Logs:Dancing with Snowflakes
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| RL Date: 11 October, 2011 |
| Who: Iolene, Leova |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Iolene receives her weyr while Ysavaeth and Sevierth dance with the snowflakes outside. |
| Where: Records Room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Weather: Snowy~! |
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| In the skies above, Ysavaeth dances with the falling snow, her wings slanting left and then right in a game that might exist only in her head: avoid the snowflakes, never mind just how large she is now. The young queen's frolick without brings an unbidden smile to Iolene's lips, even as her blonde head bends over a thin stack of hides she's poring over. Her pencil makes markings along the margins, predominately question marks and every so often, she looks up to stare at the wall in front of her before going back to her studies. The rusty-haired woman doesn't emerge from the wall, but rather behind Iolene and to one side, and quietly enough that some time elapses before she clears her throat. It's a moderate sort of thing, neither diffident nor pointed, and if there's a slight curve to the woman's own mouth at all those question marks, it's soon to linger into general pleasantness. Her Vrianth had flown earlier, but high, above the clouds. She's warmer now, all curled up with a clutchmate, her long tail tucked over his paws. "Find a good stopping spot?" asks her rider. Over her shoulder, what Iolene reads is visible in diagrams, mostly of the human body -- healer stuff that would cross the eyes of even the most studious, let alone Io. It's during one of those pauses where her eyes train back up to the wall that Leova's interruption comes, but only elicits the most minute twitch of surprise. One careful hand folds over her papers and the pencil comes up to rest against her lower lip as she turns, the very picture of innocence with those big dark blue eyes. "I can stop right now if-," a beat, "You need something, Leova?" Ysavaeth's own flight falters for the hiccup in Iolene's emotions, but resumes at a slower pace as her rider speaks. "I don't," Leova assures not quite blandly, humor only half-hidden in that smoky voice. "If you'd rather... wait, for your weyr?" Wait /longer/. "To make it official, at least." Nearly on cue, yet another of Vrianth's clutchmates appears out of nothingness, Sevierth trumpeting casual greeting towards the dragon on watch before slanting into a descent that's slowed for the snow-obscured conditions. Beyond even vision, his thoughts range ahead: checking who's there, warning them off his path. There's warned and then there's doing something about being warned and Ysavaeth's slow figure eights in the sky create a much tighter holding pattern for being warned. She doesn't get out of Sevierth's way, instead twist her neck so that she might look up with a languid veil not masking at all the curious playfulness beneath it all. Whatchu going do now? "M-," the pencil to Iolene's lip falls and the teenager can't suppress her sudden smile. "The barracks were starting to get lonely, even though Ysavaeth was enjoying trying out a new couch every night. She says it's not fair Hiyanoth got the nicest one of them all." So there's someone, someone /not/ moving, and a moment more to identify who it is: the little girl, the maybe not so little girl. That playfulness finds masculine humor, a breath of fresh air that carries a whistle upon it. Sevierth /could/ barrel on down, he could. Maybe he should. Instead he twists the whole of him where she'd just twisted her neck, and there's a wordless suggestion that she /hold/ that pattern she'd made, and he'll just slip right on by. Wouldn't want to break her, after all. Or his rider, who'd just wanted a warm mug and a warm... well. Never mind that. Never mind Leova's lazy stretch, either, made happier for seeing Iolene's reaction. "She could about try out two at once," the greenrider says on a half-laugh. "Come on!" This time, the scramble's up the stairs. There's a flicker of hesitation in the way Iolene's lashes dart to what she was working on, indecision writ on her fine features. Ultimately, a overly leisurely arm reaches out to scoop up her work and press it to her chest like the craft apprentices at the Hall Io's never seen. It pairs well with the two pigtails down the side of her head, keeping her hair out of her face. "Are you-," the blonde girl is careful in pushing her chair when Leova's scrambling up the stairs. Hurrying after, she repeats, "Are you- are you mad at me still?" Like the child she still is, despite the snow-glistened hue of her hide, Ysavaeth pauses in an unintended mirror of Iolene's hesitation - as if deciding whether to listen to those nonverbalized suggestions or stubbornly stay still. It's fleeting, that moment, as she's soon banking down and then up to meet Sevierth, coasting past him in a rush of youthful limbs and a wind-swept beat of her pale, majestic wings. In his head, though not S'trun's, is a bell-like singsong laughter that fits all too well with the winter landscape. Surprise. Leova pauses nearly at the stairs' height, looking down at the weyrling, the wooden door at her back and the latch in her hand. /Her/ features are briefly foreign, shadowed that way, as though she were someone else... or is, beneath it all. "I'm not mad at you," she says, and makes it so. She isn't troubled or troubling about those healer-studies, after all. Or trying to explain, in a way that might seem as though she'd split every golden hair. She just smiles, and she's Leova again, warm and laconic and helpful where she can be. More helpful, through the walk through the tunnel to the weyrleaders' snow-scraped ledge and cautiously along it, than Sevierth is: Sevierth, who's swerving into Ysavaeth's flight path /just/ enough that he might sideswipe one muscled wing past hers. Just because he can. Just because she might let him, or might not stop him. Just because, yes, it's /fun/. S'trun? Sticking his jaw out, cold or no cold, like he's not just along for the ride. It jingles like bells, it jangles like chains, in Ysavaeth's frost-touched mind, the laughter persists as the fun continues, his sideswipe actually making contact enough to reel her off her path and having to make adjustments. Heedless of the rider the bronze carries, the adjustment Ysavaeth makes includes flying low above the bronze a seemingly careless tail lashing just above St'run's hapless head. "But you're mad," persists the blonde teenager in that annoying way teens and toddlers seem to be adept at. Her own steps are ginger as they reach the snow-scraped ledge as she inches along after Leova. "I have a question." As she always does. "Annoyed. Was." Leova glances back over her shoulder without even an of-course-you-do, only then she disappears, rounding the corner. Her hand comes back into view, waving: come on. Look. Ask. A space. Iolene's space, evidently. Or at least her dragon's. The main weyr's first, after all, hollow enough that their steps threaten to echo. It's also dark, the hide curtain slung down over the entrance, until the greenrider picks up a glowbasket from what turns out to be the table and unlids it. Poor S'trun's in the dark too, at least until there's the sudden gust over his head and he's ducking with a bellicose squawk fit for a wherry. « Hey now, » says Sevierth to Ysavaeth in a conversational puff of his own wind, twisting a path towards her and away from the ledge he'd initially been aiming for. « Easy on him. They're breakable. » Not like /him/. /He/ can hack it. « Not like you. » Ysavaeth gives voice to what he implies, her merriment akin to the light dance of snowflakes in her thoughts. Still the size of a large green, she has the mobility to whip around, ducking underneath Sevierth to hide in the shadow he would cast were there more light. « Un-break-a-ble, » teases the gold, syllable by syllable and while Ysavaeth talks, Iolene is, momentarily, silent as she rounds into that weyr. That dark space until the basket is unlidded. "It's- it's too large. It's too much." The blonde girl, with her hides tucked under her arm, stands rapt just beyond that curtain and stares. "Is this-," it takes a few swallows and long lingering glances around before she can claim it with an uncertain, "Mine?" Surely, that wasn't her question. "Was that your question?" Leova has to ask so very gravely, even while Sevierth's paws go breezily down like he'd... no, not capture. /Land/. Except she's little, and at the moment that matters, and evidently little-and-quick besides. It might be a bump at most, a sort of hopscotch. « And what are you? » What would she say she is? Says Leova after a moment, "Could fit yourself and a passel of aunties and little ones in here too, even. 'Less you get a lot of clothes." That might be... no, it's probably a joke. /She/ keeps walking, taking the light with her, memory even more than vision bringing her to chime the curtain of beads between her fingers. It's a slow gesture, delicate somehow, the way another might read a fortune there. "No," is the immediate. But her questions can wait for now as Iolene walks in circles further into her weyr, bumping into that table and yelping away and then stepping more quickly after Leova with her light. "Was this-," she looks out past the curtain towards the central ledge area. « I am, » with the start of her answer made, Ysavaeth considers this question for wingbeats and a hopscotch bump longer, unwavering in her chosen flight path, braced almost as if she expected the physical collision. « I would be /your/ queen. » A someday should be added in there somewhere; should, but isn't. But a sunny laughter, reminiscent of a sudden, brilliant smile cast over a pretty girl's shoulder, floods Sevierth's thoughts as her still smallness allows her to outpace the bigger dragon, flying forward and then soaring higher. Iolene approaches the greenrider with the curtain of beads between her fingers, an inquiry also unlikely her that question on her lips, "Was this Teris's weyr? Were you close?" It's a gargantuan maw that opens, slavers, breathes hot air upon that lithe little tail as though he'd flame her or feast on her or just... tickle. Because this is all a game, right? "It was Lu's first," Leova meanwhile says, looping strings of beads before her nose and mouth as though trying on a coquettish Igenite's veil. Her words are sadly prosaic: "Don't reckon that Teris was close to hardly anyone." Her regard rests on the girl, thoughtful, yellower than the glows she holds. Sevierth's jaws snap, clank, play grandly at missing. « I wonder what I would do with you. » He turns, arcing down towards the low ledge he'd planned to land on earlier: an aged brown's, one with steps /and/ a decent view of the weyrleaders' complex. « I could take you with me. You would keep my stomach warm, » imagine that, little snowflakes heaped up against his stomach, a snowdrift that feels somehow warm. Even as it freezes. The beads only hold Iolene's fixation for a second as what lies beyond them, a bedroom with a large bed, causes the second rapt silence. The lanky teenager ducks past Leova with her Igenite coquette's veil and starts trailing fingers along the walls, the furniture, the wardrobe and chest. "Lu. Lujayn. She has a different home now." Because this one's hers; not that she's ready to claim it just yet. "Do Holders have places as nice for themselves?" The wardrobe is open, revealing emptiness and Iolene's begun to look through the drawers, mumbling mostly to herself, "Who would ever have so many things to put away?" In the skies, Ysavaeth creates a holding pattern about Sevierth and his poor rider, just out of reach of those snapping jaws. There's no words for her dare, but she'd like to see him try... is the wave of sentiments she shares in a cascade of pale winter golds lapping over and overwhelming muted bronzes. The weyrling explores. The weyrlingmaster's assistant stays, for the moment, put. "Right," she says, no doubt unnecessarily. "And, aye. Nicer, sometimes, I hear tell. You'll get to pick out some of your own tapestries, from stores, though. Furnishings. Different chairs if you want. Scented sweetsand and such, maybe. You saw, there's a bath?" By which are a bunch of ceiling hooks, and just what were /those/ used for, anyway? Meanwhile, Sevierth's relatively matter-of-fact, more about the here and now than any future even as claws scrape ice-rimed stone: /he's/ going to try sitting, offload his poor poor rider, and settle for a while. Maybe pick out the clump of ice between his talons, there. If she wants to be kept warm by his big self, that's one thing... and if not? Watching her fly could entertain him for a little while. Either way, there's a breeze of approbation headed her way: it's been fun, kid. If she's disappointed, she masks it well enough, the tiniest toot spared the bronze as a soap bubble in its rainbow effervescence floats from her mind to his, but Ysavaeth doesn't deign to warm his side or be warmed by him in turn as her soaring stretches her young wings up-up-up-up-up until there's no further way to go up for her young lungs to handle and then she's going down-down-down-down-down, swooping down towards the ledge that she will now claim as hers, still in view of the bronze and quite aware of it as she folds her growing limbs in an elegant pile about her bulk. The gold's landing garners Iolene's split-second attention, but there are other things to coo over and the mention of a bath has the girl leaving the drawers and wardrobe in a state of mostly open and peltering past the beads, getting some caught in her open mouth (ptooey) and around to try and find that bath in the mostly dark. "Nicer. I can't imagine anything nicer." Io's casting a blue-eyed look over her shoulder, tearing them away from the bubbling water that remains heated in her bath up to Leova. "Thank you. I don't think I deserve this." That view? It's upgraded to better-than-decent. And if Sevierth were the smartest axe in the shed, he wouldn't be gloating to some of his buddies /right/ /now/. Right when there's that word /deserve/, that dangerous /deserve/ that has Leova mildly carrying the glowbasket to the weyrling in lieu of a spear. "Welcome," she says. "Enjoy it, hm? Not so impractical as all that," but that's for later, even her tone stepping back the way she'll do herself in not too long, leaving the glows behind: all unimportant now, compared to exploring what other delights may be in store, compared to... well, to taking possession. |
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