Logs:Need
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| RL Date: 3 December, 2014 |
| Who: Anvori, Leova |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Leova can't deal with the news of Teris. Anvori can't deal with how she'd deal. |
| Where: High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: Madilla/Mentions, Miska/Mentions, I'daur/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, Prinavi/Mentions, Teris/Mentions |
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| The Snowasis has been relatively busy in the aftermath of Iskiveth's death; a fair number of people who grew up at High Reaches having known Teris. Or at the very least, known of her. Many might not admit that as the reason why they're seeking liquid fortification, and yet business is booming, which has translated to longer shifts for Anvori of late. The gossip du jour is the run of bad luck High Reaches has had with goldriders ever since that cursed exile Impressing, though some drunken mumbles in the Snowasis blame it on I'daur's Curse. Some talk of Telgar. There's other talk of absolutely nothing else other than the typical bar fare: flirtations, work talk, non work talk. But it's busy. Into the busy, Leova walks windblown. Barely walks, running by intent if not the way those strides are truncated. Barely doesn't walk into the slow pair right in front of her, swiveling to skim past them and for her weyrmate who, yes, mans the bar. Her hair's a dark mane. Her amber gaze has nothing to do with the brownrider's shenanigans, however urgent it is, however fixed it is upon, "Anvori." She's there, now, knuckles pressed to the wood's edge. Speaking of. It's something that surely could be said, but doesn't need to be when the brownrider turns, takes in the woman, takes in the way she says Anvori's name and then smirks. "Ball and chain, man." His look says it all. Good luck. He even laughs that laughter of drunken fools when Anvori waves him off and turns to look at what the wind blew in. "Here." Able hands reach for what's handy and pours a hard drink for the woman. "You look like you need this." What brownrider. If he's in Leova's way, that's a problem. Otherwise, he doesn't exist, and Vrianth isn't in a mood to make him so. "Yes," Leova answers her man, though she tracks him and not the drink he pours and she downs. "I need you." Not the way that gets whispered into his ear. It's the way that's straight out, and when does she ever say that, and in front of a must-be-invisible audience no less. The role of amiable barkeep doesn't shed itself fast enough, though a troubled look shadows Anvori's eyes almost immediately. But the rest of him? It's slower to follow, as if he might have had a few shots prior to this, and the smile that would be crookedly upward in charming flirtation descends thirty seconds too late. A hand runs to dishevel his own hair and then lifts to snap thrice in the air, calling minions from wherever they might be. A buxom blonde takes over, the curious arc to her brow completely ignored as Anvori walks around the counter to stand at the end. If she needs him, she'll follow to the end where he waits. Leova walks where he walks, only this short of stalking, and takes his arm good and proper. It's not like it's so far to their rooms, though it might feel farther were she self-conscious about that soup-stain to one side of her trousers. Once in, once the door's shut, she makes to pull him to her straight on. Amber eyes to hazel, "They didn't let her go." Like it's a crime. Anvori's guided. Someone in the bar (someone) starts singing a doomsday snippet. They might get punched later, if Anvori were the type. He's silent as, once they're clear of the Snowasis, she's the one in lead and he's just keeping up. Then there's the door and that pull and suddenly just absolute confusion in his eyes. Her need wasn't this and ye-, there it is. Except her words don't bring any more clarification and he falters. The correct answer in this situation is... the cat has Anvori's tongue. "You're going to have to give me more than that, amber eyes." "Teris." Now he gets it, right? Leova's upper lip peels back, not at him, but at the awfulness of it all. "She's still here. Doesn't want to, Anvori. You, have you heard aught different?" Smart men won't admit to having known. But how could he not when he lives at the Snowasis during days Leova's working? Anvori's long, discomforting silence should say what smart men won't voice. Smart man. She whirls away, pushing off on him. Pacing. Her hands swing forward, back, rake up to her hair. "How could he. Cruel." Smart man have an answer for that? "Cruel," he echoes, though not entirely agreeing. "The Telgar Weyrwoman was here today, says the Snowasis. I thought-," so maybe not so smart, "You knew already and didn't want to talk aboutit." Smart enough, however, to take a step back and make sure that door is locked. "No. No, no." Leova looks back at Anvori finally, hair disheveled, on end. "What else do they say? Can't think she'd approve, and she's her Weyrwoman now." Prinavi, who'd been a dragonhealer, if not just a dragonhealer, when Leova knew her. "Don't see Azaylia saying no to her." "Demanded Teris. Her body. Her." Anvori rifles through his hair and starts to move from being trapped against the door, around the room, straightening. It's his tic. Straighten, organize things. Do something when agitated. As such, he's not entirely looking at Leova when she looks back at him. He's looking down at the table, his hands gripped to the table's edge. "Dragonriders cannot live without their dragons." It's a very, very, very flat statement. He organizes all these things. She nods once, the period to his words. Not the last. To the last she says, low enough to be hoarse, "Don't ever let them try, Anvori." From across the room she says it. "If... don't let them. Promise me." The man unclenches the table and turns. His lips have all but disappeared. It might have been something on his mind since this whole debacle started; something pushed away. The realities of why he never brought it up with his weyrmate. His nod is a curt action. His departure of the room and the door shutting an entirely other answer. What does it say that, to the woman who is the dragonrider, it's some kind of relief. That his departure must pale next to it. That the dragonrider who is the woman knows that he came back from Tillek, that she may not even question that he'll return. He hasn't gone where she can't follow. She curves over crossed hands, talking in half-swallowed syllables, and it isn't to him. |
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