Difference between revisions of "Logs:Stranger on the Road"

Orchards, Fort Hold

By the side of the road, a thin trail of woodsmoke escapes up into the pale sky, as though it were trying to reach the noonday sun that hangs small and cold overhead. The nearby orchards are bare but for a flutter of leaves at their feet, and the road itself is barren: just the smoke from a small campfire, and the man who's hunched over it, feeding it.

The tidy rows of trees make it very difficult for a dragon to land among them, though Leareth circles a few times as though trying to eye a spot that he might fit. He may be small for a dragon, but he's still a dragon and far too large for the rows that are in the orchard itself. Lest T'elo be responsible for the tree carnage that might be wroght by the blue trying to land among the trees, he manages to get the dragon to land farther away which means closer to where the fire is along the roadside. "I told you there was nothing on those trees." T'elo gripes at the blue once they've landed, and hopefully not disturbed the campfire too much.

Not... too much, maybe, but the telltale smoke trail's been diffused by the wind of dragonwings, enough to make the man cough and step back some from the fire. Closer up, it proves to be set within a stone circle, and there's a tripod with a metal pan with something cooking upon it, but the man's not paying attention to that right now, not with the dragon on the road over there. Not that he runs off into the trees or anything. Instead, Norov hesitates, coughs again, then clears his throat. "Ho, rider!"

Leareth snorts, and as soon as T'elo wrangles himself free of the straps the blue is off to inspect those naked trees. Surely there was something on them not that long ago, though T'elo can't help but roll his eyes and watch as the blue slinks off before realizing he's been called to. "Fort's duties~" He responds with a quick smile, despite the fact he's just been abandoned by his ride who is -much- more interested in the trees. "Sorry, if we disturbed you... Though, I think he did better than he usually does."

Gray eyes give T'elo a quick looking-over, and Leareth too, beyond him. "No worries," Norov says, though as if to belie that, his answering smile broadens. "But... you could make it up to me anyway: tell me what the weather's looking like? I've been eyeing the clouds on the horizon, don't want to get drenched any sooner than I have to." His accent's pure Boll, and the smell of what he's cooking carries spices with it, too: some sort of soft raised rolls on one side of the pan, and on the other, small chunks of what might be sausage. He scrapes at them, turning them over to get the other side too.

If he knows he's being looked at, Leareth gives no indication of it - the blue isn't the attention seeking sort, wrapped up in his own interests, which right now is bare trees. T'elo lifts a hand to run through his hair and thinks a little, "Think it might rain here soon enough, but you can never tell with how the wind can change." He considers, then gives the young man a look over himself before his attention is grabbed by the food. "What're you making there?" He asks, stalking a couple steps closer to get a better look.

"Yeah?" Norov grimaces, looking that direction, then just shakes his head as he gets back to flipping the sausage again. "Maybe i should have stayed... well, anyway, it's lunch. Don't mind sharing, if you want something hot: bread's fresh, from the smallhold this morning, and if you haven't had Tennydale sausage, you really should. Unless," and he glances up at the older man, "you don't like it hot?" There's a note in his voice that hints at teasing: maybe it's too much for someone like T'elo, where it's not for a young buck like him.

RL interruption, never finished

Later that day

By the side of the road, a little more than a half-day's walk from Fort Hold, a thin trail of woodsmoke escapes up into the pale sky as though it were trying to crawl up to the early-afternoon sun. The nearby orchards are bare but for a flutter of leaves at their feet, and the road itself is barren: just the waning smoke from a small campfire, withering as a crouched man attempts to kick sodden dirt over it. Although the sky is mostly clear and cold, clouds are coming in from the horizon.

It's possible that the bronze and gold that wink into the sky over the campfire out of coincidence but it is more likely that the smoke was spotted from over the Hold and the pair decided to fly in to investigate. The bronze glides down and lands on the road, keeping his wings aloft as he stares cautious, angry eyes at the crouched man. N'muir leans against the constraints of his straps and even with his goggles on he manages to both look and sound unhappy about finding the man there. "You there. What are you doing here? Are you alone?" Said as if a person can't be out making campfires along roadsides.

Isyath is calmer by comparison to Bidjeth, but then there's few times where she's not completely at ease. Ali's leaning forward within the confines of her straps, too, but it is towards N'muir, not Norov: "Sir!" she exclaims, shocked. "I'm sure he's just out here doing..." her gaze flickers towards the man, then back to N'muir, brow furrowed. "It's none of our business," she says, obviously ruffled by the Weyrleader's words.

Dragonwings and their wind: it flutters the remaining smoke this way and that, and Norov's coughing now at the sudden change, covering his mouth even as he straightens and turns. "Did you forget..." Bemused gray eyes narrow then, taking them in, his expression altering. While he doesn't back up, there are nerves in his sideways glance towards the rucksack nearby, at the still-hot iron pan and disassembled tripod next to it. "I was!" he calls back, though he takes a cue from Ali and adds a brief, "Sir."

N'muir gestures at Norov with a gloved hand while addressing Ali. "I'm only asking the boy a question." Or two. "Let him decide if he'd like to make it our business," he says. It is at this point that the bronzerider leans his elbows on Bijedth's neckridges, lifts his goggles up onto his forehead, and looks very expectantly at the stranger. And when he divulges something of an answer, N'muir simply can't stay satisfied and leave the poor lad alone, but a sidelong glance to Ali makes him choose his words wisely. "You were," he echoes, dubiously. "Hmm. Really. Alone." As much as he doesn't phrase the words as questions, the voice of doubt darkens them into near-sarcasm. "Interesting..."

There's a long slow sigh from Ali, though it's difficult to tell whether it's a sigh of resignation or just plain frustration. The junior is far too polite -- especially in the company of a stranger -- to speak further on the subject, however. Instead, she hunches into her flight jacket, twisting her head upwards as if to inspect the sky and the soon-to-be-coming rainclouds, with a frown. "What's your name?" she calls instead, with a smile. "I'm Ali -- this is Issy." A hand touches the dragon's hide. N'muir? Well, she leaves him to fend for himself by way of introduction. Isyath, for her part, seems restless, her tail twitching out behind her, wings rustling, as if she can't properly settle.

"Yes. Sir," Norov repeats, more steadily this time, in that accent that's flat-out Boll. He's squinting at the man's shoulder, but at that angle... it's easier to kick at the dirt again, smother that fire just a little bit more, not that it isn't dimming under its own weight in the cold, damp air. Easier, too, to go with, "Norov, ma'am," to match the sir, but with a quick smile that N'muir doesn't get. "...Issy." For real? By now, he's verging on gawking, though in that please-let-him-be-too-cool-for-it-to-show sort of way.

"-Weyrwoman of Fort Weyr," N'muir tacks on to Ali's introduction for good measure. Bijedth swivels his angular head to eye his golden companion with cerulean overgrowing the orange of angry caution for her benefit. Meanwhile, N'muir adjusts for nothing and no one, staring as he does down from his lofty seat. "And I'm N'muir, rider of Bijedth, Weyrleader of Fort," he introduces properly, as begrudged as he seems to be about doing so in the wake of Ali's relaxed greetings. Still, having said the words and made the association of name to stranger, the bronzerider settles into his straps having a slightly smaller chip in those broad shoulders of his when next he addresses the young man. "Are you headed somewhere, Norov?"

To Isyath, Bijedth reaches with a tendril of electric current for Isyath, snaps of concern and crackles of curiosity bending and twisting the cord of energy. « Are you needing to return home? »

There's a faint creak of leather as Ali's fingers tighten around the flying straps and she gives N'muir a sharp sidelong look that is, admittedly, rare for her, and fleeting, as she drops her gaze. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Norov," she murmurs, her gaze still cast downwards.

To Bijedth, Isyath's mental tones are all stars and brightness, zooming through the dark sky: « Dull. This place is dull. » Which is not exactly an answer, but it's about normal for the youngest Fort queen, at least. « I would much rather be flying. Would you like to race me home, Bijedth? »

To Isyath, Bijedth tries to capture all her stars and brightness in a cushiony cloud of damp heat, to wrap her in his comfort and try to soothe her restlessness. And yet, a part of him buzzes with anticipation. « Soon enough. Would you like to play a game in the meantime? »

"Nice big brow...nze you have there," and that would be Norov hastily self-correcting what he'd been about to say on the heels of N'muir's introduction, a flush scraping up along his cheekbones... chased by laughter beginning to well up in his voice and brim in his eyes. "Pleasure to meet you, too." A second is-this-real glance at Isyath becomes, "And I'm heading uphill, sir, hope to make it before the clouds come in." And then he just can't keep it all back because, "Seriously? Do you have the Masterharper up there too?"

SNAPCRACKLEPOPEXPLODE. Bijedth's storm bursts across the sky. « DID HE THINK I WAS BROWN?! » (Bijedth to Isyath)

To Bijedth, Isyath projects, « Game? » She's intrigued, that much is clear. But that fades almost immediately under the stormy onslaught that follows. Isyath, for her part, is amused: « Maybe it is the way you hold yourself? »

N'muir returns Ali's sharp look with something akin to innocence, albeit a strange expression for the middle-aged man to wear. Unfortunately for Norov, that near-miss does not go unnoticed and brown eyes are narrowed at the young man. Even Bijedth snaps his head in Norov's direction, gawking at the lad with sharply swirling red eyes. N'muir twists in his straps, looking around himself and then around Ali, only to look back at Norov with a furrowed brow. "Masterharper...?" A hand lifts to swipe away his confusion. "You won't make it before the clouds come in." Bijedth takes a threatening step towards the lad, something dark and angry and twisted making strangled sounds in the pit of his chest. "Unless you run for it..."

A crooked lightning bolt tries to blow apart the word 'game' -- and all of Isyath's amusement -- in a brilliant spastic display of neon colours that ricochet off one another like fireworks blowing apart. « I am BEAUTIFUL and BRONZE. » And a diva. The sky fills with fireworks and bursts of sound and excitement, balls of lightning flying here, there and just about everywhere is a rainbow of bright-hued shades. Who knew anger could be so pretty? « I will show HIM brown... » (Bijedth to Isyath)

There's a flush of color to Ali's cheeks that might well be in response to Norov's slip... but is more likely, given the way she stares, chewing her lower lip, at Bidjeth, to what she can hear via her dragon of the bronze's response to that. "Weyrleader," she says, tentatively. "He didn't- it's getting dark very fast."

The show entrances her. There is no doubt of that. And yet, inevitably, her nature is to pull him back, her influence slowly but inevitably weathering the storm and battening down the hatches, making it pass and fade. She knows what he is. She doesn't require the reminder. And she is who matters, right now. (Isyath to Bijedth)

What's left of embarrassment and sense-overriding astonishment becomes, well. Quailing. Much as he might like to stand pat in front of the girl, there's no thought involved in Norov's involuntary backwards lurch away from man and bronze, and little more in his his catching up his rucksack in one gloved hand and pan-and-tripod in the other. He glances back over his shoulder. The trees. They're close, surely? Leareth didn't go into them. Now he's half-turning, right on the edge, all set to make a break for it if he must.

Bijedth makes even more strangled sounds as if fighting some invisible force until he is subdued by it and sinking down onto his belly in the dirt like a feline with his claws sprawled out before his enormous body. N'muir frowns at Ali while Bijedth watches Norov very, very intently, talons digging into the earthy ground beneath them. "It is indeed," the Weyrleader murmurs and turns to eye Norov with as much interest as his dragon. "It sounds like you should spend some time at the Weyr, Norov. Stand for Isyath's clutch." If it's meant to be a request upon the boy, it certainly isn't phrased as one. And if the idea is sprung from rider or dragon, one may wonder what either have in store for the stranger off the road.

Isyath is all that matters. Yes. The fireworks fizzle out into nothingness, leaving only black sky. Somewhere in the darkness there is a whisper: « He will be Ours. » (Bijedth to Isyath)

Ali's entire attention is focused on Bijedth, as is Isyath's. Strangely - unusual for her, anyway - the gold is perfectly still, not even her tailtip moving as they watch. Like a switch abruptly flicked, their combined intentness fades: the junior releases a sigh, and then her mouth twists into an oh of surprise as her gaze flickers from N'muir to Norov. She bites her lower lip, watching the young man.

Silence and darkness follow, and the pressure eases. Isyath is still present, in the darkness, a single star glowing on the horizon, and she radiates pleasure at the whisper. « Yes. » (Isyath to Bijedth)

Those strangled sounds only intensify Norov's lean, pushing him a step back and then another, not quite turning his back on that dragon and not even thinking to look at the other one: not even when the Weyrleader's words sink in, not until he shakes his head to hear his brains rattle. "Why," he says more than asks, hitching his rucksack onto his shoulder. This is his plan, isn't it? and yet he can't be unfamiliar with the darker side of temptation, with how it could just be to get him out of there. And then the man does turn back to Ali, with a look of appeal. "Can I trust you?"

N'muir wouldn't say a word against Ali and her queen but the look she gives her for the use of that force says bounds - although bounds of what is fairly questionable as the man looks both irritated and impressed by the young woman. His mouth twists into a smile and he laughs shortly at her antics before returning honey brown eyes to the lad on the ground nearby. "Why?" the Weyrleader echoes in disbelief. "Whatever the 'why', you either come with us and Stand or you don't. If you want the chance to be a dragonrider, Stand. Otherwise, go up your hill and get rained on. Your choice."

"Me?" Ali's surprised enough by the question - or likely being asked that question - that the response just slips out before she can catch it. "I-" she darts a glance towards N'muir - there is nothing apologetic in that look - then back towards Norov. "Yes, you can." And then, with a smile, "If it helps, I'm hold-born and bred."

It sounds so simple when N'muir puts it that way, doesn't it? "Well," Norov says, and clears his throat, for all that he surely can't make out the subtleties of what passes between them. He's standing straighter now, as a cloak for tattered confidence. And he glances briefly at the older man, for all that he doesn't give him the answer he deserves: it's Ali he's waiting for, and it's at her avowal that he nods. Once. "All right, then. Never liked the rain anyway." With that, he kicks at the all-but-out coals a few more times, eyes the sky for more than just show, and sees about wrapping up the pan for safety in its hide sack now that nobody's likely to get burned. After that, in all his effrontery, it's Isyath he approaches.

As soon as it's clear which dragon Norov will approach, Bijedth throws himself skyward, N'muir firmly strapped into place. With the wind beneath his sails, Bijedth lets out a bugle - one that clearly says « We got one! » before winking between.

If she was surprised before, the junior is flummoxed now, Ali watching Norov's approach with a visible fluster. She lifts her hand as if to gesture in the Weyrleader's direction... just as Bijedth launches skywards. Isyath is, perhaps, ill-pleased. Although it's probably difficult for one unused to dragons to interpret that flickering of tail, the shifting color of whirling eyes. The brief tightening of her jaw suggests cause of tautness of her voice as she leans down to offer a hand to Norov. "Have you flown before?"

Indeed, Norov treats Isyath with the same wari... the same respect that he might have had if she'd been altogether placid. Make that, intrigued respect: he's watching her movements as though they were some code he could decipher, even if he doesn't understand them now. "I don't, ma'am," he says when he looks back up at her rider. "Advice?" And perhaps it's his mother's advice that has him add a politer, "Thank you, Issy," before he takes that hand and starts to climb wari... cautiously up, bag and all, more awkward than someone accustomed to dragons but at least trying not to be.

"Hold tight," is Ali's amused advise, waiting until Norov is settled in behind her. Then she sets about strapping him in, firmly - which might seem odd at first, for such a short trip from here-to-there. Moments later it becomes apparent why, though: barely a second after the goldrider's hastened, 'Hold on', Isyath pushes aloft, impatience driving the sharp, jarring leap upwards and the breathless, abrupt disappearance into the cold of between a heartbeat later. One, two, three heartbeats... and they're out again, above Fort Weyr, circling down to the bowl below.

There's a half-stifled shout into the wind as Isyath jumps... and that's just the first noise to assault poor Ali's ears as their passenger, who'd started out hanging discreetly onto those straps, clutches for her more reliable-seeming waist instead. But it's an exultant shout, if followed by a, "Freezing!" and then... and then Isyath's circling and he's leaning out and looking and, "Don't stop, all right? Don't stop!" That too-cool pose of his? He can get that back later.

Ali's laughter is probably audible above the wind, mixed in with Norov's exultant shout: Isyath needs no such encouragement, her path downwards sharp and dizzying. Finally, though, they touch down. Ali casts about briefly for any sign of the Weyrleader or his bronze, before twisting to help free Norov from his straps. "Careful, getting down. It's higher than it looks," she warns.

The Weyrleader is there, yes, and Bijedth, who is no doubt casting a call to the dragons close enough to the Bowl to gawk at the newcomer. N'muir is on the ground, hurrying them along with a waving hand. "Yeah, don't jump and break your neck or we'll take you right back to that road we found you on," N'muir remarks on the heels of Ali's kind warning. A grin flashes up at Ali more than Norov. "I'm kidding," he assures before trying to help Norov find his feet beneath him. "Follow me and I'll get you set up in the barracks where you can tell all your future friends that the junior weyrwoman Searched you." But if N'muir's laughter is anything to go by, that is quite the joke in itself.

Isyath lands, Norov takes it with the jolt of the unsuspecting, and probably he'll feel that later, too. Still and all, he's quick to let go and at least try to deal with his own buckles before she does. "Right," he says distractedly. "That was something else." He looks at Ali, looks at Isyath's side, looks at the ground, and... right. Down. Down to N'muir. "Right," he repeats, and makes as though the gold and her straps are a tree, all but crawling as far as he can get and then jumping off the rest of the way... only to have the pan in its sack bang him in the side. So maybe he will need some of N'muir's help after all, but he's straightening quickly, trying to do less gawking back at anyone who might be eyeing him and more, "Right," he says to the Weyrleader all calm-like, as though the third time's the charm. "Thanks again, ma'am. Issy."

Ali, doesn't follow Norov down off Isyath's neck: her gaze fixes on the Weyrleader. "We'll have words later," is all she says. From anyone else but sweet, innocent Ali, it'd be ominious. But she can't really pull that off, not well at all, and so she settles for a reassuring smile to Norov in response, "I'll come by later and check that you've settled in." And then the pair are aloft again, for the much shorter glide over towards the junior ledges on the far side of the bowl.

Candidate Barracks, Fort Weyr

"-And don't knock anyone up or we'll throw you and your new wife out of the barracks," is the last of N'muir's explanations of the many rules placed upon the newly-minted Candidate Norov on their way through the caverns, the bronzerider's long-legged strides carrying him effortlessly along the passageways he knows as well as his own hands. The barracks are given a broad sweep of the hand, all-encompassing. "Pick a cot, introduce yourself to any other Candidates, and watch the posts on the board that will tell you what chores you're assigned. The trunk at the end of your bed is for your belongings. Any questions can be directed to the Headwoman and her staff, all of whom you will come to know very well whether you want to or not." Warm brown eyes swing to the young man, the Weyrleader's temper seemingly a distant memory from his current, cheerful self. "Oh - and there will be bow lessons with Storeskeeper Avaryk. If you don't learn to use the bow, you leave. Got it?" N'muir doesn't wait for an answer. "Welcome to Fort Weyr Candidacy."

Norov sizes the place up as he goes along, hard on N'muir's heels, the better to later not get lost and then lost some more. As much. The barracks themselves get a longer, assessing look, up and down the long room, and at the man's instructions he tosses his rucksack onto a not-too-close cot and the sack onto its neighbor: less taking possession and more taking time to decide. Then he's regarding the older man, the Weyrleader. He smiles back, charmingly wide. One more time: "Right." And for good measure, "Sir."

N'muir nods his head once very succinctly and takes a step towards the door, pausing long enough to throw a kind word over his shoulder. "You keep this up, lad, and you'll do just fine." Kind words, however, do not last long it seems, for when N'muir makes for the door it is with a dark chuckle that echoes off the stone walls of the ancient Weyr. "-- Unless Bijedth decides to smear your guts across the Bowl."

Bijedth's weyr, Fort Weyr

It's somewhat later in the evening, shortly before the dinner hour, when steps become audible on the ramp up to the Weyrleader's ledge. Ali's subtle check - via Isyath and Bijedth - assures the junior that he's in, and she arrives carrying a cloth-covered tray. "Sir," she calls, "Are you-" decent? Wearing pants? The sentence isn't completed, as the speculation has the dark-haired Fortian flustered. Isyath is in her normal place in the sky, circling and enjoying the last of the day's warm thermals before they disappear, having coaxed some of the smaller dragons into joining her in the skies.

The Weyrleader's weyr is decorated from one end to the other in various things, from high-fashion but completely insensible straps dangling from hooks to the fur-lined stuffed mattress that pads Bijedth's wallow better than most cots in the resident quarters. Every visible luxury is within sight of the luscious wallow, and beyond it is an area so plain and undecorated that it is almost a painful contrast. The sound of water comes from deeper in the weyr and N'muir comes out a lengthy moment later dripping wet but wearing pants and a shirt that he is still buttoning as he pads barefoot across the dirt floor. "Weyrwoman, I-" The tray is eyed and his steps towards her slow, suspicion tainting the angles of his dark brows. "What is that?" A long finger, stained and worn by the Turns, points to the tray.

The suspicion, and the finger pointing, makes Ali blink up at the Weyrleader. "Dinner," she says, in a tone that somehow manages to convey an unspoken but obvious, 'What did you think it was?' She steps further inside, and unless he stops her, heads for the table with the intention of setting the tray down there. She looks utterly relaxed as she pulls the cloth off the tray and sets out plates, one for each of them, and begins heaping servings of food on each.

This version of woman - the sort to bring him dinner and set out plates and serve him his meal - is foreign and treated as the alien she is. N'muir stares at her, warily watching her every move while pensive drops of bathwater roll down his throat when it bobs from the effort it takes to swallow. One slow, cautious step and then another, and soon N'muir has no choice but to sit down at his own table or continue to stand uselessly nearby. The bronzerider folds himself carefully into a chair, fighting every nerve in his body that would try to inch his chair outside of her fist's range of motion. "Why did you bring me dinner?" Outside, Bijedth touches down and settles onto his cushiony wallow, watching Ali in much the same way N'muir does while reaching to greet Isyath wherever she may be.

There's something that's completely at ease about Ali's posture as she serves up the food. It's like, for her, it's such a familiar and known quantity that it puts her at ease, in contrast to his discomfort. When done, she seats herself, then tips her head to look at him. "Because I was hungry," she answers, rather straightforwardly, "And I figured you would be too. And we needed to talk." It's very possible she's blissfully aware of his wariness, reaching for her fork and spearing some of the greens on her plate. High above, Isyath's trilling acknowledgement of the bronze comes with an invitation to join her in the skies.

It's that very obvious calm that seems most unsettling to the Weyrleader. And then there it is, the reason for her visit. A Talk. N'muir takes up his fork after her, watching her stab the vegetables without taking anything on his own fork. It sits, suspended in mid-air much like his mood: waiting. "About?" Bijedth's current sways and hums quietly, reluctant. He searches for the feeling of the wind under her sails, silently encouraging but not leaving the comfort and safety of his wallow. There is unaired questions, curiosity that bleeps and buzzes, almost hinting at what plagues N'muir's mind but never quite divulging the secrets. Just... wondering. Nearly worrying. Almost enjoying.

Ali is several mouthfuls into her food before she seems to realize that N'muir isn't eating. She pauses, dismay painted on her expression, "You already ate?" She chews her lower lip, eyes the food as if trying to determine how much of it she can consume herself, and exhales the faintest of sighs. As to his question? "Issy," is all she says, before she takes another bite. The suspicious might wonder if she was drawing things out on purpose. But probably not; there's an air of discomfort that leeches into her posture, though she's trying not to let it show.

Maybe it's because of the look Ali gives his plate or maybe it's the change to her posture - whatever the reason, N'muir puts fork to plate and stabs his vegetables. Bite eaten, he waits. Perhaps he's waiting to feel the onset of poison. More likely, he's trying to let the silence of the weyr encourage Ali to speak her mind to open ears.

Reassured, even if it's a token effort on his part, Ali resumes her own eating. She shoots looks over at the Weyrleader, half-glances, or quick, darted glances. "I- I'm sorry about what Issy did, sir," she says, finally.

The fork clinks against the plate as its abandoned and elbows hit the wooden table so that hands might catch his head as it slumps forward, relief clearly washing over his features. "Is that what this is about? Faranth, Ali!" N'muir is wearing a smile when he lifts his head, honey brown eyes merrily glinting in the glowlight, and his hands drop - one to his fork, the other to the table. "You shouldn't apologize for that," he replies, voice brighten by genuine enthusiasm for his insisting words. "Isyath is a queen. Bijedth is hers to command when she sees fit." The dark-haired man pauses, eyes combing the table between them. His hand reaches across it towards her, inviting but not demanding she give her hand to be held. "Bijedth and I got cocky and shouldn't have let a simple misunderstanding injure our pride." And likewise, Bijedth offers feelings of regret to Ali's gold counterpart up in the sky. "We wouldn't hurt that boy. I hope you know that. But regardless, Isyath was not out of line to make Bijedth submit to her will. You were being a good and proper weyrwoman today - don't ever apologize for that." He spears some more of the vegetables and considers the young woman across from him. "Are you okay with what you did?"

The Weyrleader's reaction, and in fact, his smile, if anything, flusters the young junior further. With a hitch of breath, Ali says, "It doesn't matter. She shouldn't have. You're the Weyrleader." Chewing her lower lip, she eyes the offered hand with almost the same wariness he viewed the food earlier, but she sets aside her fork to take it, all the same, her touch light - tentative. "I didn't think you would, but I've never- he dazzled her with his emotions. I panicked," she confesses, voice faint.

N'muir actually laughs at her words. It's a hearty, masculine laught born decades into history and dragged from its ashy grave somewhere in the depths of his chest. "My dear, sweet Ali, you are probably the only person in this whole bloody Weyr who acts like my knot means anything at all," he remarks with amusement more than sarcasm. For her tenderness, N'muir returns in kind. He doesn't grab her hand but his has strong, confident fingers that are sure of their intention as they aim to hold her for a moment. Another laugh escapes him- this brief and light, and accompanied by a smirk. "He dazzled her, eh? Yeah, he's got a flare for it when he's insulted." Her hand is given a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry. Now, how about we eat dinner and talk about something that won't make you look like you're going to wither away on me, hmm? Tell me about what you did before you came to Impress Isyath?"

The look that Ali gives N'muir is somewhat bemused. "Of course your knot means something," she remarks, obliviously. His reassurance earns a smile, if tentative, that grows as he asks about her family. It's one of the topics, besides Issy, with which she speaks about in complete, relaxed ease. And so they pass the evening amiably, talking and eating.

Letters from Norov:

To: Gregor, River Rest Hold (outside of Fort Hold)

Thanks for sending this on, G. I hope your aunt's gotten over it.
--M.

To: Tereran, Redfin Hold (outside of Southern Boll)

Dearest T.,

I hope that this missive finds you in good health. If all goes as planned, it should reach you almost as soon as the last one, or even sooner!

It was a dramatic surprise, following as it did a more light-hearted encounter. While approaching my intermediate destination, whom did I run into but the headwoman herself? She is a formidable figure, and was sitting a chestnut gelding with very large hooves, who looked quite fierce despite what I understand to be its age. (Indeed, though I am loath to admit it, I did not have complete confidence in her ability to rein it in.) At first she questioned me sharply, but her assistant spoke gentle words, at which point she insisted that I return with the two of them, and naturally I was thrilled. Rain was threatened, after all! Her assistant is a dark-haired and kindly sort, whose sprightly palomino could and did carry two. (Why was I no longer with the wagons, you ask? For that you must wait until we are reunited.) He dallies in breeding runners and I hope that we will have much to talk about in the days to come. Indeed, I hope to learn much about this place, and I must say that the headwoman seemed much more welcoming when she assigned me to a cot than I might have imagined! I understand that there will be a Gather forthcoming, and I eagerly anticipate practicing the dances, in hopes of finding a handsome partner... if only I can fashion the right frock. Remember the yellow ribbon! And, be sure to tell me all about the cousins! I hope that they resolve their argument soon.

Your Margaret

Sewn shut, but with an uncomplicated knot.