Difference between revisions of "Logs:Want and Need"

« You are not Home. » Hraedhyth notices. Hraedhyth is out and free and able to see that Leiventh's ledge is empty. Her drums are not as vicious as they have been, flames dancing to the joyous beat as she reaches out to the bronze. « Mine wants yours. » Though there are dragonets to watch, to guard, the queen is all too quick to add, « We will join you. » She'd like to get out. (To Leiventh from Hraedhyth)

The acknowledgement from the bronze is silent, accompanied by the typical cold winds of High Reaches winter; yes, he is not home. His whereabouts aren't immediately offered, either, though he continues to listen to his senior queen, the winds of his presence fanning those flames. There's a lengthy sort of pause at the latter statement. If there's disgruntlement it doesn't show in the bassy bronze's tones: « Come, » he beckons, providing an image -- a low approach on the outskirts of Tillek, near a road. It's raining, gloomy, and fairly unwelcome-looking, all told. (To Hraedhyth from Leiventh)

Hraedhyth is impatient, but she doesn't press-- just as she doesn't recognize that Leiventh and R'hin could always say no. Her flames give way to his winds, playfully heating what they can while the cold makes them quiver and sway. When the image is shared, « We come! » Although not immediately, if to prepare for that gloomy weather. The queen appears overhead, tawny hide darker for the rain as she lands, blue gaze hunting for the bronze and his rider. Atop her back, Azaylia has her midnight cloak drawn tightly around herself.

Leiventh is settled within a clearing not far from the road, one wing half outstretched. The reason will perhaps be obvious when approached; R'hin stands under the shelter of the bronze's wing, looking rather ragged: his hair is a mixture of bedraggled and wet, the stubble of hair on his chin is more pronounced than usual, and pale eyes have a distinctly bloodshot air. His clothing, at least, befits the weather -- a battered old jacket and plain pants are distinctly, deliberately generic. Through the gloom of the late afternoon rain, he watches Azaylia with a set expression, hands shoved into pockets.

Hraedhyth snarls her pleasure at finding Leiventh, not letting her rider down until she's entered to clearing and properly invaded. There is no room to play or wrestle, so she'll attempt to lean her bulk on the opposite side of that outstretched wing. The Weyrwoman drops from her lifemate's back, losing some footing in the mud but recovering with a quick scramble. Long legs bring her around both dragons, though she stops just short of R'hin's shelter. Peering from beneath her hood, "Well..." Is delicate, including the otherwise blunt words that follow, "You look terrible."

Leiventh takes that possessive gesture fairly stoically, adjusting his posture to accommodate the lean of the slightly larger gold. It's not the worst start to a conversation R'hin has ever had, and he barely blinks an eye before he asks, equally bluntly, "What are you wearing?" With a gesture towards her cloak. Or, presumably, what's under her cloak.

Hraedhyth gives a playful huff against the bronze's neck before settling into stillness, content to let wind and flames do the moving for her. Azaylia is startled into answering, "A cloak." As for what's beneath it, "Uhm. A warm dress?" There's almost something defensive, and she hesitates to reveal the once-navy fabric with a sweep of her arm. It's still nice, but not as vibrant or lovely as it was two seasons ago. "I didn't want to worry about getting muddy." Yes, clearly defensive.

"It'll do," R'hin grunts, stepping out from the 'cover' of Leiventh's wing and making for the road, with barely a glance back. Maybe he's merely assuming Azaylia will follow? Or maybe his lack of usual gallantry can be attributed to his current state of hangover.

Azaylia will follow, if not out of curiosity then out of what concern she can muster for R'hin, given the givens. "Do for what?" Azaylia shakes her head, dropping the question as soon as it's uttered. "I heard that you assulted my assistant last night?" Hardly what happened, and likely not how Hana had told the story. Still, "But I think I know why, now." Living in a Weyr, one learns to recognize a hangover.

It's not a long trip, but given R'hin's current state he's not exactly in a hurry -- easily enough caught up with as he walks down the road. Her words though make him stop and turn to stare at Azaylia sharply. "What?"

The goldrider's boots slip only slightly when she stops a second after R'hin, clearly surprised by his reaction. Then again, the humor of her previous words may have fallen flat. Now, Azaylia is slow, careful, as she explains, "It was... a joke. You bumped into Hana. During the hatching. It didn't sound like something you'd do." Sober.

Pale eyes narrow briefly, before quickly flicking away. With a turn of his heel, R'hin starts walking again, wordlessly. Leading off the road after a short walk is a small track leading to a structure; the shape and size of it, along with the shelter at the back for runners and the noise coming from it suggests it's likely a bar of some sort, undoubtedly the reason for the bronzerider's earlier question of Azaylia's attire. He thuds through the door and into the room, ignoring the curious looks, making straight for the bar.

R'hin's gaze is held until he turns away, her own eyes confident and honest about the lack of harm meant. Just as before, Azaylia keeps up with the him, cloak kicked by her steady stride, plenty of personal space between the two riders. The Weyrwoman hesitates only when they reach the bar, leaving R'hin to collect glances with his entrance before she realizes she's being left behind. "This can't be good for you." Azaylia is his, thankfully soft spoken, shoulder angel-- floating by his side once they reach the bar.

A snort and a bemused, sidelong look is R'hin's initial reaction to her words. "A pitcher of beer. One," a beat, face set, "--Two glasses." While he waits for the bartender, the Wingleader does not look at her again, instead throwing a glance over his shoulder, scoping out the rest of the room. It's not too busy yet, given it's afternoon, though they're definitely not alone. "Find somewhere to sit," he says to Azaylia in a tone that is just shy of an order.

It's Azaylia's patience, what little she can spare, that cuts her stare short at R'hin's tone. A slow inhale for strenght, and the goldrider turns to find a table. She's instinctively drawn toward the walls, sparing curious glances at the other patrons as she finds a table nearest to a corner. While she waits, the Weyrwoman's features are slowly shifting towards unamused.

There's an exchange of both marks (and noteably, words) which delays R'hin's arrival at Azaylia's chosen table. The bronzerider pitches his voice low, not looking at her as he speaks, "You don't get to mother me," he says, simply, as he sets the pitcher down with just enough force to slosh some of the liquid over the top. Her glass is set down, but not filled. "We're not friends, remember?" He drops into a seat opposite her, filling his glass and taking a deep drought, which doesn't noteably help with his demeanor but at least lets him focus red-eyed gaze on the Weyrwoman. "What did you want to see me about?"

"I know." And yet his words visibly sting, "I can't help it." Or doesn't realize she's doing it, judging by how her eyes slide away from him, embarrassed. It's when R'hin actually looks at her that she can manage to do the same, ignoring the empty glass to cross her arms atop the table. Her answer is a quiet, "That, actually." It takes her a moment to find the words, "You... weren't the only one being a bad friend." Her voice is naturally pitched low, a gentle murmur paired with her curious gaze.

When she says that, R'hin frowns, leaning back in his chair. It warrants another gulp from the glass and another stretch of his hand towards the pitcher to refill the glass. "Want do you want?" The phrase is repeated, but it has just enough of a different emphasis to almost make it a different question. She has, at least, his full attention.

Azaylia decides to push past whatever reasons have her uttering the words, "I wanted to apologize. And to see if you were alright." To mother, obviously. "You're smug and terrible but... fun. And it hurt, to feel like you don't care." He might not, but she seems to have accepted that. "But I've forgiven worse men-- and that's not fair to you." Hence, the apology. However muddled her explanation may be.

He's still, Leiventh-still, throughout her words, and when she finishes, R'hin takes another gulp of beer, runs a hand through wet hair and over the stubble of his beard. His nod is slow to acknowledge the apology, but he sounds tired when he repeats, "What do you want from me?"

It's now that Azaylia reaches for her glass, demeanor leaning toward R'hin's as she mulls over his question. The beer is poured, a mouthful quickly swallowed to avoid any taste. She doesn't sound terribly sure, "For you to be you?" There's a weary sigh, weighed by confusion, "I don't know how to answer. I don't want anything from you. I've just..." A finger pushes her glass forward, eyes drawn down, "Been thinking about what you said." It's then that she thinks to murmur, "I'll go. You're not... in the mood." Now she gets it.

"To be me," R'hin echoes, with a low-throated laugh that rings a touch hollow, shaking his head. "No," he asserts, at her latter murmur, leaning forward, voice gone sharp for a moment. "You chose now, and now, you'll stay, and listen. We have an entire pitcher of beer. Don't make eye contact with anyone other than me. Talk in low voices. But listen." There's certainly been a handful more of people arriving as they've been speaking, but for the most part the conversations overheard nearby appears to be on the rain, the planting of the crop, and other such mundanities.

"I'm beginning to regret this." Azaylia admits, although it's a familiar level of discomfort. It's R'hin. The Weyrwoman stays, making a faint face at the glass in front of her. It's not a flavor she enjoys, although sipping it would be worse-- so she has another swallow. Not too bitter, "You always laugh at me." It may be relief. But the goldrider listens with genuine interest, so out of touch with folk not from the Weyr.

"You can retract your apology and leave," the bronzerider offers, but in a tone that suggests he thinks that's unlikely. But still, he offers. Rubbing a hand against his stubbled chin, R'hin stares at Azaylia for a beat. "I'm not laughing now," he says. More people spill in, and as the noise grows louder, snippets of words and phrases stand out:
"...the Weyr needs to"
"...we won't stand for..."
"...dragons cannot be trusted..."
They are echoes on a theme that reflects a growing disgruntlement, and throughout it all, the hungover Savannah Wingleader stares fixedly at Azaylia, gauging her reaction.

R'hin's offer has Azaylia taking another drink, almost draining her glass before she sets it down. For the sake of appearances, she manages not to make any faces. Ick. Any reply she may have for the bronzerider is halted as the bar fills and it's easier to hear, as well as sense, the crowd's discontent. Surprise melts into confusion, brows drawn together as she looks down, as if searching for the reason for such talk in the table. Finally, she looks to R'hin.

The noise gets louder, muttering more noticeable. R'hin's gaze is still on Azaylia, pale eyes meeting hers when she finally looks back at him. If there's an answer there he doesn't voice it, not here. "Leave," he says instead, simply, quietly. "Go back home. There are things you need to do. There is where you are needed." He stretches a hand for the pitcher of beer, to refill his glass. "Here is where you need me to be. You and K'del." He settles back with his full glass to watch, and listen.

Azaylia looks... lost. There's a solid tug to the hood of her cloak, quick to hide the hurt as the muttering gains momentum. "Be safe." For she certainly doesn't feel as such, moving to stand and walk out of the bar. There's a gentle touch to R'hin's upper arm as she goes, no more words to spare as the Weyrwoman leaves. Once she has returned to Hraedhyth, Leiventh is given a soft pat before Azaylia climbs up onto her lifemate. If the pair decide to put some distance between them and the bar before Hraedhyth finally takes off, well.