Difference between revisions of "Logs:Commiseration Drinks"

By now, most of everyone would've heard about the impending wing swap, and the reactions have been suitably mixed. After all, it's Monaco, and the relationship there has been by turns good and bad both. It's perhaps deliberate that, early that morning -- at the crack of dawn even -- Monaco, now High Reaches' Savannah Wing appears over the seven spires, trumpeting their arrival to all and sundry. By afternoon, they've begun settling in their weyrs, though R'hin's a little behind on that, having to work with the Headwoman on various details, sorting out inter-wing disputes over the best weyrs, and the like. And so, the wide, large ledge that he's (or rather Bristia's) chosen as their shared space is filled with unpacked boxes. At present, the bronzerider's reclining on one of them, drinking from a bottle while he regards the view. Leiventh, on the other hand, is perched up on the rim alongside Saindyth, and various other Monacoan dragons, making themselves pointedly visible.

All this trumpeting gets a baleful look from Vrianth once she deigns to unlid her eyes, the used-to-be-sleeping green ensconced on her own glorious used-to-be-her-sire's ledge. It's the sunset that the expanse of rock catches and not sunrise, and the faint breeze rustles through the the leaves of the trees that are growing heavy with fruit. « Happy, Leiventh? » She doesn't seem to expect an answer, and it's afternoonish that she swoops by for a visit... provided that the ledge isn't so filled that an agile green can't land, even one long-bloned for her kind. If it is, why, that would be quite the way of fending visitors off.

There's no answer, as expected, but there is something: the cold wintry winds of Leiventh's thoughts are flush with scents of newness and perhaps satisfaction, though they flitter away again, playing the part of prey. Given the spaciousness on the ledge, there's certainly ample room for a green to land: that the dragons can't fit is clearly not the reason the Monacoans are camped out on the rim. "I can't find any of my clothes. I'm going to have to walk around the Weyr naked," a woman's voice is calling from one of the passageways leading off the ledge. "You say that like it's a bad thing," R'hin's replying as his gaze settles on Vrianth, barely moving by way of acknowledgement of their arrival.

Much as Vrianth hadn't angled to pounce before, prey or no prey, so does she not approach Leiventh now. Nor does she Saindyth, nor the others, though she can't be unaware. "Is it a problem if she steals yours?" the greenrider inquires after a second look towards the weyr. She stays stationed atop Vrianth's neck for the moment, despite how the rangy green's begun to prowl amongst the boxes, sniffing. Eventually, she might even get to the other rider's toes.

"Only if she wants to look devilishly handsome," R'hin's quick to respond, rising his voice a little in undoubted warning to his... roommate? of their visitor. "My hot body combined with your clothes would tear a hold in the fabric of the world," said roommate responds, and there's a flash of blonde hair at the entrance, quick and brief, but drawing R'hin's amused gaze for a beat. By the time he looks back, Vrianth has more of his attention than her rider, though the words are for Leova: "Is this High Reaches' way of intimidating the new arrivals, now?"

Brief as it is, it garners a wave from the greenrider, and then she's cupped her hands over the point of Vrianth's neckridge that lies before her. That one-cornered smile of hers has lingered, thanks to the visitors' quips. As she looks down to R'hin, "And I'm representing High Reaches these days, am I? And you're intimidated, are you?" That smile of hers deepens. "Look at you, back at the Weyr," for all that he'd left before she'd even arrived.

"Back in my day, the welcome wagon used to come in a pleasant guise, a shower of petals, and a roll amongst the sheets." Clearly all a fantasy, and yet R'hin's eyeing Leova speculatively, as if waiting for her to do just that.

"Not needlethorns?" though the greenrider's tone is amused rather than acerbic. "Or wine? Though a shower of that might get sticky."

"But the getting-it-off would be the fun part," R'hin counters with, his grin deepening. "But yes, if it were you, then needlethorns might be more appropriate."

Now that that's settled, Leova can slide down, Vrianth crouched enough lower that she can linger hot breath on the man's ankles. The greenrider, though, she's turned her head enough to give him a glimpse of that smile before getting her own look around. "Reckon you'll forgive my not calling you wingleader-this, wingleader-that. Do I make my own introductions or will you do the honors?" given how she's already padding towards the weyr.

"Go ahead," with an indulgent wave, that seems to be R'hin's blessing for Leova to strike out on her own; he's occupied with the bottle of wine and Vrianth's steady regard, to which he murmurs: "Tracked down Leiventh yet?" with a small, knowing sort of smile.

In a dress more suited to the hotter climes of Monaco, Bristia's in the midst of boxes, hands on her hips as she regards the half-unpacked weyr, throwing over her shoulder in response to footsteps: "You know, if you don't start helping, Rath, we're going to end up on the floor."

Vrianth inhales in even more leisurely fashion, though her headknobs are tipped forward, towards the man. Towards, at least, until she twists to soak up that much more of the sunshine, never mind that her tail inscribes a long, curving line before him. Surely not as a footrest. Her rider can look around the more openly for Bristia's back being turned, though she doesn't pause long before replying: "How much do you expect him to help, really?" Her alto's low as ever, smoky as ever, but friendly in a way that holds less reserve than R'hin ever sees. "I'm Leova, by the by. Well met."

A footrest? R'hin wouldn't dare, and doesn't even attempt the transgression of testing that offer. "It does get some nice afternoon sun, doesn't it?" If anything, the bronzerider seems oddly pleased with Vrianth's satisfaction? at the ledge's sunny disposition.

Bristia doesn't seem that surprised, after all: not even a jump; instead, there's a laughing smile. "Well, if past experience is any indication, self-satisfaction and comfort are the best motivators. Bristia. Leova, mm? I've heard... plenty." There's a wealth of deliberate innuendo in that word.

Certainly the dragon's eyes whirl blue, if not wholly so, as deep and intense of hue as ever. Her dark-sparred wings unfurl enough into that sun to shade boxes and boxes and more boxes, though not the man himself. Perhaps it even has something to do with that pleasure, that respect. Leova's more low-key than her green. Mildly, "'Bristia.' Can't say as I can say the same. Is this the part," and her smile deepens, if asymmetrically, "where I'm supposed to perk up my ears and ask what, what?"

"Only if you think what he says has any truth. Or that what I repeat does," Bristia replies with an easy smile. "But I'm glad we met; you're about my size." With a pleased up-and-down assessment. "If he's dropped off my box of clothes between, I'll--" she doesn't finish the threat, but there's a gesture held low and with some sort of squeezing motion. "You going to stay? We were planning a weyr-warming involving one of Rath's more expensive bottles of whiskey, to soothe the... transition."

R'hin? He just drinks his wine and soaks in the atmosphere, unbothered by Vrianth's claiming of his ledge, even if it's short term.

"There's generally some truth floating around in there," Leova allows, and not completely unseriously at that. "And you, I'll give you a shot, hm? Wouldn't advise you to steal my wardrobe if he had, though, you've more style." Not that, in summertime, she can dress in as boxy a fashion as she might ordinarily. There's still something about the slight bell to her layered tank tops and the cut of her short trous that's less than illuminating of whatever physique lies beneath. "But I'd be happy to join you. In the interests of soothing, mind. Hope you at least got first jump on which side's yours?" this with a nod towards the twin doorways.

Bristia's clearly aware of the flattery, and it makes her smile in a way that both acknowledges and pushes past it without awkwardness. "Sides?" she inquires with an arch of brows, as if unaware, or just playing the part well. "Come on. Before he starts without us," like she's speaking with experience, swaying her way out towards the ledge.

It's calling it into question that has Leova doing a visible double-take, followed by a brief laugh. "Wasn't fishing," is straightforward, with the rueful ring of honesty. "I like weyrs, what people do with weyrs." She doesn't mind whiskey either, apparently, nor following Bristia's lead... if in direction rather than in swaying.

"The way we're going there'll be no sides, just the floor," is Bristia's eventual answer, thrown casually over her shoulder. Out on the ledge, R'hin's still making do with the wine, and the look he throws at the pair of greenriders is wary and thoughtful, centered mostly on Bristia, who is too well trained to give anything away by her expression. Her, "Tell me you remember where you packed the celebratory whiskey?" is met quickly: "You mean the commiserations whiskey? Yes, it's--" a flailing hand indicates somewhere behind his stack of boxes, "Back there." R'hin pushes to his feet in an effort to find said drink. "Hope you'll survive without glasses. Unless Vrianth has some packed about her person? And don't worry, Vrianth, I won't tell anyone what we talked about, if you don't." A wink is given towards the dragon.

The laugh that follows Bristia out is considerably less brief, and warmer, too. Leova does pause on the threshold between shade and light, though, almost as though waiting to be invited but out rather than in. She regards the pair for that time. The way they interact. The way Vrianth draws her tail neatly back to herself, before it can so much as risk being stepped on. The dragon otherwise doesn't appear to respond, but there's something that briefly narrows Leova's eyes before she steps out to assure them, "I ride in Glacier. We only get glasses once a seven."

"I'm the one who initiated that tradition. If only to try and keep things vaguely civilized." Hard to tell whether the claim is an honest one, but being a former Glacier Wingleader, it's one R'hin can probably get away with noting as his own. "Ah, here! Now, I'll have you ladies sit down and give proper respect to the vintage of this bottle," and right around here there's a loud groan from Bristia, a roll of her eyes, and a muttered, 'here we go', which R'hin pretends to ignore: "It has its roots in both High Reaches Hold and Crom, which is fascinating, because the two blends were distinct for such a long time..."

"Did you," distinctly amused. Not that Leova sees fit to argue, not when she can pull up a crate and watch the R'hin-and-Bristia show. She's gotten herself a spot closer to the other greenrider than to R'hin, perhaps solidarity, perhaps audience. After a slanted, even more amused look at Bristia, "And what were they like? The High Reaches original. The Crom." Do tell.

"There's not enough whiskey in the world for that story. Or," Bristia pauses with a speculative look at R'hin's suddenly taut expression, "Maybe there is, but we haven't reached it... yet."

"Yet," R'hin allows, and it's to Leova that he offers the bottle first, perhaps because she's the visitor, or maybe just in sly retaliation to Bristia. "History is such a dull subject to drink to, especially since we'd be forced to ask you met that boor of yours, and it's far too early in the night to fall asleep." That earns an attempted kick of bare feet from Bristia in R'hin's direction, though the bronzerider's clearly used to it, grinning in a completely unrepentant fashion.

Not as though Leova hasn't a speculative look of her own, though she's less overt about it. The sip she takes is shallow enough to be able to savor instead of sputter out the burn, deep enough to not be a poser. And just for that boor, she deliberately takes another with her eyes on R'hin before offering the bottle on to Bristia. "The future, then. Do you like that better?"

That earns a smirk from R'hin in response. "The future... a Turn here in this," a beat, "Our former home to pay penance for political machinations. Should be fun." He's reaching for the bottle, but Bristia's having none of it yet: the greenrider's savoring it indulgently, blue eyes bright with amusement as she adds, "I'm sure it will be. Rath shepherding the wayward and downtrodden troublemakers of Monaco -- what could possibly go wrong with that?" Strangely, the blonde ex-harper sounds like she's looking forward to it. She tips the bottle Leova-wards in offer.

Watching, Leova chuckles, just under her breath. "When you put it that way. Looking to find some of our youth to take back with you?" A souvenir of sorts, ike a bottle of wine, or that of the whiskey she accepts and takes a longer drink from. She eyes R'hin, speculative in a different way: for show, for Bristia. She looks back and forth, to him, to her. And back, offering it over this time.

"No," R'hin's quick to respond, "I did plenty of stupid shit in my youth that I wouldn't wish to repeat. Well," after a pause and a dark chuckle, "Not without a great deal more finesse and some witty one-liners to accompany it, at least." The Monacoan... well, Reachian... takes the bottle with a flickered smile, fingers pressing over hers briefly during the transfer. Bristia's "Young, naive Rath?" is responded quickly with, "I was never naive. Idiotic, maybe," the bronzerider concedes, before his eyes go back towards Leova, "As for Leova... I bet she was a wild creature." He continues to watch her as he imbibes the liquid.

Her gaze flickers the way his smile had. Wild. Leova looks away from R'hin. Looks towards, "'Young, naive Bristia'?" Could it have been? "Meant, though: would you take back some of our kids looking for a different life. For better one-liners, maybe. Or just warm beaches. Or whiskey," dry, "if you don't tell them this is from Crom and High Reaches too."

"Oh, no. Bristia was born with a silver tongue and a-- ow. Sharp foot," R'hin hastily amends whatever he was going to say as the greenrider pokes her toes at his side again. "Your youth?" a pause, "Via's not nearly old enough yet, I thought," he says, deliberately misinterpreting, "But, if you insist, I can take her under my wing."

Bristia leans forward to grab the bottle from R'hin, smirking. "The transition from north to south is a pretty big contrast. Not everyone can... manage it." She's looking at the bronzerider as she says it, a humor in her voice.

"And good aim," Leova murmurs to complete the sentence. Which doesn't mean she doesn't narrow her eyes at R'hin, more than she strictly has to, her reproof so very serious to match. "No, not her. We're not going to make a habit of swapping our children around. Pick someone else's." Too serious. More conversationally, "Happen to have a test worked up yet, Bristia, to predict who'll make it? Or is it a matter of throwing them in the ocean and seeing who swims?"

"Any better and he'd be curled up into a ball," Bristia agrees. "And my test is whether they can survive an hour in Rath's company without throttling him, they've a chance," she replies, as she hands the bottle over to her fellow greenrider. "Which means, you realize, that Leova passes the test," R'hin says. "I realize," Bristia replies, archly. The pair of them glance at each other for a long moment, then at Leova with various, weighted expressions.

And Leova, she eyes them quite mildly back, those amber eyes reflecting the pair and once in a while allowing a slow, feline blink. Dryly, "Don't know as it's been an hour," this time. "Might've been more like three-quarters. Might want to wait a bit longer, just in case." The bottle secured between her knees and the press of her thumbs, she curls her fingers illustratively.

"Yes. Not quite an hour," R'hin echoes, movement coming from the stillness with an exhale of breath, followed by a dark chuckle. "And there's plenty of alcohol to be drunk in that time." Bristia agrees: "Celebration drinks." "Commiseration." "Same, same." The bronzerider stretches his hand towards Leova for the bottle.

"Close enough," Leova says simultaneously with that 'same, same,' and then laughs, low. Before she'll give it up, she has to drink, and then glance at the other greenrider: does Bristia have a competing offer?

Bristia gestures for Leova to hand the bottle to R'hin, adding: "He's far more fun when drunk." One has the feeling Bristia's idea of fun isn't the normal sort of fun, however.

"What counts as fun?" Leova inquires, and complies after a sip that this time is significantly more discreet. She even waits until the bottle seems solidly in R'hin's hands before letting go.

"You'll have to wait and see," Bristia replies. R'hin has the bottle in hand, and is already shaking his head, "Evil wench. She clearly just wants to have her way with me." Bristia waggles a finger warningly in his direction, "I'll remember that one, for later."

"She will," R'hin allows with a pleading look in Leova's direction, "You'll save me from her, right?"

"Of course," Leova murmurs to Bristia, all weary-like. She may not turn out to be entirely invulnerable to the pleading that follows, but she can hold up two fingers and say, "Two things." One. Two. "First, you probably won't mind by that point. And second, R'hin," her voice shading into fond reminiscence, "you look so much like your daughter."

After R'hin safely places the bottle into Bristia's hand, he holds up three fingers. "Three: that means you will help. Aunt Leova was always the favored one, Riahla tells me." Of course, he assumes she means Riahla, probably not incorrectly. "She's a little upset with me right now, for not taking her. Like I had a choice on who to bring." Nevermind that quick look towards Bristia, and the greenrider's sly, secretive smile before she takes a drink.

Not at all incorrectly! "Of course she'd say that when she visited you," Leova points out, regardless of whether the bluerider still claims that now. "No choice, hm?" She looks to Bristia, too. Vrianth looks to the lot of them instead of whatever she'd been observing about the Bowl, that long neck fluidly twisting to let her gaze roam parallel to the path of her spine. "Hard to believe you couldn't be persuasive. Where they're concerned."

"Had I been that persuasive you'd have been at Monaco with us," R'hin says, and it's difficult to determine if he means it seriously or not; certainly his expression seems to suggest as much. And, as if testing her theory, he gives her his best smoldering-eyed look, and waves his hand as if trying to entrance her, "You will leave Glacier and join Savannah Wing." Still holding the bottle, Bristia watches this bemusedly, head cocked to one side, cradling the bottle.

"Mm." Leova, noncommittal in all but the slight tilt of her head, something that she might have escaped if he hadn't been quite so welcoming a host. "I will leave Glacier..." she affects a dazed voice just for this, looking at him, "...and take over for U'sot and bore my dragon out of her busy, busy skull." It's less dazed, that, and closer to regretful of something.

"See? Hopeless. I'm doomed to be ignored by the women in my life," R'hin says, overdramatically staring distantly out into the wide open skies, like one of those picturesque 'See Pern! Become a Harper Today!' posters that occasionally circulate. The bronzerider ruins it a moment later with his boyish grin directed towards the lithe dragon: "Vrianth could fly with us while you looked after the injured dragons." Bristia's rolling her eyes again and groaning with the weight of it all, mock clutching her chest. "The feels, Rath."

All that, R'hin and Bristia combined, distracts her from so pensive a mood enough that Leova actually laughs outright. Her dragon snorts, again back over her shoulders, and edges towards the outermost part of the ledge as though to look for her own: it might have been invaded in her absence, after all. "She might, you know, if you intrigued her enough." Leova's brown cheeks may have flushed from the liquor, but she can still be curious. "What does Savannah do to keep itself occupied?"

A flicker of cold wind from the distant rim, this time Leiventh maintaining the connection. An invitation, perhaps? Or at least leaving the door ajar, just in case. "Don't tell anyone but... I'm making it up as I go along," R'hin admits. Bristia nods agreeably, "Mmhm. Top notch leadership right there. Aren't you glad Azaylia agreed to the deal?" She is, at least, finally passing the bottle over to Leova.

"I'll try not to shout it from the heights," Leova says, at once amused and dry. She takes the bottle back, but only sips, and that shallowly: a waste, really. She should pass it on. "Might be, I should ask what K'del will do with you." She doesn't. "Or whether you brought anyone I should keep an eye out for?" Possibly even in her professional capacity.

Certainly, R'hin doesn't reach for the bottle yet, so he seems to assume the sip is a prelude to a larger drink. "If he's smart, the first thing he'll do is demote me and make her Wingleader," he jerks a thumb at Bristia. There's a moment of pause where the pair of Savannah riders exchange glances, and near-simultaneously, "Nah," "No way," from them. "All of them," the bronzerider adds, for Leova's last question, with a dark chuckle. "There's one in particular that you need to watch out for," Bristia intervenes. "He's smooth, and far too sure of himself. Definitely one to keep an eye on," with a pointed look at R'hin.

"Really." Leova manages to look so surprised, no, amazed. Call it an exchange: she offers the bottle back to Bristia, "For your warning," instead of R'hin... and Vrianth takes wing, surveying the skies and the Bowl before finally, choosily, joining once-Monacoan bronze and green. Also for Bristia, "How good are you at keeping an eye on him? Should we count on you?"

"Hey!" because R'hin takes his alcohol seriously, mind, and the woeful look he gives Leova as she passes him over is only half-feigned. A rumble of greeting from the bronze is given to Vrianth as she arrives, which is echoed in turn -- probably unprompted -- by the other Monacoan-born dragons on the rim. The sun is warm, and the rim gives them a good view of the Weyr, not to mention a way of being seen by all and sundry. "I think it's my lot in life to be doomed to stop him tripping over and breaking his neck... metaphorically speaking," Bristia says, looking smug at her possession of the bottle, taking a pointed sip while looking at the bronzerider. "But," after she lowers the bottle, "I could use some help. I mean, it's a full time job."

It's that initial rumbler by whom Vrianth perches, whether there's little room or a lot. She has a darkly brilliant gaze for the others as well, of course, and a silent brush of electric energy that roams along each mind in turn. It carries her name and seeks theirs, names and more. And though she perches alongside them, she has the casual assurance of one who's known this place for nearly two decades, her entire uninterrupted life, as her own. "Mm." Leova's gaze has stayed on Bristia, though now it diverts long enough to say to R'hin, "Next time." Probably. "You claiming you've better things, Bristia? Things you'd rather do than ride herd?"

They make room for her, shifting in that easy way dragons do to avoid collision, somehow. They respond in turn: Leiventh going first, even though he's already familiar, already has the winter winds of High Reaches in his mind. There's Bristia's Saindyth, and A'gon's Druisath, and others, welcoming her amongst them with an ease of relaxation. "Plenty of things. Things undone, never done, never will be done." It's the harper in Bristia that's speaking, still holding the bottle. R'hin's giving her an intent sort of look, and he shuffles closer, his hand briefly resting on her knee, but then, well, the upturned fingers are snatching at the bottle, with a laugh and muffled protest from Bristia. It takes some time to sort out ownership of the bottle -- Bristia wins, of course, looking smug -- and sets R'hin the task of carting a few more boxes into one of the inner weyrs before she'll release it to him again. In the meantime, she and Leova can share a few more exchanges.

During his tenure as Acting Weyrleader, K'del's not made many changes to the wings; he seems determined to act as caretaker, which is also why he's not moved into the Weyrleader's Weyr, presumably. It's interesting, then, that a number of rider transfers are made towards the middle of month eight, with Polaris being the main beneficiary.

It's perhaps more interesting that most of the riders being transferred into that wing are those known to have caused trouble in one way or another. Word is that Monaco has requested a temporary wing swap, a practice that while not unusual has not so much been in practice, these recent turns.

By morning of day 25, month 8, most of everyone would've heard about the impending wing swap, and the reactions have been suitably mixed. After all, it's Monaco, and the relationship there has been by turns good and bad both. It's perhaps deliberate that, early that morning -- at the crack of dawn even -- Monaco, now High Reaches Savannah Wing appears over the seven spires, trumpeting their arrival to all and sundry. By afternoon, they've begun settling in their weyrs, though by then Wingleader R'hin's Leiventh is perched up on the rim alongside the various other Monacoan dragons, making themselves pointedly visible.

In exchange, Polaris has gone to Monaco... but on the plus side, well, the storerooms are looking increasingly full all of a sudden, and with Nabol's tithes still likely to be on the short side, that can only be a good thing.

Probably.