View source for Logs:That Isn't Very Comforting

{{Log
|who= Hattie, N'muir, Ali{{!}}Isyath, E'ten{{!}}Adiulth, Reesa{{!}}Khiabeth, N'dalis{{!}}Suraieth
|involves=Fort Weyr
|type=Log
|day=25
|month=8
|turn=33
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|what= Rebellion, politics and other news, until Hattie inadvertently unsettles Elaruth.
| gamedate = 2013.12.28
| icdate = Day 25, month 8, turn 33 of Interval 10.
| quote = Tell me his name and I'll beat him up for you. 
|where= Weyrwoman's Weyr
| categories =
| mentions = B'rant
| icons = hattie.jpg, hattie elaruth profile.jpg
| ooc = 
| log =

Bijedth wings down to his ledge from above, the bright summer sun gleaming on his well-oiled skin to the point where he nearly glows gold. He rustles his wings once, twice, three times – as if folding those giant sails is something that requires the perfect angle in order to be done properly. N’muir, however, is out and down from his straps before the second flutter is even begun, marching from his lifemate and disappearing into the shadow of their weyr (which is swiftly becoming less ‘weyr’ and more ‘office/storage space’ as the sevendays roll by). But as Bijedth reaches metaphysically to regale his beloved mate with (over-exaggerated) stories of his day, N’muir comes marching back out again, this time angling his steady pace in the direction of Hattie’s weyr. As he does, he lets jacket buckles fly, helmet torn off, goggles ripped off and stuffed violently into his pocket, gloves torn off his hands and shoved unceremoniously into his breast pocket, all accompanied to the mutterings of very colourful language unsuitable for little ears. He is damp with the sweat of a long day and his brows set sternly in a miserable mood that could be as much from some unspoken slight as from the muggy heat.

It’s lucky that there are no little ears around to hear (nor Elaruth, for that matter) all that interesting language, and thus that will save any ill-timed repetition to be reported from the nursery to either Hattie nor N’muir, but some of those curses or the variations thereof might be new to the aforementioned goldrider, given the odd stare that she fixes N’muir with once he roams into sight. Hattie stays in the doorway between the outer and inner weyr, one hip resting against the doorframe as she watches his progress, and she waits for the slightest break in the language to ask a simple, “What happened?” She doesn’t smile, and there’s not the faintest hint of wryness to her enquiry, only quiet concern that she attempts to conceal by keeping her tone just that bit too even. Up on the star stones is where Elaruth resides, her attention turned to the goings-on in the Weyr below, her wings tilted to catch the sunshine. Though she doesn’t wing down to her ledge, she warmly welcomes Bijedth home, eager to hear his stories, no matter how over-exaggerated they may be.

N’muir’s progress gradually slows, his pursuit of the inner weyr (and the continuation of his creative language art) hampered by her presence in the doorway to the inner weyr. He sighs and wrings his hat in his hands before childishly kicking at the floor with his heavy boot. “Nothing.” Though not /just/ nothing. “It’s just… /frustrating/.” Frustrating – probably not the first ‘f’ word coming to mind given his recent garbling of swear words. “I got another request to transfer from another of my own wingmates. And this one wasn’t in any way shy about telling me exactly what he thinks of me to my face.” And for that, he gives a discouraged slap of his helmet against his thigh, frowning down before letting his eyes roam up and away before eventually cooling off enough to look over at Hattie, all in one short, fluid movement. “How are things with you?”

Hattie’s feelings about /that/ one of the frustrating matters is plain to see by the darkening of her expression and, “Well, he can fuck right off.” For the time being, she manages to keep herself to just that /one/ f-word, even if it is /the/ f-word, and she stands there simmering silently for a little while, arms knotting and unknotting a single time before she pushes away from the doorframe and heads across to him, intending to deliver a fierce kiss no matter the state of him. “Tell me his name and I’ll beat him up for you,” she murmurs, even if it does sound a bit ridiculous. It’s the sentiment that counts. “For a start.” Looking up at him, she tries a smile, small though it is. “Well, in the past minute or so, I’ve learned new adjective and verb forms of some words,” she teases wryly. “You have more support than you think. It’s simply… quieter.”

N’muir’s response is a frown that tugs on the corner of his mouth. “I would’ve said the same thing – or worse – if I’d been him,” he mutters miserably. His mood is lifted somewhat by that kiss, reciprocating with some of his own enthusiasm while his hand instinctively seeks out the curve of her body. He surfaces measurably renewed in spirit and emits a low chuckle. “Please don’t,” he begs in jest. “Anyone who /does/ still respect me will surely give it up if you start beating up people for me.” That chuckle returns but is shortly muted by that last news, and his guard reluctantly slides into place. “Yeah… well, the support against me is /not/ so quiet. I don’t even want to /call/ Weyrleader meetings; I worry that they won’t show up, or will stage some kind of take-over…” He gestures vaguely out at the weyr beyond. “And ever since /B’rant/ was invited to Boll in my place-…” A bitter flesh wound in the heart of his pride, for certain.

“Well, all right,” Hattie reluctantly ‘agrees’, aiming a far more gentle kiss for the line of his jaw. “But if someone ‘happens’ to be on the floor of the bowl and I ‘happen’ to be nearby, I had nothing to do with it.” She aims a long look towards the mouth of the Weyr and outside world, contemplative, but, ultimately, she gives a little shake of her head and says, “I wouldn’t call any, for the moment. Give them a bit longer to figure out how they feel about everything, then lay down the law.” If only it were that simple. “The one good thing that came of that whole ridiculous invitation was figuring out where /his/ loyalty lies, if he wasn’t dancing me the same dance I tried drawing him along.” A moment’s silence, then: “You want to watch out for him.” Said far more darkly than anything else, as she steps away and through to the inner weyr, no longer loitering in the doorway. “She’s young. It might be infatuation rather than political statement.”

“And if I see you swinging a fist at anyone’s face, I’ll assume they swung first,” N’muir affectionately adds, smile flickering back to life, however briefly before disappearing again. His features fall gently, expression uncertain and very much divided on whatever thoughts come to mind at her remark on the Wingleaders. “Not that I don’t value your advice, love, but I’m already a traitor – I don’t want to be a coward too,” he decides softly. “I said I’d accept the consequences of what I did. This is all just part of the consequences.” However some parts are far less palitable than others: B’rant and his invitation to Boll being one such unpalitable consequence. “Watch out for him?” he echoes with dubious concern. “In a ‘he’s going to stab you’ kind of way or in a ‘he’s kind of cute and young and not old and crotchety like you’ kind of way?” At least that part is said with less concern. Lady Boll earns a far less playful roll of his eyes. “If she is going to be that immature to play her own ridiculous woman games ahead of considering the political effects of her actions then we are fucked where Boll is concerned.” A brief pause. “/Again/.”

“As always,” Hattie chirps, wandering until she can turn and sit on the arm of the couch. “And if either of us were going to /really/ follow my advice, we’d have probably fired everyone indiscriminately by now,” she murmurs, humour fading more and more from her voice as she goes on, until she’s left to look down at her knees and give a tiny, self-deprecating twist of her lips. “You are not a traitor.” No matter how many times she’s said that of late, it bears repeating in the same steadfast way she’s adopted, so she must believe. She smoothes her skirts over her knees, then rests a careful hand on the back of the couch, in-case she should unbalance herself. “B’rant is… very sure of himself. He claims loyalty to me, but, depending on where he believes /your/ allegiance lies…” As for Lady Boll, she rolls her eyes and affects some level of indifference. “If she tithes and leaves us well enough alone, I’ll be happy.” Another glance down at her knees has her lapsing into silence, one that rests heavy on shoulders that eventually square as she looks up again and tells him, “I think… it won’t be long before Elaruth rises again.”

N’muir makes a sound that is something between a self-depreciating laugh and a whimper. “If only it were as easy as demoting everyone.” And he falls very quiet, though it’s difficult whether the cause of his silence is her denial or his own doing, with that wishful, facetious statement of humour (or dismay). He stares at the safety of her knees and the fabric she smoothes over them, avoiding lifting his gaze until the subject has been pushed out of his thoughts and replaced with B’rant. “That isn’t very comforting,” he admits dryly and folds his arms over his chest, rumpling the gaping fabric of his riding jacket. And then silence consumes him again, and those arms knot tighter. He shifts his weight, rocking back on his heels. Then, finally: “Well, we knew she would eventually.” It’s followed by a pregnant pause. “You know, I… need to-… in case-…” Whatever he intends to say suddenly becomes very clear: “Bijedth only caught her because Mecaith wasn’t there. If Bijedth isn’t there, something’s happened. I won’t-… he won’t be there only if you don’t /want/ him to be there, or he /can’t/ be there.”

Hattie suddenly finds herself incapable of ‘calmly’ sitting there on the arm of the couch, and so tips herself back to her feet, hands clenching hard enough in the fabric of her skirts to create creases. “You need to what?” she asks, more demandingly than she might mean to. “If you think someone is going to hurt you or him to prevent him being there, then I am going to–” Tear the whole damn Weyr down, says the blazing look in her eyes, gaze directed not at him, but once more back towards the outside world. Her hands twist in fabric again, white-knuckled. Now, she does look up at him, pleading, “You have to be there. Don’t leave us to someone else. /Please/.”

''Dragon> It’s the tiniest of imbalances, though one that ripples out with Elaruth as its definite source; a tug of /something/ like hurt or fear or anger before equilibrium is restored. (To Fort dragons from Elaruth)

''Dragon> To Fort dragons, Isyath, of course, is curious /and/ nosy, and so almost immediately she sends out a quizzical note, loud enough for others to hear, before following that ripple to its source.

''Dragon> To Fort dragons, Suraieth is abruptly alert, those smooth waters frozen in concern, creeping tendrils seeking out the cause of that /tug/. Ripples spread, see. /Ripples/.

''Dragon> To Fort dragons, Vhaeryth had been /sunning/. But still, tiny though it was… he /listens/.

''Dragon> To Fort dragons, Adiulth is curious – when it comes to those he knows, pausing in both observations and conversations to sense if everything is alright.

''Dragon> To Fort dragons, Khiabeth’s far to invested in sunning; it’s warm and she’s sleepy, and she’s trying to ignore the stirring that follows.''

N’muir follows those blazing eyes towards the world beyond. Outside on his ledge in the sunlight, Bijedth goes from sunbathing with peaceful, green-blue happiness to staring up at Elaruth, with a rainbow of colour rippling across his whirling eyes. N’muir frowns, regret softening the edges of his expression, and he reaches to take her hand and pull her into the inner weyr. “He will be there,” he reassures in a gentle voice. “We will be there.” And hopefully his words are the truth, lest unknown enemies put to action to the worst of the rumours spreading down in the caverns.

''Dragon> Perhaps it’s embarrassment that keeps Elaruth quiet, no response given to anyone, and only a sense of a more vast expanse of mist and distance given in apology. (To Fort dragons from Elaruth)

''Dragon> The quiet only serves to make Isyath wait, attentively: like a cat waiting for the mouse to poke its nose out of the hole. It’s only a matter of time. Or, let’s face it, only a matter of time until she’s distracted by something else. (To Fort dragons from Isyath)''

High above, Elaruth tips over the edge of the star stones and drifts down to seek out Bijedth on his ledge, returning ‘home’ in search of comfort, while Hattie lets herself be led and leads on further, murmuring, “Good,” willing enough to believe – and hope – for now.
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