maybe he just isn't too smart. "Cooks said, for the prisoners," and proffers the tray: do they need to look? Poke through it? Snag the good bits?

The riders stare for a while. They've probably secretly got some bet about who can do the most intimating stare. It's the sort of thing idle riders do the pass the time in boring circumstances. One of them, finally, jerks his head, which seems to be an indication to pass. Down a short corridor, on either side of which are metal bars welded into the stone itself. Three men: one older, and by his knots on his uniform, in charge. One younger, looking frazzled, curled up into a ball on the cot. And a third, uniformed man, a bandage around his head. Norov recognizes the older. A friend of his uncle's, perhaps? The name escapes him. Benji? Brend? Something.

Not long into that staring, Norov brings the tray closer to his body again and waits with his head slightly lowered. Maybe he'd like to stand stock still too, but as it is, he shifts sometimes from foot to foot, and maybe that better pleases them anyway. As it is, he's slow heading down that hallway at first but then every step takes him a fraction faster, and he's looking through each set of bars until he gets to the right one and... "Sir?" He says it quietly, but it's riven with worry, the more so as he catches sight of that... of that ''bandage''. "Guardsman Br....e.... I'm sorry, it's been so long. I'm sorry."

The older guard looks up. There's a puzzled expression in his features as he stares at Norov. "Brakef," he finally says. Then recognition kicks in. "Norov. Bronnard's nephew." One of the benefits of being a guard is remembering random people, random names. Or not-so-random people. He stands and steps closer to the bars, leaning to see if he can see the riders from this angle. Then, "What are you doing here, boy?" he hisses.

All of which sends Norov's sneak-away-from-home plan right down the tubes, but: priorities. Besides, he made it. "Right," he says quickly, keeping his back to the guards, attention trained on the senior man. He glances back over his shoulder too, but it's brief: Brakef's paying attention for them all. "They took me to Stand for the eggs. But you, what ''happened''? I've got food for starters, here," and only belatedly seems to remember that he's supposed to give them the food, that there's supposed to be clanking of him setting the tray down and checking for a pass-through slot or just handing individual items through the bars. "This isn't supposed to happen."

Brakef's fingers grip around the bars, knuckles turning to white as he looms forward. It would be a lot more intimidating if the bars didn't prevent that movement going too far. "You're ''Standing''? What are you thinking, boy? Does your father know about this?" He releases a breath, glances over his shoulder at his fellow cellmates: no movement. One's sleeping, and one's unconscious. Convenient. "Don't worry about me, boy. They," a jerk of his head indicates the dragonriders out there, or possibly the Weyr-at-large, "Haven't a leg to stand on. Treachery, indeed! The Lord'll have us out in a couple of days, and he'll be hopping mad about it, too."

And it would be even more intimidating if scrawny Norov hadn't toddled after Brakef, or rather, toddled after his brother who scrambled after their uncle who hung out off-duty with his fellow guardsman. As it is, it's somehow reassuring, and he stays close. "Of ''course'' he doesn't," he says of his father, all do-you-think-I'm''stupid''? and adds, "Long story." Maybe Brakef's going to be fine, but Norov's gaze can't help but track toward that man with the bandage. "Is he going to be all right, though? Did they bring a real Healer? I'll help how I can." It's simple food rather than sweetmeats from the feast, but fresh: bread and meat and cheese wrapped in cloths. No implements, not even plates. "It's got to have been a mistake."

There's a look in Brakef's gaze that says, ''yes'', he really does think Norov is that stupid. After all, he's ''here''. At Fort Weyr. Roughly, he answers, "They brought a healer. Whether it was a 'real' one or not-" he shrugs, takes the tray, transfers it to the tiny table in the center of the room. The smells don't stir the other occupants. Then he's back to the bars, to Norov. "Not sure what it was. The Steward at Boll checked the contents twice before they sent us out. Good man, not one to risk the wrath of his betters." Which leaves either Lord Jivrain's orders, or... something else.

Norov's mouth compresses in a grimace. "It better have been," he says. He glances back towards the guards again, then backs up half a step, assuming an at-ease stance that he as quickly breaks for a hands-behind-back head-slightly-down pose that's at odds with the sharp upward look through his curly fringe. "I heard there was something missing? Can you say what? There were rumors all over the place. Were there any strange stops along the way? Were..." This time, when he stops and presses his lips together, it's to stifle even the wry possibility of a laugh. "''Not'' meaning to try and teach you to suck eggs, sir."

"''They'' say lots of things were missing." Yet Brakef's very tone casts doubt on that assertion. "Thought for a moment they were going to string us up somewhere. What's gotten these people so riled up? I've seen murderers treated with less contempt." He glances over his shoulder at the driver, chewing his lip. "Blood has been spilled. There'll be accounting for that." He shakes his head firmly. "Lots of stops, none strange. We had to detour via Fort Sea to weather out a bit storm, otherwise we would've been a day sooner, maybe two."

Surprise shocks Norov's features, and he starts to repress a scowl before just letting it loose. "I don't ''know''. There was that plague... but they say that's over. I saw the Weyrleader once," one way of putting it, "and he has a temper," though by the younger man's tone that's hardly unusual in a leader, "but he turned around neat as you please. This just doesn't seem right. it's not like the kitchens were raving for anyone's blood, not that I saw anyway, most folks have seemed upright enough so far. And, well, it's Interval, and people know where their bread's buttered."

"...he has a temper?" Brakef repeats that with no small amount of bemusement, shaking his head. "He was the calmest head ''there''." His fingers clench around the mental bars again. "Well, as long as you're here, if you can talk sense into this folk without getting yourself in... here, I'd appreciate it. The Lord would too, I suspect." That's said in a lowered voice, brows rising. "Probably about time you started writing home, isn't it, boy?" Is he... suggesting what Norov thinks he's suggesting? Probably.

"He was?" Norov bites off a nervy laugh, and listens. In the end, "I'll do that, talk to them. I don't know how much it will change, not like I'm going to be taking tea with the Weyrwoman or whatever she does, but a lot of them do have sense," and he's got to believe that. "As for writing..." a flush has risen up his cheekbones. "I got one written already, was going to ask tomorrow about how to send it. Only it was to Tan, if you see what I mean. I was playing around, figured that anyone could open it."

"It's worth a shot. Saner heads have to prevail." Brakef's lips thin for a moment, until Norov speaks again, and his eyes widen as he mentions his letter. "That's fine, boy, that's fine." There's an air of approval in the older guard's expression. "You'd best get on now, before those dragonriders start to wonder why you're lingering so long talking to my ilk."

There's a moment there where Norov hesitates: what if the older man thinks he meant a letter about ''today'' already, not just keeping in touch with his brother on the silly-sly? But he doesn't risk losing that approval, and says only, "Sir." A last worried glance for the out-of-it men, a longer look at his uncle's friend who's responsible for those men, and he turns to head out with his head still low, but a little more purpose in his stride like he's on duty again. Maybe they'll be busy with their game. Maybe they won't bother with him. Maybe he'll just get to go.

They don't try and stop him. In fact, they barely look up, in the midst of a particularly high spirited deal. One of them grunts, "Come back for the tray in an hour," and that's it.
|Categories=Plot Logs
}}

Logs:Storm Watch T27

2016-05-12T03:04:19Z

Vhaeryth: Norov log #2 , because.

{{Log
|who=A'ryk{{!}}Avaryk, E'dre, N'rov{{!}}Norov
|what=E'dre has questions about Avaryk's standing out in the rain; new candidate Norov's just tracking down an archery teacher.
|where=Bowl Falls, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=19
|month=11
|turn=27
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2012.01.26
|quote="I don't think he's ever ''liked'' anyone. He doesn't even really like ''me''."
|mentions=Ebeny, Hattie, N'muir,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon E'dre Smile.jpg, Icon n'rov.png
|log=Despite the ache the changes in air pressure cause to his injured shoulder, stormy days tend to find Avaryk outside at some point or other. Late morning on this particular day finds him out at the bowl falls, as is typical as close to the edge as he can safely stand; it's become his 'thinking spot' within the Weyr. The season has made the view a little less majestic and a bit more bleak, deciduous trees having lost all but the most stubborn of brown leaves, leaving only the evergreens to provide patches of dark colour amidst the gray of stone and brown of bark. The storeskeeper is protected from the light rain currently falling by his worn old jacket, and a wide-brimmed leather hat jammed down on his head. Hands stuffed in pockets, he looks out at the heavily clouded sky, watching the next in the day's series of storms roll ponderously closer, lightning flickering far off against the horizon.

Lightening, no matter its distance, gray clouds and storming weather always bring Wroth out to watch. This morning he would not be left alone to his musings and so his rider is equally bundled against the cold and drizzle. No hat is on his head, so he has to brush water droplets from his eyes as he and Wroth meander along the lake shore. It is the brown that alerts E'dre to Avaryk's position up by the falls, much to the brownrider's surprise. "Have you gone soft on me?" he queries of the brown, slapping a shoulder before he strides forward and makes his way up towards the place Avaryk has settled for. "Why are you out here in the rain?" he asks, by way of greeting, a confused smile on his face as he pushes damp hair out of his eyes. "You don't have a cranky brown demanding you stand in it!"

So lost in his own thoughts, Avaryk fails to hear any footfalls, turning with a start of surprise only at the sound of E'dre's voice. A smile is quick to form, and he frees his hands from his pockets for extra balance as he steps down from his precarious perch and moves to meet the brownrider. "I've always enjoyed storm watching," he replies as he reaches to pull E'dre into a hug, dismissive of mutual damp states. "Why don't you have a hat or a hood?" Taking his own off so that the brim won't get in the way when he leans down to offer a light kiss, and then moving to settle it onto E'dre's head instead of back on his own. "Or does he actually sometimes provide a wing for you to shelter under?"

E'dre returns the hug, damp or not, with as much warmth as he can put through his arms. He laughs as the hat descends on his head and shakes his head, moving to take it off and return it to the taller man. "I'm fine, honest. And usually he'll offer out a wing to let me stand under. If I ask. Sometimes even if I ''don't'' ask. He's in a good mood, I suppose. He's the one that let me know you were lurking up here." A step or two leads him to lean against a tree's trunk, it's sparse foliage and limbs lessening the light rain that is trickling down from the sky. He beckons to Avaryk to join him. "Though I probably won't stay out too long in the rain. No need to get a cold. That'd only irritate Wroth ''and'' N'muir." He winks, smile staying warm on his face. "What do you have planned for your day besides watching lightening flash in the distance and the storm clouds roam around the sky?" The falls seem to only be hosting these two gentlemen in the light rain, with a brown dragon further down the shore settled down to watch the skies above. It's late morning and with the weather as it is, it's unlikely that many will be venturing down to the lake.

So why is Norov doing exactly that, a standard-issue rain slicker pulled over his tall frame with its hood well over his dark hair? Maybe it has to do with how he's got a small slate sheltered under one arm, and with the other jots notes now and again as he looks around. Brown dragon, check. Brown dragon also gets a longer, interested look before he turns away, searching... there. Men. Evidently he's hunting for men, because he's now started their way. Unless it's just trees?

"Why does it not surprise me that he'd be in a good mood today?" Avaryk teases, resettling his hat back on his head. He does look a little surprised at the news that it was Wroth who gave a way his location, however. "Really? I thought you'd just done your usual trick of having him get Squeak to tattle on me." Not that he was hiding, or anything, his quiet laugh lending a joking quality to his words. He moves to lean a shoulder against the tree, angled slightly towards E'dre. A soft snort precedes the dry, "And we can't have ''that'' now, can we?" Though whether it's an annoyed Wroth or an annoyed N'muir he means, he doesn't clarify. "Not much beyond the usual drudgery in stores, really. Though if the storms get much worse today I'll probably wind up hiding in the galleries or the baths just for the heat, and try to work out a plan for setting up an indoor archery range. The weyrling complex hasn't really got suitable space for even a temporary one, unless I go into the barracks themselves." He makes a face, shaking his head. "What about you? Going to escape for a while or has Old Ironjaw got you scheduled this afternoon?" It's possible he's noticed the approach, but without any immediate recognition of the individual, he offers no hail.

E'dre lifts a hand to brush his hair behind his ears before crossing his arms in front of him. One leg kicks up to balance against the tree, while the other stays planted on the ground that is slowly dissolving into sticky mud. "If you need heat and the cold from the weather gets to be too much, just ask. Wroth and I can escape for the afternoon. We had dawn sweeps again and morning drills, so no, Old 'Ironjaw'," he can't help the snort of a laugh that comes out at N'muir's nickname, "is not likely to be looking for us. He's been remarkably civil lately. We went to Boll together, after all. And we didn't fight!" Such a shocker, right? A glance is tossed out towards where Wroth is settling and the brownrider notices the approaching figure. He lifts a hand in a casual wave to be friendly, though he's turning to refocus the conversation and his gaze on Avaryk. "I think Wroth likes you," he announces, "Which is a rare thing. Beyond rare. I don't think he's ever ''liked'' anyone. He doesn't even really like ''me''."

It's mud that Norov's traversing without apparent pleasure, his footfalls angled to minimize the sucking sound of its clinging to his walking boots. He does return the rider's wave, briefly, and his route cuts that much more sharply towards the private space they made for themselves. Only when he's fairly close, so his voice isn't even raised: "Good morning." His accent's pure Boll, unvarying right down to the, "Storeskeeper Avaryk. I'm guessing." That worthy gets a long look, but it's E'dre who gets the half-apologetic smile.

Avaryk grins, amusement causing murky eyes to shine, though the shadow from the brim of his hat might make that difficult to see. "Maybe he's worried you'll punch him again, and muss up his 'rugged good looks.' Not that I think Hattie'll be fawning over him any time soon after his latest stunt." Sigh. Bark scrapes against leather as he shifts his weight slightly, resettling his feet more firmly on the ground. "If I can get the time, I might take you up on that offer regardless of how my shoulder feels. There's not even any snow on the ground and I'm already starting to go a bit stir-crazy." Since he's been holding to his promise and not disappearing on a regular basis since it was made. He pauses, eyeing E'dre for a long moment before lifting his gaze to consider Wroth, lifting his hand to tip his hat back slightly to clear his field of vision. "Well... I guess that's a good thing? IT would make things rather difficult if your dragon hated me." He smiles, a bit crookedly as he looks back to the brownrider, "And I'm sure that's not true. How could he have picked you, otherwise? I--" Thought cut off as he shifts too look in surprise at Norov, a muscle jumping in his jaw at the young man's accent. However, his own Southern drawl is polite when he responds, "You guess correctly, though you have me at a disadvantage. You are...?"

"She really told me in no uncertain terms that I shouldn't punch our dear Weyrleader again," E'dre replies with a drawl and a smirk. He shakes his head, arms once more moving to fold in front of him. His shoulders hunch a little as he tries to draw more warmth from his riding jacket. The rain is persistent at moving down through the tree's minimal shelter. Pitter-patter, drop, drip, drop. A sigh and a nod at the mention of going stir-crazy, "It can happen quite easily. It took me turns and ''turns'' to adjust to Reachian weather. When poor weather hit Igen or Boll at least the rain was often ''warm''." Norov's approach and hailing draw a friendly smile from the brownrider though it stalls as the accent registers and he names Avaryk. "Ah, well. A new face. Must be a candidate?" he queries, trying to regain his composure as he shifts a little closer to Avaryk. "They've started bringing them in by dragon-loads," he quips to Avaryk, trying to gauge the situation a little better between the two.

It's a reaction, such as it is, that sharp gray eyes don't miss. "Would that all such disadvantages were so readily overcome. Call me Norov." He has a slow, sunny smile that only hints at apology, now: "I'm afraid I am seeking you in your... professional capacity. But if you like," he glances to E'dre, to how they're closer now, "I can wait." Indeed, he moves past them without looking back, though not far: just towards a nearby tree, his own sparse shelter.

It's the way E'dre's huddled into his jacket that prompts Avaryk to straighten out of lean and move to curl an arm about the shorter man's shoulders when he moves closer, though the action isn't likely to provide much in the way of physical warmth. He slants a rather confused look down at the brownrider after Norov has said his piece, shoulders lifting in a shrug, the silent message shared with expression and body language: I have no clue. Verbally, "Aye, and I've been tasked with teaching them all archery." Lifting his gaze again, he turns his head to find where Norov has parked himself, frowning. "I'm not sure what you could need that requires my specific attention, unless you ''are'' a Candidate?" Voice a little sharp there, meaning to call attention to the failure to answer E'dre's query.

E'dre doesn't seem overly bothered by the failure to answer his question, especially not when an arm is looped around his shoulders and he's tucking against Avaryk. He watches Norov out of curiousity, but answers Avaryk's earlier statement. "Oh? Archery? I don't get it. That doesn't seem a useful skill for future riders." He holds up a hand, "Do ''not'' say I said that in N'muir's hearing. He'll have my hide." Pause, then with a hitched grin and a glance up at Avaryk. "Or Ben. I'm sure she's already eying the potentials with trepidation. Weyrlings always wear her out." He finally stops his rambling chatter and refocuses on Norov. "Did someone send you to find Avaryk then?"

Had E'dre's question been directed to him? Norov's got a bemused expression when he turns around at last, adopting a casual lean against his own tree that's in such easy earshot. He pushes back his hood slightly then, but with some deliberation, lengthening the time it takes before he really notices the two men's closeness. At that point, though, his expression doesn't particularly change, any censure only in the way he keeps... looking. "I have that honor," he says finally, and still with some slight distraction. "And yes, rider, it was Storeskeeper Avaryk whom I was told to seek. I was told to seek these archery lessons from him, or else," and here that smile of his momentarily escapes safekeeping. "''However'', apparently there is a notice that said lessons are to be suspended. Now, as collaring the Weyrleader and asking him to clarify seems... inappropriate, I must ask our good storeskeeper. Am I to abide by your decision, Avaryk, or his? Forgive me for being unacquainted with your customs."

"Don't worry," Avaryk chuckles, giving E'dre a fond glance. "I like your hide right where it is. It wouldn't look nearly as handsome stretched out on Ironjaw's wall. Besides, I tend to agree with you. Most of the situations which an ordinary person could benefit from knowledge in wielding a bow will never apply to a dragonrider. I have taught several this turn, but they all chose to learn for their own reasons; my lessons weren't mandatory." Which E'dre knows, otherwise he'd have been ordered to attend them. But Aryk has a tendency to ramble, as well. Adding in a suggestion, "Maybe you should whisk ''her'' away, before the eggs're on the Sands and she's required to stay near for the Hatching? The summer Gathers will be starting down South in a few more sevens; might even be some early ones. You can pick out presents for her little ones while her weyrmate babysits." He doesn't seem to be particularly bothered by the way his closeness with E'dre is studied, nor does he appear to be engaging in such just for the sake of causing any discomfort. He's just quite casual and at ease, censure -- particular when stood in the middle of a Weyr -- far from his mind. "Ah, ''that.''" Realization dawns, but the enlightenment is only short lived, disappearing beneath a grimace. "Yes, that notice was posted before the Weyrleader chose to make his... request... that I provide Candidate lessons. My apologies, the situation is a bit... unclear. Hence why there's not been a new notice posted. Yet. Tell me, do you truly have an interest in learning, or would you simply be attending such lessons because of that 'or else?'"

"I can't see myself taking Hattie off on an escapade. I leave such things to your inspiration," E'dre answers part of that rambling with a laugh. The laugh is short for soon Wroth is tired of sitting on the lake shore and from the pained expression that flashes across the brownrider's face - demanding they move on. It's with a resigned sigh that he pushes off from the tree and untangles himself from Avaryk's arm. "I've got to move on. He wants to go to the feeding grounds. Then after I'm for a bath to warm up. See you later?" he asks of Avark, lifting up to plant a small kiss on the Storekeeper's cheek. He gives Norov a passing glance and a friendly smile, "Good luck with all of it. Avaryk is a good teacher, he'll have you up to speed on archery in no time." There goes another grimace. "Sorry, Wroth's ''really'' impatient." And off the brownrider trots.

Hides, walls, weyrmates, presents, Gathers, someone with the same name as Fort's Weyrwoman at the very least: Norov waits through it, wades through it, with a general impression of patience that lightens at the mention of Southern, of ''travel'', and the eggs that go along with it. When Avaryk poses his question, though, rather than reply immediately, he gives the other man a nod in favor of not interrupting E'dre's leavetaking. To E'dre: "Thank you, rider! A very good day to you." And that earlier kiss? It's so convenient how he 'd gotten to looking over at that brown dragon instead. But. Now E'dre's gone, and Norov returns his attention to the storeskeeper once again. "As to these lessons: it does sound like an interesting position that he's put you in, to be sure. Do such things happen often?" His smile reappears, full of easy warmth, and never mind the misty rain that lingers about them. "And as to my taking these lessons, let it never be said that I shy from learning something worthwhile. Count me in."

Amused, "Not Hattie, I meant--" Avaryk starts to clarify before the change in E'dre's expression cuts him off. The storeskeeper casts an irritated glance down towards the lake and Wroth, but is quick to smooth his expression and instead offer a smile to the brownrider. "Of course, love," he answers before the elder is having to hustle off to keep his dragon appeased. Shaking his head, the Southerner 'humphs' quietly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as he sidesteps to re-prop himself against the tree trunk. Attention refocusing solely on Norov, he chuckles a little and decides to provide a small amount of background, "I was a hunter at Southern Weyr before I moved up here. I think getting me to teach others archery was prompted by the recent dependence upon the dragons hunting due to the sickness the herdbeasts in the region suffered from recently. Dragons can't really fit in forests, after all." Shoulder bounces in a one-sided shrug, before he offers a carefully neutral, "As for the Weyrleader's reasons in requiring Candidates be taught, you'd have to ask him. Have you any experience with the long- or shortbow?"

Norov listens with flatteringly close interest, saying afterward, "I see. And it's a problem that the dragons had to do the hunting? I might have imagined that they would be... efficient." He tucks his slate away to better mime dragon claws, one hand jerking forward in a grab and then the other. "Forests aside. I'd go with the shortbow, more flexibility. You could say we've been introduced. There's always more to learn."

Avaryk shakes his head, freeing a hand from his pocket to rub it over his face. "No, no, not a problem. They were just having to do more of it these past few turns than normal. So more... in the eventuality that such a situation ever happened again, there wouldn't be quite such pressure upon dragonriders to be the sole providers of the Weyr's meat. Or... something like that. I don't explain these things very well, and I've not even lived here a full turn. You'd be better off speaking to someone else about the whys and wherefores." Nodding then, his grin settles easily into place. "I'm a longbowman, myself, but I think the short is better suited to the denser forests up here. Since you've got experience, you probably won't have to endure too many sessions with me. The Weyrleader hasn't asked me to turn you all into expert shots, just make sure no one's going to put an arrow through their own foot."

Norov nods right back, only then he says with a chuckle, "That's very well and all, but has he concerned himself with people putting arrows through ''our'' feet? Because if it's all the same to you, I'd like to skip that part, unless someone gives me warning to swap out shoes." He glances briefly, bemusedly at his. "As for Southern, I've heard all sorts of stories about it. Some might even be true. Did you even know about the plague, when you came?"

"That's my concern," Avaryk says, voice dropping slightly lower as this is no joking matter to him. "None of you, even if you're experienced, will be using tipped arrows. I've got special blunted ones that all of my beginner students are required to use. At the worst, an accident will result in a pretty bruise. And I ''do not'' tolerate any goofing around. The same will hold true with anyone I ask to assist me." Or else, implies the tone of his voice. Woe betide the hypothetical assistant who forgets to enforce the storeskeeper's rules! He gives himself a visible shake, and takes a couple steps away from the tree in search of a slightly drier -- or at least, stonier -- patch of ground to stomp some feeling back into chilled feet. "Some might, but I'd bet in finding exaggeration in all of them, of some stripe or another. After all, that's part of what makes a good story, eh?" Quiet laughter. "I knew ''of'' it, vaguely. There was a concern for a while that any dragons visiting up here might bring it back with them, particularly if they'd participated in a mating flight and blooded. But I didn't learn the full scope of it until after I moved."

As Avaryk explains, Norov tips his hood a noncommittal fraction further back, hooking his thumbs in his belt as he observes the other man. "Are you saying that even works for eyes, your blunted tips? Although if someone gets to that point, any old stick would do, or a thumb." He rolls his shoulders loosely, even brings back a smile for the other man's laughter. "I'll agree with you when it comes to stories, all right. At least you had some warning. Some don't. But I hadn't thought that this clutch might be... contaminated," and that's why that smile was so short-lived.

Avaryk flicks a finger against the underside of his hat-brim, causing a small waterfall of collected rainwater to spill down over his shoulder. "If anyone gets to that point," he begins darkly, "they'll find themselves face-first in the dirt with my bootprint on their ass. The first thing I expect my students to learn, before they're even allowed to pick up an unstrung bow, is that you don't point at anything you don't intend to kill. Blunted arrows or not." He pauses, eyeing Norov concideringly for a few moments. "I take the safety of my students quite seriously, I assure you. While I'm not so arrogant as to claim there is no possible way anyone can get hurt, I do everything I am capable of to reduce such risks to an absolute minimum." Confusion begins to take over, brows pulling together in a frown. "Huh? Where did you get that idea from?"

Right after Avaryk's first few words: "That'll be a sight," Norov says, his voice dry where the storeskeeper's hat, and Norov's own rain slicker, are not. "Don't worry on my account. I plan to follow the rules." As for the rest, "From you: what you just said about these... flights, the blooding, it seems to be called. Even I know that it's supposed to be done where they live, in seclusion. Correct me if I am wrong. I'd like to be."

Wouldn't it be? Dry tones are met with a bland look from the storeskeeper, but Avaryk chooses not to remark upon any perceived skepticism. Probably a good thing, if there was none intended to be relayed! "You'll be one among at least thirty, if not more," he points out. And the odds favour there being at least one idiot in the group. "Oh! Sorry. There's no actual risk of the dragons carrying the illness that struck the herdbeasts, even if they did blood from an infected animal. In the early stages of the plague, however, before that was discovered, it had been a concern," he's swift to, hopefully, reassure. He tilts his head, and doesn't quite manage to stop himself from the query, "You really know ''nothing'' about Weyrs, do you?" He turns slightly, waving his hand in what would only be recognisable as the direction of the feeding pens to someone familiar with the layout of the bowl. As it is, it may just appear to be a random gesture. Cue teacher-mode: "Typically, when a green- or goldrider recognises that his or her dragon is proddy, they keep them confined to the Weyr. In the case of golds, this is as much for the safety of everyone as it is their dragon, given the, ah... spillover. Nor does anyone wish to have their dragon call a pack of others down on some poor cotholder's herd. So yes, when a female rises to mate, if everything goes the way is ought, she'll do so from her home Weyr and she and the males who chase her will blood in the feeding pens. But some of those males might be visiting from out-Weyr. The bronze who caught our Isyath is from High Reaches, for example. Make sense now?"

'So you're one-thirtieth along," Norov comments with more cheer than the dragons and their blooding get, and keeps it up for an even more cheerful, "Nothing at all. You could tell me that everyone eats babies for breakfast and I'd ask, well, what do the babies eat?" Speaking of stories and exaggeration. At least he shuts up long enough for Avaryk to go into that teacher-mode with minimal disruption, though somewhere in there he pulls his hood further forward again. Spillover, packs, visitors, what he winds up with is just the important things: "So dragons, and ''those'' dragons still in shell, won't be hurt. All right." And then he tilts an assessing look at Avaryk. "So. You've got a lot to say about all this. Do you also Stand as a candidate for the dragons, or are your skills... more valued elsewhere?"

That first question earned Norov a snort of laughter, swiftly turned into a cough. Avaryk's long-winded spiel was probably given through a grin thanks to it. "No, they won't be hurt. You might hear some other things while you're here, concerning Isyath and how long she took to rise, and what her clutch might be like because of it. I'd ignore it, if I were you. It'll either be someone trying to pull your leg, or fishing for more marks for the betting pool." Spoken in the manner of friendly, if unsolicited, advice. Rather than giving a direct answer, he simply shrugs and says, "I'm Weyrbred. Both my parents are dragonriders. So...." He sort of grew up with it all. A growl of thunder in the distance makes him look up, frowning slightly as he gauges how close the storm has gotten during the time they've been stood around talking. "Looks like we're about to get hit again. I'm going to head back in; I need to get back to work anyway. It was good to meet you, Norov. I should have a new notice up about the archery soon, just as soon as I hear... a final word on it." With that cryptic comment, he turns and trots off, tossing a casual wave behind himself.
}}

Logs:Between Drenchings

2016-04-28T23:36:12Z

Vhaeryth: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ay'zan, N'rov |what=Ay'zan's class has been scoping out weyrs. Good thing there are so many! |where=Weyrling Complex, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=5 |month=9..."

{{Log
|who=Ay'zan, N'rov
|what=Ay'zan's class has been scoping out weyrs. Good thing there are so many!
|where=Weyrling Complex, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=5
|month=9
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.28
|quote="For when you're wingseconds. Each and every one of you."
|weather=It's been raining steadily all day with occasional spates of honest downpour, sheets of water just pouring out of the sky.
|mentions=A'sran, Olivya
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov.png
|log=If sheets of water are pouring out of the sky, the overhang beyond the weyrling complex must be drenching; N'rov's jacket is hanging with the others on the wall, but there's no sign of the man himself until he steps out of his weyrlingmaster's office, still toying with a hint of a smirk.

Lessons continue despite buckets of water drenching them. Ay'zan and Yuanth are just emerging through the entry way both dripping wet. A shake of a head sends droplets of water flying from slightly long blond hair which draws an annoyed snort from the glossy green along with a nudge from her pointed muzzle. With his attention focused on Yuanth for the moment the weyrling doesn't take note of the emerging N'rov.

For a dragon, N'rov will stop; for that splash, the bronzerider just looks ''amused''. "Impersonating a canine?" he calls over, pressed dramatically close to the wall between there and the exit. "You could stand to get get hairier for that."

Ay'zan runs a hand through his short locks with a derisive snort. Weyrlinghood has kept him too busy for the moment so his short hair is longer than his normal length. "Never could train a canine not shake when wet." evidently he's not trainable in that aspect either. Yuanth gives a trill of greeting as Ay'zan remembers belatedly to snap off a salute towards N'rov.

"Nor I. Not," N'rov adds, approaching them in all their wetness, "that I've tried. Rumor has it that learned expertise actually benefits," this with mock surprise in his affable baritone. "How ''are'' you? And you, clever girl."

"We're good, sir." replies Ay'zan amiably as a jacket is shrugged off and hung up on an available peg nearby. Yuanth's answer merely comes in a whuff of warm air directed towards him.

Neither N'rov's demeanor nor his hair is ruffled, though the latter has the virtue of being very short indeed; he spreads his arms for the warm, meaty blast, all 'have at me.' "Good." He moves to step past, then, but then after a second look at the now-closed doors says, "Don't let me keep you from drying off." But. "I hear you lot are checking out weyrs. Last class," Vhaeryth's, "hasn't taken all the good ones, with how few they are?" How ''many'' there are, given deaths and transfers away, D'vro and others not enough to make up the difference.

Yuanth moves off a bit to ensure her bulk, albeit smaller than most, doesn't block the doorway. Settling down her wings rustle somewhat before snapping tightly closed to her sides. "So far none of them have been...adequate." adequate for what he doesn't say though a quick glance is shot over towards the now settled green. "Still though we look forward to finding one." cause that means no more barracks for the pair. "There are enough for all of us." he thinks. His brow furrows in brief though as he tries to calculate how many empty weyrs have been pointed out versus how many in his weyrlingclass. That said he's made it to the doorway to the barracks so with a brief 'one moment' he ducks in long enough to grab a towel from the closest couch/cot combo that he comes across. Whomever it belongs too may get it back dry or wet.

"All of you ''and'' better spares for when you're wingseconds," N'rov says drily. "Each and every one of you." His smile may have kicked up at that 'adequate,' but he doesn't immediately address it, occupying himself instead with meandering over for a look at the updated duty chalkboard. His hands stay studiously behind his back; this is ''Olivya's'' territory. Once Ay'zan's had a solid start with Yuanth, though, at some point he just reappears as though there hadn't been any gap in the conversation at all; "What makes a weyr 'adequate'?" the bronzerider inquires.

A brow goes up briefly at the mention of wing seconds though it only gets a passing grunt as he starts drying the green. The inquiry from N'rov has his movements falter a moment before he glances behind him. "Just the right size." he remarks dryly with a hint of tolerant amusement flickering in his expression. "A proper view that so far she's been unable to describe what makes up such a view as well as easy access to anywhere we need to report for duty within the weyr."

N'rov crooks a brow at Yuanth in turn; "You know how to make it difficult on your rider," he deadpans, but with an underlying grave quality. "Most of us had to take what there was." He rolls his shoulders, tucks his thumbs into his belt. "Taken her around to scope out the angles yet? Not saying you'll find a match with 'not too big' 'not too little' 'just right,' but hovering by even occupied ledges could give you a baseline."

"It may just come down to whatever we get, we make due." Ay'zan remarks with a little worry to his voice. After all he's gotta live with her! "We've only went out looking once so far. The other days.." he trails off with a glance towards the closed doors and the weather out beyond them.

"Yeah, I get that," rueful as N'rov scrapes the heel of his hand along his jaw. "Seems like summer was going along and then suddenly ''down came the rain''. Don't know what's with that. If it helps, you can imagine the rest of us riding sweeps in it for hours. I think there's moss growing between A'sran's toes."

Ay'zan tilts his head as he considers that problem a moment. "Oh. I hadn't thought of that." he now studies Yuanth a moment. "How much longer do you think before we can ride on with sweeps?"

"It'll be a while," N'rov says. "Got to build up her strength further, particularly. By the time you're shadowing, you'll also have had a lot more experience in formations, and that's a help, too." His grin is quick. "Got any other questions, before I chance the downpour?"

Ay'zan leans against the now mostly dry green as he listens. Nodding once or twice he remarks. "Never imagined formations to be so tricky. No sir, no other questions right now. Yuanth is dry now so she's wanting to be oiled before any more lessons today."

"We do try and make it look easy," N'rov admits with another, slantwise grin for the pair of them. "Keep at it, you'll do it. Think of how, well, I don't know if you ''did'' find yourself a wretched baker once upon a time with a lot to relearn, but if you were, at least this way you just have to learn it the first time. She's a lot more adept in the air than she used to be, I'm told." On that compliment, he departs, quickly buckling on his coat before heading forthrightly out in the rain.
}}

Logs:Spacing

2016-04-23T22:20:11Z

Vhaeryth: Created page with "{{Log |who=Catling, N'rov |what=N'rov, after relinquishing a refurbished wingrider, investigates Catling's and Riyoth's progress... including, after an interaction with fellow..."

{{Log
|who=Catling, N'rov
|what=N'rov, after relinquishing a refurbished wingrider, investigates Catling's and Riyoth's progress... including, after an interaction with fellow weyrlings, their approach to obeying. Catling says she's not ready to be a Weyrleader.
|where=Bowl, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=18
|month=8
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.23
|quote="Does he often tell them what to do?"
|mentions=H'kon, Kh'tyr, Mirinda, Olivya, Tavish
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov.png,
|log=It's too early, surely, for weyrlings to ''really'' be considered for wings... and yet there's N'rov observing early flight practice, dropping in as he semi-regularly does. This time he's standing with Jerixa, one of his latest additions cycling through Onyx (betting continues as to whether the sometimes-troublesome bluerider will be kept, promoted, or ''de''moted) and Jasper's wingleader. Of course, it ''is'' also a sunny day...

Already the weyrling pairs have finished their warming-up exercises, and they are practicing wheel-and-circle, going up and down in spiralling circles, keeping careful distance from each other. Riyoth is in the middle of a trio of wheeling dragons, and on his back Catling sits confidently, taking her cues and leaning into the turns. Her expression is intent, and even though this lesson is getting old for some of the dragon pairs, these two, at least, seem to be gaining something from the lesson.

It's the third in the trio that Jasper's pointing at, N'rov showing every appearance of ''listening''... unless Jasper's referring to the green on the ledge just beyond, soaking up the sun and all but asleep. The bronzerider's gray gaze moves on to track Riyoth, though, and then abruptly flick to the assistant weyrlingmaster overseeing the practice. It's a breath or two later that out of nowhere, that green isn't so sleepy-looking anymore, but rather trumpets ''loudly'' at the circling trio.

The circling trio includes a pair of blues along with Riyoth, and they both break formation in a flutter of wings. Catling's head jerks over towards the green, and Riyoth's tail jerks briefly in surprise. Then he, too, shifts from his original flight pattern, sharing quick words with his rider before reaching out a tendril of thought to the green. << Is something the matter? >> he asks, mind-voice steady. Then his attention flicks back to Catling again, before sending to the blues, << Watch your spacing.... >> Catling, on his back, briefly touches her straps, then looks above and below, calling out to the other weyrlings, though what she says is not audible to the Weyrleader.

The green's a tinkle of light over waterfall-spray as the blues fall back into line and the assistant weyrlingmaster urges them to keep going: yes, it's ''delightful''. N'rov's muttering back and forth with Jasper over Jerixa's head, which doesn't stop her from chiming in, and getting a raised brow for it; what they say likely isn't audible yet either, so conversational is the 'see what you mean' and 'stable' and 'less aware?' and 'ready?' and the rest. Even when the weyrlings are done and taking off their dragons' straps, the other three are still around; The assistant weyrlingmaster waves them on to work further, but even when they're eventually directed to finish up and take off their dragons' straps, the other three are still around... albeit arguing in a low-voiced way, debate rather than anger for those who can tell the difference.

Riyoth seems satisfied with the green's answer, settling back into the routine. Still, when it comes time to land, he slides out of the standard formation, waiting with Catling for both blues to land before coming to ground himself, backwinging confidently. Catling's dismount is a bit less polished; with the dragon still-growing the distance always changes. She taps his leg and then laughs, swinging herself hand-over-hand down the straps around his flank before half-sliding down his leg. "Yes, it was good today," she agrees, pulling off the straps, inspecting them with deft fingers before slipping them over her shoulder. "Yes, I agree. They're still stiff. I'll work them more tonight." Then she turns her head, blinking at the assistant weyrlingmaster and the other trio who remain.

There's a lot of gesturing, a smirk or two, and a flip of a mark; ''Jasper'' looks pleased, and Jerixa long-suffering but smirky in her own right, as she then accepts a badge from Jasper's hand. N'rov claps her officially on the shoulder and abandons the pair to head off together as ''he'' saunters towards the other little group. When the assistant has had enough of them, the bronzerider inquires of Catling, "Does he often tell them what to do?" Hello to you too, Riyoth, says his half-smile.

Catling draws herself up and gives a proper salute, though it is marred somewhat by the end of the straps still in her hand. which smack her unceremoniously in the face. She flushes slightly, then looks to her dragon. Something reassuring passes between them, though she does, probably unconsciously, take a step closer to Riyoth. "Good afternoon, sir. He.... doesn't tell them to do things.... often. That's not his place now, sir. But.... when there is need to...." She swallows hard. "They were drifting into angles that would have made the banking turn really difficult, and they don't know....erm.... I mean, we..." She flushes. "When the inner wing of the turn is tucked almost fully in, that would have kept them safely spaced, but they don't... erm... we weyrlings haven't learned that yet..."

"'We' haven't," repeats N'rov, crooking a brow jocularly at Riyoth and then his rider. He lets silence hang before catching the moment into more; he, notably, does not catch the assistant weyrlingmaster's eye. "Do they usually listen, would you say? And if so, what do you attribute that to?"

"As... erm... a group." Catling coughs. "Riyoth and I figured it out. We get put in with the greens and blues a lot. They usually listen, though sometimes their riders get a little tetchy, and we talk afterwards. The other browns, often listen. The bronzes? Hit or miss. Why do they? Riyoth's confident, but not.... bossy, if that makes sense. He sees patterns. Together we see where the patterns will go. I see outcomes from there. I mean, not all the time. But often enough. And sometimes... there's not time to relay to the weyrlingmaster's dragon...." She swallows hard, drawing herself up again. "I am sorry if we have overstepped our position, sir."

N'rov gazes down at her, his mouth cut into a vague smile contrasted by sharp, concentrating eyes; "I'm certain that if you have, your weyrlingmasters would have told you." Just as dryly, but with that much more amusement, "Or will." ''Now'' he widens the range of his gaze to incorporate the assistant weyrlingmaster more clearly, but doesn't summon them over. "What are your thoughts on unquestioning obedience?"

"Unquestioning?" Catling blanches briefly, then shakes her head. "There are times, times that obedience must be given. And given unquestioningly, because sometimes to disobey or hesitate is to die. Like when you're told to duck or get down. As examples." Catling tilts her head. "But.... well. You need to trust. That's the first. You cannot obey if you cannot trust. You have to balance obedience with... well. With thinking for yourself. Because.... I mean, what if you're in flight with your wing and something happens to your wingleader? Your wingleader and wingseconds? If you can't think for yourself, might as well count yourself gone between forever. So..." She sighs. "I'm trying to work out the whens on obedience versus questioning versus thinking."

N'rov contradicts, blithe over a darker ambiguity, "One can easily obey without trust. It's a matter of ''doing'' it. That doesn't mean not watching out for issues and even alternatives, Catling. That also doesn't mean not thinking for yourself... Would you say that your supervisors are, ah, ''helpful'' in clarifying what and when?"

Catling stands very still for a moment, pensive. "It's... Riyoth wants to think things through. He doesn't mind orders that ''make sense''. So he tries to understand why, why, why for everything first." Then she looks down. "And I.... I don't think I can anymore. Obey someone I don't trust. I ''won't''. I...." She looks up, then sighs. "My supervisors have been helpful giving answers, helpful explaining a lot of the whys. Riyoth's and my place in all of this..... order-structure.... I haven't asked, yet."

"''Won't'' you." N'rov's emphasis is slight, suggestive of complication. "For what it's worth... should Zaisavyth surprise us all by rising tomorrow, when I'm seated at Lord Boll's table, I would be expected to obey whichever pair should catch her." His tone, speaking of his queen (his position?) is as possessive as it is, simultaneously, quite deliberately light. "Would you advise that I do otherwise, Catling?"

Again there is a long silence, and then Catling lifts her head, meeting the Weyrleader's eyes directly. "That's a different question, sir. There's a difference between obedience and unquestioning obedience. If Riyoth were a few months older and by some cunning trick caught Zaisavyth, would you obey *us*? And, for the good of the Weyr, *should* you? I don't think there's one good, neat answer that covers all situations, sir. But I'm not ready to be a Weyrleader. Or any leader. So I would hope that you would not obey me... or at least not unquestioningly." She gives Riyoth a sharp glance, then shakes her head emphatically. "Not cannot, Riyoth. One step at a time. Not ready. Not in knowledge and not in my own self...." Then she looks back at N'rov. "I learned a lot of lessons about unquestioning obedience, sir. But that is why we drill, isn't it? So that we ''learn'' to trust, learn in our bones what must be done when there is little time for thought, and to know that who leads us, when it comes down to obedience without question.... knows what he or she is doing."

The mere thought strikes an entertained light in the weyrleader's gray eyes, a quirk to his mouth for all that it's not overtly a smile. And then it is. "That would be quite a trick," N'rov observes gravely, and then he slides a knowing look at her brown. "And ''that'' would be quite a revolution." The brown catching, so much younger than he who'd caught that queen before? N'rov's supplanting, were he to do so indeed? He doesn't say. "'Unquestioning' and 'unthinking' are two different things," the bronzerider remarks. "There are varieties and varieties of trust. My riders," the possessiveness is ambiguous in breadth and lightly definite in depth, "are anything but automatons. I also recommend that you learn to trust as you must with what you are given... which isn't to say to walk off a cliff blindly. Probation, let us call it, at the least." He cocks a glance over towards the assistant over there who's ''waiting''. "In the meantime," there's that quick smile, "ask as you need to, in the right time and place. Any questions, Catling? I dare say you have five seconds." Before she's called.

Catling clasps her hands together, then licks her lips. "Did.... we do wrong, sir, telling the others what to do?" Here, on the ground, her confidence is ebbing. She clenches her hands more tightly. "Am I... expected to obey unquestioningly?" Something flickers in her eyes then, and she moves to lean against Riyoth.

"Talk with your weyrlingmaster," N'rov tells her. "Next time I run into you, you can tell me what ''she'' has to say," and ''there's'' a distinct smirk of a smile. Whether he's observing rank structure or simply not giving her anything beyond the directive to obey unquestioningly or otherwise, or best of all ''both'', he doesn't say; instead he steps away, exchanging nods and brief words with the assistant weyrlingmaster en route to his business of the rest of the day.
}}

Logs:Distract

2016-04-23T18:14:25Z

Vhaeryth: Created page with "{{Log |who=Catling, N'rov |what=N'rov checks in on Riyoth. Vhaeryth extends... advice. |where=Lake Shore, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=20 |month=6 |turn=40 |IP=Interval..."

{{Log
|who=Catling, N'rov
|what=N'rov checks in on Riyoth. Vhaeryth extends... advice.
|where=Lake Shore, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=20
|month=6
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.05
|quote="Enjoy it while you've got it."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov.png, Icon n'rov vhaeryth.jpg,
|log=There is time to finish one last oiling before curfew, and so Catling is by the lake with her young brown. He is holding out one wing for her, his head tilted down at her, and the pair seem in deep conversation. The girl hums softly as she works, seeming fully content with her duty.

With the dragonets not as small or as ''new'' as they used to be, there's less allowance for their size, no compunction from a pair of bronzes and a small-only-by-comparison blue when it comes to rampaging at the other end of the lake. By the time the water gets to the younger pair, the waves are shallow. What voices carry from their lifemates, over by the grove, are only raised part of time; mostly there's laughter, not breaking off as the riders part ways. The still-wet blue departs first, taking his rider without straps in a way that's definitely against weyrling regulations; N'rov heads over along the lakeshore by foot, barefoot, shorts' hems frayed.

Catling is, herself, rather wet, but she is still wearing a dress, though at least it has a split skirt. Still, the folds of it cling to her, and she moves slowly about. Riyoth warbles at her, and she puts down the rag and bucket she was holding. She turns towards the man, then blinks and straightens. She inclines her head, lost for words.

It's her dragon that N'rov's attending to, all fifteen-plus feet of him, the bronzerider's palm out as though offering an invisible sweet to a runner. "Riyoth," the name comes easily in that slow Bollian drawl. "How're you holding up, old man?" Vhaeryth's familiar presence is glass-and-steel over his rider's shoulder, psychological if not physical and all of him amused.

Riyoth looks to the bronze first, and then the rider. <> he asks, his mind-voice softly sheepish. Then he bends his head to nudge Catling gently with his nose, before looking thoughtfully at N'rov. Catling straightens and offers a rather proper salute. "He says good evening, sir," she says quietly. "And, erm... good evening from me."

<< Not with us, >> is Vhaeryth's even more amused assurance. He stays across that lake, for now, though his head's turned in the young brown's direction. Even if Riyoth were dangled by his tail from the bronze's shoulder, he still wouldn't yet reach the ground. "Good evening," says N'rov, gravely. "Vhaeryth extends his good wishes," or so the bronzerider will claim. "Still having an easy time of it? I've ''heard'' about you."

"Ermm...." Catling ducks her head, looking disconcerted. "I suppose we're having it comparatively easy. I mean, Riyoth's just brilliant, and he helps me understand." She leans against the brown affectionately, and he moves to support her as if they have been doing this forever. But... easy? I... I mean...." SHe flushes and looks down, and once more Riyoth nudges her reassuringly. << She worries too much. >> Riyoth observes to the bronze.

Too much? << Distract her, >> is Vhaeryth's efficient solution. Extra portentously, << 'The dream is within you.' >> "Enjoy it while you've got it," is ''N'rov's'' suggestion, the fading light dim on but not dimming his half-smile. "He may... surprise you a different way."

<< Distract her? Are you sure? >> Riyoth looks at Vhaeryth, then back at Catling, then to the bronze, and then to his own lifemate. There is a pause, and then he makes a sound almost like a sigh. He dips his head, half-scooping and half pushing the girl, and dumps her in the water. "Surprise me, sir?" Catling is saying. "Such as.....awwwwwk!" She lands on er rump in the water, and she sits there, blinking owlishly in shock.

"Perhaps not quite that way," N'rov says, slanting a look at his dragon who is unmoved. << Was she worrying then? >> Vhaeryth bestirs himself only enough to check, as his rider reaches to flick water off his knees.

<< Yes. She was. That if it is so easy, she is doing something wrong. Was this a bad distraction? >> Riyoth leans closer to Catling, but she shakes her head. "No, no, stay dry, Riyoth. You're nicely oiled, and I know you'll want to sleep soon." She gets to her feet and sloshes out of the water. "Surprise, huh?"

<< You might tickle her with your nose instead, >> Vhaeryth considers. << When we are gone. >> When N'rov is, at least, who's stepping carefully back as though wary of her shaking herself like a canine. << While you are still small enough to do it properly. >> N'rov waits before saying, "There are surprises and surprises." On that elliptical note, "Good night, and don't dream of waterfalls."
}}

Logs:Failing is Not Okay

2016-03-09T05:39:13Z

Vhaeryth: Created page with "{{Log |who=N'rov{{!}}Vhaeryth, Ay'zan{{!}}Yuanth |what=With his rider visiting Fort Hold's steward, Vhaeryth is bored. Yuanth is bored-er. |involves=Fort Weyr, Fort Hold |day=..."

{{Log
|who=N'rov{{!}}Vhaeryth, Ay'zan{{!}}Yuanth
|what=With his rider visiting Fort Hold's steward, Vhaeryth is bored. Yuanth is bored-er.
|involves=Fort Weyr, Fort Hold
|day=17
|month=3
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.07
|quote=<< Something better. >>
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov vhaeryth.jpg,
|log=Dragon> Believe it or not, Vhaeryth can only look possessively out over Fort Hold's vista for so long; or, rather, he requires more occupation, more ''multi-tasking''. A subtle sense of foreign skies accompanies his roving thoughts, clearer than the Weyr's, fresh with springtime but also human smoke: what are the youngest dragons up to? He'll find out. (To Yuanth from Vhaeryth)

Dragon> To Vhaeryth, Yuanth's mind touch is light, questioning at the feel of the bronze mind. A short burst of musical notes reaches out for Vhaeryth followed by a simple questioning feeling drawn out in a light sketch of a question mark before fading away.

Dragon> To Yuanth, Vhaeryth's indulgent when it comes to a little one, today; ''he'' sketches these skies above several cliffs burrowed out for humans' odd little windows instead of weyrs, though said cliffs are out of focus compared to the pure if boring blue. So he makes them less boring, with a pair of enormous, blobby (it's hard to make facets out of cloudstuff) eyes.

Dragon> To Vhaeryth, Yuanth is perhaps envious of the older dragons flight through the skies. A toss up though if she is envious of the flight itself or his ability to go peeking in with those enormous eyes into places. << Hello! >> is offered up brightly with the enthusiasm of the youth in her tone.

Dragon> << Yuanth, >> is the bronze's resonant reply. Then, amused, << Bored? >> (To Yuanth from Vhaeryth)

Dragon> To Vhaeryth, Yuanth has clearly been 'cooped' up the barracks far too long in her short month or so of live. Pent up energy flows around her words, emotions laces with longing to do more. << Bored. >> her agreement is one simple word.

Dragon> He mirrors that energy, heightens it, adds a swirl of blue and near-metallic brown that bypasses the eyes as they blink out of sight; << 'Failure is not defeat until you stop trying,' >> intoned as a quote. (To Yuanth from Vhaeryth)

Dragon> To Vhaeryth, Yuanth projects <> comes the stout reply from the land bound green. <>

Dragon> The perspective shift is swift, not just sideways nor down but a ''swerve'': blue, but moving blue. << 'Hope is like food; you will starve without it.' >> But, << Sometimes we change our minds. Or ''wait''. >> (To Yuanth from Vhaeryth)

Dragon> To Vhaeryth, Yuanth's tone is uncertain, awash with fading colors. << Wait? For? >>

Dragon> << Something better. >> Something, possibly, that she ''incites''. But with that advice, that certainty that threatens to fill hers up, Vhaeryth leaves off even foreknowledge for swifter, farther flight. (To Yuanth from Vhaeryth)
}}

Logs:Beating the Blizzard

2016-02-22T06:52:52Z

Vhaeryth: Created page with "{{Log |who=Catling, N'rov |what=A blizzard's coming, and it won't be long. Time to leave the galleries! |where=Galleries, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=27 |month=1 |turn=..."

{{Log
|who=Catling, N'rov
|what=A blizzard's coming, and it won't be long. Time to leave the galleries!
|where=Galleries, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=27
|month=1
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.21
|quote="Just.... I guess I'm too much me."
|mentions=A'sran, Baliol, Blume, Dahlia, Kh'tyr, Olivya
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov.png,
|log=Wind blusters outside, and its latest special delivery is N'rov, his long coat unbuttoned enough to hold it expansively, dramatically as further wind-shield for the white-haired assistant headwoman he escorts; now that they've reached the galleries' warmth, they split the place up, each with a message for those they come across... who stir, and some look worried. N'rov, by coincidence, has Catling's side.

Catling is sitting in the stands near the edge, wrapped in a warm, if rather homely shawl. She looks tired, and she sips at a mug of warm cider, cupping her hands around it. She is looking thoughtfully down at the eggs, her gaze drifting from one to the other to the other. It takes her a moment to notice the approach of N'rov, and she blinks a moment before setting down her mug. "Sir?"

"Candidate," N'rov greets, dropping into an easy crouch when he gets there; more of a height with the girl now, he says, "Nice hideout. Another storm's coming in, though. How long have you been here?"

"In the Weyr, sir? About five months now. Here in the galleries? Oh, about a half-hour, I suppose. Done with duty for the day, and wanted to come and look. I was cold... the children wanted to play in the snow and so I was out with them in groups.... supervised, of course, but they like me. I know how to care for children. But still, it's chilling work. So." She blinks. "Have.... have I done something wrong, sir? If so I'm sorry..."

N'rov's grin is quick; kind or unkind, though, he doesn't interrupt. "Not that I'm aware of," he says when asked, the single crooked brow only ''implying'' a question. "No, it's more that nobody wants you lot trapped, only to find you sevendays later, dessicated in your seats."

"Trapped? I'm not sure I understand." Catling raises her head, looking around. Her eyes widen, and she tilts herhead from side to side. Her nostrils flare, and she turns to look at him. "If there's danger to us, don't we need to help protect the eggs?"

"A," N'rov explains, still comfortably crouched and about as unprepossessing as he gets, "I'm exaggerating. At least slightly," he emends. "B, eggs don't have to eat or drink or, forgive my indelicacy, pee. They also have a big creature whose job it is to see to them; sometimes even two. C, they have lasted don't-make-me-count blizzards already this season. Feel better?"

"Not.... exactly. We'll be trapped here?" Catling rubs her arms under the shawl, then nods. "Thank you for letting us know. Is there anything I can do to help?" She looks wistfully at the eggs and the warm sand and her cup of cider, then rises to her feet. "I've been trapped in blizzards before. It isn't pleasant. Though.... to be frank, it is entirely possible to pee into snow."

"Don't fall into a snowdrift," N'rov suggests helpfully, right before he, too, stands. "Easier for a boy, I'd wager. But the point is, if you're stuck ''here'', we don't want anything peed in or on. Imagine Lord Ruatha sauntering in only to sit upon a pud... no, it would have dried up by then but, regardless: stinky."

"Not as much easier than you think." Catling chuckles. "I can squat and protect my parts from the wind. And with practice, you can get pretty good at it. At least I don't have to worry about my bits getting frost....bite.. .. Oh shells. Shells. SIr. I'm... That was wholly inappropriate for me to say, sir. I'mm... erm...."

"About to make your way out in safety," N'rov tells her. "Play follow-the-leader. There might even be a rope to hold onto." He gives her another of those quick grins and moves on, lest the assistant headwoman get too far ahead of him, though he'll check back on the herd once they have them moving out.

Obedience is perhaps too deeply ingrained in the girl; at any rate she does not argue. She finds herself smiling back, her cheeks going pink and then scarlet, and she shakes her head. "No, lass, no, keep your head somewhere sensible. It's his nature to be charming. And you're some squeaky thing, little kitten, naught more." She sighs, then shakes herself and grabs her mug, playing follow the leader indeed. She remains behind him, just following orders, and totally not there for the view.

Then she'll see him collect visitor after visitor, singletons and pairs and groups, whether the elderly seeking warmth or young ones ''hoping'' or others just looking to socialize: an urbane sheepdog with easy words for all and sundry, herding the stragglers while the assistant headwoman takes the lead. It's right before they're headed out into the sharpening winds that N'rov glances over his shoulder to Catling, amused; "Still there?"

"Aye sir," answers Catling, her head jerking up from where her gaze was focused. She flushes, then sketches a salute. Of course, she does so with the mug, which she smacks into her forehead, sending her reeling and splashing the rest of the cider all over her head. She stumbles and falls on her rump.

"Have you fallen every time we've met?" N'rov inquires with interest. Though, "Crossing in the lunch line doesn't count."

"Have I?" Catling blinks dazedly. "Maybe I have. Though I don't think I've ever done this before, sir." She winces, then staggers to her feet again. "As long as I do it differently each time it isn't a pattern. It's just coincidence. Right?" She's babbling, red-faced, and looks a little dizzy. "They make those mugs really solid...."

"Right." N'rov eyes her a moment. "Why don't you walk ahead of me," he says. "It seems safer. I won't have to worry about one of Dee and A'sran's candidates wandering off into the snow, never to return until spring, and then only with sweet white flowers growing out of her eyes."

"That's escee... eskeed.... that's very morbid, you know." Catling takes her place just in front of him, then pauses, goes back to retrieve the mug, and picks it up, almost losing her balance again. "Really solid and painful, actually. The mug, not what you're saying." She takes her place in front of him again. "Which sweet white flowers?"

N'rov waits, ''looking'' patient enough; if Vhaeryth is bespeaking Leczuth, it's not written on his features. "Just walk in the footsteps of Jeanya in front of you. Take it slow and easy. Flowers? The kind that grows out of eyeballs, of course. I don't expect there's more than one kind, possibly two, though Dee's a farmcrafter; she might know."

"I've never seen eyeballs growing out of... I mean eyeballs growing out of flowers." Catling offers a flustered little smile. "So I wouldn't know. But still... I mean... still...." She looks down, following Jeanya's paces. "How.... I mean, have you seen them?"

"Well, you wouldn't, would you? They always blink first. The others are harder to miss. ''Not''," N'rov goes on to say, "that I should admit to such a thing, lest you fall again and break something, become ineligible to Stand, and set some poor dragonet howling to Impress Headwoman Blume. ''That'' would set the Weyr on its ear." The weyrleader's careful with his own footing, each step deliberate despite that the flow of his speech is as carefully not. "What do you make of Weyrlingmaster Olivya?"

"Well.... I think she's.... I don't know her well enough to have an opinion, actually, sir. I don't think she thinks much of me. I'm hopelessly naive, and... well. Just.... I guess I'm too much me. She shrugs her shoulders. "But that's all right. I mean, maybe I am. As long as she's fair, it doesn't matter if she doesn't like me. I'm used to that enough."

He makes no promises on the greenrider's behalf, though there's a hint of complex amusement in his, "I ''see''." It's a few footsteps later that N'rov decides to add, "She has a soft heart hidden way down deep inside, you know. We all have to pretend it's not there. It's why she protects it so." That smile might be audible in his voice when he says, by now less than a greenlength from the caverns' light, "Don't tell."

"Just like Kh'tyr pretends to be a horrible person when he's nice deep down?" Catling smiles back at him, turning her head and nearly falling again. She drops the mug again, and this time it shatters. "Oh. Oh, I'd better clean that," she murmurs, though she looks up at him. "She's nice. I'll try to remember..."

''That'' inspires a laugh, inhibited only by the cold; "You could," N'rov starts in on ''something''... only the crash interrupts it, and then he's frowning. "You should, yes. Don't cut yourself." He's also walking briskly past her, long stride bypassing the shards even on the icy ground amidst the snow that's starting to fall, as up above, dragon after dragon makes it home in time. She might even seem forgotten, were it not for one of the caverns workers that sighs and agrees to go back and check on the girl: deal with the big pieces, the rest will survive, just ''get inside''.

"Yes sir," answers Catling, flushing once more. Then she lowers herself to the ground. Picking up the pieces doesn't take long; the girl does it with a resigned air, as if this is not the first time she's done such a thing. It doesn't take her long to have them gathered in a spare kerchief. And then, crouched on the ground, she makes the mistake of looking ''up'', and she is mesmerized by the sight of homecoming dragons. She remains there, one knee bent to the ground, snow falling on her and the cider beginning to freeze in her hair when one of the workers comes to check on her and ushers the girl in.
}}

FTW:Wings

2016-02-20T22:11:17Z

Vhaeryth: Previous wings documented with dates.

==Please note: this page is under construction and does not reflect the most up-to-date information.==

Fort Weyr has eight fighting wings (plus Queens’ and weyrling). The following are descriptions of the temperament and habits of each wing, though they may change somewhat as their leadership does.

=== [[:Category:Citrine Wing|Citrine Wing (Queens')]] ===
{|
|-
|style="width:140px"| '''Wingleader:'''
|style="width:200px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Citrine]] [[Rank::Weyrwoman{{!}}{{!}}Act. Weyrwoman]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|style="width:140px"|'''Wingsecond:'''
|style="width:400px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Citrine]] [[Rank::Jr. Weyrwoman]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|-
|} 
The queen’s wing is made up of the Weyr’s golds and an ever-changing collection of other riders. Usually employing simpler formations, fewer drills and no sweeps, it often includes pairs returning to duty after illness or injury, giving them time to regain their strength before rejoining their usual wing. Because the queens’ wing goes between far less frequently than the other wings, pregnant riders often join during their second trimester. Due to the transitory nature of so many of its riders and the fact that goldriders have many other duties, riders of Citrine wing often form looser bonds than those of others. Since Hattie became Weyrwoman, Citrine has drilled more often and been made to meet a higher standard than in the past, though some claim that this is hard work for nothing.

=== [[:Category:Onyx Wing|Onyx Wing (Weyrleader's Wing)]] ===
{|
|-
|style="width:140px"| '''Wingleader:'''
|style="width:200px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Onyx]] [[Rank::Weyrleader{{!}}{{!}}Act. Weyrleader]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|style="width:140px"|'''Wingsecond:'''
|style="width:400px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Onyx]] [[Rank::Weyrsecond{{!}}{{!}}Wingsecond]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|-
|} 
Onyx, established when N'rov took the Weyrleadership and hard-hit Obsidian was extinguished, is as yet a wing in miniature; its numbers range from nine to eleven for the most part, and it has no formal wingsecond, riders trading off that duty instead. Onyx frequently flies with other wings, whether sweeps or drills, but its members also engage in various other activities, some as outwardly simple as chauffeuring Lords and the odd Craftmaster. Though the core group tends to remain the same, other riders cycle in and out as the weyrleader and other wingleaders require: for experience, for sharing expertise, for shaking up. For some, taking a turn in the weyrleader's wing can deepen bonds and respect; for others, it's the last chance before getting posted to the back end of nowhere. Onyx is known for its intense energy, flexibility, and growing competence. (Est. D 11, M 10, Turn 39)

=== [[:Category:Hematite Wing|Hematite Wing]] ===
{|
|-
|style="width:140px"| '''Wingleader:'''
|style="width:200px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Hematite]] [[Rank::Wingleader]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|style="width:140px"|'''Wingsecond:'''
|style="width:400px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Hematite]] [[Rank::Weyrsecond{{!}}{{!}}Wingsecond]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|-
|} 
Hematite tends to be made up of an above average number of older, experienced riders. Hematite still has a lot of veteran riders and is still on the ‘heavy’ side with a fair few browns and bronzes, with even its blues on the larger side. Wingleader E’dre is generally known as hardworking and somewhat emotionally unpredictable. The atmosphere in the wing has settled out with veterans taking mentoring roles to their younger counterparts. Drills are held consistently, four days a week with the fourth drill day devoted to team-building exercises.

=== [[:Category:Slate Wing|Slate Wing]] ===
{|
|-
|style="width:140px"| '''Wingleader:'''
|style="width:200px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Slate]] [[Rank::Wingleader]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|style="width:140px"|'''Wingsecond:'''
|style="width:400px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Slate]] [[Rank::Wingsecond]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|-
|} 
<strike>Agate has perhaps more than its fair share of older riders and while drills themselves are regularly scheduled and kept up, a high percentage of the wing is used on other duties such as watchriding and message delivery. Many of the weyrlings currently finishing up training wind up in Agate due to the large number of vacancies, which creates some tension between older ‘traditionalists’ and younger ‘experimental’ riders who are looking at Interval duties from a different perspective than their veteran counterparts.</strike>

=== [[:Category:Carnelian Wing|Carnelian Wing]] ===
{|
|-
|style="width:140px"| '''Wingleader:'''
|style="width:200px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Carnelian]] [[Rank::Wingleader]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|style="width:140px"|'''Wingsecond:'''
|style="width:400px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Carnelian]] [[Rank::Wingsecond]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|-
|} 
Carnelian is an evenly composed wing, with a good number of bronzes and browns to balance out the usual complement of blues and greens. The age spread of the wing is also pretty even with a few older riders who mostly do watch duty either at the Weyr or out in the coverage area, many veterans and a good number of up-and-coming ‘youngsters’ be they a few turns out of Weyrlinghood or true greenhorns. Carnelian’s wingleader prides himself on his blend of hard work and fun, with no-nonsense drills, that are regular but spread out across the week every other day. Carnelian only drills three days a week. There’s a good amount downtime in the wing and plenty of group activities, trips out of the Weyr, gaming and other fun pursuits.

=== [[:Category:Flint Wing|Flint Wing]] ===
{|
|-
|style="width:140px"| '''Wingleader:'''
|style="width:200px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Flint]] [[Rank::Wingleader]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|style="width:140px"|'''Wingsecond:'''
|style="width:400px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Flint]] [[Rank::Wingsecond]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|-
|} 
Flint's been quietly tumultuous since the T37 M2, when the old wingleader (and once-Weyrleader) was replaced by a Benden transfer and sudden shuffling of riders both in and out of the ranks ensued. Nearly six months later, easily half the wing has bought into whatever it is their wingleader is selling, thanks in some part to the vouching of their erstwhile wingsecond. With these changes come others, including an abundance of free time. Flint practices Thread-fighting drills with less frequency, and are many days assigned as extensions of the Lord Holders from Gar all the way up to Ruatha, where they have been asked to focus their attention and time on placating the Holders in any way they are able. A keen eye will notice that riders switched in are of sympathetic mind to the Holds, and often with political histories in weyr's coverage area, a standard that was set long before their upstart wingleader appeared but has yet persisted. There is another constant too: Flint's established poker night has withstood the changes admirably, if anything ''increasing'' in frequency, and the consensus is that X'vin is hands-off as much as he can be, so long as duties are met and riders are present for drills.

=== [[:Category:Jasper Wing|Jasper Wing]] ===
{|
|-
|style="width:140px"| '''Wingleader:'''
|style="width:200px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Jasper]] [[Rank::Wingleader]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|style="width:140px"|'''Wingsecond:'''
|style="width:400px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Jasper]] [[Rank::Wingsecond]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|-
|} 
Jasper is a mixed wing with a phalanx of bronzes and browns and a tight-knit alternating formation group of blues and greens. The ‘seconds each lead a ‘mini-wing’ of mixed blues and greens within the overall wing, effectively making them wingleaders in their own right. Jasper’s wing-within-a-wing approach is considered by some to be a little bit nuts, by others a prime example of team-based leadership. Discipline is firm but fair and with most of the riders knowing each other for turns, with only a few younger ones rotating in after every hatching. Loyalty and respect keep the wing running well. Watching Jasper perform traditional wing formation maneuvers is usually a breathtaking sight due to the wing’s attention to detail and precision timing. As a wing, Jasper is probably the toughest on new riders, with the least welcoming attitude, until the ‘rooks’ have proved up. Once the bar has been passed though, Jasper makes every rider ‘one of its own’.

=== [[:Category:Malachite Wing|Malachite Wing]] ===
{|
|-
|style="width:140px"| '''Wingleader:'''
|style="width:200px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Malachite]] [[Rank::Wingleader]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|style="width:140px"|'''Wingsecond:'''
|style="width:400px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Malachite]] [[Rank::Wingsecond]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|-
|} 
Malachite used to be a ‘light wing’ with a high proportion of greens, but since the wing-reworking of late Turn 20, the wing has been balanced better, though the number of greens remains a little higher than blues and browns. Speed and agility remain the hallmarks of this wing. Two days a week they drill ‘traditional’ methods and one day a week, they’ve taken to drilling search and rescue techniques as being the best fit for their particular abilities.

=== [[:Category:Sandstone Wing|Sandstone Wing]] ===
{|
|-
|style="width:140px"| '''Wingleader:'''
|style="width:200px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Sandstone]] [[Rank::Wingleader]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|style="width:140px"|'''Wingsecond:'''
|style="width:400px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Sandstone]] [[Rank::Wingsecond]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}}
|-
|} 
Sandstone has developed a reputation for being a somewhat innovative wing. Non-traditional, challenging, ready to bend the rules a bit to improve itself overall – these are the qualities that define Sandstone. While the attitude of Sandstone may appeal to mostly younger riders, the wing is a surprisingly even mix of differing ages and dragon colors.

=== [[:Category:Quartz Wing|Quartz Wing (Weyrlings')]] ===
{|
|-
|style="width:140px"| '''Wingleader:'''
|style="width:200px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Quartz]] [[Rank::Weyrlingmaster]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}} (or assigned weyrling)
|style="width:140px"|'''Wingsecond:'''
|style="width:400px"| {{#ask: [[Wing::Quartz]] [[Rank::Asst. Weyrlingmaster]] [[Name::+]]|?name2=|mainlabel=-}} (or assigned weyrling)
|-
|} 
The weyrling wing is made of the of the weyrlingmaster staff and the weyrlings in their charge. During the early months of weyrlinghood is it largely non-existent as the young riders and their lifemates learn the ropes. After the weyrling dragons are flight ready, the wing begins to operate as any other wing, with regular drills and sweeps preparing its riders for the rest of their lives. During threadfall, they regularly serve as the resupply wing; in the interval, they take that role in training exercises for the rest of the Weyr, and sometimes practise the types of sweep, rescue, and transport mission that the other wings undertake as their regular work.

----

==Former Wings:==

=== Agate Wing ===

Agate was renamed to Slate by its new wingleader, D'vro (D 11, M 10, Turn 39), reportedly on the suggestion of one of its members.

=== Obsidian Wing ===

Particularly hard-hit by the plague, Obsidian was dissolved by Weyrleader N'rov (D 11, M 10, Turn 39). The wing had undergone quite a few changes in leadership over the preceding turns, and as a result developed a somewhat informal and experimental atmosphere, working more as a team than to wingleader-given must-nots and cannots; riders were encouraged to put forward their own ideas, both for wing exercises and team-building events. The green-heavy wing had also been known for its acrobatics and assistance with more intricate work, such as assisting with herding or accessing difficult locations. Upon dissolution, Obsidian's riders were individually distributed among the other wings rather than being incorporated wholesale.

FTW:Wings

2016-02-20T21:40:10Z

Vhaeryth: Updating Onyx.

N'rov

2016-01-27T22:59:25Z

Vhaeryth: Linked up the (copy of the) old HRW page.

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=N'rov.jpg
|mother=
|father=
|livejournal=[http://vhaeryth.livejournal.com/ vhaeryth]
|body=
== Description ==

Unquiet confidence lives in the man's movements along with an inclination towards control, backed up by even such little things as the skull-close crop of dark hair that wants to curl. He's tall, broad-shouldered but otherwise lightly built, olive-complected with cool gray eyes and a strong, shadowed jaw.

His attire's simplicity partially conceals its stylishness: a shirt with the dull sheen of silver, worn with a gray sweater and twill trousers as dark as his boots. The knot on his riding jacket is that of Fort's Weyrleader, the cords brand new, while the leather beneath is scuffed as only a hand-me-down or the object of purposeful effort can be.

=Vhaeryth=
{{DragonTab}}

= Family =

{{Family}}{{FamilyEnd}}

= Logs =

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

= Mentions =

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

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

=Icons=

{{Icons}}

=Other=

* The [[N'rov/Misc/OldHRWPage|old character page]] that K'del made for the HRW wiki, back before the game's.

}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:Fort_Area]]
[[Category:Fort_Weyr]]
[[Category:Southern_Boll_Hold]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Bronzeriders]]
[[Category:Hematite_Wing]]

Logs:It's Green

2016-01-27T06:06:08Z

Vhaeryth: Created page with "{{Log |who=Caleb, N'rov, Ninwayzan |what=Ninwayzan's sweetrolls are not green. N'rov promises to make a delivery. |where=Kitchen, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=6 |month=1..."

{{Log
|who=Caleb, N'rov, Ninwayzan
|what=Ninwayzan's sweetrolls are not green. N'rov promises to make a delivery.
|where=Kitchen, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=6
|month=12
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.01.26
|quote="Are they poisoned?"
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov.png,
|log=Dinner time has come and gone, the living caverns still about half full as some people linger and yet others are coming in for a bit of a late dinner because of duties. Here in the kitchens though it's fairly quiet as most workers have departed for the night, leaving a skeleton crew of people working in here. Ninwayzan and another young man are seated mostly out of the way with a basket of washed and unpeeled tubers before them. Halfhearted are their attempts at peeling as they are chatting too much and not working. "And that's when she said it was green!" laughs out Ninwayzan at the end of some story.

And ''that's'' when a certain bronzerider saunters into plainer sight, and N'rov inquires, "What was? Tell me it wasn't your nose." Humor's in his easy baritone, and a heritage of Boll; he's left his knot on his jacket somewhere, warmed by a sweater instead.

The new voice starts Ninwayzan briefly as he twists slightly to see who is asking. "Oh no, not his nose!" laughs out Caleb which earns a wrinkle of his not green nose from Ninwayzan. "He thinks he's funny!" comments the baker craft apprentice with a 'woe is me' expression.

"Of course he does," N'rov says with a hint of a smirk. "Evening, lads. What have we got for snack? That isn't, ah, ''green''."

Ninwayzan waves a hand towards a counter near them. A plate of sweetrolls sits upon it. "Something there that's not green but if anyone asks ''we'' didn't give it to you!"

"Why not?" N'rov asks with interest. "Are they poisoned?" It certainly doesn't slow his heading that way, nor his long-armed reach.

Ninwayzan offers a lopsided grin. "I don't think they poisoned any of 'em." he give them a long look. "Just didn't think they'd take too kindly to one or two being taken before they go out to the living caverns. After all you could be depriving someone of importance that particular sweet!"

N'rov turns his hand so it's palm up, so his newly acquired sweetroll may catch the light in its glistening baked goodness; "You're right," he says with great sadness. "I had better take a bite out of it, so they wouldn't want it after all. You'll tell me what was green, so I don't perish of the wondering?" ''Now'' he bites.

Ninwayzan doesn't look too concerned over any potential perishing to be by done by N'rov but he does relent after a moments pause. It's a pause for effect. "The half of a bug found in a red fruit."

''Now'' N'rov sprays a few crumbs before he can get his hand over his mouth in time; this time, his is a real smirk. "'Half,'" he approves. "That makes all the difference. The remaining question: was it the half with the ''eyes''."

"An important question." Ninwayzan concedes that question. "But alas I don't know." cause evidently he didn't ask the proper follow up questions.

"The harpers would be very disappointed in you," N'rov says, mock-sternly but with an echo of how it ''could'' have been. "These are important questions, indeed." While he's at it, after another bite, "S'good. How are you taking to Fort?" He adds a quick grin for Caleb; "And how welcome are you making him?"

Ninwayzan seems content with knowing how disappointing he could be to harpers. "Good thing I'm a baker then and not part of the harpers. I've enough to remember with recipes." Caleb grins easily enough towards N'rov. "Course I'm helping him settle in. I've not short sheeted his bed yet!" Ninwayzan rolls his eyes before answering. "IT's going good. I'm getting lost less."

"The harpers might find your logic convincing, however," N'rov can only suppose. To Caleb, "Good thing. Save that for later." To Ninwayzan again, "If you haven't made your own map, I recommend them. Helped ''me''," with a humorous grimace. But more importantly, of the rolls even as he's already reaching for a cloth to wrap them in, "How about I take a few of these off your hands; I promise I'll get them to someones of importance, even." And get out of the boys' kitchen.

Ninwayzan looks amused briefly. "I'll still say I never saw who took 'em!" guiltily recalls the interrupted task of peeling these tubers so as it seems N'rov is departing more of his attention resumes to the task in hand. "Don't eat so many you get sick!" warns Caleb in parting advice.
}}

Logs:Credit

2016-01-24T19:06:56Z

Vhaeryth: Created page with "{{Log |who=E'dre, N'rov |what=E'dre and N'rov jaw over drinks. |where=Weyrleader's Weyr, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=23 |month=10 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedat..."

{{Log
|who=E'dre, N'rov
|what=E'dre and N'rov jaw over drinks.
|where=Weyrleader's Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=23
|month=10
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.01.13
|quote=“Figured this would be N’muir’s until his heart gave out completely.”
|mentions=Aishani, Ali, C'stian, D'vro, Dahlia, E'ten, Ebeny, Eden, Elayne, Eryn, M'vyn, Mirinda, N'muir, Roveny
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon E'dre Hah.jpg, Icon N'rov boa.png,
|log=Sprawled along the chaise N'rov had so reviled, the bronzerider picks at the tough fabric that now slipcovers its fancy shininess; "Did you ever ''use'' this," while E'dre lived here, "or just walk around it and give it the side-eye so it wouldn't leap out and blind you?" Some drinks into the evening, there's a bottle on the floor with a ways to go.

E’dre shrugs his shoulders and glances at the chaise. “It wasn't my stuff to use or not. Maybe I used it once.” The smirk he directs N’rov’s way and the brief wrangling-of-brows hints at what ''that'' may have been. He takes another sip of his glass and eases back in that all-too familiar slouch of his as he glances around the space. “It feels off though, doesn't it? The plague brought about so many changes.” He hides a grimace behind another gulp of alcohol. “Figured this would be N’muir’s until his heart gave out completely.”

The scowl N'rov directs at E'dre is a dark one, and would be darker if he weren't about to say, "I had a drudge sniff over all the furniture in this place to make ''sure'' it was safe." Which might be a lie through his teeth, but it's enough to let that scowl become a smirk. The rest deserves his glass raised, a silent 'to N'muir'; "Let's hope his heart survives a while longer. Longer than it would have done, for sure; longer with C'stian there..." He shrugs.

E'dre's far enough in his cups to be glib and he answers that dark look with a wider smirk, “What? Not as if you're saying Ebeny isn't safe, hm? How horrible that'd be for you on multiple accounts.” He hefts his glass up in response to that toast, “To his easy retirement with family.” He finishes off his glass and reaches to pour more. “Seems Southern tends to call everyone. Ebeny and the kids have been settled there almost a month now.” That brings a momentary scowl down to replace his easier humor though he does well in shaking it off rather quickly. For him.

The kids who aren't ''his'' kid. N'rov leans over to get his glass refilled, too, silent on the subject of Ebeny ''or'' that move, or of Roveny for that matter; "Next thing you know, we'll be living out of Ali's pocket too." After the briefest of pauses, he raises his voice, "If anyone's eavesdropping," they're not, Vhaeryth's clear about that, "that's a joke. J-o-k-e joke." Back to E'dre, "Though we got D'vro and his lot, so at least part of that's going the other way."

“Who cares if someone heard. You can slam them down and punish them however you want. That's the ''best'' part of being Weyrleader,” E’dre is just too cheerful about that direction. “I do enjoy spending my down time in Southern. I see the pull. Maybe when things are more stable here, I'll end up down there. For now, you and the others, have to put up with me. Cece would be dysfunctional without me, I'm sure.” He smirks around another sip of his drink. “Did you hear the latest gossip on her? Seems she's gotten tangled up in a little love triangle.” Yes. E'dre can gossip like an old auntie and from his grin he's enjoying it!

N'rov has to laugh. "Don't tempt me," he warns, and with sincerity. "What ''is'' the latest? Last I heard, she was panting after M'vyn, but that's not exactly new. She's just," now he frowns, nothing overt, but there's a hooded quality to those gray eyes and a subtle twist to his mouth.

E’dre catches that frown and sighs as he lowers his glass away from his mouth. “She's still bitter. It'll get better. It's not as if I've lost Hematite and you're not Weyrleader. It's the change that's hard on her. We lost a lot of good people to that plague.” He lifts his glass up in a toast to the dead and then downs what remains quickly. “She's with him? I can never figure that relationship out. He's more of a prick than I am. Though I do like listening to him sing. Nah, she's torn between a weyrmated couple. Oryth caught both their greens I guess. The dragons as much of a player as his rider.” A pause and then he tilts his head, peering more closely at N’rov. “How're you holding up? With the Weyrwoman. With the baby.” He hasn't forgotten Roveny.

"It better get better, or she'll shrivel up and," it might be just as well that N'rov breaks off and toasts, too. His swallow's not as deep, more speculative. "Sweet, sweet songs for your tender ears? And, what, she won't 'embrace them both'? Me, I'm fine. I keep telling you, Mirinda's good people; don't believe everything you hear... from anyone ''else'', anyway," and there's the smirk. Briefly, regarding the baby, "Gotten over some colic."

E'dre nods his head and then laughs. “You'd think Cece would be all for a tumble with that number, right? But she's off, like I said, her usual game.” He eases himself back, lifting brows at the mention of Mirinda being ‘good people’. “Hattie was good people,” he reminds, looking sour, “and it did nothing for this Weyr when the Council decided to intercede where it shouldn't.” He lifts a hand to stall any comment from N'rov, “but it's done. I'd much rather have Mirinda leading us than Dee. So don't get me wrong there.” He frowns at the mention of colic. “That's rough. I'm glad Ebeny is in Southern. She'd be beside herself knowing that she wasn't well.”

N'rov eyes that hand with a lift of brow; choosing to go along this time, he listens, and in the end he leaves the rest to a grimace. "So you won't tell her, I take it. It's done now. It's fine. She's got a few teeth, even, crawling up a storm." Except for the part where she's two months old.

“How can she be crawling?” E'dre asks, frowning at N’rov. Baby-rearing is something he's done three times now. “Did you confuse your own daughter with another in the nurseries?” He seems serious in that question (the ass) as he refills his glass. “She doesn't want to know details. It doesn't mean I don't.” That's a reminder. He takes a few sips of his drink, looking off at a distant wall. “Don't be a shitty father. Or Weyrleader. I'll stand by you,” he reminds N’rov as he looks back to him. “As I always did for N’muir. For what it's worth and our rocky friendship aside.” He must be far in his cups for ''that'' admission.

"She's just that talented," N'rov asserts, just as deadpan as before; it's only afterward that he lets the other man see his slow, growing smirk. "Yeah, working on that. ''Count'' on you, too." He leans forward, not solely to offer the next refill, though there's that too. "Don't lose your head and drop it on Cee, she'll lose it even more. I left Hematite in your hands," ''left Hematite'', "for a reason."

“As a consolation prize?” E'dre asks all too dryly. He's probably heading in that too-inebriated-state for serious, professional conversation. That does not stop him from continuing on with another sip. Cece isn't there to drink them under the table, but maybe she's there in spirit as he's somehow landed another refill within a short span. He eyes N’rov’s glass. “Are you slowing down? Drink up.” He taps his fingers against his thigh. “You liking your placements for the other wingleaders?”

For that, N'rov gives E'dre quite the serious, professional roll of his eyes: ''as if''. He does seem happy enough to top his glass off when the brownrider reminds him, at least, though there's no question he's drinking more slowly than the older man; maybe bronzeriders really can't hold their liquor. Or, maybe it's the awareness of just how early breakfast with their goldriders is going to be. "So far. We'll see how that works out. Got to say, it's ''fun'' moving it all around, though I shouldn't make a habit of it," wistfully said, boys with their toys.

“It's not like we've got Thread to face,” E’dre replied with a shrug and then something darkens his face. He shakes his head, choosing to drink rather than share. He rubs at the back of his neck briefly and heaves a sigh. “I fucking hate change,” he declares out of the blue. “At least when I run Hematite drills I don't have to think ‘what will N'muir think’ but all the same.” He shakes his head, downs the rest of the booze, then looks gloomily at N’rov. “I miss it, you know.” He's eying that knot. “And I don't. Think it destroyed my marriage. But still. I did something with it. I was more than the asshole ‘Second, or the crafter.”

"Tell me about it," N'rov mutters after that comment on N'muir; he'd been moodily eyeing his glass, but now looks over at the weight of E'dre's gaze. There's a slight grimace somewhere in there; he flexes his shoulders, knotted and otherwise. "Yeah, because they never did anything at all, just lazed around," he says dryly. "So what's your favorite 'something' you did, big man?"

“Held it all together when we lost Lilah, kept things going when Hattie was doing her best for everyone and put on a good face even though I knew it was hard on her. Organized our Weyr when the plague hit. I mean, shells,” E’dre can't hide the bitter edge to his laugh, “it's not as if it was smooth sailing and boring like all the times Ali and I handled things.” He shakes his head, “Ali,” he mutters, “one of the few goldriders I always liked.” This draws his gaze up and he turns it on N’rov again with a calculating look. He finishes his drink (perhaps for courage?) and asks, “Did you see yourself being a Weyrleader with Aishani? I wonder if it's hard, seeing someone else beside you. Hattie and I always wanted you to be a Weyrleader, y’know. I bet N'muir did too. So don't get me wrong when I'm pissy about my life, okay?”

"''Shells'', it wasn't," smooth sailing, and that's muttered too. N'rov's got a nod for Ali; ''Aishani'' causes a quick flicker in his gaze though he doesn't interject, and then... then the bronzerider's just looking ''dubious''. "Right," he says. "All the times you lot thought I was dragging E'ten around, getting him into trouble, and got ''him'' thinking that too. 'Weyrleader N'rov,' that's what you really meant. Same with that time back at Igen; with promoting ''C'stian''. Or is it that you just wanted me to be 'a' Weyrleader, somewhere else? Don't you think that if I'd wanted that, with Shani, I'd have left for the Reaches way back when?"

E'dre laughs, he can't help it, as he tosses his hand through his hair and gives N’rov a roguish grin once his mirth has settled down. “No one told me they had a track to put you on to get there. And for a while there you were just young and didn't seem like you cared. I promoted you, didn't I? I started to give you more responsibilities. Why’d you think I did that? Because I wanted a young handsome bronzerider at my side?” He snorts and then he adds, more quietly, “I shouldn't have brought her up.” He isn't moving for anymore alcohol. “It's getting late. I should probably get going.”

"Yeah, yeah," N'rov doesn't dispute all that ''seeming'', or clarify either, though those gray eyes gain an amused light that belies the lingering intensity. "That must've been it. If anyone asks, I'll give you all the credit." He doesn't say anything about the rest, about his girl that was, one way or another; he just stands, all the better if E'dre wants that bronzerider to be giving him a hand up: no crashing on his couch this time. Maybe ''next'' seven.
}}

Logs:A Hairy Situation

2016-01-15T06:26:55Z

Vhaeryth: Created page with "{{Log |who=Catling, N'rov |what=Catling runs into N'rov, who is concerned about food safety. |where=Kitchen, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=26 |month=9 |turn=39 |IP=Interv..."

{{Log
|who=Catling, N'rov
|what=Catling runs into N'rov, who is concerned about food safety.
|where=Kitchen, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=26
|month=9
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.01.14
|quote="It's a bit... unruly. Sir."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov.png
|log=Despite all the alternatives out there (the nighthearth, the food shaft, ''deliveries''), it's the kitchens N'rov's nosing about late into the evening; he's currently leaning against a counter, a safe distance from where a pair of older women are washing dishes, gnawing on something crunchy and green.

Catling comes into the kitchen as well, carrying a few plates, which she brings to the women. "Sorry these are so late," she says. "But they couldn't eat until they'd finished stretching the fur. I brought it as soon as they were done." The teen bobs her head, smiling, then adds, "Might I take a bun with me? Oh, thank you." She walks over to where some buns are resting and snags one with her fingers, then moves over towards the corner herself, warming her hands as she tiredly walks.

More bites ensue; as long as everyone's preoccupied, the Weyrleader picks a bit of green stringy ''stuff'' from between his teeth, afterward engaging in the few long strides it takes to flick it in an arc into the wastebin. It lands safely enough, but then his attention's caught; he drawls, "Emmai, you didn't say there were ''buns''." Emmai must be the silver-haired woman, as opposed to merely grey; she laughs at him, but a short bit of banter later, he's got his prize. Gray eyes switch to studying the original bun-finder, as long as he's chewing anyway; does she even look recognizable?

The girl has her head down; as she nibbles on the bun she reaches up with her free hand to unpin her mane of fox-copper curls. Unruly, it tumbles down to her knees, and she rubs the back of her neck. She licks her lips, then sighs, leaning against the wall. She might be familiar, she might not. She's been here a month now, working here and there, behind the scenes. She glances up, and then her eyes widen as she sees N'rov looking at her. She licks jam from her lips, then smiles shyly.

All that hair, such bright hair, must hold the bronzerider's interest for a few moments longer; once he's swallowed, N'rov says good-humoredly to those widening eyes, "Careful not to shed."

The girl squeaks, dropping the bun. "Oh dear, am I? I don't think I am...." Then she looks down, stoops and picks up the bun, brushing it off. "I... erm. It just feels sooo good to get it down after a long day." She lets out a slow breath, then really looks at the man. Once more the bun slips through suddenly nerveless fingers. "Oh. Sir. Sorry sir."

"Not yet," N'rov can only suppose of the curling mass, and watches the bun-dropping and the bun-collecting and the re-dropping with the quizzical interest of a man who's had quite the long day. His stays safely in his hand, what's left of it. Deadpan, "Quite all right. You'll excuse me if I stay well back, lest it prove self-willed and attack."

"My hair or the bun?" The girl scoops up the bun once more, inspecting it critically. Then she bites into it, devouring it hungrily. "Well, then. The bun can't attack you now, sir. So.... I guess it's just my hair you have to worry about."

No immediate answer from N'rov, who's been busy making what's left of it considerably ''less'', beyond an easy and quite noncommittal shrug; the crunchy whatever it was has already disappeared. "That relieves my mind considerably," he assures. "Is it trained?"

"Not by half," Catling sighs, brushing back tendrils that are already creeping forwards. "Still, it's worse when it's short. I mean, unless it's just shorn. But it's been a few years since I've had it cut." She looks up briefly, then shrugs. "It's a bit... unruly. Sir."

"I ''see''," N'rov says speculatively. "Some would say a good chopping would show it the error of its ways, but you're the one with the experience of it, of course," and he the one whose hair's cut curl-less close. "Has it acquired any prizes? Vanquished mere mortals or otherwise?"

"Ermm..." Catling tilts her head a moment. "Erm... I...." She flushes red. "I got a chicken caught in it once," she admits, looking down at the oh-so-interesting ground. "Does that... that count?" THen she brightens. "We ate the chicken before the month was out after...."

N'rov quite nearly ''crows''. "I think it should," he tells her. "And eating the chicken after? Absolute payback. Let's hope it wasn't too," wait for it, "stringy."

The teen blinks, then groans. "That's.... really bad, sir," she says frankly. "I mean...." She wrinkles her nose. "I mean...." She goes still a moment, equal measures of shyness and playful boldness warring in her expression. "If I were you I'd... ah... lock up that pun for good."

N'rov sketches her a faux-respectful nod; "Alas, I shall not, though I be strung up myself for my temerity." He even glances this way and that, only to freeze. "''Don't'', " said as quickly as though he really had spotted someone, "tell them where I've gone." Not the main cavern, but the stores, though he takes up his usual easy stride just beyond the swinging door.

"I.... I won't tell, sir. Wouldn't want to cause a hairy situation..." Catling watches the man, then shakes her head. "So. That's a Weyrleader. Huh. He's nice." And then she sags against the wall, sighing. "And too old. But.... kind of cute." She giggles softly, then claps a hand over her mouth as she scampers off in the other direction.
}}

N'rov

2016-01-14T19:41:59Z

Vhaeryth:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=N'rov.jpg
|mother=
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|livejournal=[http://vhaeryth.livejournal.com/ vhaeryth]
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== Description ==

Unquiet confidence lives in the man's movements along with an inclination towards control, backed up by even such little things as the skull-close crop of dark hair that wants to curl. He's tall, broad-shouldered but otherwise lightly built, olive-complected with cool gray eyes and a strong, shadowed jaw.

His attire's simplicity partially conceals its stylishness: a shirt with the dull sheen of silver, worn with a gray sweater and twill trousers as dark as his boots. The knot on his riding jacket is that of Fort's Weyrleader, the cords brand new, while the leather beneath is scuffed as only a hand-me-down or the object of purposeful effort can be.

=Vhaeryth=
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=WYSK=

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= Family =

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= Logs =

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[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:Fort_Area]]
[[Category:Fort_Weyr]]
[[Category:Southern_Boll_Hold]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Bronzeriders]]
[[Category:Hematite_Wing]]

N'rov

2016-01-14T19:26:08Z

Vhaeryth: Tabs at last!

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=N'rov.jpg
|mother=
|father=
|livejournal=[http://vhaeryth.livejournal.com/ vhaeryth]
|body=
= Description =

Unquiet confidence lives in the man's movements along with an inclination towards control, backed up by even such little things as the skull-close crop of dark hair that wants to curl. He's tall, broad-shouldered but otherwise lightly built, olive-complected with cool gray eyes and a strong, shadowed jaw.

His attire's simplicity partially conceals its stylishness: a shirt with the dull sheen of silver, worn with a gray sweater and twill trousers as dark as his boots. The knot on his riding jacket is that of Fort's Weyrleader, the cords brand new, while the leather beneath is scuffed as only a hand-me-down or the object of purposeful effort can be.

= WYSK =

{{wysk}}

= Relationships =

* One known child: Roveny, flight-daughter of Ebeny, green Laurienth's rider. Born on day 23 of month 7, Turn 39, Interval 10.

= RP Logs =

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[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:Fort_Area]]
[[Category:Fort_Weyr]]
[[Category:Southern_Boll_Hold]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Bronzeriders]]
[[Category:Hematite_Wing]]

Logs:Blank Slate

2016-01-14T19:07:29Z

Vhaeryth: Created page with "{{Log |who=D'vro, N'rov |what=N'rov sets D'vro up with the blank Slate he's looking for. |where=Council Room, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=11 |month=10 |turn=39 |IP=Inte..."

{{Log
|who=D'vro, N'rov
|what=N'rov sets D'vro up with the blank Slate he's looking for.
|where=Council Room, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=11
|month=10
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.01.09
|quote="I certainly hope, at least, that the population stays steady. But at this rate, we might overtake the poor holders."
|mentions=Blume, Dahlia, Mirinda
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov apple.png, Icon d'vro.jpg,
|log=N'rov had asked D'vro to come in before the back-to-being-regular wing meeting that morning; there's still a drudge going about tidying up breakfast (for more than one, at that) by the time the older bronzerider gets there, though the teenager ducks his head and is quick to get himself and his transport platter out of the way. N'rov's had a container of klah and some bread-wrapped sausage left, though, so there's that, and some easy conversation to see if D'vro's awake. It's early.

D'vro arrives just when he's supposed to, neither too early nor too late. "Weyrleader," he greets the other bronzerider in their somewhat more professional setting. D'vro nods to the drudge as he passes but spares him little other attention while he makes his way toward one of the chairs near N'rov. Fortunately he's quite awake, and probably has been for some time already. Early to bed, early to rise and all that.

''Not'' early to bed for N'rov; he might look tired to one who'd seen an objective picture drawn of him, but he's shaved and that antic energy is very much with him. "Wingleader. ''D'vro''." He spreads his hands: welcome. "Where are you at with your final thoughts? It's not too late. You could forget indoctrinating ex-weyrlings and go hermit it up atop a mountain instead."

"That only sounds appealing if the mountain is a warm beach and I don't have to single-handedly entertain Colsoth for his every waking moment." It might sound nice to other pairs, but not so much to D'vro. He relies on other dragons to socialize with his lifemate for at least part of the time. "I believe there a handful of wings that would serve my purpose, but it seems to me that the smallest of them would be easier to start with. Unless you have other ideas?"

"Smallest but mine," N'rov deadpans of his as yet tiny Onyx, after a nod of appreciation for D'vro's situation with his dragon. "No, Agate's fine of the survivors. With that cleared up, we'll be bargaining over Obsidian's remains today." Dark humor but it gets them by; he'd given the current wingleaders a heads up over that wing's dissolution, a chance to identify whom they do and don't want (and who they'd ''trade'') before the divvying begins. "Looking forward to it?"

D'vro has a nod for Agate and a polite, but also genuine, smile for the humor. "I think they'd probably like to move on, get settled into their work." Or is that just him? Maybe so, given that he continues with, "And, yes, I ''am'' eager to have a proper wing again. Proper duties. I think this is the closest thing I've had to a vacation for some time." And he's clearly not sure that he entirely enjoyed it.

"Here's hoping." N'rov nods to D'vro and those duties, with a slight hook of a grin for ''vacation''. "At least you shouldn't need another too soon," he supposes. "Nor should we be short on watchriders for the next decade. We could fill out a good crop of minor holds if we had to, if only they would provision them. And, of course, if their dragons didn't need entertainment."

D'vro helps himself to a mug of klah while they talk. "I think that would be nice sometimes. Having a small hold to tend near the Weyr." Then he wouldn't have to worry about his dragon's entertainment. "I certainly hope, at least, that the population stays steady. But at this rate, we might overtake the poor holders." His own dark humor might not quite hit the mark, but two close clutches are something in a Weyr who lost too many riders. "In any case, there was a greenrider in Agate who had an idea. It's quite clever. She seemed enthusiastic about all of this."

"If we didn't need you here, I'd hand you the broom right now," N'rov says, a gleam in his eye; he might even ''like'' to see his friend at such a task. As for overtaking, "We might indeed. If Taeliyth had given us any warning, we could have brought them over by the dragonload, and gotten ourselves a fresh crop... as it is, she didn't leave us enough time for Zaisavyth's to be birthed. Plus a month or two," he supposes all generously before sitting forward with renewed interest. "Tell me about it. And her; wingsecond material?"

His smile then is slightly more broad, not so worried about politeness. "So long as you didn't hand me a skirt to go with it." D'vro takes a drink, considers for a couple of moments, then nods his head. "She could be, certainly. If she were willing to take the responsibility." There are plenty of riders who aren't, after all. "She suggested, if I joined Agate, that we change the name of the wing. Slate, she said. Since we'd be starting over with something of a blank slate."

N'rov smirks, and glances over the other bronzerider before settling back into listening; he'll drink while he's at it, too. "Huh," he says for that idea, and takes a guess at the name of said rider: first one, and then to cover a different base, a second. Regardless of whether D'vro signals he got it right, "I could see it. There's that pun, but it's not a ''bad'' one, and..." he half-closes his eyes, lips moving. When he comes up for air, "Yeah, you could shout it, and it's not too like any of the others. Flint's the only other with one syllable, discounting the weyrlings," which clearly he does.

"That's her," says D'vro when N'rov guesses with the second name, and he seems pleased that the man is familiar enough to be able to take a guess at all. "She seems bright. Don't get any ideas about slipping her away into your little Onyx, hm?" Quite a compliment coming from the Southern bronzerider. "I think, if anything, it sounds a bit like the name it would be replacing when you shout it."

"What?" Would he do that? asks N'rov's smirk. "I won't," he says. "If only because it's ''better'' to have someone gung-ho over there, and especially better if you go and change the name. Coming from her, it's not you going in and changing everything and all that, you're 'leaving room for them to make a difference.' How's it like Agate, though?" It might be his drawl.

D'vro has a short but knowing laugh, but there's no actual worry that someone will be scalping his promising wingriders before he's had a chance at them. "When you're shouting things, people have a tendency to focus on the last sound more than the first. It's a hard T in both cases. The G helps, of course, but only if they're paying enough attention." And now that he's shared that, he adds, "I think my wingriders and I will get along quite well. If there's anyone who really isn't suited, we can handle that when it comes up."

"Yeah?" is ''entertained''; being N'rov, he's now got to give it a try. Even sotto voce, his version of, 'Hey, Agate!' puts the emphasis so strongly on the first syllable that the second all but disappears; then he gives it a go D'vro's way, though he might block off that 't' even more firmly than the other wingleader ever did. His resulting shrug is as easy as it's amused. As for the more prosaic matter of the wingriders, "Sounds like a plan. Talk to the headwoman," no mention of 'if you're sure it's what you want,' it's ''D'vro'', "she'll square it and see that someone gets you a few mockups for badges, too. It might be a while before they're actually sewn. Anything else you need, before the rest troop in?"

D'vro purposefully doesn't hide the roll of his eyes in response to N'rov's antics. Ha, ha. Very funny. "I'll let her know," he assures the Weyrleader. "Perhaps we ought to have the wing sew them," is almost certainly a joke, given how one might want those to look at least somewhat professional. "I believe that's everything. Thank you, sir. I'll take one of these, though," he says, reaching for a breaded sausage, since they won't last long once anyone else starts showing up.

N'rov's smirk over the sewing lingers as the man leans back in his chair, hands spread in welcome: have one, have them ''all''.
}}

Logs talk:Breakfast Is Dangerous

2015-10-18T16:57:27Z

Vhaeryth: Comment provided by N'rov - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Breakfast Is Dangerous]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==X'vin (09:52, 18 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

SHE is possibly a drunk. WE as a unit ARE NOT drunks, and I take PERSONAL OFFENSE to the implication. And at any rate, at least we're not ''cheaters''. /meaningful stare
==N'rov (09:57, 18 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

That's right. Fold it up before you throw it at me, baby.

Logs:N'rov, Acting Acting Weyrleader

2015-10-17T02:35:33Z

Vhaeryth:

{{Log
|who=Dee, N'rov
|what=N'rov is the Acting Acting Weyrleader; Dee has questions after shadowing a wingleaders' meeting.
|where=Council Room, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=15
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.09
|quote="My goal is to make it easy for E'dre to come back."
|mentions=A'ryk, Aishani, C'stian, E'dre, E'ten, Hattie, J'zen, Kyouri, N'muir, X'vin, Zennia, Zezenia
|type=Log
|ooc=Back-dated.
|icons=dee short.jpg, n'rov drink.png
|desc=>---< Council Room, Fort Weyr(#839RJs$) >------------------------------------<

The Weyr's meeting space is a long, oval space with a large stone table
placed in the middle. There's seating enough for twelve around the table:
plenty of room to welcome most of the Weyrleaders and a good portion of
the Lord Holders from the north, though additional seating might be needed
if a Pern-wide meeting were to be held here.

A sideboard stands ready to serve, regardless of the occasion and is kept
well-stocked with carafes of wine, water and several fine liquors. Fresh
flowers, appropriate to the season are changed out regularly in the vase
atop the sideboard. Tapestries depicting Fort's illustrious history from
founding, to Moreta's role in the Plague to Lessa's arrival to bring the
Weyrs forward in time bedeck the walls, leavening the omnipresence of
cool, gray stone. Well-lit, the chamber boasts glows in niches around the
room, as well as oil lamps hanging from the ceiling.
|log=He's not making waves, not with the days he's got. No wings get renamed, no routes exchanged, though N'rov ''does'' approve a swap of brownriders between Sandstone and Carnelian at the latest wingleaders' meeting without more than a couple dry questions. He looks as comfortable in E'dre's chair, the one that used to be N'muir's, as he does rounding the table to check on a map another man has to show him; as at ease as he does when he releases them. It's when they're gone, all but the brunette weyrling still seated in the back, that he vents a sharp near-laugh and thumps his fists up in the air.

Dee's lips press together in an attempt ''not'' to smile. It's practice, you see, for becoming the austere Weyrwoman she might be expected to become. She manages not to laugh, even if the smile leaks through anyway. "You wear it well for a man who doesn't want it," is her remark, in content closer to what she might be expected to give even if the tone is too amused in the way of warm humor to pass muster.

"That's my aim," N'rov assures, turning to grin back at her. That restless energy gets a new outlet, now, as he rounds the table ''this'' time to shove all the chairs back into place, less careful tidying and more ''making things move''. "Thought about sawing the legs off to look more E'dre's height," but he shrugs: nah.

Dee's look sobers at some thought that must have found its birth in whatever N'rov's been saying, "How long have you known E'dre?" It may be an unexpected question, but one might imagine that Dee's interest in the brownrider has less to do with height and more to do with Weyr handling.

"Since Hematite, pretty much." N'rov's still moving. His boot catches each non-shortened chair's leg (seems he hadn't sawed off the others either) before its back can slam into the table's edge. "He got weyrmated to A'ryk, from my clutch, before ''he'' went South." Table's end; next question.

"Which was when?" is inserted since Dee lacks that particular piece of local history. "Are there other bronzeriders he likes as well as you? Besides N'muir," she assumes with a slight grimace at the name. Her eyes track him at first, but then she rises, leaving her notebook where it is and begins to mimic the tasks he's performed, adjusting a chair here and there as she trails him, never meaning to get less than two chairs spacing between them.

That's a different thought; that's counting, not ''managing''. Or moving. "Working on ten Turns," N'rov says after a moment, with something like disbelief. Resuming, not without a swift glance, a laugh, "You mean other than E'ten? C'stian? The others in our wing," and he has others to name, too: from other wings, not exclusively the older riders, though notably not X'vin nor his cronies. "What are you getting at, Dee?"

"Just that you're the one playing acting-- acting," Dee's nose briefly wrinkled in some small humor at the double usage. "I'm just wondering if you mightn't be the local favorite. Having N'muir as weyrleader... Well, I expect if he'd wanted to stay as weyrleader he'd have stayed it when Hattie gave in her knot. But having his bronze catch Taeliyth would be ... ''so awkward'' and maybe even sour the whole of the working relationships," presumably her and Hattie, Hattie and N'muir and N'muir and Dee, herself. Dee shifts a chair and then again, to no purpose. "What's your relationship with Hattie like?" In another time, another place, these might be personal sort of questions, but here and now, they're just a matter of internal politics.

"Playacting?" is that much drier. As she continues verbally, N'rov finishes the oval physically, stopping where he'd begun. His hands clasp the table's edge; he leans over his chair's back to answer her, gray eyes clearly levelling on her. "Tolerable." His chuckle is low; levelling ''with'' her. "You have to understand, ''E'ten'' was the golden boy; each mark has its second side. I like to think that she grew to appreciate my loyalty to N'muir, that I ''didn't'' capitalize on whatever favor may have been shown me, when things went... askew."

"And now that your loyalty to N'muir is no longer necessary?" Dee queries with raised brows. One only might seem imperious where two come off both thoughtful and concerned. "I think I met E'ten once," outside of passing or duties she likely means. "You said 'was' the golden boy? What happened?"

"You still don't see me... ''angling''," N'rov's smile curls up after that moment's consideration, after the word that could be so easily exchanged. "To own this chair." He leans more deeply into its back, making it angle. "Not to imply anything changed that, except for stepping back. There was the wingsecond's knot; he's got that thing for dragonhealing, and had a child coming, and I think he got tired." ''He's'' stepped back now, too, towards the sideboard.

"No, I don't. But say that we have time to get you gone before Taeliyth rises, ''say'' someone or someones else have different plans for you. Plans that... could detain you long enough." Dee's concern here? Still N'rov's happiness. She sighs, futzing with the chair before he once more. Now she follows him to the sideboard. "What did you mean about two sides of a mark?"

She was a farmcrafter; N'rov slides the vase towards her in lieu of an answer. "What do ''you'' mean, plans?"

"I mean, what if I get word to you in time for you to go, but E'dre has a sudden, perfectly seemingly legitimate emergency that you have to stick around to deal with and Vhaeryth chases." Dee answers as she picks up the vase and reaches for a glass.

He looks distant for a moment, but only that. Then he's reaching for the selection of bottles. "I hear the thing to do is stab oneself. You'll forgive me," for pouring for her? "If I don't." Then: "Do they have you taste-testing yet?"

Dee's head draws back, looking at the bronzerider with a slightly narrowed gaze, "Taste-testing for ''food'' or something else?" It's clear from her look that she's trying not to let her imagination run disturbingly with that idea.

"Drinks," comes with a lifted brow. ''And'' amusement. "What did you think I meant, Dee?" N'rov chooses a different bottle for the second glass, splashing into it just as shallowly as before. "Give me your glass, shut your eyes, and I'll hand you back one to pick."

"Bronzeriders?" has a querulous quality and a weird look with it as if Dee finds it an odd conclusion to have come to. The look is quickly replaced with a stubborn 'you asked!' look to preempt any asking to account for the way her mind works. Obediently, she closes her eyes to await the glass.

He has to laugh, low and only a ''little'' incredulous. "No, that's next seven," doesn't miss a beat. Transient sternness (she did 'mistake the schedule') slides, though, into easy semi-seriousness; N'rov presses one switched-around (or was it) glass to Dee's hand. "Tell me what you think this is. Just roughly; is it runner swill or moonshine?"

Dee sticks out her tongue in N'rov's general direction at his proposed timeline, eyes still closed. There's moments of silence after she tastes, moments where quiet confusion shows on her face. "It's… booze," comes with all the naivety of the inexperienced pallet. "Not whiskey," this much she seems to know with some measure of certainty.

"No. It's a brandy; you might be able to taste the fruit, now that you know to look." The next N'rov gives her is a touch thicker, sweeter, tasting of nuts.

"Ch-erry?" is the guess that shows doubt in the mid-word hesitation. Dee trades glasses, tasting the next. "Hmm." The thoughtfulness is overdone. "Also booze." She flashes a smile without opening her eyes and therefore only in N'rov's general direction. "What did you mean about two sides of a mark?" She asks again, taking another trying sip from the glass.

He watches her and her testing, a faint slow smile becoming a chuckle at that ''booze''. There are the sounds of a third glass, then, a ''hmm''. Perhaps he's recollecting. "There were two of us in that clutch, see. When we became friends, and we did both ride bronze, one develops means of telling us apart." Then, "The real question is, which of those do you like better. Next."

"Does it make much of a difference? They all get you drunk," is quite a philosophy and also one that speaks of ''why'' Dee has drunk in the past. She gives a long-suffering sigh as she accepts the next one and then nearly chokes on the contents for her sudden laughter. "''Not'' booze," she declares once she can speak and then her voice is lost to more laughter. Hazel eyes can't stay closed through all that and she grins at N'rov when she comes out on the other side of that laughter.

By now, N'rov has his own glass of plain old water, and a smirk. "Do you ''really'' just drink to get drunk? You'll need something to tell the people who ask, 'And what will you have, my dear?' and care less about the cost. Something that doesn't send them on a scavenger hunt. ...Unless you mean to."

"I suppose, 'whiskey cheap' isn't the best of responses when it comes to representing my Weyr," is resigned but also wry. "What would ''you'' recommend?" It might be easier to borrow his drink of choice than to determine her own. "Nowadays I drink ''mostly'' to either put a person at their ease or to forget, which is ''nearly'' the same thing as drinking to be drunk." Dee looks at him a moment before saying, "You and E'ten, that's a little bit like my brother and I, sounds like, being so close in age and raised under the same roof, our accomplishments and failures were always weighed against the other's, for the most part. Except when we both screwed up." There's a faint fond smile for that, but also a sadness in her eyes.

"Something you like," is what N'rov goes ''right'' back to, right after the shake of his head that's no. Just, no. Still, he takes it easy on her enough to say, "There's always wine, pick your color. You could also try," he gives her a handful of options along with their connotations, though, "Keep in mind that I had to pick this up on the fly, taking my girl around. So you might talk to a specialist if you care; this is just enough to get by. The right vintner might bend your ear for ''hours''." His smile verges on a smirk. As for E'ten, that warrants more water. "'Brothers.' Maybe. Mine weren't so close," for several reasons. "I think my mother would have had a horror of measuring my sister up to any of us."

Dee makes a face. It's disgruntled but tolerant. "I wouldn't like to care, but I guess I don't ''really'' have a choice. I have to become this ''person'' the Weyr needs me to be, that Taeliyth needs me to be. I guess ''Dahlia'' needs to have a drink of choice." She purses her lips, letting herself have a moment to take that in. "I didn't really mean to say you two were like brothers, just the whole-- not being able to separate what you do from what he does. all that." Dee offers this before letting herself smile for the rest. "I'd imagine your mother had a time of it in any case. Did I tell you my mother's had her baby?" She must've mentioned sometime after coming back from Southern herself that her mother was pregnant. "A little girl. Zezenia. The birth was hard, I hear; I imagine most are when women are her age." She reaches for one of the carafes holding booze and adds as she pours, "They'll call her Zee-Zee, my mother says." The disaffected air Dee has is too telling of how ''weird'' all of that is for her.

"If you have a 'drink of choice,' you never have to think about it," N'rov reminds. "Unless they're serving something 'different' with it." The latest and greatest hors d'oeuvres. He has a nod for separating and not separating, though of the semi-ambiguous variety; then, "''Zee-Zee.'' Well, congratulations, since it sounds like they both made it through well in the end." And while he's at it, "Just think, if you hadn't betweened, you could have raised them ''together''."

Dee might've said something that fit as pleasant small talk, instead she glowers at N'rov. "You want to go on teasing me about that, I'll make sure I ''refrain'' from betweening when Vhaeryth gets ''surprisingly'' detained long enough to fly Taeliyth when the time comes and you can have comeuppance for a few ill words now for ''turns and turns'' to come." That comes with a stern sort of glare that might just mean she'd do it, too. (Not.)

N'rov just laughs at her. "That's right, three seasons of bloating for you, not to mention the ''turns and turns'', just to get back at me. I can see you doing that, Dee." What he pours himself next is top shelf, a half-glass suitable for the Acting Acting; before he drinks, before he gets back to work, "Any last words?"

The sigh is defeat. Dee rests her fingertips on the sidebar, pressing her palms up and then flat instead of taking her drink. She turns her head to look at the bronzerider, "Is there anything you like about it? Wearing the knot, I mean. Anything you ''might'' like about it if it ''did'' happen?" Not that Dee wants it to, that much doesn't need to be said, but perhaps she needs convincing that it wouldn't be the end of the world if she can't get word to N'rov in time.

Of course she does; this smile is wry, and he paces away, down the sideboard's length and further before returning with the natural curvature of the room. "I don't know if you understand," N'rov says as he does, "where I'm coming from here. My goal is to make it easy for E'dre to come back. 'To the betterment of Fort,' of course, but I'm not trying to upstage him or make it mine or to show everyone how great ''I'd'' be in the job. 'Not fuck up' is a baseline. If he needs or wants to take time off, it's better for all of us if everyone can be assured that it's ''seamless''." He tops off his glass before moving on. "Take this meeting, Dee. It's at the usual time, because wingleaders have schedules. If I really had the job, yeah, I'd change it up if I felt like it. Maybe even if I could go either way, as a reminder. If ''this'' reminds them that if E'dre's traveling off somewhere and someone knifes him that things aren't going to fall to pieces for them to pick up, so much the better." Does she get that? "In the meantime, what I ''enjoy'' is doing my job ''well''."

Dee looks at him. She's listened, but when he's finished, she just ''looks'' at him. Then away, to the sideboard, to her drink. "It's-- you're doing the opposite of what I'll need to." The girl-- no, woman-- the woman sips gingerly and then turns to face N'rov, lips set. "I'm afraid." It's not every person who can make such an admission so plainly, but Dee has that sort of strength. "I know I'm going to make mistakes because I just don't have the experience, but I'm not as afraid of making mistakes as I am of ''not'' being my own person. Hattie gave her knot back once. If Taeliyth rises first or when Hattie passes on taking the senior's knot if Elaruth rises before her, I'm ''most'' afraid that I will just be parroting Hattie. I know that she has a lot of experience, I know that she's been through ''things'' but I need to think and do and experience for myself and to not feel like not doing it her way is going to let the Weyr down. I'm not Hattie and will never be," she sighs at the conclusion, her expression too earnest for her to be doing anything but telling him the whole, vulnerable truth.

"No, you won't." N'rov doesn't approach her except to top his glass off, not in anything other than his words. "You'll go through different things, and you were a farmcrafter and Weyrbred, not Blood. You won't be the first junior to need to make her own way. I know you haven't had all that much time to yourself, still; but have you had a chance to think much about what you want for Fort because you think it's best, not to copy ''or'' to be different?"

"Some," Dee admits, "but not enough." She takes a long breath and then lets it out. "Sir, could I have a hug?" Her eyes are big when she looks at him. Is that yet one more thing she'll have to learn to live without going forward?

"I was thinking I would sort of try talking to all of them. Maybe not ''in depth'', but-- I should know them, shouldn't I?" Dee's eyebrows lift, though not uncertainly. "Thank you, Acting Acting Weyrleader, sir," answers the hug, returned in the way of a hugger who needed a hug, kept brief but the reassurance and comfort taken in the gesture. "If you do end up with the real knot, at least I'll know you're a willing hugger." This has a little humor to it. At least Dee isn't the sort to ''mind'' mussed hair. It's probably not even something ''Dahlia'' could bring herself to mind either.

"That works too," N'rov agrees, if still with a suggestion of Kyouri ''first''. "Welcome," he says in lieu of willing or otherwise. "In the meantime," since she doesn't have to be a weyrwoman of any stripe yet, the bronzerider puts on a very gruff and ''definitely'' acting, "Weyrling. You're dismissed."

It's testament to the act (and perhaps to the quality of the booze) that Dee plucks up her glass and swallows down the rest of her glass before setting it with the dirties and snaps him the crispest of crisp salutes. "Yes, sir!" comes with too warm a flash of smile to be in earnest and pausing only long enough to collect her notebook, she turns to trot (bouncily) off toward the bowl.
}}
[[Category:FTW_Clutch_32_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs talk:Confessions of a weyrwoman's assistant

2015-09-06T15:56:46Z

Vhaeryth: Comment provided by N'rov - via ArticleComments extension

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==N'rov (08:56, 6 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

I can't decide my favorite line.

"Baryn. Barren. Like my fucking morals." vs. "like a witness protection program but for people who can't keep their pants on." Fight!

Logs talk:Bloods & Bastards

2015-09-06T15:48:39Z

Vhaeryth: Comment provided by N'rov - via ArticleComments extension

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==N'rov (08:48, 6 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Good times. I'm looking forward to the tutoring.

(Girls? Secrets? ''Never.'')

Logs:Terrible Appetites

2015-09-06T15:35:25Z

Vhaeryth:

{{Log
|who=Farideh{{!}}Roszadyth, Farideh, Drex, K'del/ST{{!}}Genitals, K'del/ST{{!}}Beefy, N'rov{{!}}Vhaeryth, N'rov, X'vin{{!}}Besmernyth, X'vin, N'rad, N'rad{{!}}Maldoranth, K'zin{{!}}Rasavyth, K'zin, H'vier{{!}}Reisoth, H'vier, Jo{{!}}Kaitlin, Jo{{!}}M'ron, A'rist{{!}}Lythronath, A'rist,
|what=Roszadyth goes up in her maiden flight over High Reaches.
|where=Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr, Monaco Weyr
|day=25
|month=9
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.05
|quote="M'kris sends his love, darling. And his cock."
|type=Log
|ooc=Holy mother of logs.. some NSFW-ish stuff.
|icons-new=Icon farideh roszadyth.png, Icon farideh part.png, Icon drex youknownothing.jpg, Icon n'rov look.png, Icon n'rov vhaeryth.jpg, Icon x'vin bes cometome.png, Icon x'vin watching.png, Icon n'rad unimpressed.jpg, Icon k'zin rasavyth affection.jpg, Icon k'zin instigator.jpg, Icon h'vier reisoth observe.png, Icon h'vier seriously.jpg, Icon a'rist lynner hereslynny.jpg, Icon A'rist serious.jpg,
|log=Dragon> Darkness shrouds High Reaches as rain falls from the leaden skies overhead, and yet-- ''light'' and warmth holds the Weyr's sleeping denizens in its grasp, or more rightly, a certain junior queen's scintillating ''lust''. It recedes somewhat as the petite gold sleeps, but in the hour before dawn, all of the cloying energy that's been hanging over the Weyr the past day ''grows''; she wakes. Her awareness is slow in unraveling, and becomes a soft melody that builds into a bold crescendo. How can anyone ''sleep'' with all of that desire, noise and light? (To all dragons from Roszadyth)

Dragon> Thanks for the warning, Roszadyth! There are mental ears about, and some of them belong to Monaco... it's not ''Feyzeth'' that pops out of between into the pre-dawn skies, but the bronzes that do are recognisable all the same. Hello, High Reaches! (To all dragons from Cadejoth)

Dragon> The tinny scent of dried blood, asLythronath wakes, and the tail end of his dream (chasing! scraping! squishing!) carrying along the mental link as feeling more than images. Can they hear the thump of his tail and tick of his talons against his ledge? Certainly everyone can share in the << Roszadyth >> of his focus. And if anyone didn't know where that glowy feeling was coming from? Well, problem solved. (To all dragons from Lythronath)

Dragon> Vhaeryth was... sleeping. He stirs, one eyelid opening and then the one behind that and the one behind ''that'', and peers towards the ledge over there (for he's not the only Fortian bronze to stay the night) to regard tne young queen. Roszadyth, the most singularly luminous rooster he's ever seen. (To all dragons from Vhaeryth)

Dragon> Restless bronzes don't get a lot of sleep and Reisoth is alert almost as soon as Roszadyth begins to unravel over the Weyr. His presence is tension more than anything else, begrudging restraint. He waits on his ledge for now, observing the spread of awareness as the other males rouse as much as he watches Roszadyth herself. (To all dragons from Reisoth)

Dragon> It is the heat and light which draws on restless seas, and stirs them into motion. << Woah, already? >> The sleepy touch of the brown's mind reaches. (To all dragons from Akluseth)

Dragon> When Besmernyth comes alert it's with sudden chill and the startlement of a murder of crows; he sleeps lightly, and the winged figures fly up, up, until they are specks on his barren white landscape of his mind then nothing at all against the snow. There is a certain smugness to him as he stretches, but not far; his mind is close to Roszadyth's, one black bird tangling through her light attentively. (To all dragons from Besmernyth)

Dragon> It's a wistful note, sleepy and near to languid: << You're awake. >> He rustles his wings, anything but ruffled feathers, and looks at ''her'' instead of up into the morning. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)

Dragon> A dark Nothing joins the awakening conversation, more presence than dialogue as Maldoranth presses against the others' minds, inexplicably near, no matter that this is not his Weyr. Sparks of silver flare suddenly white like the burn of magnesium, followed by an acrid tendril of charred stone. (To all dragons from Maldornath)

The time between the gold awakening and her rider dashing from ''her'' weyr, out into the rain, barefoot, is short. It's a slippery, muddy trek to the guest weyr, but Farideh makes quick work of it. She pauses at the entryway, her head turning towards the weyrleader complex, where she can ''just'' see her dragon's pale, glowing hide through the deluge. Clenching her jaw, she walks under the overhang and into the relative comfort of the guest weyr, pulling up the shoulder of her robe that had fallen in her speed-walk over. There, still, are too many pillows on the bed and not enough sheets, but everything else is as it should be: clean, minimal, and out of the way. She executes a complete circle, standing in one spot, starting at the far wall until her eyes fall expectantly towards the weyr opening; in time to the first footfalls sounding just outside.

Half a world away, in Monaco, it's already evening-- thanks, time differences!-- and that means that while the locals may be waking up and dragging themselves out of bed, the three Monacoan bronzes that appear in the damp, pre-dawn skies are ready for action, dropping their riders off with uniform precision: one bronzerider, two bronzerider, three. All three know where they're going, seasoned subordinates to M'kris that they are. All are big men... two are probably familiar to Farideh, and smirk at her now as they approach. The third is younger, and ''his'' smile is lustier by far.

Dragon> To Vhaeryth, Roszadyth projects << Scorching heat and building momentum, a chorus of ''strings'', and the flippancy of an errant breeze, ''greeting'' Vhaeryth ''now. << Catch me? >> is playful, despite the obvious tension, despite her not actually having taken to the air yet. >>

It's well before dawn, and someone's dreadfully hung over from a night in the Snowasis. Drex's eyes are bloodshot, and he walks with an unevenness that suggests he hasn't fully slept off all the alcohol he imbibed the night before, although one advantage of the rain is that it serves as a mini bath, so he doesn't smell all ''that'' bad. He can feel that sensation that makes his jaw clench, makes him shoot glances towards Farideh's weyr as he steps out into the bowl -- just in time to see a figure dashing towards the guest weyr. He picks up his pace, arriving shortly after the Monacoans, already shooting dark looks in their direction as he seeks to push past them, towards... "Fari--"

It's a quick drop from his ledge to the bowl for Reisoth with his barely dressed, barefoot rider. No time wasted here. Once H'vier's feet are on the ground, the dark bronze is back in the air to circle the bowl and spiral toward the feeding grounds. H'vier makes his way to the guest weyr, probably regretting the particular haste that made no boots seem like a good idea, but manages not to slip on his way up the stairs with his muddy feet. "Fine time for her to decide to fucking rise," is his greeting. He could really use that beauty sleep, evidently.

K'zin probably isn't the only one catching a ride to the ground looking more than a little disheveled; who can sleep with all that lust and noise, ''indeed''. That Tela isn't Farideh doesn't stop K'zin from saying ''goodbye'' as inappropriately as a flusty K'zin knows how before his lazy stride leads him toward the guest weyr, following the trail of other suitors. Rasavyth, by contrast, was punctual, responding to Roszadyth's waking, to her mood, soaking in the feeling and mirroring them in his shimmering ooze of lust-laced charm. The feeding grounds draw him, the better to prepare for the flight ahead.
N'rad pages: Sorry to bug you again. Are the dragons actually at the feeding grounds? Or is all RP happening in this room?

Dragon> He yawns, all teeth beneath brightening eyes. His tail's lash might as well be a stretch, the spread of his wings to soak up ''all that heat'' as if Vhaeryth could draw it into the ichor of his blood. << Let's go. >> One last flower, singed at the metal petals' tips, falls as though in slow-motion: will she beat him there? (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)

Lythronath will be to the pens in no time, and without his rider. A'rist was not wholly abandoned; he's somewhere out in the rain, trudging. He's not in the guest weyr yet. He's also never been on time to a flight in his life, so why start now?

Speaking of dragged out of bed, and footfalls, N'rov's are neither the first nor quite the last (thanks, A'rist!); the tall Fortian grimaces away the rain as he stalks from the ledge where he'd spent the night, bare-chested beneath his flight jacket, but at least he's shrugged into trous and stomped into boots. Emphasis on the ''stomped''. At least he's got klah. The other foreigners don't get a second look, nor does anyone except the odd familiar face; not even Roszadyth's rider, yet, with Vhaeryth leaping for a not-quite-lazy turn for the pens. ''Then'' N'rov eyes the room, balefully.

N'rad has a hand on the wall as he enters the weyr, his attention still back toward wherever his dragon is until he has to step out of Drex' way. N'rad is a little out of his league, compared to those riders from Monoco, and lust? Yeah, maybe that's what his expression is. If you don't mind a green tint to it. This particular bronzerider looks every bit like the canine who was just found being somewhere he's not supposed to be.

It would make sense that the Reachian convict riders would show up for this. Probably a few of the last to arrive into the weyr, two brownriders - M'ron and Kaitlin - saunter in, the two laughing over something or other despite them wiping the sleep from their eyes. A few of the riders they pass gets a few nods in greeting. Both Jormunth and Hiyudath wing their way towards the feeding grounds eagerly in the meantime.

It's notable that a Fortian rider follows Farideh's exact path, down the stairs from her weyr and across the bowl with a more leisurely step than the one that takes her to the guest weyr. It matches the way Besmernyth stretches on Roszadyth's ledge, shaking out his wings of collected rainwater like he has all the time in the world. Farideh's an alluring lure, to be sure, and the smile on X'vin's face when he slips in behind her is already pleased, like the cat who caught the canary. He's wantonly put together: riding trousers and his jacket with the Fortian knot and patches intact, with no shirt beneath and his hair sleep-mussed. "Farideh," he says, lowly. "We could have just ''stayed''. I could have saved you a walk through the rain."

Maldoranth drops into the pens with a squelching splatter that sends a wreckage of churned mud outward. His wings are hooded as he eyes the meals on hooves, but it's toward those others gathering that the bulk of his ire is directed. He snorts loudly, tail whipping more mud toward the fence line in one sweep, then toward Lythronath in the next. Because he ''can'', of course. The Fortian bronze seems to have little interest in blooding an animal than he does in being a hulking menace. At least for now.

Rain isn't an obstacle to this party! It slides gloriously over Roszadyth's pale, antiqued gold wings when she unfurls from her ledge and stretching them open. She's still for hardly enough time to get a ''good'' look at her glowing hide, launching up and sinking into a low glide that takes her towards the feeding pens; she lands there with ''little'' elegance left, creating a bloody mess when her talons rip into her first kill without preamble. Death and lust is a messy, messy business.

To call it a 'decimation' would be inaccurate, but it's certainly true that High Reaches' herds have suffered catastrophic losses of late; first Niahvth, and now, with all these foreign bronzes, Roszadyth. The Monacoan trio take down two apiece, talons and teeth tearing torturously. In the Weyr, the two taller men seem intent upon getting close to Farideh, as close as they can; the younger man stays back, finding a wall to lean against as he glances around at the assembled riders, smirking.

All this rain is almost making Lythronath presentable. The gore from the previous night's painting is washing off. Thank Faranth there are fresh beasts to chase and scrape and squish. He lands on one hard as he arrives, digs in with those strong back talons, and roars. Roars at all of them, at the dragons from Monaco in ''his'' airspace, at the ones from Fort, too (even Vhaeryth, definitely Maldoranth). He bobs his head, he click-clicks in his throat to that queen. And then he flares his wings and dips his head and tastes blood. A'rist has made it to the stairs by this point, but pauses near the top, and stares up at the rain.

How many dragonriders strut into the guest weyr? The more that come, the wider Farideh's eyes get, but it's those Monacoans that bear the brunt of her hungry stare. "You're ''not'' supposed to be here," the goldrider tells them, her voice, unlike her face, radiating her anger; and ''that'' look shifts to Drex, next. "''You''," an unkind laugh. Her hand reaches for that robe shoulder again, tugging it up hastily, while wild eyes sweep over the assembled face and knots, most ''unfamiliar''. "But I've already had you," X'vin gets informed, prettily, that haughty chin of hers lifting as she waves a hand, dismissing him with a flick of fingers; ''easy''.

As the glowing gold descends on the feeding grounds, Reisoth follows, claiming both beasts and territory as he lands, wings mantled out wide so he can blood his prey in relative peace. There's no show for Roszadyth, only preparation. H'vier is clearly unhappy with the crowd, moving closer to the goldrider with every intention of making some space between Farideh and the foreigners. "Back the fuck off, boys, or we're gonna have a problem here." He probably doesn't expect 'we' to be just him, admittedly.

Drex's scowl deepens as more and more riders pile into the guest weyr, fists clenching. His bloodshot eyes dart from one face to the next; giving the distinct impression he's making a mental list. X'vin's familiarity with Farideh undoubtedly makes the sailor focus on ''him'' first, scowling as he bodily interposes himself between Farideh and the ''foreigner'' with what's probably not a gentle shove of the latter. "Get your dirty hands off her, you lumpish gull-flap. She aint ''yours''." He's so fixed on X'vin he hasn't noticed the Monacoans pushing in, too, even if Farideh's words makes his shoulders stiffen in response.

Long gone are the days when securing a meal, or in this case, blood to sustain the chase was not a sure thing for Rasavyth. He's still not graceful in hunt of herdbeast, but in pursuit of a blood besmirched beauty? That he might just show more finesse for. For now, there's a muzzle marred by life's blood, his thirst burning and not quenched but rather sated enough to give over to his hunger for something ''more''. Besides, to Rasavyth, this is all the most natural act in the world (including the blood), so for a gold like Roszadyth, he'll call it a crimson complement to the glow of her antique gold and want her all the more for it.

Vhaeryth bloods fast and sharp and savoring, despite the ''squelch'' and the ''rip'' and the ''splatter'' that fouls his otherwise rain-sheened hide. He doesn't bother with challenging the menaces, phantom or otherwise (though all that roaring leads to the bronze showing his already-ichored teeth in a yawn: so loud; too ''early''), nor do more than glint a look at those of his Weyr who, for Roszadyth, have come ''here''. It's Roszadyth he looks for, prepares for, the strong muscles of his hindquarters flexing as though he's not inclined to ''wait''.

Both Hiyudath and Jormunth pace each other kill for kill - each snagging one and then tearing it apart. The convict brown dragons are messy and bloody, reveling in each kill - reveling in ''Roszadyth'' - while Kaitlin and M'ron take up space towards the back together. There's open amusement as they watch certain riders around Farideh - the Monacoan ones and X'vin, for sure - though their eyes always manage to return to Farideh with open hunger. That H'vier is entering in the Monacoans' space, as well, seems to earn some interest from the convict riders. For now, ''they'' wait to see what happens next.

As for Vhaeryth's rider? "Oh, shut the fuck up," N'rov growls to the youngest of the Monaco riders, who hasn't even said a thing. That klah, he's having to drink it black. That voice, though; even as he keeps an eye on the Monacoan, he's half-turning to try and get a glance. Familiar. Not-familiar. ''Somewhen.''

Besmernyth's huge, lean form is not deceptive; he looks quick, and is impressive when he moves off Rosadyth's ledge and stays close on her tail: demonstrably, perhaps, of things he anticipates to come. He is a messy hunter, stealing up two beasts in one swoop and launching them against the wall, where they splatter open wetly on impact and he will dive for them. Blood, guts, all of it down his mouth and throat, viscera hanging between his teeth; his eating is rote, his attention fully on Roszadyth for just the right moment. He's coiled like a canine waiting for the ball, but so much more vicious. Any moment now.

H'vier won't stand alone in defense of Farideh. (Did anyone see these things coming? Really?) K'zin's saunter takes him to the foreigners back, an impish smirk twisting his lips, but for ''once'' his mouth remains shut, proving that even under the influence of the leash his dragon holds, he's not a complete idiot about getting the drop on trouble-makers should the need arise and any of them get careless. N'rov gets a briefly amused look from K'zin, something that might say even though he's a foreigner, he's not a ''foreigner''. Join Team HRW, N'rov? Farideh could be hiding cookies under that robe.

"Or what?" One of the beefy Monacoans turns to give H'vier a ''look'' (and then K'zin, too). He more or less matches the taller High Reachian bronzerider for size, and there's something about his stance that suggests he's no stranger to a fight. "I didn't say anything," is the younger one's comment in answer to N'rov, defiance writ large upon his features. And the third one? To Farideh: "M'kris sends his love, darling. And his cock." Just like the one he's just cupped in his hand, but possibly smaller. Or bigger.

Practice and insatiable ''need'' make draining the first beast easy, and the second, and ''third'' Roszadyth chooses to linger over. She's every inch the on-edge predator, but somehow manages to hold herself with dignity, free of cacophonous sound and teeth-barring; that there's blood swearing her dainty muzzle is no fault of her own! And just like that she's had enough and she's airborne, soaring up into the air, aiming to disappear between the thick, gray clouds that pour insistent rainfall on the Weyr below. Unmistakable is her lilting call, not a roar or a bellow, but a deeply-ingrained invitation to ''come'', to ''follow''.

"Kid," X'vin says at length when the boy - yes, ''boy'' - puts himself between them, because of course it waylays him. He's already reaching for her despite, or because, of her teasing, laughing at Drex's insults. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Or, perhaps worse, "Do you eat ''her'' with it?" That's Farideh, who X'vin is watching over Drex's shoulder, eyes glossed with need. Lust. Something, whatever, that is shaken by the shove Drex issues. X'vin's alarmingly quick in reaching out to sieze the younger man's shoulder, fingers clenching down into that tender bit near the neck and shove him away. "Get ''lost''."

N'rad is all too happy to hang back, his head leaned back against the weyr's wall as he watches the others with pale blue eyes that are just a little wider than they should be. He mutters something dark and glances vaguely in the direction of the pens, where he can sense his dragon making a right jerk of himself. As usual. The heated words and gestures coming from the knot of riders (and non-rider) nearest Farideh make him edge a step back toward the weyr's entrance. N'rad always has a few escape plans in his back pocket.

Maldoranth is definitely making an ass of himself, gliding toward a group of beasts only to send them scattering. There is only the briefest moment of advantage to not being muzzle-deep in some herdbeast's side. He's been ready to pounce air-ward since he first arrived, and as Roszadyth leaves the pens behind, the dark bronze is on her tail, bellowing a roar of challenge to the gold, a taunt to the other chasers, tail lashing out with little regard to aerodynamics.

When A'rist enters, at last, there's rain still running down his cheeks and jaw, the nape of his neck, too. That shirt clings, and the boot that didn't quite make it under a pantleg makes squelching noises when he walks. It's the sound more than anything that might be blamed for the irritated twitch of his lips. Or perhaps, indeed, the crowd, the unfamiliars. He's neatly on the outside of them all, watching, quiet. More so, now he's stopped step-squelching.

Lythronath is warm, fire against rain, with that blood in his belly. There's a pile beneath his feet now, a pile against which he pushes off. It's not an ideal launch; it gives way under the force of the jump. But it also brings up a spray of mud and entrails, and that is delightful enough to prompt another roar. Or maybe it's all the other dragons with whom he'll be jostling for position as his wings gouge at the air. Jostling. For now.

Or ''what''? Does the beefy Monacoan match H'vier more or less for impulsive violence, too? The bare-chested bronzerider's answer to Beefy's returned threat is to lunge at the one grabbing his crotch and aim a big, angry fist right at his jaw. There's clearly not a lot of thought put into this, but apparently there's not enough room in this weyr for M'kris' cock, too. "How about I fucking send yours back to him in a box!" Someone is cranky this morning. Fortunately Reisoth is long used to blocking out his rider. Once Roszadyth takes to the skies, the silent bronze leaps after her in a well-practiced surge.

Abandon ship (and entrails); Vhaeryth's had to wait long enough and now he's up and after, sleep and its lack long forgotten, muddy gore falling from his paws if not the wings that never have touched earth. It's thick in the air early on; he has to focus on getting through the mass, deftly avoiding for the moment the easy chance for the longer stretch. Once in the clouds, he swings higher, ''scenting'' should she become lost, all too ready to ascend above even them and abandon the cold and the wet altogether. Come ''there''? Make it ''good''.

The argument X'vin and Drex seem to be having doesn't interest Farideh in the least, because she's too busy giving the one Monacoan fondling himself a hard stare; her actual emotions are unreadable outside of ''intense''. "That disgusting son of a bitch," the brunette growls, but rather than aggression and anger, she's sizing the tall bronzerider up with ''lust''. "Can you give him a message back for me?" she asks, suggestively, advancing towards him. She's obviously not heeding any of the threats being thrown around the weyr-- or the tension, between foreigners and High Reaches' own.

Dragon> Where will she lead him, lead them? He seeks even the last flutter of her veil to find ''out''. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)

There's another, deliberate shove from Drex at X'vin's chest, aiming to keep that outstretched hand from actually touching Farideh. "Nah, but I kiss your mother with it," because your mom jokes are terribly mature, and the Fortian started it. When X'vin's hand bites down into his shoulder, he lets out a yell of pain, staggering back for a moment. Just for a moment, and then he's rushing forward, aiming a punch for the bronzerider's kidney. Or close enough to, anyway. Nevermind he's forgotten about the whole ''protecting Farideh'' thing, he's hung over and angry.

When Roszadyth launches, both Hiyudath and Jormunth are airborne with synchronized speed. They abandon their kills, Jormunth shrieking his call to her and putting on the speed early. Perhaps ''far'' too early. In the weyr, things are heating up M'ron and Kaitlin are watching with smirks. At leas the male of the couple pushes himself from the back to stand by K'zin, his eyes on the Monacoan riders with his big arms folded across his broad chest. From where he stands, "You've got some nerve coming this far," he sends toward the Monaco riders before H'vier launches at the one fondling himself. Tensing, he's already itching to shake this party up even more.

The unnamed third bronzerider-- the one fondling his genitals-- receives that fist in the jaw, and raises it with a knee aimed at the groin, and a shove, too: it's time for Farideh's first flight brawl! Beefy, on the other hand, is there to try and intercept the goldrider, to reach for her arm and say, "I'll pass back any messages you please," as he attempts to grab hold of her and ''hold tight''. Above, their dragons are all in the sky. This thing is ''on''.

There's charm to the rain, isn't there? There is when Rasavyth's oozy charm thinks of it, suggests the romance of the story unfolding in the sky as he finds the air beneath his wings that with long strokes of the brilliant-below, dull-above wings with their smattering of scars. Just before dawn-- if they fly long, chase long, and then fly ''longer'', together, they might make love in the first light of the new day (which will somehow manifest through the grey clouds as would only appropriately happen in the tale he's telling).

Cookies. So that's what they're calling them. N'rov has a brief nod for K'zin as he heads by, but he's given over looking for the ''voice'' in favor of (to that younger Monacoan), "''Now'' you did." And a smirk. And then, "Shells, already?" because fists. "Lost that bet." Nor does he make any move to step in, though neither towards A'rist and ''out''.

Besmernyth is like a shot, coiled muscle unwinding in a lean launch skyward, the impression of a twist of cold wind and the howling of wolves at Roszadyth's back. His whiplike tail snaps at something behind him, but he pays no heed to it; what he wants is ''in front'', so close, just there. And if there is something going on the ground, Besmernyth is unfaltering. What his rider does is no concern, not now, not here, not ''close''.

X'vin's eyes have drifted past Drex, forgetting the sailor with an undertoned, "You don't ''belong'' here," like he's surprised someone's infiltrated their ranks. Farideh's got his eye, which would likely explain why Drex takes him squarely, and then there's a ''fight''. There's no shoving this time; X'vin stops in his tracks with a sound of pain, then turns with a clenched fist and hauls off to, presumably, knock Drex ass over teakettle. Where ''is'' Farideh, right now? Who knows?

"Shall we?" is really very polite of the too ''delighted'' K'zin to M'ron, as he offers to let the other man precede him into the fray (a fray that K'zin is ''definitely'' joining, seeking not to punch in this moment, but rather aiming to snag hold of arms; K'zin will help hold them while the others punch, that's helpful, right?

Dragon> High above, towards the shining stars and twin moons that hang in the sky, watching their swift flight and terrible appetites come to a head. Roszadyth touches Vhaeryth with that light, ''her'' light, a suggestion of a possible ending. << You will have to fly faster, >> she taunts, unapologetic, now. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)

Whether or not he belongs, Drex is most certainly ''here'' and not about to take that lying down. Except for the fact that, well, X'vin's punch lands him pretty much on his ass, spitting out some blood. "You full-gorged caprine fish, think yer pretty special eh?" he's growling, and instead of pulling himself back up, he lashes a foot out at X'vin's ankle. Apparently he's rather content with playing dirty, because, you know, pirate and all.

Dragon> << ''Not'' a problem, >> and this high, this glad, Vhaeryth's is an exultant laugh (maybe he is, thanks to Roszadyth herself, he's touched in the head). Far better to abandon the clouds, that muffling blanket, for brighter sights. Lead on. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)

A knee in his groin is all the worse when the only thing protecting his balls is a flimsy bit of fabric suitable for comfortable pajama pants. H'vier is shoved back pretty easily at that point, but it only takes a couple of seconds for him to realize that Beefy is getting all up in Farideh's business and that makes him mad enough to try going after him instead, reaching for an arm to try pulling Beefy around toward him. Because turning your back on the guy who was just attacking you is always the right thing to do. "Get your sharding hands off of her!" Reisoth is still mostly unfazed. His rider gets beat up pretty often and he has better things to look toward to.

"Whichever one that think he's not getting punched in the face today, he's ours," M'ron is willing to join partners with K'zin in order to blow off some steam, sending a smile towards a Farideh that's likely not even looking his way. He doesn't even wait for K'zin to agree, seeming to assume he will since he plunging right into it and aiming a shoulder towards the closest Monacoan rider he can reach.

The closest Monacoan? That would be the younger one, the one who has ''mostly'' been staying out of things... but who will plainly fight back as required, with the sharp fist of one who has been trained in these things.

McBeefy's sudden move takes Farideh by surprise, and his force enough to see her jerking around with a sound of irritation. "Ever so ''kind''," the goldrider says, using the closeness to try and wrap herself around the Monacoan; everyone else is ''distracted''. "Be sure to tell him ''just'' like this." Body pressed to body, she's quick to grab his chin and start to pull it down to hers, but-- ''H'vier'' is there, destroying her perfectly laid plans. "What in the name of--" Obviously, she's angry, as she looks around the weyr, at the men more interested in ''fighting'' than making out; what's the world coming to!

A'rist has got his weight balanced on the balls of his feet now, and his hands a bit out to his sides. It's this readiness that into his step as he tries to read the flow of the groups of bodies, navigate his way through the crowd. It's an open avenue he wants; a clear line of sight to the one who rides that golden tail Lythronath is chasing over. A deep breath here, a controlled release there. A glance. A shift. A quick dance when an elbow gets too close. And he can see her. Motion stops again. He's started to grin a little, though. Some things can't be helped.

McBeefy? So down with this turn of events, with-- but not with ''H'vier''. He's too distracted with Farideh to actually notice the other bronzerider until that arm is pulling him around... on the other hand, his companion, Genitals? He's grabbing H'vier from behind, or trying to, so maybe it will all work out (except for Farideh, who just wants to make out).

When Drex falls, X'vin turns - presumably to make his way towards Farideh as his dragon does above - and Drex's kick out takes him square. Again. Flight lust is not great for balance, as it were. "You ''shit''," is about as vulgar as X'vin gets, certainly not comparable to an honest-to-god pirate, but he didn't make it a step, which puts him right there, easily spun to clamber atop Drex and try to pin him down. Not for loving. For punching. All the punching.

Well, let the men fight. While M'ron is busy trying to duck the youngest Monacoan's jab with a return one of his own, Kaitlin is moving towards the side towards Farideh. The blonde convict rider uses her body to shift and slide through riders to reach her, reaching Farideh with a husky, "Why don't you tell ''me''. I'll send the message on over to Monaco while we let the ''boys'' play." Presumably in response to McBeefy reaching out to the weyrwoman and getting sidewinded by H'vier. Both Jormunth and Hiyudath keep up a quick and hard pace after the little queen, Hiyudath's tail lashing out at any dragon that comes too close.

Brawls and boys-- Roszadyth is ''literally'' above it all, leading all of the lust-drunk bronze and brown dragons on a merry chase through those pregnant clouds. She's ''light'' and warmth, a comforting beacon that shows the way-- ''this way'', up and higher still, until they start to get ''too'' close. She's not done ''yet'', she's got ''plenty'' of time.

Maldoranth has no need for romance. All he needs is the bit that's connected to the scent coming off that glowing golden hide ahead of him. Perhaps it's the fact he's never gotten quite this close that makes him forget there are others in this chase, as he loses all peripheral vision, honed in on Roszadyth's rump.

N'rad isn't doing much better with the peripheral vision as he keeps edging toward the exit. His own focus is an even split between Farideh, the scuffling riders, and his own dragon's increasingly invasive emotions. When his shoulder makes contact with A'rist, the blonde pulls back, hands up defensively, though not as fists. Not exactly as ''not'' fists, either. They're just there.

The fact that K'zin seems only too willing to back M'ron up is probably further evidence why anyone that ever thought about Rasavyth catching Niahvth would be perfectly justified in shuddering. Even in this, he doesn't even whisper 'leader!!' His reach for the youngest's arms might not get him anywhere, but he'll still try (with a measure of distraction because Rasavyth actually ''is'' focused on the sky above and not the flight here).

Drex is, of all things, laughing. Because who doesn't like punching bronzeriders, really? Hands up! He's starting to sit up, when X'vin climbs atop him. "True colors. Knew all you bronzeriders were just pansy-loving goat-munchers." Even pinned, he's fighting back, and he's fighting ''mean'', punching, kicking, and even ''biting'' anything of X'vin's that might be in range.

Rasavyth, arguably, is more the natural leader of the pairing and yet it's Roszadyth with her sweetness and light that tames him. His wings cut through the air, his slender frame offering him a little more maneuverability than some of the larger bronzes in this flight. As ever, he relies on wits to navigate rather than brawn to push his way though, taking calculated risks that bring him closer to the beacon that calls to both his heart and his-- well. The rest of him.

H'vier is focused enough on Beefy and Farideh, then specifically Beefy, that he's not really on guard for Genitals grabbing him from behind. He's put into a rather vulnerable position, particularly against a man of similar size, particularly when he's looking for the goldrider rather than at Beefy himself for a few moments there, struggling against Genitals all the while. Reisoth follows Roszadyth's gentle beacon with single-minded focus, not at all interested in echoing the chaos of below up here in her wake.

Lythronath is all force and speed. He doesn't need manoeuvrability when he's got those. Also claws. It's been held back, but now, those coming within range will be rewarded with talon swipes, with showing of teeth. Faranth help the bronze or brown who actually tries to get ''between'' him and the gold he's after. When someone's foreign hide gets hit, when Lythronath's, << Hahaha! >> rings out, A'rist clenches his teeth.

Yeah, that's a Fortian wingleader. Yeah, N'rov's not backing him up; this isn't his fight and likely not his ''flight'', despite a very different weyrwoman's invite. And M'ron, taking away his ''conversational partner'', has him ducking away from the ring even as A'rist, Kaitlin and others move ''in'': the complete opposite of Vhaeryth who, even before he catches sight of disappeared Roszadyth, is accelerating. Now to see if she's not just leading them but leading them on. After spotting a few bouts of 'they get close' 'she goes fast,' and the threat of claws at Hiyudath, he makes to match her moves as he can... without, yet, moving to intercept. Yet. Someone's ''tailgating'', and inclined to take ''her'' time.

It's the bronze partner of Genitals that Lythronath hits, and it's a sharp enough event that it causes the bronzerider to teeter, likely giving H'vier a chance at escaping this double-pronged attack. Genitals' roar is epic, and Beefy's is triumphant, though his bronze is no closer to Roszadyth than anyone else's (damn it!).

None of the fighting and threats being bantered around are impressive to Farideh, who watches with dissatisfaction and quite a few open stares at bare chests. Her focus is easily stolen by Kaitlin, who receives a winsome smile. "Your," eyes drifting to the other woman's mouth, "lips are too pretty to bite." Because that's ''obviously'' what was about to happen, one big, bloody ''fuck you'' to M'kris via his henchman. Still, since they're ''there''-- ''this'' brownrider gets a kiss! Finally!

Besmernyth, so recently acquainted, ''knows'' the way to Roszadyth's heart is through whimsy - through romance, bravery, daring. What's happening below is aftershocks to his mind, puffs of snow kicked up with each impact that he acknowledges peripherally while the wolves race, howling, a cacophonous cadence to each of his expansive wingbeats. They're jarring, ''not romantic'', but they would be the villains; he would be the handsome suitor to take her, to spill vodka on her tongue and warm her from the inside, to feed her fine caviar and -- it's understandably getting mixed up as the aftershocks come with increasing frequency. Still. He has so many ''stories'' to tell her, and at least one to ''make''. Act two.

X'vin, luckily, doesn't expect N'rov's backup. For that pretty face, he has a lot of power if less control given the circumstances. He's aiming to knock out teeth, blacken eyes, break a nose if he gets just the right angle, but it's not until Drex bites him that he rears back with a roar and tries to retreat far enough to find his feet. Tries, ''again'', to find ''Farideh''. There are too many bodies, and it's too hot, and where is the thing they're ''fighting about''?

As soon as there's a weakness in Genitals' grip, H'vier is surging away from the pair of Monacoans and closer to where Farideh is making out with another woman. It probably says something important about H'vier that ''this'' makes him pause to watch with a strange sort of lustful focus and none of the violence he'd held for Beefy and his friends. Double standards, yo. H'vier is full of them.

It's not the first time Drex's earned a few black eyes, nor had his nose broken, and that's probably why it happens again, with a roar of pain from the sailor, followed by a series of unintelligible curses. He fights wildly, arms flailing and teeth gnashing, until he scores a solid hit on X'vin and the bronzerider retreats. Panting heavily, he pushes himself up to a seated position, blood pouring from his nose, eyes unfocused. He probably ''should'' be doing the same as the bronzerider -- looking for Farideh -- but he hasn't the lustful distraction of a dragon, so instead he wobbles to his feet, tracking X'vin, balling a fist and letting it fly towards the side of his face without much warning.

''No'', not enough time, not ''enough'' distance. Overestimation and distraction drive Roszadyth higher, to where she can break through the cloud coverage, without much thought for the visibility; the stars ''are'' nice up there, and those double silver moons. It's a rookie move; one that ''any'' -- or all? -- of her chasers can now take advantage of.

The three Monacoan bronzes are in varying good positions for catching, now, though none of them are ''right'' there... and in a way, it's as if they haven't even been ''trying'', not more than instinct requires. Perhaps it's because of their riders, so ready for punches; all three are focused on Farideh, now, though the youngest-- a little battered, but still standing-- has started trying to get his hand down his pants. Charming.

Kaitlin is more than willing to steal the show - to steal ''Farideh'' - those lips of hers curving into that smile before she succumbs to that kiss. She'll even try to claim the woman's body to herself while the men fight, though of course M'ron does manage to look over that way in time to deliver a "''Hey''!!" He pushes the youngest Monacoan away - likely towards where K'zin and N'rov are - as he surges after Kaitlin. In the sky, Hiyudath shrieks after Lythronath with Jormunth falling steadily behind the higher they go. Just as well Kait's getting that kiss from Farideh, for that's likely all she's getting! Either way, it's Hiyudath that goes for the catch over his brown clutchmate, shooting closer to Roszadyth as he tries to knock against any bronze that wavers close to see if he can claim the queen for himself.

Ichor has been falling for a while now, pooling in the lee eddies of Maldoranth's shoulders and haunches. It's with growing annoyance that he's faced with acknowledging their source. Make that sources, plural. With a growl, he looks over his shoulder at any behind, then suddenly puts on the brakes, balling himself and turning, only to whip his wings out and catch the backdraft, talons and spars reaching. He knows he's out, and rather than back out gracefully, he's going to take it out on someone. That is, until something else tugs at him. At his brain. He spins and folds his wings, diving out of the fray and turning his back on Roszadyth and the pack, finally convinced to limp his way back to the Weyr, and his rider who has finally made his escape.

"Let me help you with that," K'zin purrs to the youngest Monocoan, reaching for the wrist of that hand that's working so hard to find some kind of satisfaction, as the man is shoved in his direction, meaning to use a grasp paired with the touch of hand to his side to spin him and shove him in-- oh, look, N'rov, did you want a friend who's not K'zin? He got you one (if his intentions are successful). Better than cookies?

Reisoth swerves after Roszadyth above the clouds almost immediately. With her glowing hide that much more visible, the large bronze gains ground with an impressive burst of speed at this point in the game. There has to be ''some'' advantage to avoiding the bickering violence that so often trails after Reachian queens. Reisoth has every intention of wrapping himself around this one unscathed.

The stars ''are'' nice, so are those moons, but more beautiful by far is the glowing gold they can't hold a candle to. The one Rasavyth angles to embrace with talons, wings, tail-- pretty much any part of him he ''can'', if he can. Charm and romance are a natural pair, aren't they? His mind will whisper so-- if she'll just oblige him by -- you know, surrendering to him? Or getting knocked into him. Whichever. He's not that picky about the details, the story will be better in the telling ''after'', as everyone certainly knows.

The look A'rist sends to the ongoing fight is almost annoyed. Eyes narrow, and any close to him might hear, "Just go." It's timed with that, that Lythronath summons a final surge. He's close now, among those closing. Hiyudath's shriek is answered with a bellowing roar, with talons. It's only claws going for him and any other bronzes trying to shoot past him, past ''Lythronath'', whose last massive flap is almost an aerial leap after that queen. Hopefully, his limbs will be freed up enough at this stage that he can catch hold of her.

What occurs between X'vin and Besmernyth happens in tandem. The Fortian bronze puts on a burst of speed at that clear opening. He angles his wings to cut between a pair of browns, likely ready to batter them into submission with superior size, crawl atop them with claws if he must, and in the weyr X'vin finds a similar opening between two riders, where he might be able to step in just behind H'vier, only without the hesitation of girl-on-girl action. We'll never know, because ''Farideh's dumb boyfriend'' finally lands a punch that's more than just inconvenient; it's effective, just below his temple in that place that makes his eyes unfocus a moment. X'vin's ''conscious'' when hits the ground again, but moving terribly slow. Above, a shudder goes through Besmernyth from nose to tailtip. He might still get claws in a brown, but the launch he takes does not push him forward. It somersaults him backwards, back to the ground with a furious roar.

"Shtay.. fuck away from my girl. Arshhole." It might be a more impressive threat from Drex if it weren't somewhat muffled by a broken nose and all. Is he feeling bad right now that he pretty much just king hit a Fortian Wingleader? Nahhh. He enjoys his moment of victory, lifting a foot as if intending to pin the still-conscious bronzerider down, but he suddenly sways a bit, ruining that plan. Dropping his foot back, he straightens and tries to stem the blood from his nose, which just ruins it all. He's completely oblivious to what's going on outside, which is probably for the best.

As an older bronzerider limps past him to depart, N'rov thrusts the now-drained mug into his hands with a quick "Hold this," as though it were ''important''. Weariness has him sliding his reclaimed hand over his face, not quite a yawn, not even an attempt to conceal his hectic flush and the feverish glint in his eyes. And then, ''right'' as Vhaeryth's sweeping an arc not to where Roszadyth is but where she might be, if she can read that flash of signal, if he can ''get'' there and intercept... there's a Monacoan on the literal rebound, shoved right into his rider, And then a whole lot of swearing.

The catch is inevitable, but it still takes Roszadyth by surprise, when, after all of the height and speed, after all the other dragons surge in, that she's suddenly ''tangled'' up in Lythronath. ''Him'', of all the others, that recently returned Reachian bronze. It's over like that, with little resistance, though in the guest weyr, Farideh pulls away from Kaitlin and tries to push the other woman away. ''She'' turns with purpose, her eyes seeking out A'rist in the throng of fight-wear dragonriders, and starts to move, pushing away anyone that stand in her way. And that robe? Yeah, it ''drops''.

One thing that can be said for the Monacoans? As the catch is made, none of them move to stay and cause further issues... and Farideh will probably miss entirely the blown kiss and genital-fondle Genitals aims at her before he goes.

With Kaitlin being shoved back, she goes right into M'ron's arms and he drags her out of there once the catch is made. As usual, the convict riders don't stick around or linger.

More swearing, but at least N'rov's ''intact'' on his way out of that cave, and if he's in a hurry (and he hurries) he can ''beat the rest''.

There's another roar outside as Besmernyth's dive lands him in the bowl. ''UP, X'VIN, GET UP'', and he ''does'', like he's being dragged by the nape of his neck. He doesn't even look at Drex as he hurries out, presumably to meet a demanding dragon in the bowl, but he is running a finger over the swelling near his ear as he goes.

Once the catch is made, Reisoth breaks away without a sound and H'vier stalks out of the weyr looking more than a little pissed off. He did get kneed in the crotch at some point. No one should be surprised.

There's a wistfulness to the way Rasavyth retreats from the sky, a single glance over his shoulder showing concern in his whirling gaze more than disappointed lust. What's that about? The world will have to wonder. K'zin's exit is quicker, quieter, slinking back out of the weyr with a yawn finally allowed to show as the 'weakness' in defeat.

Clearly, Drex is uncomprehending of what makes all the riders suddenly bail, nor what makes Farideh disrobe. He stares at goldrider, stalking towards her, hurrying to pick up that robe, opening his mouth. At least, until he sees them together and -- gritting his teeth, he turns and stalks outside. Nevermind that he's still got that robe, and she might actually need it later, it's ''his''.

A'rist has managed to maintain what is mostly a line of sight. As the weyr empties out, he pushes forward. It's an unblinking leer pinned on the de-robed goldrider. His teeth have set together again, and are showing, just a little, between his lips. He's fighting his way out of sopping clothes as he goes, but well. If he can't get them all done, surely she can rip them. In the skies, Lythronath digs in, and holds tight. She flew high. He can make sure they go far. And, you know, leave at least as many marks as his rider is sure to.
|Categories=HRW Clutch 38 Logs, Fight Logs, Flight Logs
}}

File:Icon n'rov drink.png

2015-08-30T19:40:01Z

Vhaeryth:

Logs:Twenty Minutes

2015-08-29T18:55:31Z

Vhaeryth:

{{Log
|who=N'rov, X'vin
|what=N'rov (reluctantly?) helps X'vin finish his routine workout. They chat, obliquely.
|where=Training Room, Fort Weyr
|day=1
|month=9
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.08.28
|quote="You really thought that was serious."
|mentions=B'doran, C'ram, Cora, Hattie, Kyouri, Lilah, N'muir
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov.png, Icon x'vin instantregret.gif,
|log=Clean it as they will, the training room still has a ''special'' quality, and the other one is brightness: bright enough to have had those glows freshly changed, unhampered by the screens currently shoved back against the wall. The mats are out, and N'rov's one of those who've been working out for some time now, N'rov and a couple buddies who aren't even from Hematite. "Yeah, you got me," the rider calls good-humoredly to the others, and breaks off to head for the waterskin he'd left back off to the side.

As he often is, X'vin is prefaced by his own cheerful, if tuneless, whistle, though the sound of his brisk pace is abnormal. He's been working already, if his appearance is any indication: usually coifed hair has curled forward and down across his forehead, and his breath is still just a little uneven as he enters the training room, likely to round out his workout for the evening. The people already there will get a cheerful grin, a greeting if they address him, but little else, save a Flint rider who gets a clap on the back on his way out before he considers exactly ''what'' he'll choose to do.

They tend toward the nod-and-move-along; in this N'rov's no exception, once he's finished drinking deeply enough to come up for air and ''notice''. The next palmful he splashes over his head and shoulders, and then it's off to stretching while the others keep at it.

It's the bag that X'vin eventually settles on, with only a briefly lingering look on N'rov. There's a sort of methodical movement to his preparation; hoisting the bag singly to hang it from one of the hooks (not a graceful task, but at least he doesn't break his back), a couple test pushes to make sure it won't just fall. And then, voice pitched to carry, "I don't suppose any of you would stay long enough to hold this for me."

There's some shuffling, and a grunt or two, but otherwise nobody much is saying anything; maybe that fellow over there's just ''too busy'' to hear. N'rov breaks up the awkward in the end, toweling off his palms and striding unhurriedly over. With a not-unamused look at the other bronzerider, "How long you have in mind?"

X'vin's sigh is an undertone, and nothing about his body language says he's more put out than they would be to come over, but by the time N'rov deems it's appropriate to break away X'vin's already contemplating something else, though his nose is wrinkled while he does it. "Twenty minutes. Max." Then, wanly, "You'd think I had a contagious disease."

It's reason for a brief inspection, a half-circling; "No spots yet, for what ''that's'' worth," N'rov determines in lieu of other commentary, though the brief flash of a grin doesn't keep it entirely tongue in cheek. He's moving on to step up to the bag proper, then, offsetting its residual rocking with a few strikes from the heels of his hands, steadying.

"Maybe I'll go to the healers anyway. You can never be too safe." Still wry, X'vin squares up to the bag and again throws a solid punch, not too much force, just testing; he may half expect N'rov to ''move'', which would admittedly be hilarious...if it happened to somebody else.

Not much point in moving ''now'', some might say. Later... "Calling visiting the healers ''safe''?" That just might be more like a straight face, if N'rov's weren't over on the bag's other side, keeping it the way it needs to be.

"Safer than transferring some undescribable disease to the riders of the weyr," amends X'vin with a laugh, one of those bright ones people generally note as being ''up to something'', though now there's not much for that. When he hits the bag again it is with more force, and each subsequent punch will come quicker and with more force until he's going at a clip to warrant being called an actual workout. "N'rov, right?"

"Means of contamination, now, there's the question." N'rov, all ''speculative'', though he still hasn't bothered to grow (or on less scruplous days, shave) a mustache to twirl. He steadies the blows readily enough, though the bag gets the beginnings of a sway here and there before the rhythm really sets in. "The same."

X'vin grunts under the twist of his next punch as each of them finds the rhythm, and he is quiet while he does. It's not until he's set in it that he begins varying, hooks, crosses, very deliberate. "Thanks," seems warranted. "Flint's all over hell. I should have stopped C'ram from leaving, if I'd known."

"Yeah, you should've," N'rov drawls, all over deadpan this time. He does glance back to where a couple others are leaving, giving them nods before refocusing. "This bag-holding thing, it's really cramping my vision for the evening. Twenty whole minutes. Maybe even twenty-''one''."

Movement ceases, with a fist out to prop the bag so it won't move between them at all. X'vin's eyeroll is blessedly, hidden behind the bag. "You can say no. This isn't contractual. Go on. If you leave now, you might save face enough for them to forgive your lapse in judgment." It's a long day, maybe, that makes him less inclined to mince words. He backs away from the bag, flicking a hand toward the departing riders, though when he speaks again he's reacquired his good nature...or some semblane of it. "I owe you a drink for - what. Ten minutes out of your night."

He backs away; N'rov steps out, one hand still proprietarily on the bag. And he's ''looking'' at X'vin, quizzically, dark brows hooked over gray eyes. "You," and the drawl's still there, a mix of southerns for the most part, "really thought that was serious."

X'vin's shrug his shallow and noncommittal, at best. "You wouldn't exactly be the first person," is a dry note, not self-pitying but factual. "You're a very suspicious lot, here. Or maybe that's just dragonriders, as a whole." He tips N'rov an incredulous look. "I'm sure you've heard any number of things, in Hematite."

N'rov's own shrug is open-handed, if by bag's necessity singly so. "If you want to get back to work on that," he gives it an easy thump, stationing it upon its return, "have at. If you want to go over suspicions, you can save yourself the drink." The way he says it, it's not particularly loaded, no skin off his nose (but, perhaps, a door swinging a notch closer to closed).

X'vin considers N'rov for a handful of seconds, head tilted off to the side while he tries to read him, then - well. Closed mouths don't get fed or something equally as trite, so he squares. His next punches have more behind them, excess of frustration, from his brief breach into opinion. "You have a poker face on you, don't you?"

He squares; N'rov, who'd let X'vin look at him without more than a hint of a smile, steps easily back and takes it up again. ''Still'' no bag let to swing back into the other bronzerider's face. "Depends on who you talk to," N'rov says amiably. "Who's won off me lately. The game's all right."

"I'm terrible at it, so you're a step up on me. I lose every time, can't keep one, can't read them. You manage a face like you did a minute ago, you'd win every time." Or, perhaps not. X'vin's speculating to fill the silence, it seems, words between impact. "Unless you reserve that for when you're teasing people."

N'rov's got a chuckle for that one; "Terrible," he agrees, and even if one weren't looking for the humor in his voice, it's more audible than when X'vin had mistaken it before. "I don't doubt you in the slightest." He alters his footing now and again, more to even things out than anything, always there to meet the strike. "It's a habit of mine. Though I wasn't trying to ''fool'' you."

X'vin's brow quirks. "That makes one person in the ''doesn't doubt me'' camp. So, that's comforting." X'vin's sharp exhale may be a laugh, but it may just be him catching himself before a particularly weighted punch. "You didn't even have to work at it. What hope do I possibly have at not being duped constantly, at this rate? Suddenly, everything is hopeless." But he's smiling, however muted, and that's progress at least. X'vin at least is doing nothing overly complicated.

"Not there," N'rov says affably, with that same good humor. For the rest, he leans more on solicitousness; "Beware that your pockets don't come unstitched, and random urchins follow you about like so many avians hunting the strangely round and woodsy grain that falls for the pecking."

"That's where all my marks have been going," X'vin says lowly, equally amenable, for all his eyes may turn to where those other riders are - were? - there, occasionally. "Benden was home to fewer ne'er-do-wells. Must be something in the water."

"No?" appropriately rhetorical ''and'' amused. But there's seriousness underlying N'rov's baritone when he says, "B'doran and Cora run a fine ship; he impressed me, and still does." And for all the gossip about her, personal for the first time, "They're lucky to have Kyouri." Personal, and subtly adamant. He's not looking about, not for those who have left, not for the one who ducks her head in and then retreats.

X'vin's smile twitches just so. "This is why I have trust issues." He’s slowing though, and a few more hits have him expending the last of his energy in punching and bouncing away, breathing quick but even. "It puts Fort in sharp contrast," X'vin says with care. "In absence of my father, I imagine I looked up to B'doran that way." Which is probably a little more insightful than he intended. "Benden's lucky in a lot of ways. But then, I imagine it has a lot to do with skill, too. They're old hands."

N'rov keeps on with the role he's taken on; perhaps when X'vin's gotten all he can out of the place, he'll be left holding the bag. His grunt's acknowledgement. Careful in his turn, to not ''defend'' but to put out there, "Hattie has experience of her own." As well, "I was proud to serve N'muir. He's a good man. That much hasn't changed."

"I wouldn't discount that," X'vin counters evenly, almost gently. "But one of them isn't Weyrleader anymore, and the other is responsible because it's her ''duty'', not her desire." His lips press into a line, not quite hard enough to make him frown. "I miss it there, sometimes, is all. It is hard not to compare them, when that was life for so long."

"A man might wonder just how many Weyrwomen that's true ''of''." That short laugh and a few blows later, N'rov allows, "Comparing's understandable. Might-have-beens, those too. Where would we have been, if... if we don't bemoan too much into our drinks." Dry. Wry. "Set for tonight?"

"Lilah wanted it," X'vin says definitively, wiping his hands on the thighs of his pants. He tips his chin in acknowledgement. "I'm set. Thanks, for helping me out. Maybe," and this is delivered in much the same way as N'rov offered the bag, not pushing or expectant, "we could ''not'' bemoan into our drinks, some night."

Lilah. N'rov's silent there, in words if not the last bag-stabilization, not to stillness but a slow, elliptical sway. "Think we could," he agrees after no more than a beat. "Or if we have to, at least not ''loudly''. Night to you, X'vin." There's a grin in there, flashing briefly when he turns to gather his gear and go.

"Night," is in turn, but X'vin's not ''quite'' done, in that he doesn't follow N'rov to the door. As the room becomes private - however temporary the state - he takes his time in stretching, and leaves some time later alone, with no whistle on his lips.
}}

Logs:Stranger on the Road

2015-08-29T18:42:42Z

Vhaeryth: Norov #1.

{{Log
|who=Ali, N'muir, Norov, T'elo
|what=N'muir's first bagged candidate for Isyath and Riuscyth's clutch: Norov.
|where=Fort Orchards; Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, Fort Hold
|day=16
|month=11
|turn=27
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2012.01.25
|quote="Seriously? Do you have the Masterharper up there too?"
|mentions=Avaryk
|type=Log
|ooc=Includes unfinished T'elo scene, Ali/N'muir/Norov Search, Ali/N'muir, and letters from Norov.
|icons-new=Icon ali.jpg, Icon ali isyath.jpg, icon n'rov.png
|log='''Orchards, Fort Hold'''

By the side of the road, a thin trail of woodsmoke escapes up into the pale sky, as though it were trying to reach the noonday sun that hangs small and cold overhead. The nearby orchards are bare but for a flutter of leaves at their feet, and the road itself is barren: just the smoke from a small campfire, and the man who's hunched over it, feeding it.

The tidy rows of trees make it very difficult for a dragon to land among them, though Leareth circles a few times as though trying to eye a spot that he ''might'' fit. He may be small for a dragon, but he's still a dragon and far too large for the rows that are in the orchard itself. Lest T'elo be responsible for the tree carnage that might be wroght by the blue trying to land among the trees, he manages to get the dragon to land farther away which means closer to where the fire is along the roadside. "I ''told'' you there was nothing on those trees." T'elo gripes at the blue once they've landed, and hopefully not disturbed the campfire too much.

Not... ''too'' much, maybe, but the telltale smoke trail's been diffused by the wind of dragonwings, enough to make the man cough and step back some from the fire. Closer up, it proves to be set within a stone circle, and there's a tripod with a metal pan with something cooking upon it, but the man's not paying attention to that right now, not with the dragon on the road over there. Not that he runs off into the trees or anything. Instead, Norov hesitates, coughs again, then clears his throat. "Ho, rider!"

Leareth snorts, and as soon as T'elo wrangles himself free of the straps the blue is off to inspect those naked trees. Surely there was something on them not that long ago, though T'elo can't help but roll his eyes and watch as the blue slinks off before realizing he's been called to. "Fort's duties~" He responds with a quick smile, despite the fact he's just been abandoned by his ride who is -much- more interested in the trees. "Sorry, if we disturbed you... Though, I think he did better than he usually does."

Gray eyes give T'elo a quick looking-over, and Leareth too, beyond him. "No worries," Norov says, though as if to belie that, his answering smile broadens. "''But''... you could make it up to me anyway: tell me what the weather's looking like? I've been eyeing the clouds on the horizon, don't want to get drenched any sooner than I have to." His accent's pure Boll, and the smell of what he's cooking carries spices with it, too: some sort of soft raised rolls on one side of the pan, and on the other, small chunks of what might be sausage. He scrapes at them, turning them over to get the other side too.

If he knows he's being looked at, Leareth gives no indication of it - the blue isn't the attention seeking sort, wrapped up in his own interests, which right now is bare trees. T'elo lifts a hand to run through his hair and thinks a little, "Think it might rain here soon enough, but you can never tell with how the wind can change." He considers, then gives the young man a look over himself before his attention is grabbed by the food. "What're you making there?" He asks, stalking a couple steps closer to get a better look.

"Yeah?" Norov grimaces, looking that direction, then just shakes his head as he gets back to flipping the sausage again. "Maybe i should have stayed... well, anyway, it's lunch. Don't mind sharing, if you want something hot: bread's fresh, from the smallhold this morning, and if you haven't had Tennydale sausage, you really should. Unless," and he glances up at the older man, "you don't like it hot?" There's a note in his voice that hints at teasing: maybe it's too much for someone like T'elo, where it's not for a young buck like ''him''.

''RL interruption, never finished''

----

'''''Later that day'''''

By the side of the road, a little more than a half-day's walk from Fort Hold, a thin trail of woodsmoke escapes up into the pale sky as though it were trying to crawl up to the early-afternoon sun. The nearby orchards are bare but for a flutter of leaves at their feet, and the road itself is barren: just the waning smoke from a small campfire, withering as a crouched man attempts to kick sodden dirt over it. Although the sky is mostly clear and cold, clouds are coming in from the horizon.

It's possible that the bronze and gold that wink into the sky over the campfire out of coincidence but it is more likely that the smoke was spotted from over the Hold and the pair decided to fly in to investigate. The bronze glides down and lands on the road, keeping his wings aloft as he stares cautious, angry eyes at the crouched man. N'muir leans against the constraints of his straps and even with his goggles on he manages to both look and sound unhappy about finding the man there. "You there. What are you doing here? Are you alone?" Said as if a person can't be out making campfires along roadsides.

Isyath is calmer by comparison to Bidjeth, but then there's few times where she's not completely at ease. Ali's leaning forward within the confines of her straps, too, but it is towards N'muir, not Norov: "Sir!" she exclaims, shocked. "I'm sure he's just out here doing..." her gaze flickers towards the man, then back to N'muir, brow furrowed. "It's none of our business," she says, obviously ruffled by the Weyrleader's words.

Dragonwings and their wind: it flutters the remaining smoke this way and that, and Norov's coughing now at the sudden change, covering his mouth even as he straightens and turns. "Did you forget..." Bemused gray eyes narrow then, taking them in, his expression altering. While he doesn't back up, there are nerves in his sideways glance towards the rucksack nearby, at the still-hot iron pan and disassembled tripod next to it. "I was!" he calls back, though he takes a cue from Ali and adds a brief, "Sir."

N'muir gestures at Norov with a gloved hand while addressing Ali. "I'm only asking the boy a question." Or two. "Let him decide if he'd like to make it our business," he says. It is at this point that the bronzerider leans his elbows on Bijedth's neckridges, lifts his goggles up onto his forehead, and looks very expectantly at the stranger. And when he divulges something of an answer, N'muir simply can't stay satisfied and leave the poor lad alone, but a sidelong glance to Ali makes him choose his words wisely. "You were," he echoes, dubiously. "Hmm. Really. Alone." As much as he doesn't phrase the words as questions, the voice of doubt darkens them into near-sarcasm. "Interesting..."

There's a long slow sigh from Ali, though it's difficult to tell whether it's a sigh of resignation or just plain frustration. The junior is far too polite -- especially in the company of a stranger -- to speak further on the subject, however. Instead, she hunches into her flight jacket, twisting her head upwards as if to inspect the sky and the soon-to-be-coming rainclouds, with a frown. "What's your name?" she calls instead, with a smile. "I'm Ali -- this is Issy." A hand touches the dragon's hide. N'muir? Well, she leaves him to fend for himself by way of introduction. Isyath, for her part, seems restless, her tail twitching out behind her, wings rustling, as if she can't properly settle.

"Yes. Sir," Norov repeats, more steadily this time, in that accent that's flat-out Boll. He's squinting at the man's shoulder, but at that angle... it's easier to kick at the dirt again, smother that fire just a little bit more, not that it isn't dimming under its own weight in the cold, damp air. Easier, too, to go with, "Norov, ma'am," to match the sir, but with a quick smile that N'muir doesn't get. "...Issy." For real? By now, he's verging on gawking, though in that please-let-him-be-too-cool-for-it-to-show sort of way.

"-Weyrwoman of Fort Weyr," N'muir tacks on to Ali's introduction for good measure. Bijedth swivels his angular head to eye his golden companion with cerulean overgrowing the orange of angry caution for her benefit. Meanwhile, N'muir adjusts for nothing and no one, staring as he does down from his lofty seat. "And I'm N'muir, rider of Bijedth, Weyrleader of Fort," he introduces properly, as begrudged as he seems to be about doing so in the wake of Ali's relaxed greetings. Still, having said the words and made the association of name to stranger, the bronzerider settles into his straps having a slightly smaller chip in those broad shoulders of his when next he addresses the young man. "Are you headed somewhere, Norov?"

Dragon> To Isyath, Bijedth reaches with a tendril of electric current for Isyath, snaps of concern and crackles of curiosity bending and twisting the cord of energy. << Are you needing to return home? >>

There's a faint creak of leather as Ali's fingers tighten around the flying straps and she gives N'muir a sharp sidelong look that is, admittedly, rare for her, and fleeting, as she drops her gaze. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Norov," she murmurs, her gaze still cast downwards.

Dragon> To Bijedth, Isyath's mental tones are all stars and brightness, zooming through the dark sky: << Dull. This place is dull. >> Which is not exactly an answer, but it's about normal for the youngest Fort queen, at least. <>

Dragon> To Isyath, Bijedth tries to capture all her stars and brightness in a cushiony cloud of damp heat, to wrap her in his comfort and try to soothe her restlessness. And yet, a part of him buzzes with anticipation. << Soon enough. Would you like to play a game in the meantime? >>

"Nice big brow...''nze'' you have there," and that would be Norov hastily self-correcting what he'd been about to say on the heels of N'muir's introduction, a flush scraping up along his cheekbones... chased by laughter beginning to well up in his voice and brim in his eyes. "Pleasure to meet ''you'', too." A second is-this-real glance at Isyath becomes, "And I'm heading uphill, sir, hope to make it before the clouds come in." And ''then'' he just can't keep it all back because, "Seriously? Do you have the Masterharper up there too?"

Dragon> SNAPCRACKLEPOPEXPLODE. Bijedth's storm bursts across the sky. << ''DID HE THINK I WAS BROWN?!'' >> (Bijedth to Isyath)

Dragon> To Bijedth, Isyath projects, << Game? >> She's intrigued, that much is clear. But that fades almost immediately under the stormy onslaught that follows. Isyath, for her part, is amused: << Maybe it is the way you hold yourself? >>

N'muir returns Ali's sharp look with something akin to innocence, albeit a strange expression for the middle-aged man to wear. Unfortunately for Norov, that near-miss does not go unnoticed and brown eyes are narrowed at the young man. Even Bijedth snaps his head in Norov's direction, gawking at the lad with sharply swirling red eyes. N'muir twists in his straps, looking around himself and then around Ali, only to look back at Norov with a furrowed brow. "Masterharper...?" A hand lifts to swipe away his confusion. "You won't make it before the clouds come in." Bijedth takes a threatening step towards the lad, something dark and angry and twisted making strangled sounds in the pit of his chest. "Unless you run for it..."

Dragon> A crooked lightning bolt tries to blow apart the word 'game' -- and all of Isyath's amusement -- in a brilliant spastic display of neon colours that ricochet off one another like fireworks blowing apart. <> And a diva. The sky fills with fireworks and bursts of sound and excitement, balls of lightning flying here, there and just about everywhere is a rainbow of bright-hued shades. Who knew anger could be so pretty? <> (Bijedth to Isyath)

There's a flush of color to Ali's cheeks that might well be in response to Norov's slip... but is more likely, given the way she stares, chewing her lower lip, at Bidjeth, to what she can hear via her dragon of the bronze's response to that. "Weyrleader," she says, tentatively. "He didn't- it's getting dark very fast."

Dragon> The show entrances her. There is no doubt of that. And yet, inevitably, her nature is to pull him back, her influence slowly but inevitably weathering the storm and battening down the hatches, making it pass and fade. ''She'' knows what he is. She doesn't require the reminder. And ''she'' is who matters, right now. (Isyath to Bijedth)

What's left of embarrassment and sense-overriding astonishment becomes, well. Quailing. Much as he might like to stand pat in front of the girl, there's no thought involved in Norov's involuntary backwards lurch away from man and bronze, and little more in his his catching up his rucksack in one gloved hand and pan-and-tripod in the other. He glances back over his shoulder. The trees. They're close, surely? Leareth didn't go into them. Now he's half-turning, right on the edge, all set to make a break for it if he must.

Bijedth makes even more strangled sounds as if fighting some invisible force until he is subdued by it and sinking down onto his belly in the dirt like a feline with his claws sprawled out before his enormous body. N'muir frowns at Ali while Bijedth watches Norov very, ''very'' intently, talons digging into the earthy ground beneath them. "It is indeed," the Weyrleader murmurs and turns to eye Norov with as much interest as his dragon. "It sounds like you should spend some time at the Weyr, Norov. Stand for Isyath's clutch." If it's meant to be a request upon the boy, it certainly isn't phrased as one. And if the idea is sprung from rider or dragon, one may wonder what either have in store for the stranger off the road.

Dragon> Isyath is all that matters. Yes. The fireworks fizzle out into nothingness, leaving only black sky. Somewhere in the darkness there is a whisper: << He will be Ours. >> (Bijedth to Isyath)

Ali's entire attention is focused on Bijedth, as is Isyath's. Strangely - unusual for her, anyway - the gold is perfectly still, not even her tailtip moving as they ''watch''. Like a switch abruptly flicked, their combined intentness fades: the junior releases a sigh, and then her mouth twists into an oh of surprise as her gaze flickers from N'muir to Norov. She bites her lower lip, watching the young man.

Dragon> Silence and darkness follow, and the pressure eases. Isyath is still present, in the darkness, a single star glowing on the horizon, and she radiates pleasure at the whisper. << Yes. >> (Isyath to Bijedth)

Those strangled sounds only intensify Norov's lean, pushing him a step back and then another, not ''quite'' turning his back on that dragon and not even thinking to look at the other one: not even when the Weyrleader's words sink in, not until he shakes his head to hear his brains rattle. "Why," he says more than asks, hitching his rucksack onto his shoulder. This is his plan, isn't it? and yet he can't be unfamiliar with the darker side of temptation, with how it could just be to get him out of there. And then the man does turn back to Ali, with a look of appeal. "Can I trust you?"

N'muir wouldn't say a word against Ali and her queen but the look she gives her for the use of that force says bounds - although bounds of what is fairly questionable as the man looks both irritated and impressed by the young woman. His mouth twists into a smile and he laughs shortly at her antics before returning honey brown eyes to the lad on the ground nearby. "Why?" the Weyrleader echoes in disbelief. "Whatever the 'why', you either come with us and Stand or you don't. If you want the chance to be a dragonrider, Stand. Otherwise, go up your hill and get rained on. Your choice."

"Me?" Ali's surprised enough by the question - or likely being ''asked'' that question - that the response just slips out before she can catch it. "I-" she darts a glance towards N'muir - there is ''nothing'' apologetic in that look - then back towards Norov. "Yes, you can." And then, with a smile, "If it helps, I'm hold-born and bred."

It sounds so simple when N'muir puts it that way, doesn't it? "Well," Norov says, and clears his throat, for all that he surely can't make out the subtleties of what passes between them. He's standing straighter now, as a cloak for tattered confidence. And he glances briefly at the older man, for all that he doesn't give him the answer he deserves: it's Ali he's waiting for, and it's at her avowal that he nods. Once. "All right, then. Never liked the rain anyway." With that, he kicks at the all-but-out coals a few more times, eyes the sky for more than just show, and sees about wrapping up the pan for safety in its hide sack now that nobody's likely to get burned. After ''that'', in all his effrontery, it's Isyath he approaches.

As soon as it's clear which dragon Norov will approach, Bijedth throws himself skyward, N'muir firmly strapped into place. With the wind beneath his sails, Bijedth lets out a bugle - one that clearly says << We got one! >> before winking ''between''.

If she was surprised before, the junior is flummoxed now, Ali watching Norov's approach with a visible fluster. She lifts her hand as if to gesture in the Weyrleader's direction... just as Bijedth launches skywards. Isyath is, perhaps, ill-pleased. Although it's probably difficult for one unused to dragons to interpret that flickering of tail, the shifting color of whirling eyes. The brief tightening of her jaw suggests cause of tautness of her voice as she leans down to offer a hand to Norov. "Have you flown before?"

Indeed, Norov treats Isyath with the same wari... the same ''respect'' that he might have had if she'd been altogether placid. Make that, intrigued respect: he's watching her movements as though they were some code he could decipher, even if he doesn't understand them now. "I don't, ma'am," he says when he looks back up at her rider. "Advice?" And perhaps it's his mother's advice that has him add a politer, "Thank you, Issy," before he takes that hand and starts to climb wari... cautiously up, bag and all, more awkward than someone accustomed to dragons but at least trying not to be.

"Hold tight," is Ali's amused advise, waiting until Norov is settled in behind her. Then she sets about strapping him in, firmly - which might seem odd at first, for such a short trip from here-to-there. Moments later it becomes apparent why, though: barely a second after the goldrider's hastened, 'Hold on', Isyath pushes aloft, impatience driving the sharp, jarring leap upwards and the breathless, abrupt disappearance into the cold of between a heartbeat later. One, two, three heartbeats... and they're out again, above Fort Weyr, circling down to the bowl below.

There's a half-stifled shout into the wind as Isyath jumps... and that's just the first noise to assault poor Ali's ears as their passenger, who'd started out hanging discreetly onto those straps, clutches for her more reliable-seeming waist instead. But it's an exultant shout, if followed by a, "Freezing!" and then... and then Isyath's circling and he's leaning out and looking and, "Don't stop, all right? Don't stop!" That too-cool pose of his? He can get that back later.

Ali's laughter is probably audible above the wind, mixed in with Norov's exultant shout: Isyath needs no such encouragement, her path downwards sharp and dizzying. Finally, though, they touch down. Ali casts about briefly for any sign of the Weyrleader or his bronze, before twisting to help free Norov from his straps. "Careful, getting down. It's higher than it looks," she warns.

The Weyrleader is there, yes, and Bijedth, who is no doubt casting a call to the dragons close enough to the Bowl to gawk at the newcomer. N'muir is on the ground, hurrying them along with a waving hand. "Yeah, don't jump and break your neck or we'll take you right back to that road we found you on," N'muir remarks on the heels of Ali's kind warning. A grin flashes up at Ali more than Norov. "I'm kidding," he assures before trying to help Norov find his feet beneath him. "Follow me and I'll get you set up in the barracks where you can tell all your future friends that the junior weyrwoman Searched you." But if N'muir's laughter is anything to go by, that is quite the joke in itself.

Isyath lands, Norov takes it with the jolt of the unsuspecting, and probably he'll feel that later, too. Still and all, he's quick to let go and at least try to deal with his own buckles before she does. "Right," he says distractedly. "That was something else." He looks at Ali, looks at Isyath's side, looks at the ground, and... right. Down. Down to N'muir. "Right," he repeats, and makes as though the gold and her straps are a tree, all but crawling as far as he can get and then jumping off the rest of the way... only to have the pan in its sack bang him in the side. So maybe he will need some of N'muir's help after all, but he's straightening quickly, trying to do less gawking ''back'' at anyone who might be eyeing him and more, "Right," he says to the Weyrleader all calm-like, as though the third time's the charm. "Thanks again, ma'am. Issy."

Ali, doesn't follow Norov down off Isyath's neck: her gaze fixes on the Weyrleader. "We'll have words later," is all she says. From anyone else but sweet, innocent Ali, it'd be ominious. But she can't really pull that off, not well at all, and so she settles for a reassuring smile to Norov in response, "I'll come by later and check that you've settled in." And then the pair are aloft again, for the much shorter glide over towards the junior ledges on the far side of the bowl.

----

'''Candidate Barracks, Fort Weyr'''

"-And don't knock anyone up or we'll throw you and your new wife out of the barracks," is the last of N'muir's explanations of the many rules placed upon the newly-minted Candidate Norov on their way through the caverns, the bronzerider's long-legged strides carrying him effortlessly along the passageways he knows as well as his own hands. The barracks are given a broad sweep of the hand, all-encompassing. "Pick a cot, introduce yourself to any other Candidates, and watch the posts on the board that will tell you what chores you're assigned. The trunk at the end of your bed is for your belongings. Any questions can be directed to the Headwoman and her staff, all of whom you will come to know very well whether you want to or not." Warm brown eyes swing to the young man, the Weyrleader's temper seemingly a distant memory from his current, cheerful self. "Oh - and there will be bow lessons with Storeskeeper Avaryk. If you don't learn to use the bow, you leave. Got it?" N'muir doesn't wait for an answer. "Welcome to Fort Weyr Candidacy."

Norov sizes the place up as he goes along, hard on N'muir's heels, the better to later not get lost and then lost some more. As much. The barracks themselves get a longer, assessing look, up and down the long room, and at the man's instructions he tosses his rucksack onto a not-too-close cot and the sack onto its neighbor: less taking possession and more taking time to decide. Then he's regarding the older man, the ''Weyrleader''. He smiles back, charmingly wide. One more time: "Right." And for good measure, "Sir."

N'muir nods his head once very succinctly and takes a step towards the door, pausing long enough to throw a kind word over his shoulder. "You keep this up, lad, and you'll do just fine." Kind words, however, do not last long it seems, for when N'muir makes for the door it is with a dark chuckle that echoes off the stone walls of the ancient Weyr. "-- Unless Bijedth decides to smear your guts across the Bowl."

----

'''Bijedth's weyr, Fort Weyr'''

It's somewhat later in the evening, shortly before the dinner hour, when steps become audible on the ramp up to the Weyrleader's ledge. Ali's subtle check - via Isyath and Bijedth - assures the junior that he's in, and she arrives carrying a cloth-covered tray. "Sir," she calls, "Are you-" decent? Wearing pants? The sentence isn't completed, as the speculation has the dark-haired Fortian flustered. Isyath is in her normal place in the sky, circling and enjoying the last of the day's warm thermals before they disappear, having coaxed some of the smaller dragons into joining her in the skies.

The Weyrleader's weyr is decorated from one end to the other in various things, from high-fashion but completely insensible straps dangling from hooks to the fur-lined stuffed mattress that pads Bijedth's wallow better than most cots in the resident quarters. Every visible luxury is within sight of the luscious wallow, and beyond it is an area so plain and undecorated that it is almost a painful contrast. The sound of water comes from deeper in the weyr and N'muir comes out a lengthy moment later dripping wet but wearing pants and a shirt that he is still buttoning as he pads barefoot across the dirt floor. "Weyrwoman, I-" The tray is eyed and his steps towards her slow, suspicion tainting the angles of his dark brows. "What is that?" A long finger, stained and worn by the Turns, points to the tray.

The suspicion, and the finger pointing, makes Ali blink up at the Weyrleader. "Dinner," she says, in a tone that somehow manages to convey an unspoken but obvious, 'What did you think it was?' She steps further inside, and unless he stops her, heads for the table with the intention of setting the tray down there. She looks utterly relaxed as she pulls the cloth off the tray and sets out plates, one for each of them, and begins heaping servings of food on each.

This version of woman - the sort to bring him dinner and set out plates and serve him his meal - is foreign and treated as the alien she is. N'muir stares at her, warily watching her every move while pensive drops of bathwater roll down his throat when it bobs from the effort it takes to swallow. One slow, cautious step and then another, and soon N'muir has no choice but to sit down at his own table or continue to stand uselessly nearby. The bronzerider folds himself carefully into a chair, fighting every nerve in his body that would try to inch his chair outside of her fist's range of motion. "Why did you bring me dinner?" Outside, Bijedth touches down and settles onto his cushiony wallow, watching Ali in much the same way N'muir does while reaching to greet Isyath wherever she may be.

There's something that's completely at ease about Ali's posture as she serves up the food. It's like, for her, it's such a familiar and known quantity that it puts her at ease, in contrast to his discomfort. When done, she seats herself, then tips her head to look at him. "Because I was hungry," she answers, rather straightforwardly, "And I figured you would be too. And we needed to talk." It's very possible she's blissfully aware of his wariness, reaching for her fork and spearing some of the greens on her plate. High above, Isyath's trilling acknowledgement of the bronze comes with an invitation to join her in the skies.

It's that very obvious calm that seems most unsettling to the Weyrleader. And then there it is, the reason for her visit. A Talk. N'muir takes up his fork after her, watching her stab the vegetables without taking anything on his own fork. It sits, suspended in mid-air much like his mood: waiting. "About?" Bijedth's current sways and hums quietly, reluctant. He searches for the feeling of the wind under her sails, silently encouraging but not leaving the comfort and safety of his wallow. There is unaired questions, curiosity that bleeps and buzzes, almost hinting at what plagues N'muir's mind but never quite divulging the secrets. Just... wondering. Nearly worrying. Almost enjoying.

Ali is several mouthfuls into her food before she seems to realize that N'muir isn't eating. She pauses, dismay painted on her expression, "You already ate?" She chews her lower lip, eyes the food as if trying to determine how much of it she can consume herself, and exhales the faintest of sighs. As to his question? "Issy," is all she says, before she takes another bite. The suspicious might wonder if she was drawing things out on purpose. But probably not; there's an air of discomfort that leeches into her posture, though she's trying not to let it show.

Maybe it's because of the look Ali gives his plate or maybe it's the change to her posture - whatever the reason, N'muir puts fork to plate and stabs his vegetables. Bite eaten, he waits. Perhaps he's waiting to feel the onset of poison. More likely, he's trying to let the silence of the weyr encourage Ali to speak her mind to open ears.

Reassured, even if it's a token effort on his part, Ali resumes her own eating. She shoots looks over at the Weyrleader, half-glances, or quick, darted glances. "I- I'm sorry about what Issy did, sir," she says, finally.

The fork clinks against the plate as its abandoned and elbows hit the wooden table so that hands might catch his head as it slumps forward, relief clearly washing over his features. "Is that what this is about? Faranth, Ali!" N'muir is wearing a smile when he lifts his head, honey brown eyes merrily glinting in the glowlight, and his hands drop - one to his fork, the other to the table. "You shouldn't apologize for that," he replies, voice brighten by genuine enthusiasm for his insisting words. "Isyath is a ''queen''. Bijedth is hers to command when she sees fit." The dark-haired man pauses, eyes combing the table between them. His hand reaches across it towards her, inviting but not demanding she give her hand to be held. "Bijedth and I got cocky and shouldn't have let a simple misunderstanding injure our pride." And likewise, Bijedth offers feelings of regret to Ali's gold counterpart up in the sky. "We wouldn't hurt that boy. I hope you know that. But regardless, Isyath was not out of line to make Bijedth submit to her will. You were being a good and proper weyrwoman today - don't ever apologize for that." He spears some more of the vegetables and considers the young woman across from him. "Are you okay with what you did?"

The Weyrleader's reaction, and in fact, his smile, if anything, flusters the young junior further. With a hitch of breath, Ali says, "It doesn't matter. She shouldn't have. You're the ''Weyrleader''." Chewing her lower lip, she eyes the offered hand with almost the same wariness he viewed the food earlier, but she sets aside her fork to take it, all the same, her touch light - tentative. "I didn't think you would, but I've never- he dazzled her with his emotions. I panicked," she confesses, voice faint.

N'muir actually laughs at her words. It's a hearty, masculine laught born decades into history and dragged from its ashy grave somewhere in the depths of his chest. "My dear, sweet Ali, you are probably the only person in this whole bloody Weyr who acts like my knot means anything at all," he remarks with amusement more than sarcasm. For her tenderness, N'muir returns in kind. He doesn't ''grab'' her hand but his has strong, confident fingers that are sure of their intention as they aim to hold her for a moment. Another laugh escapes him- this brief and light, and accompanied by a smirk. "He dazzled her, eh? Yeah, he's got a flare for it when he's insulted." Her hand is given a gentle squeeze. "''I'm'' sorry. Now, how about we eat dinner and talk about something that won't make you look like you're going to wither away on me, hmm? Tell me about what you did before you came to Impress Isyath?"

The look that Ali gives N'muir is somewhat bemused. "Of course your knot means something," she remarks, obliviously. His reassurance earns a smile, if tentative, that grows as he asks about her family. It's one of the topics, besides Issy, with which she speaks about in complete, relaxed ease. And so they pass the evening amiably, talking and eating.

----

Letters from Norov:

To: Gregor, River Rest Hold (outside of Fort Hold)

''Thanks for sending this on, G. I hope your aunt's gotten over it.'' '' --M.''

To: Tereran, Redfin Hold (outside of Southern Boll)

''Dearest T.,''

''I hope that this missive finds you in good health. If all goes as planned, it should reach you almost as soon as the last one, or even sooner!''

''It was a dramatic surprise, following as it did a more light-hearted encounter. While approaching my intermediate destination, whom did I run into but the headwoman herself? She is a formidable figure, and was sitting a chestnut gelding with very large hooves, who looked quite fierce despite what I understand to be its age. (Indeed, though I am loath to admit it, I did not have complete confidence in her ability to rein it in.) At first she questioned me sharply, but her assistant spoke gentle words, at which point she insisted that I return with the two of them, and naturally I was thrilled. Rain was threatened, after all! Her assistant is a dark-haired and kindly sort, whose sprightly palomino could and did carry two. (Why was I no longer with the wagons, you ask? For that you must wait until we are reunited.) He dallies in breeding runners and I hope that we will have much to talk about in the days to come. Indeed, I hope to learn much about this place, and I must say that the headwoman seemed much more welcoming when she assigned me to a cot than I might have imagined! I understand that there will be a Gather forthcoming, and I eagerly anticipate practicing the dances, in hopes of finding a handsome partner... if only I can fashion the right frock. Remember the yellow ribbon! And, be sure to tell me all about the cousins! I hope that they resolve their argument soon.''

''Your Margaret''

Sewn shut, but with an uncomplicated knot.
}}

Logs:Muddy Mutterings

2015-08-18T14:56:40Z

Vhaeryth: Not (so) old. Not AU.

{{Log
|who=I'dro, N'rov
|what=I'dro is up one umbrella. That's not what N'rov is missing.
|where=Bowl, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=3
|month=4
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.13
|quote="Are there any bronzes here who aren't determined to be a bad influence?"
|weather=Rainy, muddy, the works.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov look.png, Icon I'dro everything-is-terrible-except-my-hair.png,
|log=Rain means mud. Mud means that the tall man stalking down the Bowl, followed by a considerably larger dragon who's looking ''very'' entertained what with the blue eyes and swept-back wings, is getting increasingly muddy boots as he stares searchingly at the ground. And he's ''muttering''.

Rain means mud, and grown men might not care for it, but little bitsy greens are having a much better time outside. That tall guy over there might be doing the muttering; a smaller, slimmer figure is huddled relatively near the weyrlings' entrance. He has an umbrella. It doesn't seem to be doing a great deal of good, at least with the fact that there are muddy splatters up his pant legs. The little green out there stomping through muddy puddles is utterly unconcerned with the wet, or the chill, or the dirt.

The man's got a hood, if not a ''hood'', and it would do him a lot more good if it weren't half pushed back from a frustrated swipe of his hand. Gray eyes now and again flick from the not-quite-grid path he's searching, once catching on the mud-stomper (is she green or brown by now?) before he moves on. It's the adult dragon who looks longer, with a low, amused bass rumble.

The top half of her is green with brown speckles. The bottom is brown with green speckles. Which bits are speckled changes a bit depending on splash patterns. The amused rumble, however, stops Nasmaeth in her tracks, at which point she looks up with quick-whirling eyes. So, it seems, does I'dro, who heads in her direction like he's only just now realized that he's supposed to be keeping her on her best behavior. Better behavior. Close enough.

It's ''mud''. The adult bronze lets his jaw loll enough to expose quite the array of teeth, though they aren't wielded at the dragonet maybe a seventh of his length; nor, when he picks up his paw and flexes it midair, does he slam it down on top of her. Or at all. Not from an excess of behavior, but to display how (when he sets down that paw and flexes yet again) mud ''oozes'' out from between his talons. Somewhere beyond him, the man groans.

"Are there any bronzes here who aren't determined to be a bad influence?" There's something in the rules there about saluting riders. There's nothing about lobbing frustrated accusations at them. Guess which I'dro ends up on? Well, he can't help it. Nasmaeth immediately has to try this oozy-paws thing. << Ooooh. >> In contrast to the day itself, her tone is warm, but parched beyond measure.

His is no help, the only liquid that of glass, and not for drinking at all. But it's amused, ''encouraging'' even. << Try the hind paws. 'Determination is the wake-up call to will,' >> that last intoned as a quote, if one that entertains rather than to be followed fanatically. Vhaeryth's rider glances back over his shoulder, "Nah, we kick 'em out." It's a wingsecond-knotted shoulder, fairly freshly so, though it's not like those are so uncommon; it's not, evidently, one that's going to let salutes separate him from the mud. Rather, what's ''in'' the mud.

Hind-paws. Yes, there's obviously something to that, tail lifted primly along with the rest of her rear end as she squishes her back feet about. I'dro can't have expected a very productive answer to his question, but the one he gets still has him staring at N'rov with tightly furrowed brows, both hands clutching at the umbrella. "That," he finally settles on, "would make a great many things start making a lot more sense." Then, after only a moment's pause: "You can't possibly just be out in this for your health. I'm pretty sure this is the leading cause of pneumonia. At least, according to my mother."

"You listen to your mother much?" It gets him a second look, not much longer but with the raise of a quizzical brow. There's not laughter there, not the way there is in his dragon's approving rumble, the way Vhaeryth flexes his wings in a long, easy slide to keep the rain from obstructing her view of hiw paws. Separate your toes out, like ''this''. Lean, like ''that''.

Toes separate! Lean like that! Splorch! Oh, Nasmaeth, quick learner, at least of the things she wants to be learning quickly. I'dro has apparently decided that discretion is the better part of ignoring that all this is happening and hoping that maybe that will mean it's not actually happening. "Shouldn't I?" Though his hands stay securely on the umbrella, at some point a few moments later he does think to tack on, "Sir." Afterthought among afterthoughts.

"Depends." It's dry. While he's at it, "See a die around here, send it my way. I ''liked'' that one." N'rov doesn't actually kick the mud, though the way he's eyeing it, he might... before he and Vhaeryth abruptly turn to stare through the rain. Upward, this time. Above the Star Stones. Where a dragon's appeared out of nowhere, its color easy to mistake. There's no 'later, kid,' just, << Nasmaeth. Keep it up, >> kid, before they go.

The heavy brows, again with the twisting up. I'dro gives a look down at the mud, and then back up at N'rov. "If you liked it, why would you have been-- no, never mind. If I see one, I'll keep it safe for you." This, finally, he does risk the umbrella, not like it's even that windy, to offer a totally and completely serious salute. Mostly serious. "Nasmaeth, come inside." Guess who she elects to listen to on this particular occasion? He may be a bit about coaxing her in and surely someone is going to be unhappy about how many towels are involved in the de-mudding process by the time he gets her there.
}}

Logs:Dragonlessness

2015-08-18T14:46:28Z

Vhaeryth: Old AU.

{{Log
|who=Hattie, N'rov
|what=Hattie is dragonless. N'rov is not.
|where=Training Room, FTW
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=20
|month=4
|turn=30
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2012.11.20
|quote="You deserved better."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov AU Vhasrath.jpg, Icon Hattie Lost.png,
|log=The training room is not the most populated cavern in the Weyr before or after lunch - at times not populated ''at all'' during these hours - and today seems to be no exception. The only movement in the room is the slow back and forth of one of the punching bags swinging idly and never to a complete stop, suggesting that there must be ''someone'' there giving it the occasional nudge. It doesn't gain enough momentum for it to be being kicked or punched and just keeps up its steady sway, the culprit hidden in the shadows cast by the solitary screen standing nearby. Turns out that Hattie isn't even standing to prod the punching bag every few moments, and sits slumped on the floor, batting it forward with the tips of her toes, ''staring'' at said toes.

If it were a tunnelsnake, it would've bit him. The young weyrleader turns up with a couple of confederates, but it's quiet, so he shoos them off in favor of methodically divesting himself of his overtunic and running a hand over his close-shorn hair. Just as methodically he dons padded gloves, and walks towards the next furthest punching bag... and, without warning, gives it a swift, solid kick. And then, as it swings back at him, an epithet a hairsbreadth after a nearly-literal jump. "What are you ''doing'' here." Hattie. He's staring at her. The bag only gets enough of a punch to keep it out of his way.

Hattie keeps right on staring at her toes and nudging the punching bag back and forth as if she hasn't noticed or heard N'rov at all. About half a minute passes with her having not altered in the slightest, then she twists her foot to one side and lets the bag get on with its own thing. "I wasn't aware that my movement had been restricted," she remarks, dragging her gaze up to the Weyrleader with a distinct lack of interest or anything crossing close to respect. "Seems you have a habit of not knowing things."

Where 'its own thing' equates to N'rov giving it a low kick instead, the only question being why he didn't do it sooner. What this former Weyrwoman says, he ignores, still looking at her as though there were some blueprint in his head to which this broken... thing... does not match up. "I've wondered," he says slowly, "why you're still here." ''At all'', would be the heavy implication, if it were really meant for her at all.

Hattie's attention doesn't truly rest on N'rov at all, but some distant patch of wall beyond his shoulder; maybe not even there. "Did you know," she begins, out of breath already, quite as if she hasn't planned on speaking at all, "that they ''stopped'' me?" It's exhausting even looking past him, so she lets her head tip all the way back, aiming her blank gaze at the ceiling. "When she... After waiting for ''yours'' to be safe..." Her head lolls forward again, like she could cast blame solely on him. "What a waste that was."

The bag, the bag''s'', swing and swing, ever shallower. The light changes as they do, shadowing, the ropes and leather low creaks that are irregular even as they recede. He might have known that: it would be hard to tell by his expression, if she were even looking at all. And when she does, finally, by then he's looking past her too. "It was," he agrees, after a blank moment of his own, that could cast in doubt whether he'd heard that either. There's another, too. "They shouldn't have stopped you."

"Well, I hope they got what they wanted," the once-Weyrwoman declares bitterly. "...Must've been counting on cowardice. It's more difficult to pick up the knife with half your faculties still knocking about." And if Hattie couldn't seem to wallow any more in self-pity and loathing, she somehow manages to sink to a new low, miserable sneer cast down at no-longer-fascinating toes. "Maybe they'll find me cold in the Fountain one morning. We can only hope."

"No," N'rov says finally. "You deserved better." He steadies one bag with his hand, less stopping it than blocking it from moving further until it swings again and again into his palm, weaker each time. "If you ever," but then he shakes his head abruptly in lieu of keeping ''that'' thought. Only, looking nearly at her for once, gray eyes hard and bleak like the stone of this room behind its whitewash, "It won't happen to me, you know. I'll go with him." It's nothing he can truly promise, and yet he says it as a vow as he turns away, to go beat against a very different bag.

A shudder runs through Hattie and only catches her right arm, making it twitch like she intends to swat at something, perhaps at the mere idea of ''deserving'' anything. "Don't," she murmurs, yet she can't help but sneak a look up at him at his aborted ''something'', if she ever... How desperately does she want it to be what it could be? She doesn't push, just looks, a distant longing in dark eyes for the perceived possibility in words unspoken. "...That's what everyone thinks. It'll be easy. You'll know when. And then..." she utters hoarsely, watching ''his'' feet now.

His booted feet move in regular, practiced, ''knowing'' rhythms that counterweight the dull thump of his fists. They do not stumble, do not trip. (Not like the other night.) "We'll be gone." Anything else is unthinkable, would be even without the ghost of her, breathing, haunting, there.
|Categories=AU Logs
}}

Logs:Fitting

2015-08-18T14:39:37Z

Vhaeryth: Old AU.

{{Log
|who=Aleudre, N'rov
|what=Weaver Master Aleudre fits the Weyrleader for attire.
|where=Weyrleader's Weyr, FTW
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=11
|month=4
|turn=30
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2012.11.17
|quote="I don't pretend to understand what drives your... art."
|mentions=Ali
|type=Log
|ooc=Trial scene for the AU experiment before the fur started flying!
|icons-new=Icon n'rov AU Vhasrath.jpg, Icon E'dre Well.jpg,
|log=There's been the exchange of time and place, a weyrling assigned to take Aleudre where he chooses, and so it's with only a brief announcement from the brown pair that brings the Master Weaver to the Weyrleader's quarters. Aleudre has an apprentice with him, a nervous looking girl who carries all of her Master's things in with them as they enter. "Weyrleader?" Aleudre calls, looking around with a lifted brow. "I've come to do your fitting. I hope you're prepared?"

"Master," N'rov greets the older man with certain deference, and a token smile for the girl that doesn't linger in quick gray eyes: he's already turning back to Aleudre. "I wouldn't dream of being anything other than prepared." He doesn't even smell of drills, for this one does regularly run drills even if they aren't always the Traditional sort, being freshly changed and barefoot in the plain tunic and trousers he favors. Every other day, a headwoman's assistant comes to clip that curly hair short. "Tell me, how do you want me. There are rumors of men, or is it women, being instructed to stand upon their heads."

Gulp! Lora shuffles to place Aleudre's things on a nearby table and busies herself by taking out a tape measure and a note pad. Aleudre gives N'rov a stiff nod, no smile making its way forward. "If you were to stand upon your head I would have quite the difficult time of assessing how a shirt fits your shoulders," he replies without a trace of catching on to the joke. "Lora, please hand me my tape. And have the Weyrleader stand on the box we brought." The apprentice nods and rushes forward, getting the stepstool out for N'rov to stand upon before she hands the tape measure to the Master. "Sir, if you would be so kind as to stand loose. I will begin to take measurements." And he does, all business-like as the tape measure is wrapped around parts of the Weyrleader's leg, the length of him, and his waist. "33, 42," he mutters to Lora who makes quick notes.

"Then it's just as well." That Aleudre's not showing a sense of humor? The bronzerider stands dutifully enough, though it had better be a large box for him to stand truly at ease. It's an opportunity to examine the top of the weaver master's head: how does he wear his hair? Does he have dandruff? Once, too, to check on Lora: does she appear to be paying proper attention to her superior? These things are ''important''. It also must be noted, for the record, that his length is in no way inferior. "We spoke briefly, I think, about sourcing materials from Fort's protectorate. I understand that, ordinarily, you're able to collect from all over."

"Yes, I remember," Aleudre replies blandly, "and I have to remind you that the quality of my work is best represented by my traditional sources for fabric." He inclines his head, snapping his measuring tape along N'rov's neck. He mutters the size to Lora before taking the width of the bronzerider's shoulders. "It may also add to the cost and the time before you are able to receive your desired outfit." A few more measurements are taken and then it seems the Master Weaver has completed his assessment of N'rov's form. Lora is paying attention, nervous to be around the Weyrleader and ''always'' nervous around Aleudre who is known to have a short temper when things are not done right ''the first time''. "Lora please bring my sketchbook so that I may show the Weyleader what I've in mind for his Gather attire this season." He holds out his hand, clearly impatient with this entire process.

"It's a mark of the recognition of a man's expertise that such things are accessible to him," N'rov remarks once the man's checked his neck again, once he can safely talk again. "I appreciate your taking on such a challenge even more because of it. Better that our Holds get the publicity, and what that will do to their market, for their wares being transformed into your creations; it's fortunate that some of them will discount for the prospect as well, or so is my understanding." Which is to say: don't bump up the price just because you don't like it. "I don't want to think of my holds providing materials lesser in quality, of course, but I don't pretend to understand what drives your... art. What would you substitute, had you a completely free hand?"

"Yes I suppose it will serve to increase the amount of fabric being bought up in your Holds," Aleudre allows, adding, "many of my peers take direction from where I purchase my raw material." He shrugs his shoulders and waves a hand to indicate N'rov may step down. Lora steps forward with the master's sketchbook and Aleudre hitches a finger at the Weyrleader before he opens up the book to a specific set of pages. "I had thought we'd use colors that accent the bronze," no, he won't name the dragon directly, "in russets, browns, and darker blues. Do these styles seem to your liking?" The majority of the sketches on the page do host the more traditional designs for a dragonrider - with mind to functionality and only a touch of added flare to the cut of the clothing. "I can't tell you ''where'' I normally purchase my material, Weyrleader, as you're aware some things must be kept secret." Or as secret as he can make it.

"As they should." If there's flattery there, it's matter of fact enough. There's a moment where N'rov recognizes Lora's existence again, just as she hands over the sketchbook, and then he's back to examining the pages agan. Mostly they meet with approval or at least deference conceded to Aleudre's design skills, though the Weyrleader does refuse one tunic on the grounds that its sleeves are too 'flappy,' his word. "I need to be able to move in them, and also not have them catch on things," he explains, adding, "And I prefer dark gray. With the others, of course, I suppose it's time to expand my horizons somewhat." Finally another smile escapes, even if's sidelong, even if the master isn't seeing it. "Don't wish to pry into your secrets, either, of course, if that's what it is. It's more... does it bother you to use ovine fleece instead of llama, for example, although I understand we do have some llamas raised along the northern borders." If dinner will be served shortly, if they're expected, it's not something of which he chooses to take notice.

"Most of these aren't fleece either way, meant for the coming summer and layers if you get cold," Aleudre observes with a superior air. Doesn't he ''know'' these things? "But yes, your requests are noted." He hands the book back to Lora with a pointed look. The girl rushes to make notes on her pad before she busies herself with packing up the Master's belongings. "I do believe there's dinner to be served soon, yes?" Aleudre queries, seemingly mollified by just that ''small'' touch of flattery. It would seem the more that's given, the easier Aleudre is with his mannerisms. "Lora, please bring that shirt we brought for the Weyrleader. I do believe it will fit correctly." The apprentice moves over to one of the larger bags that she carried in, carefully drawing out a long-sleeved, dark gray, shirt that she hands over to N'rov. "Please put it on, Weyrleader. I'll make sure it fits correctly and then I hope you'll wear my gift to tonight's festivities?"

"As you say, master Weaver," N'rov murmurs, a smile not quite permitted to play about his mouth, emerging only in his eyes: could be, he's picked up on the flattery bit, even if he ''will'' have to wear those garments in coming seasons as well. Or maybe he won't: he's Weyrleader now. "We won't keep each other from it, of course, but... Well!" Will Aleudre ever find tedious that pleasure in a client's eyes? This one's new enough to his job that it's even a surprise: and the color he likes, the color Aleudre mentioned himself, no less. "Thank you. I'll be pleased, I ''am'' pleased. Quite pleased." He glances briefly at the girl, and then there's a shrug that concedes to the master's knowing what he's doing before he moves to change.

"You're welcome. I had thought you would like a touch of finery this evening and this way I can show my worth to you and the Weyrwoman," Aleudre replies with the first appearance of a smile on his lips. Yes, he ''does'' appreciate it when he can tell he's made a client happy - even if he plays the gruff and grumpy sort when it comes to 'pleasing' their wishes in the first place. "Do you mind asking the weyrling pair to come back to collect us?" It's short order before the brown pair has returned and the Master Weaver along with his apprentice are settled on the brown with their things and taken down towards the bowl to attend the dinner only after Aleudre has had time to change his clothes.
|Categories=AU Logs, Crafter Logs
}}

File:Icon n'rov apple.png

2015-08-18T04:47:01Z

Vhaeryth:

File:Icon n'rov black.jpg

2015-08-18T04:40:08Z

Vhaeryth:

File:Icon n'rov AU Vhasrath.jpg

2015-08-18T04:33:26Z

Vhaeryth: For Fort's 2012 AU sequence.

For Fort's 2012 AU sequence.

File:Icon n'rov salute.png

2015-08-18T04:25:14Z

Vhaeryth:

File:Icon n'rov look.png

2015-08-18T04:25:14Z

Vhaeryth: With bonus glass.

With bonus glass.

File:Icon n'rov disguise.png

2015-08-18T04:25:14Z

Vhaeryth:

File:Icon n'rov boa.png

2015-08-18T04:19:00Z

Vhaeryth: Vhaeryth moved page File:Icon N'rov boa.png to File:Icon n'rov boa.png: Also moved for consistency. (Not a real boa, but the plaid shirt looks entertainingly enough like one.)

Thanks, Lilah!

File:Icon N'rov boa.png

2015-08-18T04:19:00Z

Vhaeryth: Vhaeryth moved page File:Icon N'rov boa.png to File:Icon n'rov boa.png: Also moved for consistency. (Not a real boa, but the plaid shirt looks entertainingly enough like one.)

#REDIRECT [[File:Icon n'rov boa.png]]

File:Icon n'rov brim.jpg

2015-08-18T04:16:32Z

Vhaeryth: Vhaeryth moved page File:Icon N'rov brim.jpg to File:Icon n'rov brim.jpg: consistency

Thanks, Lilah!

File:Icon N'rov brim.jpg

2015-08-18T04:16:32Z

Vhaeryth: Vhaeryth moved page File:Icon N'rov brim.jpg to File:Icon n'rov brim.jpg: consistency

#REDIRECT [[File:Icon n'rov brim.jpg]]

File:Icon n'rov brim.jpg

2015-08-18T04:15:06Z

Vhaeryth: Thanks, Lilah!

Thanks, Lilah!

File:Icon n'rov boa.png

2015-08-18T04:15:06Z

Vhaeryth: Thanks, Lilah!

Thanks, Lilah!