Difference between revisions of "Logs:Expectations"

Keroon

Near a minor hold in Keroon.

A rhythm fit for a savage dance stomps on the very edge of the bronze's thoughts, growing louder with each passing second. Glorious freedom whips her flames into a frenzy, not too distracted to keep Hraedhyth from conveying a message, « Mine would like to see yours. » Shocking? Perhaps. « When you are able. » Where are they? The gold shares plains not unlike her own, wide stretches of land that Keroon is known for. Room for even a dragon her size to run, to wrestle, to leap into the sky when the ground grows tiring. And no sand! (Hraedhyth to Leiventh)

A fleeting, distant sense of jungle fronds and oppressive heat, but it fades into the background, buried beneath the cool whip of icy winds that surround Leiventh's presence as he listens in silence for a beat or two. The answer isn't immediate, though the bronze's thoughts have a sense of welcoming and respect for the High Reaches' queen all the same. « We will come to your rider's other home. » It's a pointed phrase, an acknowledgment of that which is seen-but-not-seen. « We will see you soon, Hraedhyth, » the Monacoan bronze promises, a rush of heat rising up from nowhere, fanning those flames -- before it dissipates as he retreats. (Leiventh to Hraedhyth)

The plains which Hraedhyth shares are only a few miles away from the minor Hold, her rider's other home, as Leiventh puts it. The gold is currently stretching muscled limbs in a run, leaping into the air for as long as she is able to sustain a glide. Her landings are rough, holding nothing back as she tests her limits without the fear of crushing eggs or more recently, dragonets, underfoot. Azaylia is perched atop a small boulder, knees drawn up and hugged by her arms, robin's blue sundress doing its best to flutter in the mild breeze. She watches her lifemate carry on with a warm smile, bare feet curling into the craggy rock beneath her, sandals set aside for now.

Leiventh appears in the air high above, a dark glimmer against the sky. His path downwards -- which takes him in a wide circling turn -- seems deliberate, to allow both himself and possibly his rider time to take stock of Hraedhyth and her rider's whereabouts. A quizzical twitch of air is sent in the queen's direction, Leiventh bemused by her actions. The bronze sets down far enough to be no impediment to Hraedhyth's glide, R'hin dropping to the ground moments later. He's unzipping his jacket even as he makes his way towards Azaylia, his gaze of her distracted by her queen, momentarily. As always, there's little greeting, yet he comes to a halt at the base of the rock she's chosen as her own, shading his eyes to look at her with a twitch of brow that is an odd and perhaps unconscious echo of Leiventh's wordless query.

Leiventh's arrival doesn't go unannounced, for as soon as Hraedhyth is aware she gives him a throaty bellow in greeting. There's no patience in waiting for him to land, so she continues to work off that excess energy. No, she's not frolicking, thank you. When he finally does touch ground, « FIGHT ME. » Her nightmarish armies cheer, though the bronze is welcome to decline her invitation to wrestle. Azaylia greets R'hin with an uneasy smile, though her attempt is genuine, "This is the first time we've gotten away since..." Blink. She likely doesn't remember. "She's just happy to get away. It'll pass, when she gets homesick. How are you? And Leiventh?" A hand lifts to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun, looking over at the bronze.

The gold's proposition earns a haughty look from the statuesque Leiventh. « Are you well, Hraedhyth? You sound like the weyrling dragons. Perhaps you have spent too much time with them. » His memory has them tiny, bawling, zipping everywhere with an infinite energy and capacity for curiosity. His preference is much more for staid silence and composure. Shucking fully out of the jacket, R'hin's wearing his customary loose white shirt beneath -- but at least this time it's done up. "...I see," comes the low response, after a moment, smile flickering across his features. "Perhaps I should have brought something to drink? Some food? A harper for us to dance to?" He stretches out a hand, upwards towards her, though whether it's to offer said dance or merely in greeting isn't clear. "We're well as ever. Keeping a close eye on things, of course."

Unladylike snort is doubly heard, Hraedhyth's drums speeding up to keep time with whooping, mad cackles within her ranks. « If you were bound to the Sands, you would understand. » But he doesn't, so the queen won't try to pull him into her games. "I already had lunch. I thought about bringing you a slice of pie," Her strong hand slips into his, giving the man a chance to brace himself before she slips down from the rock. "But Mama said you'd have to come and get it yourself." So, no pie then. She takes a moment to find her sandals, slipping her feet into them, eyes on the task as she asks, "So then you've heard about... Aishani?" Without an appropriate pause to compose herself, the name is uttered with a touch more emotion that is polite. Her fingers tighten around his hand in the same moment, squeeze reminding her to let go, "Sorry."

The bronze considers her for moments more, then finally: « I have done my duty as a sire many times over. » But regardless it's obvious he doesn't understand -- either her delight at being free, or her verbosity. Leiventh settles for a gentle, whipping fan of her flames, though physically he remains still, watching avidly -- maybe waiting to see what she might do next? "Oh, you should have," on the topic of pie, apparently, amusement light in his voice. His jacket is draped over the rock, before he reaches to steady Azaylia as she steps down from the rock, his touch lingering with ease, giving her balance as she retrieves her sandals. "I'd very much like to meet your Mama," his smile widens, "And I appreciate the offer. But first--" he spreads his hands, smoothing quickly past the fact that he's accepted her likely unintended invitation. "Mm. News like that travels fast." When her hand tightens in his, he steps closer before she can release her hold, a little humming note perhaps sounding his intention to pull her into a dance. The Monacoan bronzerider's hold is light, however, easy to break free should she choose, pale eyes glimmering.

Perhaps there's truth in Leiventh's words about her hanging around the weyrlings as Hraedhyth's response is near juvenile, « Not mine. » Though there's vague recognition that Iesaryth's are tied to him and Monaco. Tawny form quivers with even more energy, and she takes another running hop-leap into the air. The statuesque bronze may be buzzed by the joyous gold. Azaylia's gaze lifts only when realization hits, "Oh you-- She'll think-- No." A mix of amusement and horror, though her answer is firm. But is the weyrwoman really as rude as to take back such an invitation? His hum has her hesitating long enough for him to take hold as her features tightening in a curious glance. Just when seems the goldrider is about to pull away, she stiffly complies, hand lifting to grip his shoulder. She's willing but only just, the act of one who is trying too desperately to please. "I'm not surprised." Quietly bitter, she levels her gaze at his throat, brow pinching thoughtfully. She's not a terrible dance partner should he decide to lead, but she's a distracted one.

Leiventh is a study in contrasts to Hraedhyth, not even a twitch or quiver as the queen passes by so closely. While his reticence to express outward delight as she does could well be take as a measure of age, the studied whirl of his eye and unruffled mental state likely suggests it's probably more attributed to his general nature. Finally, however, he comments: « Would you like to race to the Hold and back? » An odd offer for the bronze, perhaps -- maybe he's just indulging her? R'hin bestows pleased confused look at Azaylia, though the twitching of his lips suggests he well understands her predicament -- though he makes no move to demur on the offer, all the same. Instead, his faint humming turns into a lively-paced dance, with perhaps enough energy to rival Hraedhyth's. The steps aren't complicated, however, for all that energy expended. "I did try to warn you. But you wouldn't have listened to me anyway, I well suspect. She is--" a pause, a questioning look, as if giving the goldrider a chance to amend the verb, "--your friend. And I," a grin, as he moves to twirl Azaylia, "--am merely a nosy bronzerider."

Hraedhyth's « YES. » is paired with another bellow, bone clubs sheathed so that she simply drops and skids to a stop. Of course Leiventh is humoring her, but the question is does she care? Azaylia is not given enough time to brood before being swept up in that dance, grateful for uncomplicated steps. "Friends don't lie to you for turns. Not about something like that." Her grip tightens with emotions that don't make it to her face. Brown eyes slide up to catch his gaze, flicker of suspicion smoothing into a resigned stare. "You probably did." Try to warn her. "A lot of people did. I let her take the Weyr. I let her--" Guilt is spun off her face as the bronzerider twirls her, coaxing a squeak of surprise out of the 'Reachian rider. There's a fight to keep the awkward smile from claiming her lips, "A nosy bronzerider is what I need right now." Perhaps an explanation for her humoring him?

A brace of icy wind accompanies the words: « Ready? Set. Go. » Leiventh hears humans say that all the time. He even fakes a start by spreading his wings, and tensing, allowing Hraedhyth to get the jump on him. Allowing, in fact, her to lift into flight while he settles back down, wings folding neatly against his side, falling to stillness again. There's a faint noise that might be acknowledgment of that statement -- friends don't lie -- though given she's accused him of doing the same all the time, perhaps R'hin doesn't feel he has the credibility to weigh in on that particular score. "Do you think she means the Weyr harm?" Is he merely echoing some sentiment he's heard, or is he reading between the lines? Either way, his attention is fixed firmly on her, the dance easy enough that he barely pays mind, aside from the pleased chuckle that squeak of surprise coaxes forth. "The race isn't over yet, kitten," he declares, before his steps slow, visibly surprised at her latter words. It passes swiftly, and there's something alert in his gaze as he asks, deadly seriously, "What do you need?"

Hraedhyth is too hungry for any advantage to wait and see if the bronze takes to the air. Why wouldn't he? It's when she's halfway to the hold itself that she thinks to look back, drums falling into ominous silence. « That is not funny. » And yet, black smoke does its best to smother laughter's flame. "I..." Azaylia's eyes glance over, following her dragon's return as she searches for an answer. An honest one. "I don't know. She could. She might. And that's enough to have me worried." The weyrwoman decides, focus brought back to R'hin with his use of that dreaded petname. Rather than argue, "No, it isn't. That's why I... need your help." Though the dance slows, her hold on him tightens even more, as if afraid that the bronzerider might flee. "I need to be better. I... Iolene wasn't trained by Tiriana. And Lujayn did the best she could, but..." She wants to look away, wants to hide at having to ask something of him. Instead, she forces herself to hold his gaze, "I want you, if you could please-- I need to find out if there's anyone, any weyrwomen, who might be sympathetic to High Reaches Weyr. I need training. Proper training." A need for a nosy bronzerider indeed.

There's no sense of gratification or amusement from Leiventh; instead, he's matter of fact: « I could leave now and still beat you. » The thought is, perhaps, deliberately challenging to spur her on. And it serves to allow him to stay right where he is. « But you did not go all the way, so you did not win. » The bronze's whirling gaze tracks the High Reaches queen, the chill winds of his thoughts winding about her. The tighting of the goldrider's grip doesn't go unnoticed by R'hin, and he allows amusement to slip into his features. The dance may have stopped, but he's not letting her go, more than content to let his hand linger at her hip, though perhaps it's mere distraction at her query. "Given everything, Monaco's would probably be a poor choice, though Mirinda would be a good mentor." There's a purse of lips. "Telgar, I'd imagine, wouldn't be adverse to getting a foot in the door. Benden, possibly. Either way, there'll be expectations. But," with a smile that is part reassurance, part question, "--expectations can be managed. If you feel you can manage them?"

Competative nature wars with pride, and on her way back Hraedhyth stops to hover. Pounding beat is pensive, blows to drumskin much harder at her annoyance, not dignifying any of his words with a response. A decision is finally made, and when she does reach the bronze it's with a hearty whump to her landing. His punishment? To be leaned on quite heavily as the queen volunteers him for an unrefined bout of snuggling. After asking her rider for the proper words: « Pompous ass. » Azaylia doesn't seem to notice their pose or the fact that they're no longer dancing. "I didn't think Monaco would be, no." No humor, the weyrwoman is oddly intense. Desperate. Worrying her lower lip, she's no longer looking at R'hin but through him, "Telgar is where Teris is. That... is not good. There were rumors, earlier. I don't want to cause anymore trouble." She decides, "Benden would be best." His smile has her brows coming together, faintly worried. "Expectations? I... at this point, I don't know what I wouldn't do for my Weyr." She means it, despite the flicker of fear in her eyes.

The chill touches of wind hesitate, edging away as the queen nears, then drop into stillness as she leans against him. Startled, Leiventh is, though that doesn't mean he doesn't allow it, even if a bemusement lingers in his mental state. « Yes, » he's blithely accepting of her description of him. Though that doesn't stop him returning, « This is so much more proper. » He probably means the being still, less so the unrefined snuggling. Still, he remains rock to her lean, maintaining his position with the steadiness of certainty. "It's more... High Reaches, than Monaco I was concerned for." R'hin, too, has no care for the dragons right now, attention fixed firmly on Azaylia. With a slow nod, he concedes, "As you wish. I have some contacts at Benden; I'll see about making discreet inquiries." It's her latter words, as much as the sudden fear in her eyes, that makes his hands shift to her arms, his hold on her tightening, abruptly, unaware that he even does it. His voice turns sharper, harsh almost: "Do not say that aloud in front of others, unless you wish to be used, kitten." A slow breath, as if controlling himself, his fingers loosening and brushing down her arms, though tension still lingers visibly in the Monacoan's posture, and in the line of his jaw. "We did not work so hard to build High Reaches up for her to be whored out so easily. Make no deals with other Weyrs. At least not without seeking my guidance, or... or K'del's. Promise me, Azaylia. Please." The last, her name, and that last word, are whispered, intent, almost a plea -- an unfamiliar tone from the bronzerider, but no less intent for all that.

« Proper is boring. » Hraedhyth lobs back, husky contralto mimicking his haughty tone as best she can. But she is a dragon of earthly pleasure, and even if it's Leiventh she still enjoys the physical contact. Her jaw rests across the bronze's shoulders, above his wings, ashen head pointed at the riders that ignore them. Red momentarily dances in the queen's eyes, Azaylia sucking in a sudden breath as R'hin grips her arms. Rather than recoil, her hands drop to his forearms, squeezing a silent warning despite the shock playing across her features. "I-I-Iwon't." Not quite a whimper, eyes still wide even as he releases her and she, him. "R'hin," His name is uttered with quiet sincerity, hand searching for his despite having only just escaping his grasp, "K'del wants to help me too. I won't make any deals, I won't do anything to put my... our home in danger. I promise." His intensity as well as her own has her closing her eyes, swallowing, "I want to fix things. I just don't... know how."

Leiventh appears to be -- for now -- content to let Hraedhyth drape herself comfortable over him, though there's a slight roll of eyes as if trying to make out just how strange this all might look. There's proprietaries to be observed, after all. A rumbling sense of tolerant resignation is felt through the bronze's hide, and that shift of mood in the queen is met with more resignation, this time at his rider. There's a mute apology in R'hin's gaze, as his hands drop loosely to his sides, rocking back briefly on his heels; he's silent, studying Azaylia, or perhaps taking account of his own demeanor, if the slow release of tension is anything to judge by. There's a surprise that flickers in his expression when she reaches for his hand again, and a hint of wariness, brief and quickly covered by a well-practiced smile. "Good," he finally utters, the rough pads of his fingers playing over the back of her hand. "Perhaps you should start, by--" he uses her hand in his to spin her, gently, facing her towards the pair of dragons and stepping up behind her, a warm presence at her back. His baritone is a soft murmur in her ear: "You see your queen? Much of how she behaves is instinctive. It's instinct for her to want to make herself felt. To make even bronzes of other Weyrs feel her presence. All dragons look to the senior; they know it instinctively."

Hraedhyth has no mercy when it comes to the bronze, and little care for what it might look like if they are spotted. This is simply something the 'Reachian queen does, be it with bronze, brown, blue or green. Leiventh is convenient. Azaylia catches sight of something, possibly recognizing his suprise. Before she can release his hand, he's spinning her, aiming the woman at their dragons. The tawny gold's head lifts, gaze no longer red but still whorling rapidly with all that her rider feels. "W-what? That's just..." The weyrwoman stiffens at his voice in her ear, hand pulled from his so she can wrap her arms around herself. Lips shift into a weak smile, pity felt for the foreign bronze. "Leiventh doesn't seem to appreciate it." R'hin's words are heard, "But there isn't a senior right now. Hraedhyth only sees Iesaryth as her equal." It is only then that his words are understood, "Oh. We're still equal."

Leiventh continues to bear up under less-than-ideal circumstances -- for him, anyway. Perhaps it's as much for him listening closely to their riders conversation for a moment, a chill wind spiralling around the base of Hraedhyth's fire. « You are a queen. » Does it need to be said? Leiventh seems to think so. R'hin's hands drop to rest lightly on her shoulders. "Leiventh," there's a fond amusement for his bronze, "Has always been old before his time. He feels decorum is a draconic duty." There's a dark, throaty chuckle, that becomes audible approval as he agrees, "Still equal. There are balances in play that can be tipped -- if you're willing. If Hraedhyth is, too," and Azaylia might not see it, but the nod of the bronzerider's head is intended for the queen, respect and apology both in the silent gesture.

Warrior's flame keeps the chill at bay, Hraedhyth allowing him to whip her plumes of black smoke into a frenzy. Twisting, inky tendrils curl and play on Leiventh's wind, « I know. » Simply stated. She has always known. The weyrwoman drops her gaze to one of R'hin's hands, still not terribly comfortable but willing to endure for whatever lessons she might learn. "No wonder she bothers him." Azaylia means to be understanding, but there's no denying her own fondness for the fierce gold. Hands slide down along her arms, gripping each elbow as she considers his words. "It depends on what I would have to do. I won't see them hurt." Her face settles into a firm stare as she looks between bronze and queen. Hraedhyth's eyes find R'hin, a heavy exhale given at his nod before she's resting her jaw atop Leiventh once more.

« Does yours know? » It's an odd kind of question, and it's likely Leiventh doesn't mean in the physical sense so much as the existential. R'hin's hands lift, lightly, from Azaylia's shoulders, tracing a path down her arms, before resting atop her hands for just a moment. "You implied you would do anything, kitten. Did you not mean it?" His hands fall away, clasping behind his back, as he moves towards the boulder to collect his jacket. Perhaps it's a question he means to leave with her; certainly there's no heavy weight of his gaze waiting on a response.

Hraedhyth's head lifts just as it touches down, all too suddenly turning to pin Leiventh with her intense gaze. There's a low growl in her throat for the bronze who she realizes is within reach of those jaws. She comes to her rider's defense, « She was not born a queen. » It is only in this that the tawny dragon's patience is unending, « She will learn. » Azaylia fights off a tremble, knuckles yellowing with how tightly she grips her elbows, tense beneath R'hin's touch. She stands there, face stubbornly set as the bronzerider leaves her to her thoughts. After a few moments, airy voice lifts to be heard, "Now I'll owe you a favor. Not Monaco." And not at the expense of High Reaches, though surely he must realize that. The goldrider shifts, turning with arms still crossed, "And don't call me kitten." Because it just wouldn't be a discussion with him unless she said it.

« She must learn, » comes the easy response, the chill of Leiventh's wind undeterred by the growl of her throat. But there is a concession, « She will. He believes that. » R'hin shrugs into his jacket, moving past her. The mention of a favor makes him pause, and it elicits a brief smile. "As you will, kitten." Because, likewise, it wouldn't be a discussion with her, unless he did the opposite of what she asked. A pause: "I look forward to dessert with your Mama sometime. Pass on my regards?" Hard to tell whether he's serious or merely teasing: he's turning back to cross the rest of the distance to the dragons, though he's, of course, halted by Hraedhyth's presence.

Hraedhyth huffs a heated breath over Leiventh's jaw, « She will. I chose her. She will. » That dark smoke grows thicker as he growl deepens, actively fighting his winds now, « And not because of anyone else. » His rider included. The stare that Azaylia lobs at R'hin is almost playful in the face of his defiance. Almost. It's dropped the instant he refers to her mother, fingers reaching to brush her temple, "I will." Not an eager sound, that groan. As the bronzerider nears Hraedhyth aims a nip at the air above Leiventh's 'knobs, rising quickly after. As she passes R'hin, he'll get a whuff aimed at his back, the gold coming to a stop only when she's reached her own rider. Deep husk is mingled with Azaylia's own quiet tones, « Clear skies. »

There's acknowledgment, and a brief, low-throated rumble that seems concession, perhaps, on Leiventh's part. R'hin shoots a grin towards Hraedhyth, and that nod again, and it doesn't take him long at all to climb up onto the bronze's neckridges, nor for the dragon to spread his wings and soar aloft. A parting curl of wind reaches out and vanishes as the pair does, as well.