Difference between revisions of "Logs:Never Say Never"

Riahla and her socially-awkward blue have been entertaining Leova for most of the afternoon, giving them a tour of Monaco, along the vein of "this is where we eat," and "this is where I punched a jerkface bronzerider in the nose", etc. The tour ends, almost inevitably, at the beach bar, where catty people-watching is just as inevitable. From behind them, a low, amused -- familiar -- voice. "Well. If it isn't two of my favorite ladies." R'hin leans down to press lips to the top of Riahla's head, ignoring her wrinkled nose and roll of eyes with aplomb. "Bristia's looking for you, Ri." He's talking to his daughter, but he's watching Leova, gaze amused.

Leova's been happy to be an entertained quasi-aunt all this time, too, leaving Vrianth to sun on the water's edge when she isn't prowling into the jungles. Not like they never have been to Monaco, no, but things change. Fashions change, even those that are where people like to eat, and that jerk-punching needs not only a compliment but a check to see whether his nose got broken. Mostly, it's good to see that Riaha's all right. That she's herself. That this place is still something like a springtime paradise instead of what's getting colder and colder back at home. The ice in her drink doesn't make things so cold as to go amiss, though, and if the bartender here isn't like the bartender there, well. The drink's still tasty, the company's... Well. "R'hin," the greenrider says mildly, rotating enough upon the stool that he isn't wholly at her back, and cloaks her gaze in a glance to Riahla. Will she go?

The mild greeting is enough for Riahla to look at the greenrider, though whether that's meant to convey something will remain a mystery for now. Still, "I'll see you later," is directed Leova-wards, and another look to R'hin earns a low-throated chuckle from her father, who is quick to take Riahla's chair, making himself comfortable. "Leiventh heard Vrianth arrive earlier," he comments, like he keeps tabs on this sort of thing. "I undoubtedly make a poor substitute, but I'll do my best to uphold Monaco's hospitality."

There's a bemused look right back, and Leova says fondly, "Even if I see you first. Thanks." Riahla will know what for. She watches the girl instead of watching R'hin sit, turning back at his dragon's name right before hers. There's no surprise on her brown features, only, "As you should, seeing as you've stolen my native guide. She didn't leave you much of a drink, though, did she." She waves to the bartender, like she'd play host.

R'hin seems amused by this: Leova playing host, and he allows it, casually stretching out a hand to take Riahla's glass and drain the dregs, as if it were a crime to waste good alcohol. "Had I known you'd be so amenable to my company, I'd have joined earlier." It's hard to tell if that's genuine sentiment or further attempt to needle her; knowing the bronzerider, it could well go either way. "Via's well? And that ball-and-chain of yours?"

Either way, both ways, it's not a comment that the greenrider rises to. Nor is the last. Instead, "She is, or so I have word." Those amber eyes don't shift from where they have come to rest on R'hin. "She'd have liked to see her cousin. Stories aren't the same. Should I be inquiring after any more recent offspring of your own?" The bartender's back with a fresher drink for R'hin: whether one that's usual for him or something the lanky man's come up with of his own accord, the greenrider doesn't ask there either.

"Have word?" R'hin echoes her intonation precisely, punctuated with a lift of brows in surprise. His usual is something less garish that the normal brightly-colored faire: it's a dark liquid, served neat -- no ice. One of High Reaches Hold's liqueurs, perhaps. "Me?" the Monacoan affects surprise and affront: "Leova, what sort of man do you take me for?" Which, in the end, isn't an answer either way; he's seemingly distracted reaching over to pick some errant, and perhaps nonexistent, fluff from Leova's hair. "I've been hearing some surprising things from High Reaches of late." An invitation to divulge, perhaps?

He heard her. He doesn't answer, but then she hadn't either, and the clink of ice is her glass coming to rest on the bar as Leova wraps her free hand around R'hin's wrist to drag it down. She doesn't work hard to make her hold unbreakable, but then, it's up to him whether to be considerate of his drink. "It was wonderful to see Lujayn again," she says frankly. "Not just because she's my clutchmate," and old friend, most days, "either. Even before, though, don't worry. I won't ask to send Via to Monaco." The Weyr could have a more emphasized inflection. It doesn't.

"You had something in your--" R'hin's fingers might be pinching some bit of fluff, but if it's there the wind takes it as his fingers loose when Leova captures his wrist. "Oww. Be nice," he scolds, play-acting more pain that is likely being given. "Via's not mine," he says, kind of reflexively, before he looks at her with a all-too-smug smile, "--or is she?" He knows she isn't, and yet he can't help himself. A considering beat later, the bronzerider reaches over with his other hand, and attempts to reposition her hold on his wrist, guiding her thumb towards the nerve. "Try there, instead. Just a little pressure."

Leova could help herself, but she scowls at him anyway. "Don't even start that." Perhaps it's the consideration, or the couldn't-get-more-public location, but after a moment of resistance she permits the tutelage. If it is that. Searching out pale eyes, hers hold a quiet intentness as she presses as directed. Lightly. It's just that it's also with her thumbnail.

On reflection, R'hin admits, "It would unsettle the twins no end," which doesn't mean he's not still considering suggesting it to them. The sharp inhale of breath and sudden tension in the bronzerider's posture suggests she's hit the right spot, and her use of nail earns a somewhat strained flicker of admiration. And pain. "Easy there, wild cat."

She doesn't touch that statement. She's busy. "How many other people do you call that?" Leova asks, though it can't be important next to what she's learning. She's still looking at the other rider. She eases up, obligingly, then swipes the callus of her thumb across that same spot like the cat's rough tongue before trying it again. This time, she doesn't use her nail. This time, it's on the level.

That makes him grin. Of course it does. "Why. Jealous?" R'hin's grinning with that sort of smug, knowing smile, like he's caught her out. Until about when she tries pressing that nerve again, and the smile falters into something more like a fixed grimace. "You're lucky," he says, with a hitched breath and perhaps a faint sheen of sweat the evidence of his reaction, "I don't mind being punished... by you."

"Seeing how original you are...n't." The greenrider studies the bronzerider until, at last, he's done speaking and she can let him go. It's to reach to swipe her thumb across his forehead instead, though, to see whether that part of his reaction really is real. "You're in a mood." It comes with a briefer, even puzzled version of Leova's one-cornered smile.

There's a subtle release of tension when she releases that hold -- the sweat's real enough, and the gesture of distrust earns a low-throated chuckle from R'hin. He leans forward long enough to clink his smaller glass against hers: "If you're nice to me, I'll show you more. Somewhere more private, though -- I have a reputation to uphold." Whether that's his manly stature, or his taking of greenriders to private locations is left deliberately uncertain. A bit more cheerfully now, if slightly rougher for the alcohol he downs just before: "I'm always... in a mood. You just aren't around me often enough to see. Or," a lopsided smile. "-you're around me in the company of your ball-and-chain, and he brings out the worst in me."

Leova sniffs her thumb, dubiously, then wipes it on the hem of her shorts. It doesn't stop her from taking her drink back, though, nor does the clink slow her from drinking. "No time like the present," she says, her alto all easy certainty, smoky as it always is with or without a drink. "Since that's what you mean by nice." She even straightens, only to stop. Look. Listen. And then smile again, still one-cornered to go with her one-shouldered shrug. "Maybe he doesn't want to be reminded, R'hin, that you keep thinking about his... chain."

"That's your version of nice? Anvori's more a kept man than I suspected," R'hin's amused, and the words are clearly intended to needle. He'll take his time -- good liqueur must be enjoyed, not swilled, after all -- and after her drains the last, stretches in a languid manner. "Well, I'm certainly not thinking about his balls," he says, playing along and indulging her. Rising to his feet in one smooth motion, he stretches out a hand for her to take, expectantly.

If he's going to try and needle... "You don't know the half of it," Leova says with satisfaction thick enough to spread, not keeping that smile to herself as she settles up with the bartender: his and hers and what she'd worked up with Riahla, too. Quasi-aunts' stipends have to be good for something. Once R'hin's done with his own bit of hedonism, she gives him widened eyes as she stands. "And yet you seem to enjoy bringing them up," right before she slides her hand up his to take his wrist. Not that spot, though, not yet.

R'hin's not all that keen on her buying, but she's far too quick and the marks have already changed hands by the time he takes note: a faint snort of amusement conceding defeat on that score. "We don't have that many mutual interests, other than the twins; what else would you like me to talk about? Brazenly interrogate you about High Reaches? About Lujayn's refusal to return?" He, of course, heard about that. "I can be less polite, if it eases your mind." And when she takes his wrist, it's with a dark twist of lips that he angles his body closer to hers, so it merely looks like he's escorting her away from the beach bar, back towards the Weyr proper.

"Not that we know of, but then again, I've sworn off 'I Never.' Please, interrogate away." It may be less magnanimity on Leova's part than an admission of concern, combined as it is with, "I like to call it a show of support. She's bought us some time." Leova's not such a gracious guest as to angle right back into him, but she is looking up at R'hin, is following his lead. Let them see what they want to see.

"How terrible. I suppose I'll have to find another way to get you drunk, then," R'hin concludes, with a cluck of his tongue. Through the Weyr proper -- though it's probably hard for one from a Northern Weyr to regard it as such, given there are no protective calderas or soaring spires -- instead there are huts, leafy wallows and, in R'hin's case -- an open-aired structure, with a roof to protect from the rain, and flowing, loose material serving to keep out the bugs. He holds open the 'door', such that it is, and gestures for her to enter first. Of course, that means giving up that near-pressure-point hold she has. Inside, it's fairly simplistic and spartan -- large bed, wardrobe, chest, table and chairs. Nearby, a leafy area appears to be sized for Leiventh's bulk.

"I suppose I shouldn't help you," Leova says with a shake of her head. She's looking about, though, tracking the route and where it branches off from that to Riahla's residence or the other places she's more familiar with. When she enters, there's no question of not letting go. No, after the initial scan she bypasses human furniture in favor of crossing to what passes for Leiventh's couch. There she crouches, examining the leaves for depth, twigs, branches, bugs, brownness. "About how many days old is this? Assume he likes it all right."

"What, help me help you get drunk?" R'hin pretends not to understand, pale gaze tracking Leova's beeline to Leiventh's side with amusement. He stays in the main area, rattling in a cupboard and pulling out a pair of glasses, along with some amber liquid. Over his shoulder, he answers: "I put down fresh branches every couple of days. Tell the truth, he doesn't always sleep in his wallow." He says it kind of matter-of-factly, not bragging, merely stating it.

The dragonhealer laughs, but stays where she is, as she is. "I'm making off with one of Leiventh's twigs. If he winds up missing it, tell him I"ll make it up to him." She's already broken it off, and now examines the wood that's exposed that way, moving on to one of the leaves and how it does or doesn't smell when it's crushed. "No reason why he should, especially with weather like this. They're social beasts." Still in her crouch, Leova glances back. "Does he have any issues with being bitten? By the bugs," with a nod to the gauze that hangs elsewhere.

"I'll remind him; I'm good at remembering debts." This seems to amuse R'hin greatly, even if he does indeed say so himself. The sound of liquid splashing into glass is audible, and the Monacoan sets the decanter down on the table once he's done, picking up his own glass. There's a second one, but he leaves it on the table, too -- presumably for her to either take or ignore as she chooses. R'hin intends to indulge, however, while he watches Levoa with no small amount of bemusement. "Hide's too thick for them to get through," he says. "You should try it. It's like... camping out. All the time. But with a decent bath and food to hand. You're welcome to take advantage of my... amenities." He gestures towards the room at large, lips twisting amusedly.

"Drop by in a couple sevens, I'll give him an apple," that being so useful to dragons. Leova straightens with what's left of her prize, bringing it back to R'hin's... "Table? Really?" For amenities. Her voice has gotten so much less deadpan now, better suited to the lift of her brows, that one-cornered smile. "I should. It looks to be extravagantly good at what it does, holding up a drink. Thank you." She tucks the twig into the upper pocket of her light tunic, the better to take the glass, the cock of her head listening for a crack that could presage the table's falling down without its load. Once she's disappointed, she glances up. "Don't you miss the privacy?" There's a rustling outside, someone moving by.

"Assuming the apple's sitting on top of a bovine, that's probably sufficient reward," R'hin counters fluidly. "And, it's a nice table. It was made by a Journeyman Woodcrafter who is now a Master -- feel free to crawl underneath to get a look at the seal," he offers, with a quick smile. "I don't come here for privacy. Which, I imagine, should make you feel safe. Here, drink up," he quickly, briefly, tips his glass towards her in toast, then gulps it down, before walking for the bed, turning back to face her once he's there, stretching out a hand in invitation. "If you're going to live with that oaf of a man, you ought to at least learn how to protect yourself. And our daughters," undoubtedly he means both Via, as well as Suireh and Riahla, but his intonation is deliberately vague.

"Sorry, can't give those away. Though if leaves did wind up being nourishing, and something they would actually eat, reckon that would be worth bargaining for." That old problem of supply. Easier by far to drop regretfulness for temptation with the slide of Leova's hand across the table, but no, she doesn't look beneath. Doesn't even upend it. When she drinks it's partway, unafraid to set the glass back down on the table and leave it for later. Or not. Hers is a slow walk towards him, habitual in its deliberation. "If he's going to live with me, shouldn't you say? Reckon they'd all be safer back in that village."

"They're Monacoan leaves; of course they're special." R'hin talks the party line with well-practiced glibness. "I think we already agreed that locking them away in a tower wasn't going to work; even if it'd make us feel better." He doesn't hold out his hand forever; instead, as she starts to near, he sits on the bed, tugging off his boots one by one, before settling cross-legged. "Sit behind me, and put your hand on my shoulder," he orders, in a tone that is somewhere between teacherly, and his usual glib innuendo.

"Of course." Leova's laugh isn't so deliberated now, and it's easier to toe off her sandals and follow suit. Not that she's trusting, but still the bed moves behind him under the weight of one knee. "Cross-legged like you, or does it matter? Kneeling? I think an undersea cell would be more effective, at least until they learn to work their wiles on shipfish."

"Kneeling, I think -- as close as you can. You'll need the leverage, because you're not as strong in the arm." The more fanciful thread of conversation is, for the moment, put on hold; R'hin's by shades as serious as she's probably ever heard him. "There's probably two good ways, for you. The first would be--" he stretches for her hand, and if she provides it, guides her arm so that the elbow rests over his throat. "--You brace into my back, lock your arm in place with your other hand, and apply gentle pressure. Not too hard, and not too long, just until limpness sets in."

She edges closer, reservedly at first, but that seriousness might as well be the alcohol she didn't drink. The reserve's still there, only slipped closer to her skin. She can, does, follow instructions. Leova moves with R'hin's guidance, anticipates, her inner elbow slipping into place a little too naturally about his throat. "Gentle, you say." Her voice is low behind him, not loud. She doesn't press in closely, yet, trying out one knee in the small of his back instead. There's nothing to laugh at, nothing to notice about his wording. "Would help to get an idea why they'd get here. Situationally. How likely it's useful." She hasn't applied that pressure, not yet.

R'hin's voice goes slightly husky, perhaps owing to the stretch of his neck as he tilts his head upwards. "You're a woman. A striking one at that. One should never discount your... feminine wiles. They are a weapon, as surely as any knife. Many a man has been caught off guard that way." The dark humor in his tone suggests that he might count amongst that number, too. "There's another--" but he'll let her get comfortable first, let her control the situation for the time being.

"Do you think," slight, slight pressure. If he can still breathe, surely he can still talk. "Do you really think, R'hin, that I do?" It's Leova's breath that catches now, hearing herself say it, out loud. But then, she has his throat there in her hands. If her mouth presses tighter together, it's far more stronger than the gentle, growing persuasion of the hold she still has on him.

"Don't... you?" the last comes out perhaps a little strangled, given her increased pressure. R'hin can't see her reaction, and perhaps there'd be more of a retort if he could. Abruptly, she can feel him go limp, a dead weight falling against her. Surely she didn't use that much pressure, did she?

Whether she did or she didn't, whether it's faked or real, Leova releases the pressure immediately for all that her arm's still there, waiting. He's not her opponent yet, not really. She waits, at least for a moment.

The arm helps, if nothing else, to prevent R'hin sliding over completely. But he is a dead weight against her. At least his breathing seems even, so perhaps he is playing.

"Wake up," is Leova's exasperated sigh. On its heels, a jolt of electicity is Vrianth checking with Leiventh: he knows what his rider gets up to, yes? But even before any reply, when the crook of the greenrider's arm loosens further, it's to scrape her fingers across his ribs in a would-be tickling swath.

Guarded as ever, Leiventh's darkness is stirred only by the distant sensation of cold, icy winds more at home at High Reaches than Monaco. It's the mental equivalent of rolling his eyes at his rider. He's long ago learned to accept his rider's strange sense of 'fun'. Oh, yes, those fingers get a reaction, a quick snake of hand intended to grab for them, seeking that spot on her wrist. Not to actually press, but to tease with the touch of his thumb, pale eyes full of amusement as they spring open.

Confirmation. Vrianth leaves Leiventh, an absence that's current moving elsewhere, laughter on the wind. "Funny," says her rider, darkly. Rather than dodge, she slaps that hand with hers against his chest, and that's when that darkness outside renews its rustling and noses her way in through the gauze like a silver-winged serpent. Vrianth, coming to claim the space. She's none too careful with closing the curtains behind her, either.

That slap can't have been too hard, but R'hin reacts as if it's a hard punch, grabbing at his chest and groaning. There's teasing laughter in his voice when he says, "I'm as funny as you are deadly. I do have one more," and he struggles to right himself -- assuming she loosens her hold on him enough to let him, anyway, he'll turn to try and face her. Vrianth's arrival is hard to miss, and the nod the bronzerider gives to dragon is one of respect. That sense of cool wind is still present, Leiventh watchful, his rider, if not him, perhaps remembering his last riposte.

Does Vrianth remember? Might not matter if she did, the green flowing past them with a rustle of spreading wings that just manage to dodge the table and pass over them like a canopy... before at last she takes up residence in the wallow Leiventh's abandoned. She might do it anyway. Her wings cup over the leaves, the better to try them out for size. Her less-enthused rider has meanwhile let Leiventh's turn, though not without first gripping a handful of his shirt in her hand to show what she thinks of all those groans. "Fine." But that word's only after, if, he looks back from paying her Vrianth that respect.

Leiventh's not territorial -- at least not about his wallow -- there isn't a strong sense of home or mine in his thoughts of the place, but still that sense of watchfulness, from a distance. "She's making herself comfortable," R'hin notes, with a certain kind of amusement and -- maybe -- even admiration. The grip on his shirt is met with a wide-eyed faux innocence, humor lingering in his gaze as he stretches out a hand -- slowly, like she's a wild animal that might spook -- towards her shoulder.

Situated as she is, with these leaves that are not quite her rushes and that she still hasn't decided are acceptable, Vrianth tracks that watchfulness in a flip of polarity: not here, then where. "She does that." Leova can't not smile, then clamps down on it even harder. She eyes his hand. Eyes him. She's no holdgirl, no crafter, her shoulder solidly muscled.

That question, more than her invasion of his wallow, has the bronze mentally retreating with a fading chill. From the base of her neck, where it meets the shoulder, R'hin's fingers move gently, pressing over the material of that gauzy overshirt, "--this would be easier if you took it off," he tries, without much expectation she'll relent, his hand brushing gently over the front of her neck, just to one side of the windpipe. "Find that point on me," he instruct, his eyes glued to her neck. "A gentle press." He waits, for her to find his, his fingers warm where they rest against her skin.

She's a quick hunter, she'll follow that chill as long as it lasts, and then set watch on the territory until it comes back. Call it a tripwire, behind which the green moves to infiltrate man and motives, passively at first: whatever of his emotions she can read, particularly those that don't match what she picks up from her rider's senses, and any unwatched thoughts flung out beyond the confines of his skull. Nothing to set off alarms.. or at least such is Vrianth's intent. All that in an instant, as her rider's still saying, "Don't doubt it." She doesn't. Doubt or relent. Darkened eyes don't look at his face either, but rather track her fingers against the topography of what lies beneath his skin. Leova pauses without pressing. "Here?" It's very low.

While he? He is the darkness, the night through which she hunts, unrelenting and unending, leading her on an endless chase through distant, foreign landscapes. "Yes." R'hin's answer is a ghost of a whisper, a slight, faint press of fingers and thumbs on either side of her neck. She'll feel that lightheadedness a few seconds later, and he eases up, though his fingers still linger there, while he his gaze flickers up to watch her face.

Endless... until she senses what game might be afoot and retreats anyway, unwilling to be captivated and distracted for too long. Going somewhere is one thing, however long the duration. Nowhere, no. Not for a nothing-game. Not, especially, when she can sense her rider's consciousness drift, her eyes begin to close, and Vrianth won't have it. She rumbles, warning. It brings her Leova out of that dizzy moment right with R'hin's release. The woman's brown skin has paled, eyes already seeking out those of her green. Once she's found them, though, then she can finally look back at him. Respect's in her voice, and not just respect. "Dangerous."

That hand slides to her shoulder in momentary support, even if it's not needed. "In the right hands," R'hin allows, and then he, too, is looking in the green's direction. "She should know I would never hurt you." Leova should, too, is his implication. "Another splash of that drink will bring your color back before you leave." He shifts his weight to stand from the bed, assuming she's steady.

Her throat is dry, certainly. "Reckon it's what we were trying for." To learn, at least. Whether Vrianth knows what he says she should, whether Leova knows, neither of them says. Leova's steadied, but so much of it may be when he goes and Vrianth comes in a rustle, this time, of leaves spread over the floor and her neck wrapped near enough to lean against. She's hardheaded enough to say, "Your turn still, I think. Want to get it right." Vrianth still doesn't say, but she does check with Leiventh, if he's near enough to hear and minded to reply. Wouldn't he? And then, Accidents happen.

He rocks his weight back to sink back onto the bed, a dark chuckle escaping him as she declares it his turn. Still, there's a wary light in R'hin's eyes, more for Vrianth than anything. It's respectful, too, but a wary respect. His amusement might answer Leova, but his words are directed to Vrianth: "She's going to hurt me -- could you can give us some room?" Oh, Leiventh watches, like a silent shadow, though he doesn't interfere.

She could. Yes. Does she want to, now, that's another question entirely. In Leiventh's silence, Vrianth stays where she is, that so-long neck of hers surely not so massive as to break his bed down. Her eyes are deeply, intensely shaded, not wholly any one color. It's Leova who voices the suggestion as she straightens, one hand unthinkingly bracing herself on Vrianth's neck as she slides away from the green, "Lean against her, then. She won't hurt you." It's close, quite close, to what he'd said.

Meanwhile, R'hin's not taking his gaze off of Vrianth. "Forgive me but -- dragons are creatures of emotion, and the moment. As good as my intentions may be--" respect, but wariness, and unapologetic refusal.

He has limits, then. "How much of that is Leiventh?" asks Leova, low-voiced. "Vrianth," and it may start out as a nudge, for the rangy green shifts near-bonelessly, flickering her tongue at the man's sandy hair before deigning to move back to solid ground. "Wouldn't stand for it. If it were me." The bed's otherwise empty, then, but for R'hin and for Leova on its edge. The tilt of her chin says he may arrange himself how he likes. Or refuse, again.

Pale gaze lingers on Vrianth until she retreats, a subtle tension noticeable only as it fades away from R'hin's frame. Finally, the bronzerider's gaze shifts back towards Leova, but he doesn't answer the question -- another limit perhaps? -- but he does watch her expectantly, his silence tacit invitation.

Leova's own gaze has diverted from him back to Vrianth, again. If there's momentary humor for her dragon, there's more than a moment's sternness, and even when the greenrider turns back the dragon doesn't move to speak of. Perhaps she wouldn't have anyway. Leova waits. A moment more, and what had become a quiet electricity in the air becomes noticeable as it begins to subside. Leova nods then, and turns back to R'hin, and slides along the bed's edge to sit closer to where he kneels. "I'll stop," she says quietly, "as soon as you signal. Just, please don't fake that this time." And if he continues to accede, her hands slide fully around his neck this time, back to front, little warmer than the air. She hunts down the pressure points by memory and feel and his reaction. He can move her hands, if he feels the need.

There's a slight shake of his head, before one of his hands lifts settle on hers -- to guide her thumb into place; he doesn't move her fingers, like she's hit the right spot. R'hin's eyes are fixed on Leova's, no more attention for Vrianth now that she's retreated. There's a brief twist of lips, as he murmurs, voice rich with amusement, "I'll behave."

"Good." Repressively. Her mouth presses against itself, but less so than her tone, and fingers and thumb press lighter than either. Leova waits for it. She'll lean in, if she needs to, but not right away.

R'hin's gaze stays on her, steady, lips quirking upwards as she leans forward. She can probably tell, in that pale gaze gone suddenly distant, in that rush of ice-cold wind and keen dark, swooping around him. She can tell the moment when it starts, but he does not signal.

Why, then Leova does not stop, not this time. Vrianth's is a sudden, leaping interest, but she does not move. The greenrider's eyes have dilated. All he'd have to do is fall back... or not even that, to halt this thing that Leiventh lets him do.

Leiventh is there, close, shadowing the bronzerider even as consciousness fades, the biting wind of his whipping sharply and tightly around him as if holding his awareness aloft. And then, as R'hin's eyes start to roll back, a heated rushing roar that rolls over riders and dragons alike. « Enough! »

So that's what it takes to bring out Leiventh's heat. Don't think that Vrianth will forget, even as she shivers, even as Leova does, the woman's fingers darting away as though burned... only to have to swing around as a guardrail, just in case the man begins to topple. « Leiventh. » So good of him to join them. « He may not thank you for it. »

There's the reflection of a snapping snarl to warn Vrianth to keep her distance, though the sense of him retreats by measures. R'hin's hands fly upwards, in some reflection of Leiventh's warding gesture, and after a moment, he drops his head into his hands, focused. "It's fine." He's not talking to Leova, though it could be taken as such.

The problem is, for Vrianth, that's incentive. Not that, this time, she follows the older dragon in his apparent retreat... though there's a sense of current moving, too far along the spectrum for light. Thinking. Leova's rocked back so as to not unwittingly be hit, but now she reaches for the man's shoulders, on the very outermost edges where they turn toward his arms. Her fingers may, unthinkingly, bite. She doesn't demand that he look, doesn't demand anything except, "Careful."

There's a slight flex of his shoulders where her fingers bite into his shoulder, but R'hin's concentrating on his breathing. He doesn't look up, and his voice is rough, no longer full of that earlier amusement: "How about that drink?"

Good. He's alive. That might make her bite harder for an instant before willpower takes hold. "I'll be right back," Leova says, keeping one hand on him as long as she can before she has to release him to get to the table. Get the decanter. Get her glass, because even if it's half full it's faster than pouring, and give it to him. She stays there next to him, all but hovering.

There might be a little tremor to the hand that reaches up to take the glass from her, but R'hin tosses it all back in one go, then exhales sharply. "My head," he says, with a faint hint of his normal humor, "--is going to hurt tomorrow. Next time, be more gentle with me. You were my first." Her hovering is noted as pale eyes lift towards hers.

He is alive. That's one way to turn worry into a more familiar exasperation, right before Leova reaches to steal that glass back. If she can, she'll pour herself a half-glass and knock it back straight, and if she can't, she'll have to drink right from the decanter. 'That'll show him. "First and last."

"Never say never." Familiar humor, and he allows her the glass back, and while he's watching her, he stays seated on the bed -- perhaps a sign of lingering effects.

"No." Which might be agreement, might be refusal, given how rough her voice is in that moment. She stays close but at the outskirts, a press of her knee against his if he's still kneeling that close, no more. Leova's refilling the glass, after all, to hand back to him this time. She watches him. "I'd like it better if Leiventh were here before we leave."

"Plenty of room on the bed," he's teasing her again, and he's stretching out onto his back as he does it, waving off that drink -- which is unusual for him. Finally, though, more seriously: "He'll come," the bronzerider assures her, "Once Vrianth leaves."

So she knocks her fist against his retreating knee, not hard. It may be just as well that he's stretched out like that, given how much easier her expression is to read, the wanting to know. "She'll go," Leova agrees. "He'll come. I'll go." She just has to wait for it to happen, and in the meantime if he won't drink she will, though it starts out as just a sip. Finally, finally Vrianth bestirs herself to get up, scattering even more leaves on her way to look both of them over. Leiventh's rider gets the closer appraisal, and after that, the green stalks out. See, she's left. She's waiting right outside, but still. Left. Lower, "Just making sure you're all right. Pretty sure folks don't normally teach as far as all that." Dimglow.

Perhaps it speaks to his frame of mind that he doesn't even fake wince at that knock to his knee. R'hin's astute enough to hear the unspoken sentiment at the end of her chastisement, and it makes him unaccountably smile. "I believe in method teaching," the bronzerider states, silent for a moment: listening, maybe. A hint of cold at the edges of that electricity, almost easy to be missed. A shadow in the growing dark. As if his sentiments are held tightly around him, Vrianth can feel the intensity of Leiventh's presence as he passes by, a bare twitch of acknowledgement in the cant of his hooked nose in her direction as he moves into his wallow. He ignores R'hin too. Dimglow, indeed.

"Mm." Leiventh's presence brings Leova visible relief, though to Vrianth, it's considerably more ambiguous. They'll stay a little longer, long enough to feel assured of the other rider's relative safety, decanter and glass left on the floor at the head of the bed in case he changes his mind. If he and Leiventh wind up spotting stray leaves here and there for the next while... at least Leova will be sure to close the curtains with care on her way out. If R'hin gets bitten, it's because the other bugs already got in.

Silence. R'hin does not sleep while Leova waits, but watches her -- until she goes. Then he'll sleep. And when Vrianth takes off, a flicker of Leiventh's cold wind will chase after her, as if to say, off with you.