Difference between revisions of "Logs:Turnover Turn 35"

Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr

The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.

A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.

Steady, today's snowfall sticks, creating dunes on the bowl floor.

Turnover is finally here! Hints about High Reaches' celebration had escaped during the previous sevenday, of course, but thanks to Giorda's extensive pre-planning, today the shore of the lake has been transformed. And now, with about an hour of daylight left in the short day, the party is starting!

Getting to the party is easier than it would have been if dragons hadn't cleared deep snow not only from the area bordering the shore, but also several paths from the Bowl. From there, every comfort manageable has been set up, starting with a semi-circle of tents; they offer places to sign out extra-warm winter wear or skates, to get hot drinks and food (poor kitchen hands who drew the short straw!), or even just toastier places to step into and warm up... and a dance floor in one of the largest pavilions. Between the tents and the frozen lake, three large bonfires will blaze throughout the night; the border itself has been given a cheery, golden ambiance thanks to the strings of glows attached to poles driven into the frozen ground and even the lake itself.

Perhaps best of all, the weather has cooperated and the day's snowfall has left the sky a rosy sheet of cloud cover that flurries now and again, but holds the light for as long as it can possibly last.

Is it possible to pick a party-virgin out of a crowd just by looking? Perhaps it is with the tan-cloaked special snowflake taking careful steps along the cleared path and toward the inviting warmth of one of the bonfires, her hands folded in front of her, expression one mixed of excitement and nervousness. Lya's first High Reaches party. Best. Night. Ever!

That the young woman in the avian costume is early, is perhaps less a testament to her punctuality, and more an indication that she's already been in trouble at least once tonight, and probably enjoyed ever minute of it. Gathered amid the partygoers she looks about, peering for familiar or unfamiliar faces masked and unmasked.

A heavyset but regal-looking fellow trundles down to the lakeshore, having a bit of trouble maneuvering through the snow. He is resplendent in a purple coat and greatcoat with gold trim, purple breeches and black boots. A thick burnside nearly obscures his face completely and he seems to look down his nose haugtily at just about everyone. His large (and obviously padded) belly precedes him as he arrives at the party grounds.

With the sun slowly sinking beneath the horizon, it's up to the various fires to keep the party warm. The flames dance in the bonfire, within Hraedhyth's thoughts, and along the floor as the vivid inferno is spun by her dance partner. Layered skirts are composed of warm red and orange, golden accents wrapping the Weyrwoman up in enough fabric to fight the cold despite the gauzy material. Hair is left down, a plume of dark smoke carried on the wind as Azaylia thanks her dance partner, smile as bright as the glittery flame mask surrounding equally bright eyes. Now, the fire intends to spread out to the rest of the party.

Z'riah is wearing a dress. What else needs to be said? It's a pretty dress, though it might look even nicer with some feminine curves. He definitely doesn't have those. But he pulls it off as well as a decently muscled male is apt. His dress is mostly white, kind of plain save for the gauzy red belt tied around his waist. Over the dress he wears a comfortably heavy cloak and there's a makeshift goldrider's knot on his shoulder. The mask he wears is white and nondescript, but there's light fabric that comes out of the top and over his head, down toward his shoulders, a suggestion of blond hair instead of his usual black. Even with the mask, Lady Zif seems a bit sour of mood, his stride definitely not delicate or dainty underneath his skirts.

Lycinea might have just told herself that there's nothing to be nervous about in a barely audible murmur as she moves across the frozen ground. She might've been right save for that patch of ice that sends her sprawling onto all fours, her form-fitting dress hardly helping her catch herself right onto the dirt past the avian and in the path of the fire. No one saw that, right? Or heard the "Crackdust," sworn under her breath?

Laughter ringing through the air as Edyis makes her way through the crowd, eyes dancing behind the mask, as she applauds the weyrwoman's spirted dancing, before spotting the token man in a dress. Ah the classics. She makes her way over, asking in her most charming Monaco accent, "So did you loose a bet or were all the other costumes taken?"

Lucky for Lycinea, Azaylia is a fire of the non-violent persuasion. Though the Weyrwoman does descend on the girl, as if to consumer her. "Oh! Are you alright?" Fine red gloves are offered to help her back up, gaze lifting to glance this way and that. Surely she has a date? Or perhaps there's someone to blame for the spill.

The Lord Holder strolls importantly over to the lady in the flame mask and bows to her. In a deep, booming voice, he says, "Good evening, my lady! And how fare you this evening. Splendid party, I must say, splendid!" His enormous moustache dances on his face as he speaks. "Of course, not quite as extravagant as the last gather at my Hold, but not bad." He chuckles, belly bouncing along to the laughter.

Hearing his own accent right now doesn't seem to help goldrider Z'riah's mood very much. His crisp blue eyes cut toward its source to narrow at Edyis, looking her up and down as though he's trying to decide how to respond. But since she's none of the Monacoans he'd currently like to shove face down into the snow, he tries on a slightly forced smile. "Can't a woman wear a nice dress without getting harassed anymore?"

The lively beat of the harpers' music carries across the frozen lake, softer with greater distance from the dance pavilion, but audible even so. The musicians favor faster tunes with more physical dances, no doubt in deference to warding off the cold, though the dance floor is warm enough that some might welcome the chance to go back out in the chill of the evening air. Every now and again, they set aside the quick-paced choices in favor of something more traditional and slower, or even silence when the harpers need a break from their set. Aside from these few breaks, however, the music is a cheery backdrop, adding to the party's generally celebratory mood.

"Well that depends, on your definition of Harassment." Cheerily enough Edyis responds, "Dance with me?" She seems to decide studying him and his reactions behind the mask. "Usually the guy in the dress is the life of the party or so I've heard. Come on, it's a party it's supposed to be fun." Offering her hand smoothly.

Alas, the snowflake doesn't seem to have any handsome man to come to her rescue, but that gloved hand is taken undaintily by her own pale, bare one. "It's these sharding dress boots," the blonde sighs as she gets awkwardly back onto them, "If I'd known what a pain all this stuff was, I mightn't've bothered." Blue-green eyes blink from behind her white mask at the woman of smoke and flames, quite unaware, of course, of to whom she speaks. Shyly, it's offered, "I like your mask." Then her hands are moving to brush at her knees where, indeed, dirt has marked her white dress. "Damn."

The Lord Holder's mouth twists a bit as he sees the man in the dress, then turns back to the fiery woman and the woman dressed like a snowflake. "Are you all right there, Lady Snowflake? Best be careful now, it's slippery. And might I say, your costume is very appropriate for this evening." He looks up at the falling snow and chortles again. He sticks a thumb out toward Azaylia. "Don't get too close to her, though, you might melt!"

"It took me a little while to get used to them." Azaylia commiserates, long leg slipping free to flash knee high leather and heels. "Everyone always said it took practice, but why would you?" And yet turns upon turns of formal dress has made her quite competent in them. Still, the Weyrwoman won't allow any sad faces on Turnover, gloves dirtied as she tries to help dust Lycinea off. She's startled by the Lord Holder, fingers gathering her layered skirts and giving a graceful dip before she attempts to recognize him, "Good evening. I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," A glance, but a name doesn't come to her. Some of that automatic sweetness is lost in her suspicious drawl, "...M'lord."

There's a decent chance that Z'riah is often the life of a party, even if he's not often wearing a dress. He glances back in the direction that he'd come, grumbling something under his breath before returning his full attention to Edyis. "Sure," he says, taking her hand and tugging her just so toward him. "Let's dance."

Edyis takes to dancing fairly easily, though she does have to gather a bit of her skirt to keep from tripping over it, still. "So what has you in such a bad mood?" She poses the question as the dance begins. "Bit of trouble?"

High Reaches' weyrlings are at the turnover party too, interspersed throughout the groups hanging out in the bowl. Their costumes are varied, from someone masquerading as a herdbeast, to another dressed in flashy furs and gold chains; something for all types. Late to the party is the Weyr's own Lothario - for tonight, anyway. He's got on simple garb with a black demi-mask, but his face and sensitive, exposed neck skin are all marked up with lip prints in red. His closest companion is a flower: a petite blonde bedecked in pants and shirt embellished with colorful buds, even going so far as to put a crown of flowers in her hair; her mask is a confection of lace and petals to match. "You sure this doesn't look dumb?" Casanova mutters to the flower girl, hefting a weighty sigh as he slips between two arguing blueriders. "Fan-fucking-tastic. Don't touch." She's glaring at his hand, which he drops as her fierce words. They've both procured drinks, each sipping as they move through the crowd, side-stepping some and bumping into others.

Lycinea's eyes are drawn to the smoky haired woman's boots and she regards them, briefly admiring until the Lord Holder's words sink in and she looks to him, startled. "Oh! Melt. That's funny." To her credit, she tries to sound like she means it, even if she can't quite hide the edge of snark. She does add a moment later, "Sir," in a sort-of respectful way. Her eyes flick away from her current company and looks toward the lake and the skating in an almost wistful sort of way.

A burst of laughter rolls forth as a greenrider and her date step out of the tent manned by the vintners. Of course that tent would be the hub of merriment, given how much booze has been brought out for this occasion. Perhaps it's in defiance of all the rumors surrounding Vintner and its craftmaster, but High Reaches-posted vintners are outdoing themselves tonight. Not a hand goes empty that wants a drink in it (which is not to say it's going to be an expensive drink); there's even sparkling juice for the little ones. A person has but to ask!

"A lot of trouble," replies weyrwoman Z'riah. This probably isn't his best dancing, considering he's wearing skirts that he's not used to wearing. "My best friend is a stupid, idiotic asshole." So, probably not the sort of trouble Edyis would be interested in.

"A lot of best friends hit that title quite aptly, and though it may show my bias, most of the ones I'm thinking of fit into the category of male." She doesn't seem too bothered by poor dancing, agile enough herself to avoid stomped toes. "Want to talk about it?" She offers, before spinning off, indicating she'd like to get a drink.

"But, thank you." Azaylia's gratitude may be late, but it's no less genuine for it. "I don't think you have to worry about your knees. That's too low for the boys to look on such a pretty snowflake." Thankfully she doesn't pinch Lycinea's cheek, but there's no denying that maternal coo. For the jovial Lord Holder, "I don't intend to melt anyone--". There's a hitch as she reconsiders her words, resorting to a bright smile rather than voicing anything improper. She's entertaining Blood, after all! A glance toward Lycinea has the Weyrwoman's own gaze flicking toward the ice, "Don't let me stop you." A friendly prod for what the girl really wants.

The Lord Holder takes a glass of red wine from a passing server and sips it almost daintily, his pinky finger extended from the neck of the glass. Gaudy costume rings adorn the pinky and all of his other fingers. He smacks his lips. "Mmm, excellent. Almost as good as the wines from my own vineyards!" The haughtiness is almost unbearable. He bows again to the fiery woman. "Lord Blovius, at your service. Pleased to meet you." He nods to Lady Snowflake again.

"Oh, shells," is Lya's inhale to her interpretation of Azaylia's insinuation of where the boys might be looking, one hand going to clutch at the gauzy flesh colored fabric at her breast. Her cheeks distinctly pinkened. Maybe this is the reason that her fleeing gaze narrows when her eyes land on Playboy Pern and quickly dart away again. She rocks forward onto her toes looking to the living fire, "Oh, I don't have skates. And I'm not sure it'd go well at any rate. I imagine blood is harder to get out than dirt," a glance toward her knees before she offers to the Lord Holder, "Lya." Just Lya. "Um. Pleasure or something." As an aside to Azaylia, though quite audible to their male companion of the moment is her explanation, "I'm trying to be polite tonight." See Lya wave that First Party flag!

"You have a lot of male best friends?" Interesting, suggests Z'riah's tone of voice. He'll let Edyis spin away to get her drink. He'll even follow her for now to get one of his own. As for whether he wants to talk about it? "Not really. For all I know, you're one of that bitch's little wherries. And, if you are, tell her to leave him the fuck alone." That will surely make lots of sense to anyone that isn't one of said wherries.

"Ain't it nice?" flower girl says with a ready smile, leading the way towards the vintners' tent. She's drained her first glass of wine and reaches for another, letting her friend check out their surrounding with wide-stretching glances. "Recognize anyone?" she chirps, not bothering to look at Lothario. "No. Everyone is wearing masks." Not entirely true, there are those who choose not to dress up for the festivities, but for the masses.. "I couldn't tell Quinlys from Aishani right now." Ducking under an impending high five, the lipstick besmirched young man keeps moving, with just a peek over his shoulder to make sure his companion is following. They're walking towards the nearest bonfire and its warmth, because no body has time to stand around in the bitter cold.

Her head tilts at that, "Really? Hate to break it to you but I'm no one's wherry." She states succinctly, as she collects a glass of white wine for herself, tipping the mask back enough to drink. "Any clues on who that bitch is?" Edyis asks slipping the mask back down as she spots the Flower and Cassinova.

Suddenly there's a shrill cry out on the ice! The nearest skaters move in the direction of the sound, and some moments later, there's a loud call for a healer. Looks as though particularly eager bettors, those who wagered on what happens at this party, may now see marks change hands.

One brow rises to hide within the Weyrwoman's flashy flame mask, coaxed to be bold either by her smokin' outfit or what she's already had to drink tonight. "Would it be so bad, having that kind of attention? It's a party." Much more tame than what the semi-bad influence could have said. "There are skates to borrow, and plenty of willing partners..." Azaylia doesn't pressure beyond that, both brows disappearing as Lord Blovius introduces himself. Goodness. It's a wonder she can manage a straight face, her strained introduction spoken past twitching lips, "Weyrwoman Azaylia. High Reaches duties." Oh she's well caught on by now. "I--" She's caught off by the wail that pierces through the merriment, unaware of her hand moving to rest on Lya's shoulder-- unneeded as it is. "You may have been right."

Surely it doesn't count as polite behavior to grasp the items in question however briefly as Lya explains to Azaylia, "It's just that these are still sort of new," she is young, after all. She can't mean new-new, but probably changed from what they were some short turns ago. At least she has the sense to flash the Lord Holder an apologetic sort of look. And that's when Azaylia's introduction has her looking like she might just die on the spot. Definitely not polite to grab your breasts in front of the Weyrwoman. Definitely not. "Oh shells." Thankfully there's that... whatever happening on the ice, so she can look over there and try to gather wits. If she had any to begin with.

Some minutes have passed since the cry went up on the lake. Now, from the knot of gawk-- er, concerned citizens, emerges a young and buxom laundress cradled in the arms of a sturdy young man; though seemingly seemingly sure of himself on the ice, he's making slow progress toward the shore, another skater towing a healer behind them. Murmurs go through the group. Just a sprain, she'll be right as rain in-- well, not no time, but soon enough. No reason for most party-goers to cease their celebrating, surely, even if some fellow laundresses might be put out by having to cover extra shifts while she recuperates.

The Lord Holder doesn't seem to have noticed any exposed skin from Lady Snowflake. "The pleasure is all mine, milady. And duties to you, Weyrwoman." At the mention of skating, he claps his hands twice. A moment later, a small blue firelizard pops out of between, carrying a pair of ice skates by the laces. Lord Blovius takes them and the blue goes back between. As he's starting to untie the knotted laces, he looks up suddenly at the scream on the lake. His hand rises to cover his mouth in an oddly feminine gesture of concern.

Z'riah gives his impromptu date a strange look even from behind his mask. "Of course I know who that bitch is." And if she doesn't know, maybe that's a good thing. But he eyes her suspiciously before adding, "I think you're going to have to find some other life for your partying, sweet cheeks. Good luck with that." And with that, Lady Zif turn to head off somewhere else. Stupid X'vae ruining a perfectly decent party and he's not even here!

Edyis shrugs it off, as Z'riah departs, mouth forming into a line. She shrugs it off watching the other events.

Two heads come whipping around at the sound of the scream, but with the lack of anything truly exciting, they're quick to get back to warming their hides at the nearest bonfire. "Shiiiit," the flower girl moans as she bustles as close to the crackling flames as she dares, "times like these I wish it was Ista." She's already sizing up a leggy redhead across the fire, an action that is cut off by the two arguing blueriders they passed earlier getting into a scuffle. Curiosity in full force, the blonde rushes to the tight-knit circle forming around the pair, eager to catches the trails of gossip and commentary. That leaves her Casanova to circle the bonfire by himself, stopping to admire an extravagant hat someone's wear that looks as heavy as a firestone sack. Mumbling, he ducks his head and disappears into the crowd.

The commotion on the ice manages to snag Azaylia's attention before she can attempt to (gently) tarnish the fresh snow beneath her hand. She'll let go upon realizing her protective palm, pulling back to twine her fingers in front of her as she watches Lord Blovius summon his little blue minion. That earns a smile, the Weyrwoman's posture relaxing as she lets out a gusty sigh. "I need a drink." Not sounding as dire as the words themselves, she aims a warm smile at both bulbous 'holder' and Lya. "You're welcome to join me?"

Clad in a sparkly silver gown with a long train that glitters and pretty jewels spiraled in her dark hair, Ashe steps gingerly down the bowl to the lakeshore and takes it all in. All of it. She is under dressed for the season, but perfect for the sparkly... silver thing she is. Those who know the skies might see, in the twinkles of her dress, the northeastern sky and its bevy of stars and clusters of constellations mapped out over her dress in tiny flecks of jewel castoffs. "Oh! Good idea," she utters to herself, traipsing her way towards the warm weather tent and all its warming up goodies.

The Lord Holder regains his composure as he sees that whoever fell is getting medical attention. He raises his skates to the Weyrwoman. "Thank you, but I think I'll have myself a skate." With great difficulty, huffing and puffing, he manages to get his boots off and his skates laced up. He carefully steps over to the lake and glides suprisingly gracefully out onto the frozen surface.

"I don't drink," it comes automatically without thought from the snowflake, blushing again. Her look to Azaylia is apologetic. "Thank you again, ma'am, for the--" Everything. Then she's stepping back, wavering a little and turning to move toward the fire of wood rather than the living one and the Lord, nearly bumping into a dark haired man in riding leathers and a Benden Weyrleader's knot. It's hardly a costume, but then, are K'zin's ever really? It might just be the same mask as five turns back.

It's sudden when a brief bout of chaos erupts at the edge of the lit area. At first, it's difficult to say just what happened, but quickly the news spreads like wildfire. Apprentices. Weaver and Smith. It probably started with words, but soon enough, teenage 'good judgment' kicked in and fists were flying. They were broken up by nearby adults who can be seen even now, dragging a handful of apprentices towards the bowl by their coat collars. The party is over for them, and who can say what consequences will befall them now that it's come to blows! It's certainly put a damper on things for those riders and residents unlucky enough to play hero... which isn't to say they might not have bragging rights should they return to the party.

How quickly a Weyrwoman finds herself abandoned. She sends both Lord Blovius and Lya away with a warm smile and small wave, "Of course. Enjoy yourselves!" That just might be an order, gaze lingering on the snowflake long enough to watch her almost collision. There's a purse of her lips for the dark haired man, "The poor thing's already had one spill." A gentle scold for the masked man as she drifts past, toward the drinks. Except, can nothing go right this evening? Gauzy skirts are gathered up by the fistful, doing her best to jog in heels that are not meant for it at the commotion. "What..?" She isn't allowed to try and separate the scuffling youths, but in fighting against the protective weyrfolk's grasp, the goldrider slips. Fire down!

The Lord Holder displays some impressive skating skills, as "obese" as he is. He skates smoothly in a wide circle around the other skaters, then turns around and skates another circle backwards. His moustache flaps in the wind as he glides past, then jumps and performs a nicely-executed single toe loop.

Smoke and fire is something the dark haired man recognizes all too readily, altering course with the drinks he has in his hands to follow the flames. "I'm not aiming to let anyone fall for me tonight," comes his typically goofy humor. Only, of course, then Azaylia does slip and he's quickly shifting the drinks into one hand, sloshing a little, but what's more important? A hand for your weyrwoman or alcohol abuse? Some might argue, but it's the gloved hand offered down to the goldrider. His surely isn't the only one, but he's asking, "Are you alright?"

At the warm outfits and skates check out, Ashe finds herself accosted by a very pretty young man, and the two get on fabulously for a short while. She's not at a loss for partners most of the night, even if they never seem to last long.

"It's what I get for butting in," Azaylia tries to recover, slipping a gloved hand into K'zin's. She allows him to pull her up while her own muscles bunch and curl to make it a joint effort, grasping his arm as she makes absolute sure she's steady on those heels. "But I don't know what has gotten into those apprentices." A soft smile is offered up to the masked bronzerider, though it's his knot that earns him a double take. "Ahh... hm. Wishful thinking?" She can't help but tease, however gently. "I'm fine, thank you. I didn't ruin your drinks, did I?" Two drinks, which has her gaze lifting, searching for anyone who might be approaching them to retrieve one.

"Well, Ras forbade the dress," K'zin's grump isn't entirely feigned but conceded to letting me wear my dress leathers and call myself F'lar," because what else would K'zin imagine? "It was... easy," he admits, offering her over one of the drinks which only seem slightly worse for the encounter. "And I didn't have to shave my legs." He grins. "Besides, I thought I saw someone covering down the man-in-a-dress angle, didn't I?" His eyes range, too, but not in search of whomever the drink was intended for, but the aforementioned Z'riah, and instead pass over the Lord Holder on the ice.

After a while of skating and looking completely ridiculous (but graceful), the Lord Holder scrapes to a stop, his moustache half-falling off his face. "Whew, this thing is hot!" He pulls off his wig and the rest of the moustache. "OWW! That hurt." L'sha steps off the ice and removes his coat and greatcoat. As he does, a large pillow falls to the ground. The much thinner greenrider carefully folds the coats and lays them over a chair.

Azaylia accepts the drink, pleasantly surprised. "Rasavyth would." And though he's a spoilsport, the bronze dragon is spoken of fondly. "How is he? How are you? Better, is what I heard?" With the drink claimed, she'll go as far as to try and do the same to his arm in a friendly loop. "F'lar? I didn't realize!" There's some playful awe from behind her glass at being in such esteemed company, quieting her soft laughs with a sip. There's a nod, afterward, "You did. I thought it was you again, but..." As he said, Rasavyth is having none of that. She doesn't pay the awkwardly graceful Lord Holder any mind, not until the grand reveal that has her staring. "I thought..! Not an actual Holder but I could've sworn that was D'stin." Point for L'sha.

"F'lar doesn't quite have the same ring to it as K'zin, I'll admit," the bronzerider jokes, "Though I suppose you hear more about him in the history books, so far." The less illustrious bronzerider wiggles his brows at the Weyrwoman, grinning. The grin diminishes in brightness just a touch, but surely what he's drunk already tonight helps loosen his tongue as he answers more seriously, "We're in the sky again, that's what matters," in the way that one does when one has been through an exceptionally unpleasant ordeal. "Back to regular duties and helping with the weyrlings, so." So. Well, overall is the unspoken sentiment. "And you and Hraedhyth? Does the knot sit heavy--" he's interrupted as his eyes follow the Weyrwomans to L'sha and he's left laughing and clapping. "Well played, L'sha!" He calls.

L'sha looks even sillier now with a skinny upper body and fat legs. At the laughter and applause, he grins and bows dramatically for the Weyrwoman and "F'lar." He then goes about taking off the skates and the padded pants, leaving normal breeches underneath and a thin llama-wool sweater.

"It's the zzz sound. Much more fun to say." Azaylia admits with a laugh, and despite the various interruptions that night, she's determined to have a good time. "Good." The hug to his arm is short lived, "That's where dragons belong." Despite the fact that her own lifemate is in favor of the ground and more earthly activities. She stops to lift her glass toward L'sha as they pass, rather than try to wave and lose what remains in her glass. "It'll be hard to top that, next time!" As for her knot, "No heavier than usual. In fact, it might be lighter now than it has been in the past." Her smile brightens, "Hraedhyth's well. Happy as long as the Weyr is safe and she has a warm wallow to borrow for the evening." And now that Rasavyth is well enough to preform his regular duties, so too shall the warrior queen darken his ledge.

K'zin has a warm, close-lipped smile for the hug to his arm, no easy way to reciprocate the sentiment otherwise. He follows suit in cheering L'sha with what's left in his own glass after the clapping (barely more than a swallow or two), though thankfully what no longer is in the glass is more on his gloved hand than anywhere else, like Azaylia's nice skirt layers. He swallows it down and pauses briefly to lean and deposit it with a passing worker (poor short straw people) so his other hand is free to touch the arm wound around his briefly. "Good. I'm glad. I know we haven't been-- well, and I haven't been-- and--" maybe someday he'll finish this sentence? "But you know if you ever need anything-- even just," he shakes his head a little, "A laugh or whatever. I'm--" Does she know? Because he can't seem to find any of the right words.

L'sha waves to Azaylia as she passes. "Oh, I know! Don't know what I'll do next Turn." He giggles, back to his usual super-cheerful self. A handsome bluerider in dress leathers and an elegant mask skates up to the lake shore and scrapes to a halt, spraying L'sha with ice. "Hey!" The greenrider tosses snow at the other rider. He laces up his skates, then hugs the bluerider and skates off with him.

Though her fiery ensemble must have cost a pretty mark, Azaylia doesn't seem terribly worried about spillage. With those layers, there's little fear of anything actually soaking through. She's momentarily distracted by L'sha, far-away fair wells offered before the green rider is whisked off into the night. When K'zin begins to stammer, the Weyrwoman aims a gentle smile up at him and gives a little shake of her head. "It happens. I don't quite remember what about," With her own glass passed along, she's able to stroke his knuckles reassuringly, "Not that I'm asking you to remind me." The goldrider gives a soft laugh, breath clouding before she presses her cheek to his shoulder. "I know now. And my weyr is always open." To him as well as half the weyrfolk, but the sentiment remains genuine.

K'zin's short laugh is bashful, the glow light catching the very slight coloring to his dusky cheeks. "I'm not sure I could tell you myself." Bygones are good. Unmemorable bygones are better. "Sometimes I have trouble remembering things now." He reaches up to rub his fingertips across his wrinkled brow before letting his hand fall back to her arm. "Telgar sort of-- well, it changed things. For us. For me." His laugh comes again only the sound is more brittle; he seems to be laughing at himself at any rate. "Maybe I'll bring cookies," to her weyr; he remembers, apparently, having done that. "Unless you think Bones will claim them as usual. How is he? Haven't seen him since I've been back, but then I've-- sort of been--" Antisocial? Again, the words he wants don't seem to come.

Currently, F'lar the of Bendan is playing with living fire, Azaylia dressed in a deceptively warm gown of red, orange and gold. She peeks up at K'zin's brow through her mask, gaze dropping before it turns into a concerned stare. "A good change, or..? If you could find much good in what happened." Her tone is especially gentle, not wanting to pry but obviously curious. "Cookies would be wonderful. And... I can't promise that he won't. He still eats like... well, a Bones." Picking her steps carefully, she has little chance of falling with the comfortable hold she has on his arm. "I don't think Bones will ever change." Which is part of his charm, no doubt. "I'll tell him you asked after him, if you'd like?" The Weyrwoman finds comfort in listless wandering, so long as she has company.

"Yes, please, do." K'zin answers the lattermost first because that's easiest. "It's been too long since we've had a boy to man chat." There's another of his signature goofy looks, but they're earnest goofy looks. His hand rests on Azaylia's arm where it's wrapped around his own as they walk. "I'll risk it," he decides, "And pick some up next time I'm near Bakercraft." Those are obviously the best cookies. "But I'll take no responsibility once they've entered your domain." His tone is teasing. Then there's no avoiding it. Telgar. "Don't know, really. Telgar." He thinks a long moment, "I'd imagine some would say growing up is for the better." Thought at what price? "The memory thing is-- well, I got used to always being able to remember everything since weyrlinghood. Now-?" He shrugs. It's spotty.

'Lessa' evidently is a good excuse for a long dark mane, kohl for aquamarine eyes, and a dress that owes far more to Benden's Weyrwoman-- at least, by firelight-- than Lessa the drudge; Lessa-Telavi threads her way through the crowd, and if drinks had initially been promised, she's managed to track one down even so. She's hailed by Quielle, the girls pausing to airily kiss-kiss each other on either cheek, and the greenrider's quiet murmur has something to do with Savannah.

"I think," How Azaylia can manage to sound unsure about this, "It would be a man to man chat, these days." Just to make sure, there's a quick up and down as she takes inventory of F'lar and his growth. "Don't worry, I've got him weyr trained..." Be it guilt or the absurdity of it that makes her laugh, "Mostly. I'm sure I'll be able to have one before the crumbs are lost in his beard." It doesn't sound as though she has anything to add to the sobering news about his memory, but her coping mechanism is obvious. One must become un-sober, and she moves to steer K'zin somewhere with drinks. She manages a quiet, "I'm glad you and Rasavyth have been home. And are doing better." Lessa-Telavi must be using her inspirations ability to 'hide'-- or it's that the Weyrwoman hasn't seen her. Recognition is out of the question, but isn't that the point?

This unspoken unsober idea seems to resonate with K'zin, or perhaps he's still just that easily led (with Rasavyth for a lifemate and the Senior Weyrwoman on his arm, is it really so hard to believe?), because he goes wherever she wants. "Of that, I've no doubt. Maybe we've all grown a little." K'zin, a man. Bones, weyr-trained. His smile returns, if a little less vibrantly. He does collect a drink, and then a second, offering it to Azaylia, to be followed by a third, if she accepts, since surely the drink he gave her before was destined for someone, unless the bronzerider was trolling for tail. F'lar did have the reputation as a bit of a ladies' man, didn't he? Maybe it was part of the outfit. But no, "Lessa!" He calls when she's spotted. If that doesn't work, "Tela!" to try to summon her to them, lifting that extra drink in her direction. See? He didn't forget! (No one tell her he forgot!)

If only 'Lessa' were hiding! Still, it's quite the press, and not only does it take Quielle's nudge for Tela to summon back her borrowed hauteur-- one must be very nose-in-the-air, when one is an ancient Weyrwoman, so it's an extra-good thing it isn't raining-- but she also catches only the tail end of 'her' name the first time. Then she's pivoting on her toes to look higher. Why didn't she wear heels to make herself as tall as K'zin?! Just because stilts don't work well on sometimes-icy ground... at least she can catch Quielle's laughing comment and then head towards the bronzerider when at last she spots him... ditching the glass she did manage to co-opt as soon as possible along the way.

Azaylia isn't going to deny her own growing pains, though the only confirmation she offers is a thoughtful hum. K'zin will earn a bright smile in exchange for another drink, something light and bubbly to help chill the fire's core. The extra drink doesn't go unnoticed, not that the goldrider has to wonder for long, with his bellowing for Telavi. "Uhm?" Her gaze shifts to the crowd, scanning it until she catches sight of 'Lessa'. "Oh! Oh, that's so cute." They match! "Evening, Telavi." Known keeper of the "babies". She doesn't hesitate to slip free of K'zin, "I kept him warm for you." Considerate and playful, she gives a slow spin, careful on the heels that have betrayed her once already. "I should find my Weyrleader, before he manages to escape." And be with his family for Turnover. "You two look great together." It's the Weyrwoman's parting remark as she gives one last spin, before retreating with a grin.

"You mean, if he hasn't already," K'zin's tone is teasingly dubious of K'del, that rapscalli-- er, family man. He lifts his glass in silent toast of the Weyrwoman, smiling his farewell before he's turning his full attention to his Weyrwoman of the evening, offering not only the glass but leaning his head down to deposit a turnover kiss. This definitely isn't a diversion away from his possible but totally unlikely forgetfulness.

Telavi spares a quick smile and a wave for Azaylia, quite as though she says the sweetest things-- admittedly, Lessa probably never looked like that in her life, or if she did, the harpers didn't memorialize it-- and then, look. Kiss and glass, she takes both from K'zin with pleasure, and then it's off to while away the rest of the evening right into the new Turn.

And all the costumes!

Edyis

Dark brown hair streaked by the sun frames her long tanned face, kept in two braids woven to one, neatly hanging down to the middle of her back. Dark almond shaped eyes lend her a sense of inquisitiveness while her high cheekbones and faintly aquiline nose lend a sense of quiet resolve. Petite in frame there are hints of athleticism in her bearing and muscle tone, though she is decidedly feminine with the modest curves that such implies.

An elaborate mask obscures all but the eyes, and even those seen through a dark mesh though it seems designed to be easily slid back. Dark curls let loose for the evening cascade about her shoulders touches of green and violet dancing over the fabric of the costume composed of sisal fibers and feathers, bringing to mind an exotic avian of the tropics. The skirt is slit to thigh, allowing for freedom of movement.

L'sha

This seemingly middle-aged man has all the bearing of a Lord Holder, proud and tall. Adorning his face is an extravagant burnside moustache that starts under his nose, extends across his jowls and up past his ears. His dark brown hair is parted in the middle and slicked into tight curls. He wears a luxuriant purple waistcoat bordered with gold trim on the hems and around the buttonholes and a similarly-trimmed purple overcoat. The coat and waistcoat cover a large, round belly (although that could be a pillow) and the man's legs are similarly stocky (more padding?). His breeches are also a rich purple, tucked into shiny black calf-high boots. He seems like a jovial yet pompous fellow, looking down his nose at most people.

Lycinea

Beneath the ankle-length fur-lined tan cloak, white leather boots rise all the way up to the hem of the blonde's form-fitting white dress. Her skirt is opaque, its high waist belted with a translucent gem at the center of a flat bow; the bodice appears not to be, though, casting the illusion of a sleeveless top, collar, and high gloves done up in crystalline, see-through lace... whose subtle flesh-toned lining is all but invisible. Her sweetheart lips are painted a vibrant red, contrasting the pale skin that shows beneath her delicate mask; that mask matches the wisp-like lace of her dress, and further feathers upward like a fascinator in front of her smoothly coiffed blonde locks. From the slanted eye-holes, blue-green eyes look out at the snow-filled world: just another special snowflake among the rest.

Dress Picture and Mask Picture

V'ros

The young man who typically doesn't stand out in a crowd - he is average height and slim - has traded his nondescript appearance for something more garish. Warm, cinnamon flecked brown eyes peek out from the eye holes of a simple black demi-mask. Dark chocolate-brown hair lies flat against his head, an inch worth touching his forehead and the nape of his neck, and the rest is kept cropped close to his head. He has a short, up-turned nose and a blunt chin, rounding out a square-shaped face with a smooth complexion. Red lipstick mar his otherwise smooth, blemish-free skin, kisses smattered all over his face and neck from painted lips. His mouth bears one kiss mark at the corner.

Soft dove-gray wool has been fashioned into a high-necked doublet with long sleeves that narrows to fitted at his wrists. Black silken frogs secure the front of the top, from just under the collar bone down, where the topmost two frogs have been left undone to expose the lipstick-marred flesh there. A black leather belt cinches the fabric at his waist, overtop a pair of slim silhouette pants in a thicker cotton variant that are tucked into mid-calf high boots.