Difference between revisions of "Logs:Since The Flight"

Gnarled Roots Weyr, High Reaches Weyr

The short, steep tunnel into the interior of the weyr is rough at the start from the efforts of those once-magnificent trees, but further in even they haven't been able to move the slick stone floor. The hearth is large and well-stoked, and the heavy wooden shelves on the wall are bare save for rough timber logs propping them up. A mix of thick, brightly colored hangings and old tattered canvass curtain off the storage alcove on one side of the room and the low-ceilinged sleeping room on the other. Cracks along the walls leak in the wetter seasons, but the oddly round rooms are still in good condition, though they seem awkwardly placed in relation to each other. There's just enough room for a decent-sized couch pressed up between the entrance tunnel and the hearth, though it's cozy and well-protected from the chill outside.

The small amount of furniture consists of heavy wood-and-iron pieces too heavy to move out, including a pretty decent-sized bed tucked into the sleeping alcove and a desk pressed against the opposite wall from the fire. There's a large, beautiful rag-tied rug spread before the hearth, padded with an assortment of pillows both large and small. Though much of the dust has been swept out, the weyr has only a barely-lived in feel, and there's obviously quite a lot still to be done.

The snowfall out on the ledge makes Sforzath's landing slippery; his talons scrabble, his feet slide, and then he stabilizes, wings and tail position for balance. They slump though, weariness evident as he settles down while Riorde comes slamming into Taikrin's weyr without any sort of by-your-leave. "Taikrin!" She enters at a yell. "Damn fucking green flights -- where are you?"

As usual, Taikrin's weyr is more or less trashed. An irate looking Szadath is curled up on his couch (because when is he not looking irate, these days?), leaving the ledge unattended for Sforzath's wild landing. The brownrider herself is sprawled out in front of her fire and looking pretty sloppily out of sorts. Those are /probably/ the same leathers she was wearing yesterday, and she's definitely working her way through yesterday's whisky bottle. "What?!" she calls back in a voice that's at least mostly sober -- if a little irate herself. "'M in here, where's the fire?"

Riorde is more or less stripping on her long-legged striding towards the fire. The warm winter flight jacket's the first major item to go, dropped unceremoniously right after scarf and hat and gloves. Wool sweater next, halfway in. Her thin top last, ripped off over her head right before she straddles Taikrin. "You," she emphasizes, poking a hard finger at Taikrin's chest, "should have been there so I wouldn't be the only damn horny loser."

Outside -- Sforzath isn't sticking around to sulk alone in the snow. He takes off again shortly after Riorde's inside, vanishing off into the night for the warmth of his own wallow. In any case, Riorde doesn't plan to leave anytime soon.

"Hey, hey, woah--" It's not often that anyone gets the drop on Taikrin this way, though lately it's been more and more the case when a flight's involved. "Give me a half a sec, yeah?" She manages to save the remaining whisky bottle from spilling out all over the rug, and though she sets it aside quickly enough to rest her hands on Riorde's hips, her heart doesn't appear to be entirely in it. "Had-- had things to do. Can't go chasin' off after every green. Guess it didn't go real great?" From his couch, Szadath gives an irritated bellow and grinds his talons audibly into the stone.

"You don't chase after any green." Riorde's hands ball into fists, clutching the material of Taikrin's shirt in her grasp. "That's a stupid excuse, and you know it and I know it and don't fucking pretend anymore." Her hips are moving under Taikrin's hands, but if anything the brownrider's glare just becomes even more accusatory. "I shouldn't have even bothered coming here. I could've just picked up one of the riders afterwards. Maybe even a man." But here she is, grinding on her girlfriend.

Taikrin's hands had been helping, of their own accord: she is but a woman, and cannot resist. But then Riorde is making accusations, and the brownrider goes still. Her expression is first wounded, then angry, and then just tired. "So what? It don't matter, anyways." Szadath certainly seems to think it matters, given the gouges he's putting into his couch. "Why didn't you?" Never mind that her fingers are digging into Riorde's hips, all at odds with her casual question, as if to prevent the very /idea/.

"Of course it matters." Riorde dismisses that statement as she bends even closer to Taikrin, all sharp angles and lean muscles and bare skin. One fist relaxes, but only so she can slide her hand up into Taikrin's short-cropped hair. "You're not the same. It's not the same." At the question, she backs off just enough to get a better look at the other woman, though her hands don't drop away. "I don't know." Which isn't entirely true, since she follows with, "I like it better with you."

Ouch, low blow. "Fuck, Riorde, what d'you want me to say?" At least Taikrin doesn't sound angry. Just-- passively resigned, like she'd been waiting for this. "Sorry I ain't good enough anymore? Sorry." She seems content to lay back, fingers dug too-hard into Riorde's hips, and not quite meet the other woman's gaze. "I'm not-- it's the best I got, okay?" Szadath disagrees. Apparently he's sick of listening to this enough that he all at once pushes out of his couch, lumbers to the ledge, and takes off into a blistering flight up towards the spires. "What do you want from me?"

It'd be better if Taikrin were angry; they'd fight, scream at each other and battle with fists, and likely end up fucking. Instead, Riorde just rolls off Taikrin, flopping over onto her bare back alongside the other brownrider. She stares up at the stone ceiling and lets out a long, frustrated sigh. "It's obvious that you're not happy. That Szadath's not happy. I want you to fix it."

"No, see-- I /am/, wait, hold on." That finally spurs Taikrin into motion; she rolls over onto her side, and then up onto her knees. "Don't-- it's just, it's complicated, okay? I don't want you to-- what do you want me to do?" Taikrin's request seems genuine enough, even if the overtures she's making are kind of awkward: a hand on Riorde's rib cage just below her breast, while the other clasps at her fingers. "It's fine, see, I'm just a little drunk, and you surprised me, so-- you just gotta give me a minute, yeah?"

"Taikrin, stop." Riorde gives the other brownrider a look equal parts resigned and pitying. Neither of which bode well for recovering the moment, if ever there was one. She gives Taikrin's fingers a little squeeze though before going on to say, "You have to actually want to. Not just humor me. It doesn't work on me. I remember what you were like before."

Taikrin looks hurt, but not altogether surprised, when Riorde rebuffs her. "I don't," she admits after a moment. "Remember about before, I mean. I don't-- remember what it felt like, from before The Flight." It must be something in particular she's talking about, because the capitals are all but audible in her voice. She settles back down next to Riorde, laying back on her side with her head pillowed against her arm. "You're sure it ain't... always been like this?"

Riorde turns to her side, mirroring Taikrin's position. The fight's gone out of her, tension dissipating from her frame. "You don't?" The lift in her voice admits surprise. "No. It wasn't." Ri's quiet a moment, considering Taikrin in the light cast from the fire. "You wanna tell me about it?" The Flight. She's never asked.

"No. Yes. I don't know. I don't think about it." Taikrins modus operandi: avoid, avoid, avoid; deny, deny, deny. "It was okay, I thought we were good, you know? Before she went up that time. We were fine. It was fine. But then she went up again." She's rambling, aided by the whisky bottle she leans across Riorde's torso to retrieve and start swigging from. "I dunno. I can't. Reckon I'm fucked up forever? Szad reckons so." Her accent is thickening with distress, though she hasn't had enough time to get that drunk.

Riorde lies there half curled up and watching Taikrin as she starts to talk, then pulls herself up to sitting after she hits the whisky. "He can't really think that." Ah, the faith of one's dragon; it's what Ri picks up first as the most important piece of the jumbled jigsaw bits Taikrin lays out for her. "What happened when she went up again?"

"Sure he can. Loves me anyways, but he can think it. Reckon probably I broke him, too, yeah?" Mmmm, whisky. It must help, given how quickly Taikrin is polishing off that bottle. "Not her. Before. I remembered-- from Fort. That time, with the two? When they almost?" All at once she's angry: for a moment it looks like she's going to throw the bottle, or punch someone, or maybe both, but instead she just grinds her teeth together. "They almost got us /killed/, those fucking Fort idiots with their fucking golds and their fucking-- fucking-- /idiots/." It's not something Riorde might have heard about-- Fort's fighting golds was before the exiles were discovered.

Riorde starts to reach for the bottle, but stops with her hand halfway out when Taikrin looks set to smash it. Her hand drops onto her knee, and a line of concern pulls her eyebrows in. "I-- don't know what you're talking about," she admits in that unhappy tone she gets when her lack of typical Pern knowledge reveals itself and sets her apart, outside normal society. "You'll have to tell me."

Angry Taikrin is good, at least, because angry Taikrin is at least emoting and talking and /sharing/, even if it's expletive-laden. "The whole fucking Fort goldflight fuckup, when they got that junior killed because they went up together. Szadath was-- he was /right there/ and he almost /had her/ and then they were /fighting/ and the whole thing was /fucked up/ and they could have /killed him/ and I can't let him /die/." The crux of it; she's more or less shouting by the end of her tirade.

Riorde stays quiet throughout it all, eyes on Taikrin widening. Not much, but enough. Silent at first, Riorde lets out her breath in one long whistle. "Fuck." With feeling. She shares the word and, to a certain extent, the sentiment.

At first, she doesn't entirely realize that she's said it all out loud: it must be an argument Taikrin's had a million times in her head, because she's got that fixed dragonrider expression. Then there's color in her cheeks, and she's looking at Riorde like she doesn't quite know what to say, except, "I didn't-- so-- I don't know what to do. I can't let him go."

Riorde's response is to scoot in next to Taikrin, fitting herself against the other brownrider's side. It saves the need for the two women to look each other in the eye, as Ri rests her chin on Taikrin's shoulder and puts her arm around her waist. It's companionable, this time, rather than demanding. "Fuck-ups like that aren't supposed to happen. We had it drilled into us. It won't happen again. But you're killing him like this." She lets her low comment sink in, sharp chin still resting there with a slightly heavy weight. "If we went together, we could watch out for each other."

"It's so lame," Taikrin moans over a bark of almost-laughter. "Can't even go to a flight without getting sick all over the floor and flipping my shit." But she leans against Riorde's support, eyes half-closed. The best she can offer is, "Maybe."

With her face hidden from view, Riorde grimaces. She rubs the small of Taikrin's back, at a loss for any suitable response beyond that of touch. Still she tries, and maybe the trying itself is enough. "We'll figure it out."