Logs:Just Dessert
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| RL Date: 23 December, 2013 |
| Who: R'hin, Azaylia |
| Type: Log |
| What: R'hin warns High Reaches' Weyrwoman about offers to come. Azaylia doesn't share his reservations. |
| Where: Keroon |
| When: Day 10, Month 8, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Oriane/Mentions |
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| It's far too warm in the 'Reaches for that sensation of chill wind to be legitimate: it's a niggling sensation meant to be a gentle introduction, like Leiventh is testing the waters of Hraedhyth's mood. Quiet and stillness reigns for a little while, and then, not that much longer after, it returns, far less gentle: strong and exploratory, driving a windstorm ahead of him that is reminiscent of a High Reaches winter. « Hraedhyth. » The image that accompanies the greeting is familiar -- she's been there before, many times. It's the birthplace of her rider, and there's a sense of waiting. Waiting for her. For them. At first, the wind makes no impact on the raging inferno that courses through the queen's mindscape. Should the chill linger long enough to steam, it will be revealed that her flames are only for show-- that she is in the middle of a mock battle with one of the not-quite-grown pups. Eventually, Leiventh's storm will rise above the pounding of passionate drums, a song of battle and play. The spike in adrenaline causes a crackle, « Leiventh. » Reluctant to leave, to end her games now that the dragonets are not so easily harmed, her hearth's fire shrinks and shifts. Now, it dances in a respectable manner and its smoke carries the faint scent of floral incense, « We come. » A sense of acknowledgment rides the winds that stoke her fires, show or not. There's a sense that Leiventh recedes, although a distant chill suggests otherwise, even if it's on the far edges of her awareness. The bronze dragon isn't visible on the fire heights of Keroon, though he is there, further out along the road. While he's outside the Hold proper, that where R'hin's chosen is on the nearest path to her rider's ancestral home is no coincidence. R'hin's perched comfortably on some rocks not far from the road side, a bottle of something set on the rock next to him. The scent of the sea is everywhere, familiar, even in the winds of Leiventh's thoughts as the bronze sits as still as the rocks his rider reclines on. Though the mental picture is clear enough in her rider's mind, Hraedhyth hunts for Leiventh, stalking the winds that tickle the edge of her mental territory. It draws her closer, a force to be reckoned with that bursts with intensity from between, claiming her lifemate's home with a guttural roar. She lands near R'hin, close enough that Azaylia doesn't have too far to walk in those golden slippers, pale and matching her sundress. The wrap across her shoulders is as tawny as Hraedhyth's hide, protecting her from the cool sea breeze. "R'hin..." High Reaches' Weyrwoman starts, whispery soprano a rising drawl of a greeting. What's he up to? Once free of her lifemate, the queen will continue her hunt until she succeeds in tracking down Leiventh. Leiventh feels closer, as soon as the High Reaches queen emerges over Keroon, but he's silent, flickering of wind drawing her on until she reaches the road's edge. There, a low, bassy rumble can be more felt than heard from the statuesque bronze's direction. The waiting bronzerider's already uncorking the bottle he brought with him, as his pale eyes track Azaylia's approach. "I hope you'll forgive the presumption of no glasses. That would imply there was some planning or forethought to this." A twist of lips from R'hin, sardonic tones self-directed as he takes a gulp of the liquid, then offers it towards the approaching woman. A low snarl is Hraedhyth's response, fierce sound chased by the warmth of friendly fires. There is no sea to splash the bronze with, so the queen makes due with thumping against him, letting some of her weight fall into Leiventh. She takes her time in getting comfortable, a wriggly pup that aims to aggrivate rather than settle. Her husk of amusement isn't completely hidden by those steady drums. "You do things without days of plotting?" Azaylia asks with an innocence that almost sounds genuine, gaze flicking from his face to the bottle as it settles on his lips. The hesitation comes after she's accepted, tilting the neck beneath a twitching nose as she asks, "Why Keroon?" Hraedhyth has the advantage of size on Leiventh -- just -- though the bronze is grounded enough that her thumping greeting shifts his crouching posture momentarily but doesn't topple him, at least. The chill winds intensify, though any other reaction remains inwardly suppressed, as if he's tolerating such behavior, for now anyway. "Sometimes, just for a change of pace," is R'hin's equitable answer, voice rough with alcohol as he watches her to determine if she's going to drink, or not. As to her question, he's deadly serious when he says: "I believe you once offered me dessert with your family." It's not the queen's goal to topple Leiventh. Much. No, Hraedhyth is fine with showing her affection by fidgeting and nudging his brow with her own. He can blame the dragonet back at High Reaches for riling her up before such a visit. After a cautious sniff, and because R'hin has had some first, Azaylia takes a generous swallow from the bottle. Luckily most of it is down when the bronzerider answers, the Weyrwoman's eyes wide and watering as she chokes. Holding the bottle out, she turns her head and coughs into the back of her hand, "I... did." What starts out as a question drops into honest resignation. Recovering, "There probably isn't any dessert I-- they aren't expecting company." It doesn't sound too much like an excuse. Dragons cannot sigh, and yet there's a rush of air like an expression of irritation from Leiventh every time the queen wiggles around; by contrast, Leiventh's dead still, a rock to her wiggling puppy impression. There's no witty comment when she finally drinks, nor at her reaction: instead, he's quick to lean forward and take the bottle back, for fear she might spill some of the liquid. "Perhaps next time." The sense of lightness that's normally ever-present in his demeanor is absent: there's an odd solemnity about him as he takes another gulp himself, setting the bottle on the rock beside him, leaving enough room on the other side, should she choose. That he watches her is probably nothing new: it's an old habit of his. That he's especially reticent is less normal, however. "Why do you always try to ruin my dresses?" Azaylia finally croaks, though with her range it comes out more as a raspy squeak. Another cough and she reconsiders the question, "Why am I always drinking around you?" She does regain her composure, peeking at R'hin from the back of her hand before it drops behind her and is brushed dry. It's done quickly, given that he's set to staring at her, and so early in the conversation. The silence that follows is weighed as the goldrider watches him back, head tilting as she finally murmurs, "If we went and gathered up things to make dessert with..." Maybe she'll make good on that once forgotten offer. She mounts the rock with little effort and even less of an attempt to appear graceful, even in a dress. Once settled, "What is it?" Hraedhyth finally settles, taking mercy on Leiventh and busying herself with snuffling at his neck, wings and 'knobs. She has to make sure he's in good condition somehow. "Because you always make the mistake of wearing your pretty dresses when coming to meet me," is R'hin's blandly logical reply. "As for the drinking, well... it helps." With what, he doesn't clarify, and a moment later he's waving off the offer of dessert. Meanwhile, he'll watch Azaylia settle herself, and only once she's looking comfortable does he respond: "Monaco's going to offer you a deal to trade a wing for training. Supposedly for training." If Leiventh were a cat, his ears would twitch in irritation; as it is, his tail begins to flicker behind him, once or twice -- and his rider glances over with a furrow of brow in momentary distraction. There's no disguising Azaylia's concern, even as she tries to tease, "I'll wear a big tuber sack next time you suddenly call." Long legs are tucked up under the layers of gauzy fabric, arms wrapping around her skirt as the woman rests her jaw on her knees. She's comfortable only until R'hin speaks, head lifting with a startled jerk, "Monaco." Flat with disbelief, it sounds similar to one of Hraedhyth's not-questions. Her gaze follows his toward their dragons, not really seeing them as she considers the real reason for such an offer, "To spy?" Hraedhyth's invasive inspection will slowly come to an end, either due to Leiventh's mood or her rider's. "Oriane'd hardly be as obvious if that was her intent. No," now there's a hint of amusement in R'hin's voice, but it's brief and bland. "To keep me out of... of her hair for a while." He might've adjusted his words on the fly, but the pause is brief enough to discourage query from the polite. He rubs at his chin thoughtfully, gaze going back towards Azaylia, taking note of her position -- deliberately offering the bottle so that she has to give up her posture. "She's sending a wing with me. You ought to bargain for supplies." Azaylia certainly counts as the more polite company of the two, and yet her brows are inching up as she has to ask, "Uhm... lover's tiff?" Once again that bottle is under scrutiny, if only to preserve her pretty dress. Manners win out and she takes it from him, although her puzzled expression brightens, "You and Leiventh? That's..!" An excited little intake cuts her off, though her smile must be telling. Legs straightening out, the Weyrwoman sits up and takes a modest sip from the bottle to avoid anymore choking. After, "Hraedhyth is happy to hear it." Not that the queen seems particularly thrilled, mimicking Leiventh's stony stillness to the best of her ability. As for R'hin's suggestion, "I will. I would have, anyway." Another sip, and she aims to pass the drink back. "Yes. One that I imagine will take a Turn or so to get over." Again, there's a blandness in R'hin's response, a thread of something legitimate in amongst the more obvious lie. If anything, the goldrider's reaction makes the Monacoan pause, and consider his next words with more care: "You could refuse," he says, leaning forward a little as if perhaps to press that line of thought. "It's worth considering. And Hraedhyth must be easily excited to be happy about Leiventh's company." He considers the drink a moment, but instead glances towards the pair of dragons like he's distracted again. "Oh." Thankfully, Azaylia isn't the type to spread such juicy gossip. She doesn't shift at his lean, watching him with open curiosity. "You know she is." Easily excited. When R'hin turns from the bottle, she brings it over to rest in her lap. Her smile has long faded, replaced by a somber stare aimed at the side of the bronzerider's face. "High Reaches Weyr needs those supplies." An unecessary reminder, no doubt. Still, her tone is gentle, "If you want me to refuse... I still owe you a favor, R'hin." Not an easy offer for her to make, even less so for R'hin given the intensity of her gaze. He'd either forgotten, or hadn't even considered it: surprise makes R'hin look back towards Azaylia, now. "You do," he replies, thoughtfully, now, as his gaze traces downwards towards the bottle in her lap. "But the question is whether it... would be more usefully spent elsewhere." "And if you'd do that to the Weyrfolk." Azaylia not-question follows his, though it isn't an attempt to guilt him. On the contrary, she is doing her best to hold on to neutrality, "I don't know why... you'd remind me of my options." Not much time is spent finding the politically correct phrasing, ease leaving her with opportunity to sip again. "But I'm sure you have your reasons." Whether it's intended or not, R'hin's gaze flickers up to Azaylia's at that pointed comment, rubbing a hand against his chin. "Because High Reaches is my mistress." Which means that for all of the bronzerider's posturing, it's clear what the outcome is. Pushing to his feet abruptly, the Monacoan holds out a hand -- not for the bottle, but for her hand. "I think that dessert sounds like an interesting idea after all." Guilt begets guilt, although Azaylia's is far more obvious, eyes softening as she glances off to the side. Weakly, "Only you're scandalous enough to be in bed with a whole Weyr." When he stands she gives a start, one that almost sends the bottle toppling. Tightening her grip with one hand, she slides her other palm into his, "Of course you do... You have to get back at me somehow." The Weyrwoman has resigned to her fate as she climbs down with his help, "We'll have to pick up some things on the way..." Hopefully her mother's baking is enough to make up for her father's misguided questions about R'hin's being Weyrlord. A glimmer of R'hin's usual amusement is visible for a moment at Azaylia's response, tucking her arm into the crook of his elbow once he has a hold of it. Strangely, he seems to enjoy escorting her to the market -- or at least he plays the part well. And, certainly, the Monacoan seems to enjoy playing the part of so-called-Weyrlord -- as least as far as he plays the part of lofty bronzerider -- and the questions are returned with seemingly innocuous (and perhaps one or two not-so-innocuous) ones about Azaylia, too. |
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