Difference between revisions of "Logs:Bickering With Zahava"

You walk up the stairs leading into the Hatching Ground galleries.

Spectators' Gallery in the Hatching Ground(#958RIJ$) The galleries in the Hatching Grounds stretch the length of the southern wall of the cavern. Broad sweeps of stone benches provide ample seating for spectators. Above and across from here are ledges where the dragons perch to welcome new eggs and hatchlings. From your vantage point, you can see everything that happens on the sands.

Stairs to the northwest, at the end of the galleries, lead back down to the entrance to the hatching grounds. The Hatching Ground sands spread out before you to the northeast, and are accessible by another set of stairs to the north.

The galleries are empty of people at this hour, only a few scattered glows giving light in the night. On the sands, Ciath prowls restlessly around the mounds that conceal her clutch of eggs. Her pale wings stretch open slightly, then fold against her sides again. In the front row, Zahava is curled up with a mug of hot cider cupped between her hands, keeping an eye on the broody queen.

There's no point entering if you aren't making an entrance: Wyaeth swoops in, folds his wings just as he ducks under the overhang to land with a loud thump on the verge between sand and stone. He's barely touched down before N'thei hops off one side, sends the strap-wearing bronze to swagger his way across the sands toward Ciath with a warm rumble of greeting and a possessive mental tally of lumps-of-eggs. At first, it looks that N'thei will cut-and-run from there, but a glimpse gallery-wards redirects him, and he climbs up the steps, stops on the landing; "Not sure if cozy or bleary is the right word, miss."

Zahava glances up as Wyaeth swoops in, her own expression of relief at the bronze's return likely an echo of Ciath's as the gold lifts her head to warble to her mate. The woman's smile turns wry. "Soothing for my headache, anyway," she says, her husky voice pitched low, as though to avoid further irritation of said sore head.

"Have you tried aconite?" N'thei pushes his index finger against the pressure point between his eyebrows, above his nose, and rubs it around a little; "That or a big glass of wine always works for me. --You didn't come to the Harper party?" He drops his eyes to her nice-but-not-Gather attire, one eyebrow climbed upwards to indicate the question. "I would have thought a Fortian goldrider...?" For now, he stays at the edge of the stairs, leaning most of his weight against the rail surrounding the sands.

A gentle wave towards the sand encompasses Ciath and the eggs. "I couldn't," she says simply. She scootches up to a less-slumped position, straightening. "Ciath would never have left them - she won't even hunt, let alone cart me off to social gatherings, and it wouldn't do for me to be off at Fort if something were to happen here - foolish children deciding to see if they couldn't uncover an egg or something. Even if she wouldn't have pitched a fit to have me gone. How was it?" she asks, a wistful note in her voice.

N'thei makes light, though his rumpled appearance would seem that his clothes at least got some wear-and-tear out of the shindig; "Enh. Harpers, wine fit for mass consumption and little else, people trying hard not to drag their gather best in the mud, nothing you ought to cry about for missing." With his thumbnail scraping absently across his lower lip, with his eyes turned toward the dragons and their ridiculous fussing, he nods at Zahava's summary. "Probably not. Suppose she'll feel better next time, when she's made it through one with all her eggs in tact?"

"Maybe?" Zahava says thoughtfully. "Jenna says Niyath was very broody with her first clutch, and mellowed over time, though with their imperfect memories, it's hard to say how much assurance she'll retain from it all. She tends to remember impressions much better than events... so it'll either be the nervousness or the relief at the end that'll make the most impact." She gives a quick, wry smile, then waves her hand at the bench. "Want to sit? I have more hot cider, if you'd like some."

N'thei hesitates at her offer, the first response a smile of thanks-but-no-thanks while he continues thumbnailing his lower lip. "Honestly, I'm surprised Wyaeth's still bent on coming here. I'd never have pegged him as a doting daddy." But there's the bronze, curled up where his lanky form blocks a partial view from the galleries; while Wyaeth settles, his rider rethinks and takes a seat a ways down the bench from Zahava. Once seated, it's all fine and dandy. It's while he's sitting down, while the air stirs around him, that he betrays a distinct smell of liquor and cheap perfume. "But I suppose that might be Ciath bringing out the best in him," he continues pleasantly.

Zahava bends to retrieve the insulated skin that holds the cider, giving no sign of having caught the smell, pouring it into a second cup, which she offers towards the bronzerider. "Could be... I suppose I wouldn't really know him beyond what Ciath tells me," she says thoughtfully, then gives a little shrug. There's a momentary pause, and then she asks, "Where were you from before you Impressed him?"

N'thei smiles at the question, a smile that buries into the cup while he draws a swallow out of it, a smile that seems both entertained and long-suffering. Once he's swallowed; "Why does everyone like asking that question, I wonder. Is it a small-talk question?" Honest curiosity undertones his voice, brows raised and mild gray eyes turned to Zahava.

"Small talk, for one, I'm sure, though that does imply a lack of real interest in knowing," Zahava responds, nodding slightly. "It also tells you a lot about a persons' life experience to know where they were raised. I'm Weyrbred, from Ierne via a number of turns at Ista in between... and I miss the sea, and have a very thin skin when it comes to the winter cold." This latter part she volunteers in an off-hand manner, giving a little shrug at the end of it.

N'thei posits casually, "Ah, but it doesn't tell me so much about you, at least it tells me things that contradict personal knowledge of you. So knowing you're weyrbred would only have given me expectations about what kind of person you are, and they'd have been wrong." Nary a slur or stop in the speech, for all the smell and rumple to him. "I'm holdbred, farmholder by birth. Not much use in knowing that, is there?" His laugh gets swallowed by the mug.

Zahava smirks slightly, a little dip of her head acknowledging the remark. "I'm a weyrbrat who never wanted to be a rider," she responds. "I wanted to be Headwoman, someday, and I refused Search the first time I was asked, back at Ierne. Second time, too, but Jenna and M'yr bullied me into agreeing." Her eyes shift to consider Ciath for a beat. "I never really regret it, but..." Again, she gives a one-shouldered shrug, leaving the sentence hanging.

"You see, /that/ actually sheds light on things. Knowing you're a weyrbrat is nothing." N'thei lowers his forehead toward the dozed dragons, specifically toward Wyaeth, and he admits in rare-seeming candor, "I regret it. Not one of those things riders are usually supposed to say out loud, I understand, and most of the time I can be grateful for Wyaeth. But what about the life you don't get, you know?"

Zahava nods slowly, her eyes lowering down to her cup of cider. "My life would be so much simpler if I were still the Assistant Headwoman I was then, and I'd know even if I never made them, that I'd have hundreds of chocies I'll never have the option of now. No up and deciding to move back to Ierne, or founding a little cothold by the sea, like you say. Still, bullied or not, I did make the choice in the end, so I don't permit myself to complain. Often. Besides, it seems to shock and distress people." She pauses a beat, then glances back to N'thei, "Do you know what you would want to do, if you hadn't Impressed him?"

N'thei answers readily, no halt or hesitation; "Absolutely no idea. But it's the options that are the real rub, the lost ones anyway." Big shoulders shrug in helpless acceptance, mug lowered afterward so he can hold it by the rim between his knees. "Not that it's all bad, mind. We make it out like being gold and bronzeriders are just such a chore. Really, has it been all that bad? What's the difference between a headwoman and a goldrider except forty meters of dragon?"

Zahava flashes a quick smile. "That sneak little thing you just mentioned - options. If I got sick of Fort, I could leave. If I got tired of the work, I could do something else. I didn't have to put Fort before everything else in my life. Certainly it was a high priority, but not the all-encompassing one it is now. I always hated all the formalities riders had to go through to their leaders, too. All the saluting and such. Respect is one thing, but I always found /that/ silly. And now people do it to me."

"Fair enough." N'thei gives Zahava the ground grudgingly, eyes resting on Ciath all the while now. "But you have to give it a little credit. They need you as much as you need them, and it's /you/, not just Ciath. Without you, she's not much use." Then he's laughing again, finally to drag a look sideways at the goldrider and not just her queen. "But there. I never found much use in discussing 'where I came from,' because it really doesn't tell you who a person is or where they're going, neh?"

Zahava dips her head slightly, slanting a glance back to the bronzerider. "Fair enough," she agrees with a little smile. "But it /did/ work quite nicely to get the conversation started," she points out with a glimmer of mischief in her eyes, an eyebrow cocked as though to ask whether he can disagree with that.

N'thei laughs barely, a chuckle he exhales; "True, but so do less mundane remarks. E.g.-- so the reason you abandoned me in the middle of the night in a bed left cold and tragic in your wake, it's because of the weyrmate? The new weyrmate, I'm given to understand." The twinkle in his own eyes meets the glimmer in Zahava's, fairly admitted that there's marginal maliciousness in his mischief. Maliciousness? Malice. XD

The already-arched eyebrow arches a little higher for a moment. "I have a weyrmate who's relatively new, yes," Zahava affirms after a beat, her chin dropping in a nod. "At least in the formality of it all. We've been together for a long time, if not exclusively." Of abandoning N'thei in the bed, she makes no remark.

N'thei wears his grin with pride, with self-satisfaction. "Soooo, weyrbred but a grudging rider." He leans over to place his cup on the bench between him and Zahava, frees his hands to tap things off on his fingers. "Monogamous. Panicked during a flight. Panicked again afterward." No conclusions drawn, he just leaves the points floating out there in the ether, leaves them with a laugh.

T'rien walks up the stairs from the Bowl. T'rien has arrived.

Zahava's second eyebrow arches to joing the first, that bit of a tease vanishing from her expression. "Panicked during a flight? I don't recall that... I don't remember having /any/ emotions of my own until after I woke." She studies N'thei for a moment, then asks, "So, not showing up at the clutching... was that a public humiliation to repair your privately-injured pride?" The galleries are rather dim this late at night, and Zahava and N'thei sit in the front row of seats, some distance between them, an empty cup between them, Zahava's still held in her hands.

N'thei's dressed from the party still, though withered now that the evening is spent. His clothes are rumpled but his expression is pristine, pure honest laughter at Zahava's barb. "Miss, if I planned to humiliate you in public, don't you think I could have done more damage being there than being absent?" He leans his weight on his forearms, laces his fingers loosely in between his knees. "Or was that a roundabout way of asking why I wasn't there?" To an onlooker, it probably looks like a perfectly pleasant conversation.

T'rien has the red-face and chilled look of a man who just came off sweeps. He blows on his hands after removing his gloves, apparently seeking the heat of the cavern to warm himself. His eyes scan the galleries and, seeing the clutch-pair in the front row, hesitates for just a moment before seeking a spot for himself.

Zahava's lips press together for a moment, and then she shakes her head. "I don't know.... but I consider our respective prides equally injured by one anothers' inauspicious absenses." From the corner of her eye - or perhaps alerted by the ever-watchful Ciath - she catches some hint of T'rien, and her head turns towards him. She straightens slightly, and gives him a polite nod.

Baiting, N'thei asks, "Do you want me to write you a note to apologize?" He pantomimes holding a pencil to a non-existent hide on his palm. "Goldrider, I'm so sorry that I was too drunk to attend the clutching. Something flower, some assurance that you have my deepest sympathy. Yours, N'thei." He smiles hopefully at Zahava, sweet as pancake syrup, but fades the smile to something more socially correct when T'rien passes into his line of sight. "Evening, sir."

T'rien unbuckles his riding jacket as he walks by, giving a polite nod to N'thei as he passes. "Evening to you, as well," he murmurs. His eyes flicker over to take in Zahava and a nod, respectful and brief, is given. "Evening, Weyrwoman." He glances over the railing briefly before taking a seat nearby. "I hope you don't mind if I warm up for a bit - this is the warmest spot in the weyr right now."

"No, that's quite alright," Zahava says lightly, shaking her head to N'thei. Her nod to T'rien is brief as well, and equally polite. "Good evening, T'rien. I don't mind, of course," she says graciously. "Would you like some cider?" she offers the brownrider.

N'thei picks up his cup, discarded now for quite some time, and tips it toward T'rien in accordance with Zahava's offer of cider, doing his part to be courteous. "I'm in fairly good health, so there's nothing you can catch." He wipes his thumb across the lip of the glass to be extra-careful though, his smile all invitation.

T'rien shakes his head, managing a smile as he holds up a hand. "No, thanks. I'll pick up something on my way up to bed. I just needed to warm up and unwind a bit before I did." He reaches up to unwind the scarf around his neck. "I don't think we've formally met yet," he says to N'thei. "I'm T'rien, Cavoth's rider."

Zahava nods slightly to T'rien, then slants a little glass at N'thei, extending her hand for the cup. "Oh, I'll bring that down to the kitchen before I turn in," she says with a slight smile. "Anything of note on sweeps, T'rien... or have I mis-guessed where you've been?" she wonders.

N'thei puts the cup right on Zahava's outstretched hand, promptly to return his own to laced between his knees, greeting the brownrider in the process; "Pleasure, sir. N'thei, though I imagine that goes without saying." The odds that he cares about anything of interest on sweeps for someone he doesn't know at a Weyr where he doesn't live are slim, but he manages polite inquiry to his expression when he returns his attention to T'rien.

T'rien slaps his gloves over his knee then rubs at his throat where the scarf had been. "Aye. I took the night duty so the rest of the wing could enjoy Turnover. Nothing spectacular to report - other than its cold and snowing and Cavoth thinks I should appreciate it more than I do."

Zahava blinks in momentary confusion. "Cavoth things you should appreciate... the cold and snow?" she questions, confused. At last she brings her mug to her lips and swallows down the last of the drink that sits there in the bottom of it. She sets N'thei's mug and her own side-by-side next to her on the bench.

"Bring him to the Reaches." N'thei's suggestion should come as no surprise, given. Down below, on the sands, Wyaeth rumbles his own drowsing humor at what he no doubt overhears of the riders' conversation. "There's snow for days, but I think it's colder in the lower caverns these days than anywhere you can squeeze a dragon. --Skipped the party?"

T'rien snorts and nods, smiling a bit. "He thinks its pretty. He doesn't feel the cold and the wet like I do. And about the only thing I've ever appreciated regarding snow is a good snowball fight in the bowl with the littles." He shivers at the mention of the 'Reaches. "No offense, but I'm thinking High Reaches is the last place on Pern /I'd /ever want to be in the winter." Rubbing his chapped hands, he nods in response to N'thei's query regarding the party. "I didn't feel much like celebrating," he says simply.

Zahava glances down at T'rien's comment, suddenly busying herself with picking up the insulated skin, mostly empty of cider, now. She moves to rise from her seat, giving the two men each a polite nod and a general smile. "I think I had better get the dishes back to the kitchen, and some sleep, now that Wyaeth is back and Ciath more settled. Goodnight, Sirs," she bids starting to step past N'thei.

N'thei, good-natured, "It's about the last place I'd want to be too. Fortunate to have an excuse to vacate." His smile shines sunnily upward at Zahava when she stands, the embodiment of his excuse for vacating, and he draws his legs flush up against the bench to give her plenty of room to get by. "Goodnight, miss. Thank you for the ale." Bland, blander, blandest.

T'rien leans back, resting his elbows on the bench behind him as Zahava stands. He offers her only the politest nod, the most blameless expression he can. "Goodnight, weyrwoman," he murmurs, turning to look out over the sands once more.

Zahava's shoulders straighten slightly and she returns N'thei's smile with one of her own. "Goodnight," she says again, turning to walk briskly out into the chilly winter night, shrugging into her jacket as she goes.

Zahava goes down the stairs to the Bowl. Zahava has left.

With painstaking patience, N'thei waits until Zahava is at the stairs, out of earshot, before he speaks a word; "We didn't precisely hit it off, Zahava and me." Probably not necessary to point that out, but he tells T'rien with a shrug that fringes apology. "So. It was a good celebration."

T'rien blinks, removing his eyes from the sands and the eggs hidden within to gaze over at the bronzerider. It takes him a moment but a slow, half-smile touches his lips. "I wouldn't take it personally," he tells him. "It took me almost five Turns to figure out /I/ was just a thorn in her side, as well."

N'thei smiles much more quickly, without reservation, with a self-deprecating shrug. "I haven't. Taken it personally. It is what it is, but it's nice to know I'm not the only unsavory in the stew of her life." Leaning down, he scrapes his thumb across his lower lip absently, dragging the nail just across the divet between his mouth and his chin. "What is it about goldriders, I wonder."

T'rien shrugs, looking off into the distance again as if contemplating the last few Turns of his life. "Did it change her?" he muses aloud, half-wondering himself. "I dunno. Seems like, the more I look back on things, the more I realize that she never had any intention of ever being with anyone other than /him/." He shakes his head, pushing himself up and leaning forward over his knees. "I suppose he could have defied Jenna, kept Soldreth here and tried to win the flight. Maybe that would have made her happier." He shrugs a bit. "Truth be told, I'm glad it was you."

"Glad it was me?" N'thei raises his eyebrows, forehead creased upward to match the pull of his smile. Smiley guy. "Or just glad that it wasn't you?"

T'rien sighs softly, expression turning wistful. "No. I had hoped it would be me, in spite of everything. But that would have been the worst possible outcome of this little song and dance we've been performing since we met. I'm glad it was you because...because she didn't know you and I think that was the worst possible outcome for /her/. No offense - it's a spiteful thing to say but I can't help it. /You/ certainly deserved better, from what I'm gathering..."

N'thei shakes his head amiably, rocks back on the bench with the force of that gesture; "No, I'm a bastard, and a drunk one right now." Not that it would be easy to tell if he didn't admit it, only the hazy smell of alcohol from him now and again, but clear-eyed and seemingly unaffected. "Why such venom on a girl whose biggest crime seems to be pure-and-simple blandness? She's hardly beautiful enough to pine for, and not exactly alluring enough to long for. So?"

T'rien raises an eyebrow and can't seem to help but laugh softly. "Blandness. Yeah, I guess that's it, isn't it? I could never figure out what she wanted. I /guessed/ wrong. Unfortunately, I managed to fall in love with her before I figured it out. Managed to fall /out/ of love with her, too, only a lot quicker." He peers up at the bigger man, his expression curious. "She's not exactly been warm and fuzzy to you, I take it?"

"She hasn't been horrible to me, don't get me wrong." But even the clarification is colored with what must be heaps of bad experiences from N'thei's perspective. Then he blinks, a double-take, and peers over at T'rien anew. "You fell in love. With her?" His fingers tap against the air soundlessly while his brain works on that. "Interesting. Confusing as hell, but all right."

T'rien says "I know. It surprised her, too." He snorts in a sarcastic way, shaking his head. "I've known her for a long time. Well, about five Turns, anyway. Before she Impressed, even. She came here from Ista, just after M'yr became Weyrleader."

N'thei looks enlightened, though dimly. Though new understanding dawns on him, his eyes never brighten with cognizance. "So that's the whole thing. She followed him here from Ista, she Impressed, she feels like she got uprooted. But that doesn't quite quantify why you'd have this unrequited /thing/ for her. She's kind of-- frigid. And not the hot kind of frigid." Such a thing exists, you know.

T'rien shrugs a bit. "I'm known for falling for women who think I'm cute, like a puppy, but not their type. I'm also an idiot for not realizing her feelings for M'yr sooner than I did. Still, it was hard, finding out that they'd weyrmated. It was even harder for her to tell me that I should be happy about it and stop making her feel miserable because I was so miserable. After all, who cares about /my/ personal feelings when /hers/ are all that matters?"

Eyes widened, N'thei takes the whole matter in for digestion, expression a mixture of sympathy and confusion. "It sounds like you ought to have come to the part, friend. At the very least, I could have introduced you to a girl who'd be only too happy to worry about nothing but /your/ personal feelings." He loosens his collar at the-- memory? "Probably better Cavoth didn't fly Ciath. It wouldn't have made things better."

T'rien shakes his head sagely. "No, it wouldn't have." He snorts, lifting a hand to his face to rub his eyes. "And I know where to go if I want something casual and without commitments. I guess...I guess I just want to find someone who doesn't think I'm a puppy. Or a pain in the backside, for that matter." He looks at N'thei again. "What did she...or did she not...do to /you/?"

Apologetically, N'thei answers, "That's between her and me, friend. It's a lot less complicated than in-and-out-of-love, rest assured." His teeth file across his lower lip thoughtfully, break when he fashions a smile out of the look. "I know a girl that probably couldn't think of a man like a puppy, not unless it was just a puppy to kick now and then. Want me to drop your name?"

T'rien shakes his head. "No, thanks. And I didn't mean to pry. Just wondering how she could have alienated an honored guest so quickly after just one flight. It boggles the mind. M'yr must be rubbing off on her."

"I can't say that I've had the honor, not of M'yr's presence, but it sounds like I'm not missing much." N'thei stands for that, unravels himself after so long sitting on the bench, the whole bulk of him pouring to his feet. "You've got my sympathies, friend, for what it's worth. I know what it is to want someone unattainable."

T'rien looks at N'thei, surprised. "You haven't met him yet?" He sounds completely stunned by the revelation. "Shards and shells...you must think this entire weyr is full of idiots."

N'thei explains, "I haven't made the effort. I'm here because Wyaeth's here, and keeping things on a handshake-friendship is good enough." Speaking of which, he offers his hand to the brownrider for shaking, a big mitt extended toward T'rien. "I'm very drunk. It's been nice talking to you, sir, and I hope you have a good night." The former revelation is at odds with the clean, concise diction.

T'rien takes the rider's hand and smiles. "It was a pleasure. Listen, for what its worth, you're always welcome at my table. I don't want you to think the rest of Fort doesn't appreciate your presence. Clear skies and...well, sleep well."

"Thank you, sir. It's something to keep in mind." N'thei gives the firm handshake and steps away, his hands parked in his coat pockets while he wheels around to the steps and trots down them, into the cold.

You walk down the stairs to the Bowl.