Difference between revisions of "Logs:We Don't Talk"

In the first weeks of the new turn, the eggs are only just beginning to harden, the shells still damp-looking and dented, yet to firm into shape. Iovniath still hovers over them all, turning each meticulously, arranging them anew every morning, just to highlight different denizens of the clutch for the onlookers who can't stay away. And often, Tiriana is somewhere near, on the sands oiling the drying hide of her gold, or working quietly in one corner of the galleries. Today, it's the latter.

It's not terribly often that Teris visits the galleries. They're just a reminder of what she's gotten herself into, after all. But she's here today, looking worn and tired and picking out dirt from her nails as she wanders up the stairs slowly enough that she doesn't really have to watch where she's going all that much. A quick scan, however, spies the Weyrwoman and Teris hesitates like she's not sure what she ought to do now.

It's not Tiriana who notices Teris arriving, but Iovniath: the gold's eyes, half-lidded, track the familiar woman, and she must alert her rider. That, or it's just a coincidence when Tiriana stretches and straightens and looks at Teris, her mouth pulling into a frown. She hesitates a moment, uncertain herself, before she finally lifts a hand to hail her former assistant.

There's still a moment or two before Teris returns an acknowledging, greeting sort of gesture. She glances toward the gold out there on the sands, at the eggs with her, then she starts moving quietly toward where Tiriana is settled as her gaze comes back to the other woman. She doesn't sit right away but as she nears she offers, "How are you holding up?"

Her part done, Iovniath returns attention to her eggs, turning a couple more, then curling herself up against the largest among them, that bright gold one which she can't quite bring herself to leave with the others. And Tiriana, for her part, taps her pencil on her pages, watches a moment, then lifts her shoulders to shrug at Teris. "Fine, of course," she answers, shortly. "Why shouldn't I be?" A beat, and more gently, she adds, "You?"

"I didn't mean that you shouldn't be fine. I'm sure you're doing perfectly well. Just thought I'd ask," Teris says and once she gets to that comfortable conversation distance, she settles herself down carefully and lets out a little sigh. "I'm sore," she admits after a moment, looking toward the sands again rather than at Tiriana.

"Oh," says Tiriana. And she doesn't seem to know what to say to that afterward, frowning a moment longer. She twiddles the pencil a little more, then gives Teris a funny look. "You're /sore/? From those chores?" she asks, staring a little. "Faranth. What are you going to do if you impress? You need to work out more or something."

"I haven't had to work out," Teris says, almost not actually to Tiriana but just saying so with a slight emphasis on the 'had.' She considers the rest for a moment, then there's a small laugh under her breath. "You know. I don't think I've actually considered the possibility that I might. Going through the motions. I mean, I know I could. But." But her voice trails off as she leans forward just slightly to rub a hand over her calf before she ends up leaning her elbows on her knees.

"You should," is the Weyrwoman's suggestion. "Haul some firestone, go running, something like that. Don't get you soft little people. Just sitting inside, pushing papers." As she's doing now, but decidedly unenthusiastically. Finally, she just sets all that aside and leans back against the next row of gallery seats. "Do you... want to? Or is it just--why would you even do it, if it's just motions?"

"I've been messing with firestone all day," Teris almost very nearly whines that but catches it before it hits that certain pitch. "I still think I prefer that over the stables. I still have a blister," she tilts her hand where it's actually healing. It gives her a chance to think about the rest for a moment and then she shrugs. "I do want to. This all seemed easier when I was younger, though. No one can really tell me I can't now," she offers with a small, slightly satisfied grin. "Well, I suppose you could. Or K'del." But they haven't.

Tiriana rolls her eyes. "Baby," she says, with a sniff. "They'll toughen up by the hatching, at least." She twines her fingers together across her stomach, is quiet for a moment before she lifts her shoulders a faint bit. "Always figured, by the time I hit twelve, I'd be on the sands. Have Iovniath. Wasn't ever going to ask to stand, though--wasn't going to sink that low."

Teris rolls her eyes, too, but only for the first word. She doesn't, however, protest it. "I guess that means you won't give me a break on any of that then, huh." It doesn't even manage to come out as a question. She already knows the answer. "I stood once. And then-- it was just easier not to after that. But B'tal did it. It can't be that hard." Sibling love is an odd thing.

"Not one bit," is Tiriana's smirking answer to that, unnecessary though it is. "My sister did--well, half-sister, anyway. Blue." Beat. "We don't talk." She frowns again at that, then leans forward and stands. "She's itching /again/," she compains as she turns to trot down the stairs to Iovniath's side. "I'll be back."

To Iovniath, Isforaith is sparking electricity, ZING ZING ZING. Like a dinger on a game show; he's a winner! « Mom, I GOT ONE. » A proud image of a man in convict's clothes, overimposed by that of a white knot - and all around, Rome is burning around the 'scape, an eternal conflagration.

It's not excitement, exactly, in the muted snowfall of Iovniath's touch, but there is a weary sort of pride nonetheless. « Very good, Isforaith, » she tells him. « You will get him settled well, I trust? » (Iovniath to Isforaith)

She doesn't roll her eyes again but there is a little sigh when what she figured would be said is actually said. "It would stand to reason that--" But Teris cuts herself off when Tiriana announces the gold's problem and she nods, falling silent as she watches the other woman head down the stairs to her dragon. The blonde sits back, stretching out her legs forward and tilting her head back against the seat behind her.

To Iovniath, Isforaith would likely not tolerate snow from any other source, but from this one, it's welcomed. « Of course, » in that rumbly indignation that is so remniscent of his lifemate; « He will do us good. Like the others! » The.. plethora of others. Isforaith has taken this on as some sort of private crusade, and a half-fancied daydream carries across the mindlink unthinking; all of the mini Iovnejoths with riders /hand picked/ by Raith.

To Isforaith, Iovniath indulges that vision patiently, with more snow around the edges. « Congratulations, my Isforaith, » is all she says.