Logs:How Much Has Changed
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| RL Date: 30 September, 2013 |
| Who: Azaylia, N'rov |
| Type: Log |
| What: Azaylia is suspicious of Fortian N'rov, despite their mostly amiable past. |
| Where: Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 10, Month 12, Turn 32 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, N'muir/Mentions, R'hin/Mentions, Z'ian/Mentions, V'teri/Mentions |
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| Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground -- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers, and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black. The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks, however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat.
N'rov navigates the sleet back to the hatching cavern, but he doesn't have to be happy about it either. As he passes by, his glance up at Hraedhyth holds definite connotations of 'Don't drip on me,' unless it's the more usual variant of 'Don't tread on me,' but either way he doesn't seem terribly concerned with anything but the weather. At least he stomps off the worst of the wet before making his way wholly within, pausing only to say, "Evening, Azaylia," before draping his oilskin on the railing to steam. Then, and after a look at the sands and the bronze who guards their collective clutch, he looks back at the woman with a slight smile: just how much has she changed? Hraedhyth snorts as N'rov passes by, and though the dragon lacks a definitive tone it's not hard to imagine Fortian attatched to that gruff sound. What art of subtly Azaylia has gained over the turns hasn't been put into sneaking glances-- all too aware of N'rov when she peers at him from over her work. When he greets her she sits up a bit straighter, looking the man over with a blank expression. Or what passes for blank, which in this case is wide-eyed innocence. "N'rov." Af if only just reminded, "Congratulations." It sounds genuine enough, even if there's no smile. "Thank you," the bronzerider says affably, that smile of his growing. But: "So somber. Is all well? Have the eggs let you down for conversation?" "Somber?" The stare persists until it doesn't, Azaylia turning her head to look out at the clutch on the sands. Her lower lip is ushered in for a thoughtful chew until, "Vhaeryth must be proud?" N'rov continues to watch, continues to wait, unhurried even as she looks at him. Until she doesn't. And then, even after. "Naturally. Who wouldn't be? High Reaches' sands, no less; I can request that he puff his chest out a little more if that would please you, though we do run the risk that it pop." A soft, distracted murmur, "I don't think the boys would like that very much." If there's concern, it leans towards the hurt feelings of slighted male dragons rather than Vhaeryth's well being. With a long inhale, the Weyrwoman turns her steady gaze back to N'rov and... well at least this time the stare is short-lived. "How are... you?" Things. "Which boys would those be?" N'rov inquires just before he saunters towards her, only the bare steps it takes to have a seat where paperwork and tea permit; he leaves a space between them, though he angles towards her rather than away. "I'm in good odor with my wingleader," also known as Weyrleader, "which is as validating as you'd expect. How are you?" He doesn't repeat her pause. With mild surprise, as if it's obvious, "The dragons, of course." Never mind their riders, for they are silly creatures indeed. Azaylia doesn't object to N'rov coming closer, though there is some shuffling of papers. Either to cover important documents, or to give him more space, there's nothing rushed about it. "Weyrleader N'muir. That's... nice." As if the Weyrwoman is going over every word, even casual compliments, with a fine tooth comb. "I'm sure you've heard about everything that's happened." Confident in that, given his tie to the Weyr. "I'm fine, thank you." "If they don't fly in here, they won't see," N'rov says easily, never mind when Vhaeryth does take a spin or several around the Bowl. "Save their delicate egos." He does glance towards her papers at the motion, but doesn't linger, choosing instead to observe her expressions. "I hesitate to say everything, given the givens, but then there are probably some things I'd rather not know," and he can be just as confident about that. "Would it reassure you, if I were to tell you that I'd reassured my Weyrleader that, yes, High Reaches would no longer need to... put up with me, after our eggs hatch? Or, at least, not have to put me up." "That's fair." It so isn't, judging from Azaylia's quiet lilt and the stare that is no longer so open and curious. She leaves it alone, instead turning a much softer gaze back to Iesaryth and her eggs. "Actually, it might be easier if you just transferred." Hardly serious, and yet there's a distinct lack of humor. "So glad you agree," the Fortian bronzerider says smoothly, even if his brows do quirk up in good humor; perhaps N'rov's made off with part of Azaylia's share of the daily quota. "Easier, how so? Naturally, I must be flattered that you might want to have me around." There's a quiet inhale that manages to leave as a pleasant enough sigh, almost musical as the long note scales down. It helps the Weyrwoman regain her pleasant composure as she points out, "So that when you and Aishani fix Iesaryth's next flight, you'd at least be from 'Reaches." An accusation that carries none of the negative connotations one normally would-- stated as fact. It's an opinion that doesn't shift N'rov's expression any, though that might be telltale in and of itself. "Considering," he says, "that we didn't fix this one, I'm not sure why you'd find that to be an issue. But if you find that more becoming to High Reaches pairs, it is most certainly your privilege." In that same casual murmur, "I don't believe you." Not that Azaylia sounds terribly bothered either way, in an effort not to offend despite what she's saying. "But... I wasn't here." It's as much as she's willing to allow, head tilting faintly to the side as she considers that fact. Still, "If you're not going to transfer, then please don't upset my dragons while you're here? Not that you are. Have." Yet. "Vhaeryth especially." A kind enough request. "For the safety of your dragon," N'rov says, "and of Aishani's Iesaryth, let me count myself glad that you were not. Here." Gray eyes consider her, gray as sleet and stone. "I would further thank you not to repeat that speculation, as it is untrue and thus unbecoming of you." "I wouldn't." Repeat her suspicions, considering they are only that. "I don't want this to be unpleasant for you. Anymore than it is." What with his being Fortian and all. "Eggs and baby dragons are a wonderful thing. I'm not going to give them," Those bruised egos, "Anymore reason to dislike you." No matter how protective she and Hraedhyth are of their dragons. And maybe even their riders. His hard gray gaze is met by her soft browns, warm in hue yet unwavering. "No?" N'rov has a slow, unrelenting smile just for her. "It was a High Reaches dragon that sired my Vhaeryth. Perhaps they might console themselves with that: adopt him, as it were. But I'm glad you don't care to cause them to dislike any of us; my preference is to continue to like you, as we had in the old days. And, really," now that smile transforms into a quick, brilliant grin. "If we could bottle up any fixes, more than just affection and a bit of knowledge, I dare say we could sell it all across Pern and supply both our Weyrs for winter upon winter to come." The Weyrwoman's expression crumbles in surprise, several blinks barely keeping outright shock at bay when N'rov speaks of past preferences. There's less fire in her gaze once Azaylia recovers, if only a trace of suspicion. She's reminded of Vhaeryth's lineage, "I'll try to remind them of that. It... helps Hraedhyth, at least." The gold outside who, through mixed efforts of restraint, has left Vhaeryth alone. Maturity has been achieved in that his simply being there no longer upsets her, like when she was younger. Distracted, thoughtful, "If only." The solutions to their problems were that simple. That shift in expression doesn't go unrewarded, though it's not until after N'rov lets himself be diverted into a glance towards the Bowl; "I am glad to hear of that," he says sincerely, and goes so far as to drop his voice as though in confidence when he returns his attention to that queen's rider, "Leiventh is his grandsire, no less. Although if that doesn't help, please, don't regale her with the tale." That must be teasing, there, if not unsubtly so; for the moment, he leaves those imaginary bottles be. "That helps even more." Azaylia returns, "We like Leiventh." No opinion on R'hin, or if there is one it might not be in Vhaeryth's best interest to repeat. Forgotten tea is no longer as she reaches for the handle, her other arm holding those gathered papers to her chest. "Tsanth is calling." Not that Hraedhyth has so much as twitched outside, delivering the message while remaining vigilant. "Which means my Weyrleader needs me." She almost sounds apologetic, standing slowly to offer a polite, "It really is a handsome clutch." All suspicions aside. N'rov inclines his head in acknowledgement of liking, of her reclaiming her gear, of more. "Fortunate is the Weyrleader whose Weyrwoman comes at his beck," he murmurs with grave politeness, though without opining as to whether his own Weyrleader still enjoys that privilege... if ever he did at all. "May you never need those little bottles. A good eve to you, Azaylia, and yours." He'll see her out, leaving her to set the pace, the easy attendance of a part-time courtier. |
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