Difference between revisions of "Logs:Sell an Ideal"

>---< Ista Hold >------------------------------------------------------------<

  Lush tropical foliage and extensive coastlines comprise the main areas    
  around Ista Hold, from the Lord Holder's prize citrus trees to the white, 
  sandy beaches stretching to the south and east. Glittering shades of green
  and blue cradle the sands, with the ample docks jutting out to the south  
  providing easy access to ships for both transportation and delivery of    
  goods.                                                                    
                                                                            
  The hold itself is rather large, built into a seaside cliff that overlooks
  marshlands, jungles, and water alike. The courtyard that leads to the     
  entrance of the Hold is made from slabs of light grey limestone. A layer  
  of gravel has been laid as a mortar for the large, irregular slabs. Moss  
  and other trample-hardy plants grow between the slabs, spilling green onto
  the stark rock and creating a constant headache for gardeners trying to   
  keep the green away from the Hold. Herb and flower gardens sit on raised  
  beds and simple benches and tables litter the courtyard.                  
                                                                            
  Inside, the great hall is lined with tables made of a hardwood specific to
  the Istan jungles, the decor reminiscent somewhat of a ship with carvings 
  and bright, tropical colors. The hold extends several floors up with rooms
  and offices for its inhabitants, while the lower level is occupied by the 
  Ista Harper Hall.                                                         

 -----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
  Irianke      F   36 5'7"  slender, dark curly hair, stone blue eyes     0s 
  R'oan        M   39  6'1  Muscular, Blonde hair, Grey-green eyes        5s
 ----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
                          Ista Harper Hall  Clearing                        
>-----------------------------------------< 12D 2M 37T I10, spring night >---<

So soon after a flight means Niahvth still can go between. She can still travel, but the end to that is imminent. Irianke makes the most of it, spending her days working hard so she can spend her evenings out and about and Ista is a particular favorite haunt of hers. The Gather is in full swing, the chilly temperatures across Pern bringing a wide range of people to the tropical island and the Igenite, now Reachian, goldrider makes a striking figure on the dance floor as the fast-paced number swings her from one partner to the next. She is knotless, but well known in these parts.

R'oan is knotless as well, though the Fortian brownrider is a lot less known than the Reachian goldrider. Yet, he seems to have made himself right at home in the middle of a table of crafters, fishers by the look of them, as they share a round of drinks and gossip. It is R'oan that is regaling them with a story, his words a light, humored, "I swear to Faranth she did. Right there in the middle of the room and looked right at me and said--." At this he pauses, appropriately building up anticipation in his audience, yet the slice of grey eyes through the crowd happen to find Irianke then, and the pause lasts longer than he likely means it to.

She's dancing, inattentive to what happens off the dance floor, whirling and twirling, until she's at the edges and exits with a heavy exhale. Perspiration beads her forehead, neck, and bare shoulders and the fashion she's opted for today dances that thin line between Hold and proper and Weyr and daring. Her pitstop lands her just on the periphery of that table of crafters where R'oan tells the story, and it's then that the grey eyes that pinned to her are sought out, accidentally, and then not so much accidentally. A brow lifts, her own gray-blue eyes unable to place the man, and a tilted head that questions, curiosly, who are you and the ever favorite, do I have something on my nose? accompanied by a self-conscious rubbing of her nose tip.

A crooked half-smirk pulls briefly at the corner of R'oan's lips at that rubbing, before his gaze slides away and back to the group he's found himself amongst. "Herdershit," he proclaims, tipping his glass at one of the others at what he was saying, rather than as any finish to his story. "Look, once you start talking about love at first sight, you should go sit with the Harpers." That, at least, gets the crafters either agreeing or disagreeing, arguing even as the brownrider leans back in his chair to sip at his whiskey.

The voice is far more recognizable than the face, a smile deepening all the craggy nooks of Irianke's face. Her slim form sweeps past in a haze of aqua gauze from the fabric tied to her wrists, and heads to the impromptu bar set up where she gains herself a glass of whiskey. One elbow reaches back to rest against the wooden plank, her body pivoted to catch sight of R'oan discreetly and the court he's made of seacrafters before switching to general Gather sweeps with those stony blue eyes of hers.

R'oan's glass is empty shortly, either by design or by coincidence (after all, the man is quite the drinker). He's not as drunk as he was at the flight, that much is obvious in the easy way he navigates the crowd to the bar after excusing himself with a dry joke of, "Well, if you lot aren't going to shut him up, I am going to escape," and a wiggle of his empty glass. The same glass he places on the bar as he hitches in a lean next to Irianke, waiting for the bartender to come around again. "Shouldn't you be at home, barefoot or something like?" is his greeting, though at least he doesn't seem serious about it. The opposite, really.

"And pregnant?" Isn't that how the moniker goes? Irianke doesn't even steal a glance to her side when the Fortian rider slides up near her. She might have watched him rise and turn to approach, but cast her gaze and net elsewhere in the meantime. The amber liquid in her glass is swished and sipped, then goes back to hanging off the wooden plank her elbow is on. "How many will this be?" At this, the goldrider turns, her sharp-featured face pinned to what the bartender concocts for him. "And will you be able to navigate home afterwards?"

"Or something like that," repeats R'oan in a lazy drawl, a crooked half-smile there and then gone again as soon as she asks that question. The second one, notably, not the first. "Darling, I've been riding since before you were alive," is an exaggeration, but a smooth one at that. "The next time I can't make my way onto a dragon and home will be the first time." A pause, before he adds with inappropriate amusement, "And probably the last." That he will pick up the plain whiskey that the bartender pours and toast Irianke with.

Irianke touches with her glass, the clink of it drawing out a ever-widening smile to her mouth. "And possibly your last. Niahvth tells me your dragon chased her and didn't win." Clearly. Those expressive eyes widen, emphasizing the heavy kohl outline, and the bright smile turns crookedly amused.

"He never wins gold, and yet it never stops him from getting it into his pea-sized brain to try," disparages R'oan easily for the absent dragon, though his steady study of Irianke over the glass he brings to his lips is not nearly as dismissive. "Your Weyr is likely happier with the sire than they would have been with him, at least."

"And you?" Irianke doesn't clarify, the return speaking for itself and on its own. Whether her Weyr is happier with the sire is a wholly other issue. "Tell me about yourself, Etrevth's rider, and how you've managed to ride for so long and slipped my radar? Do you just not venture out of your Fortian paradise except to drink like a fish and tell tall tales?" She leans so her shoulder grazes his. "Love at first sight is herdershit. I agree." She heard it all, even if it mangled into something he might not have meant.

"I've rarely had any ambition for anything other than drinking like a fish and telling tall tales. I didn't Impress any bulking bronze to hang around goldriders and hope to become a Weyrleader one day, that is likely how," R'oan counters with a crooked smile, bumping back against her shoulder with his as a counter-point. Set, serve. "Love, dragonriding, dashing heroes and heroines. All that Harper shit is rubbish." That he lumps dragonriding into there isn't a slip or a mistake, but rather he watches her as he does so.

Her expression speaks for her, the crooked smile shifting from one side to the other even as her head tips back and forth, jostling the dark curls from their jeweled pins. If you say so. She drinks. "Anyone who thinks heroes and heroines are the stuff dreams are made of will have a rude awakening once they sober up. Is that," she turns finally, angling her body to be perpendicular to the plane of the plank and directly in view of him, "Why you live in a perpetual cloud of liquor? So you can pretend?"

A flicker of amusement, directed entirely at Irianke, sweeps over the sharp features of the brownrider before he drawls out, "Do I seem like the type to pretend anything, love?" He gestures with a tip of his glass, barely over himself, before he takes another sip from his whiskey. "That is more in the realm of what your type does, isn't it?"

"My type?" She doesn't answer his other question. She's not the type to answer things, apparently. The glass shifts hands from one to the other, so that the elbow on the plank can adjust and let Irianke's chin rest on the backs of her fingers. Gleaming. Encouraging. Bright and warm, her dark stone-blue eyes entreat him to continue.

"Goldriders, weyrwomen, leaders," R'oan answers as if she's free to take her pick of whatever word fits her best, as if they are interchangeable. "Your whole job is to sell an ideal. The ideal of what a Weyr should be; what it all should be." He gestures with his glass again, to the world around them this time.

For the first time since they've met, including the time she stripped naked in front of him, Irianke's interest is piqued and the jaw that works itself around a swig of whiskey is merely a mechanism to buy time so she might study R'oan's face intently. "And what is your job?" she finally asks of him, post-swallow, her lips damp with the liquor and parted with almost a child's anticipatory fascination for what he might say.

R'oan meets that question with a slow, smooth smile that holds an edge of sharpness even as he answers dismissively, "What's expected of me? That I play into it all, as if anything that we do today or tomorrow matters."

It isn't likely his intention, but his answer makes Irianke laugh. A snow melting, bright effervescent laugh that has her shrugging her shoulders up and her head canting from side to side as she looks to the corners of this wine booth until, finally, she is able to look at R'oan once more. "Come with me?" She's amused and when she's amused, dehydrated, and several glasses in to her cups, not including this one, she's forward. Or that's just her normal state of being. "I know a place where I can make sure you know exactly what I expect of you and vice versa. I promise," she lifts her still half-full glsas, "No romantic harper tales. Just what it is."

"That is my favorite kind of it," murmurs R'oan in response, leaning closer to offer it to her ears and her ears alone as he sets his lips near one. He pushes away rom the impromptu bar with a smile on those same lips, crooked and self-assured, before he abandons his glass half-full to follow the goldrider's lead.

Oh the shame! She might judge him for abandoning his drink. She brings hers with her, taking him off to a place within the jungles that surround the Hold with such ease it's very likely she's done this before. There, the drink is set into a hollow of a nearby tree, theyll need it later for sure. After making sure her clothing is dispensed with neatly, explaining tears in unusual places is a lesson long ago learned, she makes good on all her intentions and expectations and returns the favors in kind.

The brownrider is no less experienced, but particularly less careful and more greedy when it comes to seeking favors from her. At least he seems able to hold his liquor, however much of it he might have drank. It does end up being just what it is. There's no attempt to linger over small-talk after, not when there are waiting dragons that can transport them both home and away from each other. It does not end up being R'oan's last time.