Difference between revisions of "Logs:Knight Err-ant"

Passion can do a lot of things for a person. In Lycinea's case, it has her feet moving fleetly, her head down, and her shoulders hunched and not looking at all where she's going as she hurries out of the main doors of the Crafthall and-- where? It doesn't matter. What she's getting away from is more important than where she's going to. No matter what it looks like, she's totally not crying. Don't mind the way her hand with the sleeve pulled over it comes up to smear her face with salty wetness every few moments. It's obviously some kind of trick of the light. The bright afternoon light that doesn't even have clouds to cast shadows or any other sort of magic.

Obviously, the light is too bright, and that's the problem. The tall bronzerider strides as though something invisible is nipping at his heels: with a deliberate lack of hurry emphasized by shoulders' nearly casual set. His grey gaze ranges ahead; he passes over the girl ahead of him, the oncoming apprentice beyond her, the way the wiry teenager doesn't get out of her way when she doesn't get out of his. He could warn her; there's barely enough time. His lips tighten. He doesn't.

Today is just not Lya's day. Arguably, she has few enough days that are, but today especially. She doesn't see it coming when the apprentice of greater bulk, longer stride and I-belong-here attitude runs into her with his shoulder and side. As he continues on, she is rebounding out of her intended path and with a teeter likely to send her sprawling in the next moment. On the bright side, at least she can't see much through the tears to see just how many people bore witness to this new humiliation that still isn't the worst of the day.

He didn't. Now... the apprentice doesn't look back, the thud of impact enough; now, N'rov curses under his breath and in another, swifter stride, catches up to catch her up, one hand just past her elbow and the other braced with the intent to keep her from falling. Or dislocating.

Lya isn't exactly a slight girl, but nor is she overly heavy so the hand around her arm is enough with her own awkward flail to keep her in her feet even if it might seem for a moment that she threatens (however inadvertently) to take him down with her. The swears she manages are unladylike, but that's hardly of chief concern as she tries to shift to right herself more properly and scrub tears (and the ever-attractive runny nose) from her face to see just who has a hand on her, already mumbling, "Thanks," with uncharacteristic humility.

It might serve him right were he to topple, for not (potentially) averting this whole mishap. As it is, there's also no admission; rather, gruffly, "He got you but good." N'rov waits only long enough for her to steady before he lets go. Though, getting a better look at that nose and those tears... "You're hurt." And he's frowning.

While she's still rubbing her eyes and notably before she's placed his face, the young woman is already saying, "Oh, just some asshole bronzerider having to prove just how weighty his dick is--" then, of course, Lya sees him. A bronzerider. Not just any bronzerider either, Aishani's bronzerider. The Aishani who died. At least the surprise and conflicted feelings of sudden guilt and pity that flash across her face as she bites her lip and casts her eyes to the ground has the happy side-effect of staunching her tears. "Hi." She says, stupidly.

Aishani's bronzerider might under other circumstances have a flippant jibe in return; today, he spares only a brief upward flick of his eyes, too clipped by far to properly invoke Faranth. When N'rov looks back at Lycinea, no real recognition shows on his features. Not until the change in her expression scrapes a dull flush across his cheekbones; she knows of him, he's now well aware, and not just of him. "Yes," spoken as though she'd asked a question. If he'd asked about bronze dragons recently in the neighborhood, it doesn't do more than tighten his jaw.

It is, apparently, far easier for Lya to let the following explanation tumble out as if he'd asked a question than to deal with the other things: "It's just that it was my turnday and I asked a rider guy I know who's supposed to be my friend to take me to Ista because I've never been to the beach-- well, not a proper beach, that I can remember anyway-- only he said no but then Tela told me he was meaning to change his mind and he's from a hold and super awkward so I thought I should have a swimsuit so he wouldn't be embarrassed and so I came to get one but the guy who was going to buy me one said--" she cuts off abruptly biting her lip a second, obviously editing, "he said some really crude, inappropriate things and I told him to go screw himself and now I'm stranded here." Beat. "And I don't have a swimsuit. And this whole thing was just-- it's only made my turnday worse and it isn't even my turnday anymore and I didn't even think that it was possible to make it worse because on my turnday--" she cuts off again cheeks going redder than a redfruit. "Dimglow." This is obviously to herself as a fresh few tears start down her cheeks and she turns to, apparently, continue on her course to nowhere.

Partly through, the bronzerider elects to physically step back, reinforcing the already grim set to his features; there's a glance away, too, that might lead into walking away. And then it does, even if the girl in all her sogginess is walking that way too; it's several long paces, when the path turns, that he slows to knock on her shoulder. "That way." It's not the main path, but well-used enough to be close to.

"What?" Lya can't claim any training that helps her be more aware, so she's genuinely bewildered by the fact that they're walking the same direction as much as by his instruction. Her eyes slide in the direction and back to the bronzerider, her movement that was only theoretically 'away' arrested.

"That way," N'rov repeats, not without a degree of patience. "You're not there yet. Keep going." Barring that one touch, he stays relatively distant, and it does look to be a well-traveled path. It must lead somewhere.

Lya... is still confused, and maybe he is only out to make things worse, but right now she doesn't care. She probably doesn't even care where she's going just away from where she was. She follows it, the sleeves needing to be used as handkerchiefs now and again but after a time, the sniffles she was fighting to keep at bay have vanished and she's just walking, along the path though perhaps mentally more aimlessly than all that. "I've never seen fields like these," she offers quietly. She hasn't looked to see if the bronzerider is still with her, and perhaps this is her way to check.

It's definitely away. Some paths are worn with parallel ruts; this one's instead more shallow in the center, but then it is narrower than what's usual for wagons. The old stone walls that fence the fields, broad enough to sit on but ribs-high to an average man, have stiles every now and again. Currently the nearest field is overgrown with a tumble of low greenery, bright against the dark soil but also just a little washed out from the sun; it's nothing overtly weaver-y. N'rov's low voice comes from her right side, but only after another footstep or two; "What about them?" Up ahead are trees, their leaves glossy and evergreen, tamed as orchards here are.

"The colors," comes out before a breath is caught and released. "The fields I remember from when I was little were all greys and browns and grey-greens and brown-greens. These," she gestures. It's obvious isn't it? "Or maybe I just don't remember the colors." Lya allows with another shrug. "I was very young the last time I saw fields." The greenhouse at 'Reaches certainly can't compare to what stretches along the route.

There's even greenery poking up here and there along the trail proper, stray weeds that aren't rooted out as meticulously as they had been in days of Fall. N'rov overlooks them in favor of the fields in question, as though he's seeing them for the first time. "That's one thing about most other places," he says eventually. "They get pretty drab." He doesn't ask questions, not about her fields long ago and definitely not about the turnday. His boots likely aren't made for walking, but he keeps walking, and the trees are getting closer.

She doesn't need him to ask her questions just now, as she has some of her own. "Is here special like that? With the colors, I mean?" Lya asks, her eyes roving across the landscape and only occasionally returning to the bronzerider.

"It's brighter," N'rov says finally. He keeps walking. After a while, "Parts of Nerat aren't far off." He still hasn't looked at her again. It's shadier beneath the trees, cooler, but also with less of a breeze. Up ahead, the landscape's changing again: stone cotholds, old as the walls were old, and likewise patched here and there with crisp-hewn rock. "Just about everywhere's dry." This, despite that they themselves are inland.

Her coat is inappropriate. It's for 'Reaches. Finally, she yields to the heat and the exertion and removes it, one hand moving to wipe her brow. It's probably not so much hotter than being on duty stirrings some pot or another in the kitchen, but the shade is a welcome relief anyway. She doesn't stop to take the coat off, but keeps moving and folds it over her folded arms once it is. Lya's eyes go over the cotholds and she squints. Then she looks to the ground. "Is there-- a lot of wet here?" She asks out of true ignorance.

She gets a second look, and N'rov rubs his jaw; he'd slowed when she was busy with the coat and hasn't sped back up, his own coat still on though not yet buttoned. But then, he's got Southern in his blood. "Half-surprised it's not raining now," he says, glancing up at the sky; a few steps later, he puts his arm across her path on the off chance she hadn't noticed that they'd come to a larger road, which evidently now he intends to cross. Still, "Wait for the wagon." While he's at it, "It's a mist if you ask the rest of the world, I suppose, so long as it's not storming."

She hadn't noticed, with the way she was watching he ground and runs into his arm, though it does stop her and blue-green eyes dart up to the Fortian's face and away again. Lya takes a step back and to the side, away from him, as if having touched him might just have set in motion some kind of chain reaction that will have him imploding any moment. People in grieving are delicate, right? Maybe tears are contagious. She probably wouldn't want to be around if he starts crying. She waits, saying after a moment, "I guess that's why the air tastes funny here," because that's a totally normal thing to say, right?

"Maybe," so N'rov isn't entirely lost to social convention, even if his expression is more dubious than his tone. "Guess that's also why we talk funny," he decides to continue, ladling on the drawl before, "There. Come on." Of course, the burden beast would have had to have left a steaming present in the road, but it's not like he can't step around it and towards the paved path on the other side.

Lya blinks at him, her expression pulling into a mixture of confusion and distaste (probably at the confusion itself). "Are you trying to be funny?" She probably doesn't mean for it to sound as judgmental as it does. Maybe she's just trying to figure out how to act around a grieving bronzerider, who is presently not crying. Maybe she's trying to help get him there. (Probably not.)

"Not with the 'get a move on' part," says N'rov, though the return of his exaggerated drawl might make that slightly less intelligible. That N'rov. Not crying. How dare he not live up to his role! At least the footpath doesn't have any piles. The cotholds here predominantly share walls and, as is visible through an open door, some also share a small courtyard; this one has a bored-looking preteen watching over some littler children.

"Why are bronzeriders so weird." Lya laments not entirely under her breath and with a little sigh before her eyes are captured by the preteen and the littles. She stops abruptly to stare at them and then her eyes are locked on the ground again and her shoulders are hunched as she follows N'rov by the movement of his boots.

"Because otherwise," doesn't drift off; it cuts off. N'rov's boots keep moving, though, and they pass the courtyard without further incident; perhaps the preteen is so bored, she can't even be bothered to look their way. N'rov's boots eventually cross a dark line in the path, paved with darker stones, and it isn't much longer before he veers off the path onto a smaller one and... starts banging on a door.

She looks but does not press for the rest, for whatever goes unsaid. Lya stops short when he starts banging on the door. Now she takes a good look at her surroundings, and where they came from. Could she find her way back on her own? It wasn't so many turns... or was it? She bites her lower lip and rocks a step back before looking toward the Fortian bronzerider. It's probably this moment she takes to assess some of the recent choices in her life.

"I know you're in there!" may not help. It does, at least, lead to a woman's opening the door and giving N'rov one of those fraught looks he no doubt has been receiving lately... only to rush in for a hug and then stop gingerly as though he might be breakable. N'rov has a pained expression, and they exchange a few quick words before he breaks off to say more audibly, impatiently, "Help her." He's pointing at Lycinea, of course. Help the girl. It's not like he needs it.

Lya... doesn't do well with attention. Not when it's thrust upon her, anyway. It's obvious that she feels a little like she's in a dream where she's just realized she's not wearing any pants. Her coat is hugged tight to her body, her head bowed, and she's trying hard to-- disappear? Maybe? The help has a curious ability to be unobtrusive when they want to, or need to be. But here, in this strange place that is so unfamiliar to everything she's ever known and what with no tunnel to sink into the shadows of, she's stuck, there, looking awkward and probably considering backing up anyway.

The woman starts in, "She isn't...?" but sounds uncertain even before N'rov irritably cuts her off. "She needs a woman. Who isn't a bronzerider." Luckily, the overlap between 'woman' and 'bronzerider' is less categorically than it often is literally. The woman pushes air out from between pursed lips, not quite a sigh, and finds a smile for Lya. "Come in, would you? I'll find you something cool to drink; call me Deia." N'rov's gallantly (or something) stepped aside, but Deia's gaze finds him before she adds with a little laugh, "I'm only related to that one by marriage."

Is it possible for a seventeen turn old girl to vanish between under her own power? Apparently not. Not that countless other seventeen turn old girls haven't tried before under various circumstances. Is this a new, unique scenario? It's possible. Lya forces her eyes up from the ground toward the woman. "I just-- need a ride home," she mutters. The girl casts eyes that might count as imploring toward N'rov, even as she hesitantly steps past him.

That's what she (says she) thinks. N'rov has another quiet comment for his sister-in-law as he falls in behind them both, with no rescuing anywhere in sight... unless one counts a slight shake of his head. Inside it's cool with the cothold's thick stone walls, once the door is shut behind them; the place is dimly lit but relatively tidy, relatively clean, with light jackets hanging on a reed coatrack that are also of men's and not-so-small children's sizes. N'rov's shucked his coat off at last, and he hangs his with the others, while Deia slips about (she's too graceful and too un-self-assuming to call it bustling) with what's actually a quite quick offering of damp cloths with which to freshen up, followed by cool, citron-scented water and fruit. There are seats for them all at the table, of course; it's not a small place, and there's room enough to host even more quite comfortably. N'rov's put off to the side, not quite in the corner. Deia doesn't even, it seems, expect Lya to say a whole lot... at least, not at first.

Lya's eyes are a little wide, it must be said. Her manner is both awkward and a little timid, though that doesn't stop her from shooting the bronzerider the occasional glance that might well be called reproachful. What has he gotten her into? She doesn't even know him. Not really. Maybe this will finally be the moment Lya learns not to go off with bronzeriders she really doesn't know (or in hindsight, the ones she kind of does). She's not sure what to do with the cloth, but mimics N'rov easily enough, as she did with her jacket, and then slides into a seat. She stares at the table, at the refreshment, which might be poison, of course, and maybe tries to pretend that if she sits quite still and doesn't say anything, they might forget she's here long enough for her to slip out unnoticed.

Not happening. N'rov's drinking his water, of course, and he's even starting to eye Lya's glass when something must click; dryly, "Would it help if I took a sip of yours first, too? Let you see if I writhe into a foaming fit?" Deia, scandalized: "Norov!"

Lya looks at him through her lashes, a brief flash of annoyance there. "You would have terrible taste as murderers." Because that's a good comeback, right? She seems to realize it's not so, defiantly, she picks up the glass and swallows from it. And once she's decided that no, it's fruity but not poison, she swallows a couple more times.

"The water here doesn't taste that bad," N'rov claims as though she'd maligned the place. "Just because we didn't drag out the good whiskey..." Deia, firmly, "I don't drink whiskey." N'rov: "Hush." Deia rolls her eyes; evidently Lya isn't the sort of guest with whom she feels she has to stand on formality.

"I don't drink." Lya adds her two cents for the whiskey, picking up the cup and drinking. "It just is different." Sniff. The blonde shifts restlessly as if she might rise and make her way out after all.

"Hush," N'rov repeats, if to Lya this time. He doesn't seem particularly concerned about the prospect of her walking out, now that she's hydrated (and Deia certainly seems inclined to refill as needed); instead, "Dei, she needs..." he gestures. "Things." The two of them look at each other as though they could somehow communicate that way, and are. N'rov's the one who breaks off first, even though it's ostensibly to get himself some grapes and a slice of melon, too. How long's it been since either of their Weyrs have had food like that? With that, he slides his chair back and saunters deeper into the cothold as though he knows exactly where he's going. Deia eyes Lya, and she says, "Well."

Lya is frowning. First, it's the confused sort that pinches the skin between her brows into small folds. Then it's understanding, and that one's deeper. Lucky for N'rov, he's already leaving by the time she makes a balking noise and frowns hard at his back. "I just need a ride home." She half-sighs, half whines, before turning her uncertain gaze on Deia. "I-- I'm sorry. I don't-- I should go." And now she'll make the attempt. Now that N'rov has abandoned her as if maybe even though she doesn't really know him, he was some sort of safety net that's now been clipped.

"Would you just tell me," Deia begins, "how, by river's earth, you wound up with him?" It's not getting up and stopping Lya; it's not getting up and seeing her out. "And we can get you a ride, where are you from? The Hold, or," she names a couple smaller holds not far off.

Lya stills, only just having stood but gotten no farther. "Um." She glances toward where the bronzerider disappeared and back. "He kept me from falling when some guy ran into me when I was-- leaving the Hall. And I might've told him more about why I was there than I really ought to have, but I thought he might be taking me to his dragon to give me a ride home since my ride turned out to be a jackass." She pauses looking uncertain. Was that a rude thing to say? "I'm from High Reaches. The Weyr. I've... Never really been many other places." Perhaps that's offered to explain her reaction to the water.

The older woman looks her over anew, and with surprise. Could it be that Lya doesn't match the world traveler of Deia's imagination? Could it be that Deia can't imagine her brother-in-law going to any trouble for anyone? "Why, that's even farther than Fort," she says. "That still doesn't explain... well, we'll get you home," she adds with more determination. "How soon are they expecting you? He said something about a beach."

"Oh, they're-- I don't know. It's a long story. I--" It's a halting explanation but it comes. About her turnday, about the storm, about V'ros and the beach, about Telavi, and then H'vier and the swimsuit. Maybe there was something in the water after all, or maybe something about Deia and this cothold reminds Lycinea of the life she once knew when she was a very little girl. The life she might have had if only they'd decided to keep her. That much she doesn't tell Deia about, but the rest. It's all there. And then, "May I please have more water?"

Deia starts; has it really ended? She's gone through a glass and a half herself, just listening, and now she goes to pour. It's not impossible that some of the sympathy in her expression, now that she's unbent some, has to do with how those are boyish coats hanging on the rack; then again, she might prefer having had boys, and Lya's really is a tale. "I think he has in mind," she says, "that I should supply you with a beach (we do go sometimes, so it's not as outlandish as it might seem), or at the least, a discussion of beachwear." If she has a guess about anything else, she doesn't see fit to say it out loud. "For that other man to make it seem that you need Hall-made clothing, and then to abandon you..." Deia is not afraid of future frown lines, it seems.

"Well, no. I abandoned him because he was being crass and talking about--" Lya stops and blushes, "Man parts." It's acknowledged in a murmur and then she's dipping her head to drink, even if there isn't anything left. "And he knows better. Because he knows I don't-- that I'm not interested in-- that-- I'm young." Even if many girls her own age are married and well versed in... man parts. As for what N'rov might expect of Deia, that has Lya looking a little bewildered in the direction the Fortian went and back to the woman. She doesn't even know what to say to that, apparently.

Deia is a married woman. With children. And she blushes. "I see," she says strongly, and makes what Lycinea has said into an assertion. "He shouldn't be talking about that with you. He needs to respect you more than that." She pours for Lya before herself, if the glass is available. "What we wear is... you haven't seen coveralls either, have you?" Regardless, "A combination of high-necked blouse, short trousers, and skirt all put together, so you needn't be exposed."

"No, he shouldn't," Lycinea quite agrees. "Only I don't suspect he respects any woman much." Call it a hunch. She looks at her water and quite clearly decides not to say something. Instead she clears her throat. "And anyway, like I told him, it was about not making this guy, not the bronzerider," who continues to remain nameless, "feel uncomfortable because he's from a Hold and is really awkward and--" She puckers her lips and trails off because now she's just repeating herself. "I don't know if I've seen coveralls," she admits then, because isn't this what they're supposed to be talking about?

Deia's mouth tightens a tad, less as though she's perturbed at the girl's description of that holder boy and more as though she's deciding whether she should be, and also whether she can let herself smile. "A laudable goal," Deia decides. "Young men can be awkward enough already without risking their... getting misconceptions, yes. Coveralls, maybe you have seen them even if you didn't know the name? Usually men wear them for hard work because they 'cover a lot': like a dress that has a sleeveless bodice to be worn over a blouse, only heavy pants instead of a skirt and worn over a shirt."

"Oh." Lya's single syllable expresses her understanding and yes, recognition. "You use those for swimming?" Her brow wrinkles, now confused, as if she can't picture it.

"No," Deia says, though not as though it's a stupid question; hers isn't an unkind smile. She might even appreciate the novelty. "It's just the same in that the top part and the bottom part are linked up, that's all, so it doesn't ride up or down." From there, she can discuss the materials, the lining, the usually-attached skirt and its length, pros and cons of this and that; still, after a while she gets to, "I wouldn't think a holder boy would be troubled if you just wore a blouse belted into a pair of short pants, and a looser shirt to go over that. How would that be?"

"I... don't know?" Lycinea's expression is as uncertain as she sounds. "I don't... I don't really know very much about boys. And less about holders. They sent me away to the Weyr when I was six. To be with my own kind." The blonde chews her lower lip. There's no chance this is the first time that she's thought over what that might mean. Maybe by being here, in this place, she'll have some new revelations. Or not. She looks back to Deia. "I think I have shorts and a blouse and a belt." None of which probably go together, but today she's wearing one of her new, coordinated outfits, so Deia probably wouldn't have cause to guess about that.

Her own kind. Deia pinches the bridge of her nose. "Nothing that minds a good dunking, of course," she adds. Less discreetly, "Is your father a rider, then?"

There's a moment, in which Lya makes a decision. "I don't know. I don't have any parents." She'll leave it at that. She'll sip her water. "Is he... I mean, not okay," because who would be? "But is he... Will he be...?" She probably doesn't know what she wants to ask or why, but obviously Deia knows her brother-in-law better than Lycinea does, so why not ask.

Whether or not Deia takes it for a polite fiction, she's polite enough not to follow up. No doubt she's attempting to be polite when she glances after N'rov and says, "I'm sure he will be. It's not as though they were married, after all."

The blonde's brows furrow in answer. "If you listened to the gossip in the kitchen at the Weyr, you'd think they were." Lya says it quietly. It might be just an observation (probable), but it might be a subtle recommendation for Deia to rethink the situation (less likely, but let's give her credit for possible). "But dragons don't usually like to move from where they were shelled." So far as she knows, anyway. She's probably spoken to dozens of dragons personally on the subject. Yep.

Deia has an indulgent, slightly sad smile, one that shifts into real puzzlement as the weyrgirl continues. "What has that to do with anything?"

"Harder to weyrmate if you're not in the same place, I guess." Now they're really getting into territory Lycinea isn't entirely certain of. "But I don't know that you get gossip like we got if you don't really love a person." The girl is standing then, looking down at the glass. "Thank you for the water. And the advice." Apparently, she thinks it's time to go (which means she's not responsible if she says something she oughtn't should she be forced to stay).

"Excuse me?" has a lot to do with, 'Did Deia hear the girl correctly?' The holder woman's nod is polite enough, at least; she unnecessarily dabs her fingers with her napkin and starts on another piece of fruit. N'rov is, after all, still not in evidence. Which way will Lycinea go?

Yes, yes, she did, but Lya's not about to repeat herself. There's an awkward look about before the girl turns back to take her coat and slip out the door they came through. It's not the way N'rov went, but she has enough sense to remember that not every space is communal property. Maybe she's got to find her own way home after all.

Vhaeryth, also, is not in evidence. It remains a pleasantly warm day, even if it does start to 'mist.' There had been that snick of the latch behind her, though.

Lya doesn't linger in front of the cozy cothold, where there's water to drink. That would require some measure of common sense that currently eludes her. Instead she begins to mosy her way back the direction they came from, pausing even at the first place they turned (and each subsequent) to look wholly uncertain. There's a good chance she's getting herself lost right now. What are these holders thinking. A place without twisting tunnels, eesh.

Now and again there are other people about, some with their light jackets' hoods pulled up, others walking briskly without bothering about the wet. One stops to try to help Lya out, but given that she's about six (and, yes, running around unattended), what use will she be?

Lya's crouch to make herself of a height with the six turn old is relieved only after she's called to the retreating little girl, "I have something for you!" From one of the pockets in her folded jacket is pulled a sock with eyes and a mop of yarn for hair. It's quickly slipped onto her hand in demonstration where the puppet offers a hello to the little before it's slipped back off and offered over to the girl as, probably, a thank you. It's not hard to guess, though, given the girl's lack of help, that it was more about the act of giving than expressing gratitude on Lya's part.

The girl snatches it up, hesitates, and then gives Lya a very grave babble of thanks; she offers to escort Lya quite some distance indeed. As it happens, there's a tall man standing at the meters-away crossroads, his arms crossed, the mist beading on his shoulders and dark, curling hair.

Lya is appreciative, but doesn't let the girl escort her too far from wherever home seems to be, lest she get lost too. The blonde stops short when she sees the tall man, blinking at him with a little bit of surprise, before she approaches. "You left." She greets, even if she did too.

N'rov looks at her for a long moment, and then another. Lya, the girl who left. "Have a good time?"

The girl who left thinks before answering. "No, not especially. No offense to your -- whatever-in-law." Lya shifts awkwardly. "I'm no good at Holds."

N'rov does not see fit to elucidate. He does nod, and step away. "Coming?" he says more than asks, once he's past.

She comes. The silence doesn't last long. N'rov might wish after she starts that it had gone on forever. "Your family doesn't understand," is the conclusion Lya has drawn from Deia alone. "That must be hard. I mean, nice to have family, but hard because they don't understand. Although I guess really no one does. Who could, honestly? Maybe someone else who's lost someone unexpectedly-- but well, no, I guess K'del's really the only-- but then Aishani really didn't like him. And he--" Lya retraces again, "I don't think hate is the right word, but they didn't get along, so I guess he's not really a good option for like-- I don't know. however, you mourn a person." She's probably never been close enough to anyone to have to mourn if they perished. She chews her lower lip. "This is really awkward isn't it. I-- should really stop talking, only--" Only. "I wanted to apologize." She stops, looking up at N'rov. "For being awful to you that once, in the kitchen." The storm really has changed her. "Not because your girlfriend died and was a hero and everything, but-- you know, because you're being nice to me now. And I was pretty awful then." Does he even remember? Hers was just one more (mouthy) face in the kitchen almost a turn ago. "And it's important I apologize now because I'll probably go back to being awful when I'm out of my funk," which she sounds both resigned and a little hopeful about. Teenage girls are required to be contradictory. Look at the rule book.

It's not long at all, and especially not long in the great scheme of things, that N'rov looks down at her... and keeps walking. It's not like he can't interrupt, or wouldn't, but for some reason he doesn't; perhaps, when other people were getting the latest fashions from the Hall, his has turned out to be a hair shirt. In time, "I'm sure you will," he says to the distance ahead of them. Later, now looking onward with a bit of a squint, "Does that mean you're going to? Apologize."

"That's not a very nice thing to say." Lya observes, though she probably doesn't care enough to actually be hurt by it. "Aren't you supposed to encourage me to be a better person or something since you're 'older and wiser?'" Then, "I'm sorry I was awful to you that time I was awful to you." That sounds genuine enough if not at all contrite. "And I pre-apologize for the next time." At least she stops at the next time.

The bronzerider doesn't even bother to shrug; rather, dryly, "It takes a while to get perfect." He does look at her when she gets all apologetic like that, contrite or no; gravely, "I accept your apology." He's back to watching the road. "So, ready to walk home?"

"You're not going to give me a ride?" Lya asks after a moment, her tone less hopeful than it is just establishing The Facts.

"You don't know how to sail, do you?" N'rov, just updating his information.

"No. I've never been." Lya fidgets.

"People do, on lakes." N'rov adds judiciously, "Big ones." The next turn's off-road again, though on-path. The mist just hangs there without actually falling. The turn causes a hillside to become visible not far ahead, and then a deep overhang set within it, and then beneath that, wide double doors.

"I never had anyone to go with." Lya's answer is blunt. "I'm sure you'll be shocked to hear I've never had many friends." Her expression is deadpan, but she's not looking at him anyway. At least she doesn't seem to feel sorry for herself and there's no crying now. "If you won't give me a ride, could you at least ask Vhaeryth to ask someone from home to come get me?"

"And me without a friend in my," no pause, "jacket pocket to give you." N'rov looks at her; is she crazy? Bother his dragon about something like her? "No, but the next best thing. Come on." That would be through the doors; there's an uncle on the other side, sitting in a comfortable-looking chair and working on something or other, with whom N'rov exchanges a few words. The white-haired man casts a not particularly bleary eye at the girl and sends them on their way; bronzerider though he is, N'rov brushes his feet on the reed mat before continuing. There are a few more hallways separated by a few more doorways, a couple tapestried and one entirely open; beyond the last of these is a spiral staircase. N'rov doesn't stop after one flight, and he doesn't stop after the second. It's a few flights up when N'rov nods to the latest door and announces dryly, "Last chance for a privy."

She takes it. Lycinea might even think about staying in there until N'rov gets tired of waiting and abandons her. She really hasn't been having the best day, so it's probably not hard to guess why her eyes look a little redder when she comes back out. She's taken the moment to pull her hair down from it's messy arrangement and retie it into a runner's tail that's a little more orderly.

N'rov glances up each time the door re-opens; by the time it's her, it's just a lift of gray eyes after which he pushes away from the wall. "Almost there," he says not ungently, although 'almost' is arguable by the time the stairs give them out onto shelter and coolness and sky. There's a brown dragon out on the flat of the fireheights, so that's something, and closer, a well-worn bench where his rider hangs out with the remains of a meal and a personal distance-viewer on a chain. The bronzerider walks ahead, but at least their negotiations aren't long before the ambiguously-dressed brownrider beckons her way.

Lya barely looks at anything of N'rov but his boot heels as they ascend. There's a glance to the brownrider, her eyes shifting, perhaps briefly curious, though certainty she's heard about watchriders before.

There's more murmuring, baritone and... tenor? alto? It may not matter. The clearer, "Thanks for taking her to High Reaches," may be as much for Lya to hear as for the brownrider, who moves to help her mount. There's not much of a limp to the brownrider's stride, and the scars crisscrossing the brown's neck are raised but faded with age. He's a peaceable beast, as dragons go, or at least he is now. "It's been a long day."

"Thank you, bronzerider," Lya offers to N'rov as if she were pretending for the moment to be the presumably better-bred Farideh. Then she directs her blue-green gaze to the indistinct but definitely human-shaped must-be-a-rider, "Thank you, brownrider." Just as polite. Then she steps carefully to be helped up, chewing her lip as she goes. If they're all very lucky she won't get sick on her way back and her No Good Very Bad Day will be left incomplete.

That invisible hat, N'rov hasn't lost it; he tips it and then ceremoniously turns back to take up the distance-viewer. He doesn't aim to watch them, not through the buckling in (Lya gets stashed behind the undemonstrative brownrider) nor through the taking flight (more a matter of the brown's walking to the edge of the fireheights and then gliding off); he's watching his own dragon soaring high above. If Vhaeryth lands once the brown has made room, if N'rov has to find somewhere else to watch, it won't be visible by the time the older brown glides unhurriedly over not just land but seashore's sand and then the ocean itself.