Logs:Damaged
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| RL Date: 16 November, 2012 |
| Who: R'hin, Azaylia, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Monaco Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Azaylia and Leova meet R'hin to discuss matters... things do not go well. Not even a little bit. |
| Where: Orchards, Nabol Hold |
| When: Day 13, Month 4, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: I'kris/Mentions, Brieli/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, Satiet/Mentions, K'del/Mentions |
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| Orchards, Nabol Hold Situated near the main Hold, down a gentle slope in an insulated valley lies Nabol's vast fruit orchards. Apple trees dominate the landscape, though sections, delineated by sturdy wooden fences, are portioned out for plums, peaches, cherries, and pears. Dark, fertilized earth is well tended and cared for beneath the trees, while the free space of grassy knolls roll downward into the orchards. In the distance is an apple refinery, where overripe fruits are sent to be pressed into ciders, both hard and not. Blossom buds and the slow growth of leaves are intermittent across the landscape of trees as the arrival of spring rains coax them into existence. The white petals of the cherry trees blanket the ground, obscuring sign of the burgeoning growth of grass and the dark, spring-soaked soil. The morning dawns cool and clear, with the spring sun climbing brightly toward a pleasant noontime. The evening settles down a little chilly, but all around fair. To Hraedhyth, Leiventh makes himself known -- the brisk, wintery bite of High Reaches' winter coiling through his polite, deft touch. He has a sense of distance, so it's immediately clear he's not at the Weyr. « Mine wishes to meet, discuss. There is much to discuss, he says. » Is that a faint hint of amusement in his tone, carrying on the breeze of his chill touch? « We hope you will join us at Nabol. You may bring as many as you feel suitable with you, though you may be assured of your safety. » The bronze is not given to frivolity; there's a seriousness that underpins his latter words, as he waits, ever patient, for the response. To Leiventh, Hraedhyth guards herself well against the cold echoed by the bronze. Though spring has not sprung completely, she finds the reminder of Reaches' winter annoying. Judging from the tense thumping across her plains; she's in the mood to find everything annoying. Particularly Leiventh, or perhaps it is who he is tied to. Or is it where? Bones creak and crackle, tossed to the flames in order to fuel the gold into motion. « We come. » Drums roll in the distance, perhaps sounding a tad more ominous than necessary. To Vrianth, Hraedhyth shoulders the grave weight on her mind, hefting up all that she and hers have had to endure lately. Picking up camp to move on, « Mine is to meet Leiventh's in Nabol. » If Leova happens to be on guard duty anyway, not that the impulsive gold thinks to check, « You are welcome to join us. » If not, then so be it. Unruffled by the queen's mood, or the omninousness of her tone, Leiventh's acknowledgement is brief, and wordless. He doesn't linger, but withdraws almost immediately, the chill of the air dissolving away as he does so. (Leiventh to Hraedhyth) Is there, could there ever be a reason not to fly? Quick, sharp, a little hot: « We come. » Delighted. She hasn't so much as asked her rider. (Vrianth to Hraedhyth) It is early spring, and the orchards of Nabol Hold are just beginning to bloom, the green of the leaves a vibrant, attention-getting shade of opulence. Leiventh is settled on the grassy knoll leading into the orchards, clearly visible from above against the lighter color of the ground underfoot, despite the fact that he remains perfectly still. It's heading towards evening, though this far north it's still quite light, and the wind still carries the easy warmth of the day, broken here and there by a chill draft. A sharp eyed dragon -- or rider -- might well spot the white-shirted figure strolling casually through the orchard. It is undoubtedly by no coincidence that R'hin has chosen Nabol to meet with one of High Reaches' goldriders, though the significance of that is not particularly obvious. Hraedhyth's voice carries no trace of her slightly dulled hide, announcing her arrival with a good, strong bellow. The queen lands with a heavy 'thump' that is carried on throughout her thoughts, along with that inner fire. Azaylia looks somewhat refreshed as she dismounts, at least her hair is shiny and her skin freshly scrubbed. Richly blue dress has replaced the drab, gray tarp she has been sulking about in, though it does little to brighten her expression. Tired, thinned some, the young woman manages a brisk pace towards the orchard where the gold claims to have seen R'hin. Only a rumble from the large dragon has her slowing, giving a mildly expectant glance over her shoulder. High in the skies, the gradually failing light catches the silvery sails of Vrianth's wings, and fragments against their dark spars. She doesn't vocalize, but there's energy, roaming, that flicks Leiventh's way. Her movements are quick but long, power leading into extension. Her position stays partially behind Hraedhyth and to one side, out of reach of the queen's larger wings. They fly as though they've flown together before, as though this isn't wholly new. They land that way, too, though Vrianth's considerably, even pointedly lighter. Her leathers-clad rider hasn't a bodyguard's walk, for all that she keeps pace with Azaylia, if again just behind and to one side: she'd linger here and there, if she could, on the grass and the orchards' green. Low-voiced, to that look: "Coming, yes." Tillek, though blurred. While there's a slight shift of head, and a low rumbling from the hook-nosed bronze in greeting of the arriving dragons, Leiventh doesn't seem overly given to showiness, and otherwise simply watches the High Reaches dragons land. With shirt untucked and hands shoved casually into his pocket, R'hin paints the perfect picture of casual demeanor, broken only by the intentness of his gaze as he watches the arrival of the dragons with far more avid curiosity than his bronze -- especially for the riders. A quick assessment, and an easy smile as he strides towards the pair. "Azaylia, isn't it?" for the younger, then, "I haven't had the pleasure," to Leova, "I'm R'hin. Leiventh," a quick nod to the still bronze, "My duties to High Reaches." A twist of lips -- not quite a grimace -- and he continues, with a spread of his hands, as if invitation: "I'm not overly given to frivolities; shall we get right down to business?" Azaylia's smile for Leova is slightly apologetic, small enough to shrink into something much more proper as they approach R'hin. If he's casual, the weyrwoman is anything but, hands folded tightly in front of her. Strides are painfully prim, long legs restrained and stopping all together once she reaches the bronzerider. "Azaylia, yes. Hraedhyth's rider." There's not a glance for the accompanying greenrider this time, giving her wingmate a chance to introduce herself. "Our duties to Monaco." With a tight, tired little inhale she gathers all that she needs, "Yes, let's." Vrianth doesn't entirely settle, but rather roams, as though these hills belonged to her and she's just reacquainting herself. Rangy as she is, for all her length, she fits between the trees: clever, then, with those long wings. Not that she goes far. Rather, the green stays a certain distance from Hraedhyth as though on some self-imposed, somewhat stretchy tether. An incommodious tether. Her rider doesn't follow the man's nod, though certain of the green's attention diffuses towards the bronze and then back, back to the man. With intent. Does he keep himself well-guarded? How easy is it to listen, whether it's just mood or something more? Her rider's own smile is one-cornered, more for Azaylia than anyone: it's all right. Still: "Leova. Vrianth's." She stays a pace back, not out of earshot just now. The knife at her belt is workmanlike, everyday, no signs of others. It's all right. Not Vrianth's gravel, exactly, but something laced with her rider's own smoky tones. It's a pity about that dress... and that is the green, but Hraedhyth doesn't have to share that. Or anything. (Vrianth to Hraedhyth) There's a nod for Leova's introduction, and a quick smile. R'hin seems pleased at Azaylia's answer, gesturing towards the orchards, as he invites, "Shall we walk while we discuss?" while it starts as a suggestion, he doesn't wait over long for a response before he begins walking down one of the rows, head tilted upwards to admire the newly budding trees. "I'kris. He's Monaco's. Monaco's Weyrleaders want him back. You understand; politics." A little grimace, as if it isn't a thing he's overly fond of; a necessary evil. The Monaco bronzerider seems tight, mentally focused despite casual air -- and air is probably what it is, though there's no mental noise to speak of. He too, wears a beltknife -- rather ornate, probably decorative, though. Leova receives another, assessive look, and continues to, throughout the conversation, positioning himself with a half turn so that he can watch both women just as easily. There's no rebuke, per se, but he's watching, noting her interest in his rider. A thread of something lighter dances through the chill wintery tones of his thoughts, then vanishes between the distant trees. (Leiventh to Vrianth) To Vrianth, Hraedhyth is far more tense, away from the spires of Home. « It will not be for long. » Her own deep contralto stutters and stalls with subtle growls. Her gaze is focused on the three riders, but there will be a huff of her own smoke at the green. « It is good to see her in color again. » Perhaps Vrianth could... do something about that unflattering mourning shroud. How good is hers at making things go poof? Or, in the smaller dragon's case, shred? Azaylia is amiable, gives a nod and fully intends to walk with R'hin. She even keeps up for much of the beginning, though her steps nearly slow to a stop as she considers these politics. "I understand that they want him back," She begins gently, innocent gaze looking even wider due to those dark circles beneath them. "And I-" It's the recognizable tone of snark, foul tasting and foreign on the junior's tongue. Instead, "I-I mean no disrespect, but I... wonder if Monaco has I'kris' best interests in mind?" A jolt of unease has two steps falling rapidly, tension in her shoulders visible. Hraedhyth feels it, wings thunking hard against her sides though it does little good for her rider. « Not long, » Vrianth agrees, a sense of movement that's somehow yearning. It's good to get out, away, for her: from that inward-looking place. And yes, with a glance towards the younger's dragon rider, though she's not enveloped in smoke-gray now: yes, Vrianth could /do something/ about it. Readily. All Hraedhyth would need would be a... replacement, because, for some reason, women prefer to be clad in something more than towels. Men also, as it happens. Even that one might, perhaps, though she shares a sense of guardedness, or of care: that one keeps his mind to himself. Just as well, perhaps. Then: « It would help if she does not show her trouble. » And, « Roll your wings, perhaps. Stretch them. It might ease her. » It might help: help her rider, help the Weyr. (Vrianth to Hraedhyth) Leova's not entirely glued to the younger woman's side: the greenrider ranges sometimes forward, sometimes slightly back or to the side, less a deliberate pattern of distraction than choosing at least some parts of path. Probably. Sometimes her footsteps become less audible. Vrianth looks upward more often than she does, and it's just as well because when she does, there are the branches overhead, nearly meeting, only just far enough away for sun to reach the tips of twigs that will some day bear fruit from the flowers. Light shines through them, but... Azaylia's stopped. So does she, beyond her. Amber eyes rest on Azaylia, rather than the man. She notices he notices, knows he might notice when her rider doesn't look but she does. Nor does she apologize, or even begin to think to. There is, for a moment, a heightened sense of those budding blooms, superimposed about that coolness, not natural to either one of them. More natural, perhaps, to the girl. (Vrianth to Leiventh) Such a suggestion surely should evoke more reaction than the brief, surprised look from R'hin. "Do you?" he asks, simply. "Why is that?" His gaze takes in the visible signs of unease, though doesn't linger, perhaps because of that. Instead, his gaze flickers to keep track of Leova for a moment, then skywards. "Are you suggesting, then, perhaps he should stay at High Reaches -- for his well being? I mean no disrespect, but the state I saw him in the other night doesn't engender much confidence in such an outcome." There is no accusation in his tone, a spread of hands and neutral demeanor suggesting he's merely relaying what he himself has witnessed. There is no guilt, nor wariness; Leiventh merely watches, a hint of protectivenss surfacing briefly and vanishing just as swiftly as no further attempted intrusions take place. (Leiventh to Vrianth) Protectiveness: she can, does understand that. There's a vague, irregular silhouette of Svissath in the man's shoes. (Vrianth to Leiventh) To Vrianth, Hraedhyth is honest, as always. « She has many. » Replacements. It is not an order but a suggestion that has the gold shifting her wings, giving them paltry stretches. She does only what is necessary given the dark sails are fragile, and she sits close to the bronze of Monaco. With a protective note, « Why not. » A demand that yearns to be a question, « If she is troubled, he and His will know of it. » A threat, a promise. Hraedhyth will have no hand in curbing her rider's rightful anger, a courtesy shown to the temperamental gold many a time. Perhaps he doesn't understand; there's certainly no reaction to her image of Svissath, except a distant sense of fond paternity. Instead, from nowhere, a memory of a memory to chase that budding blossom: an orchid, this orchard, in full bloom. A young girl perched comfortably in the crook of a tree, eating an apple. The image of the girl herself is hazy, but the presence, the feel of her, is in some way distantly familiar. (Leiventh to Vrianth) Azaylia does not answer right away, but when she finally does it is at the mention of I'kris' state of being. She looks close to tears in her effort to remain calm, respectable. When her hold slips she does not cry, instead straightening to her full height, rearing like a mother wherry. "We are not responsible for how he is. I don't know what you did to that poor boy to have him so... so..." The contrast is obvious between the stuttering, trembling weyrwoman and the other two. It's unkind, but she finally manages, "So damaged. Him and his dragon- his poor dragon..!" A squeak of outrage, lips drawn into a fine line and expression stern. It waivers, she's close to wilting, and then the junior stands her ground palms firmly pressed into her hips as she looks directly at R'hin. Meanwhile: « Good. She should. » Her rider has some, paltry things. How close does the bronze sit? Can he feel the heat radiating off her, can he feel the drums? If he is warned, he will know. It's Hraedhyth's decision, of course. Clearly. It's her rider. Hraedhyth's. Even so, she explains: « Not to such a degree, perhaps. They do not respect such... » there goes Hraedhyth's rider. Vrianth breathes out a staticky breath. At least, once she admitted it, she stood her ground. (Vrianth to Hraedhyth) Watching, Leova's mouth compresses. This time, she finally does look at R'hin with her own eyes, her boot heels pressed to the earth as though that could ground both women. Low: "She believes it, you must know." She won't be distracted, not entirely, but... there is that familiarity, that much he can feel in her, that echo. Somehow known. (Vrianth to Leiventh) There's something tight in the bronzerider's expression all of a sudden -- guarded and almost angry -- and yet strangely it seems not entirely in reaction to Azaylia's words, given the sharp way R'hin's head turns towards where the dragons are. With a deep breath, and a hand tugged sharply through hair, he's moving again, striding, setting a fast pace deeper into the orchards. It's difficult to tell whether he intends them to follow or not, but he's not looking back. Instead, further in, he locates a tree, his hand resting against the bark of it as he circles it, tilting his head back to study it. Is... Hraedhyth enjoying this? Not entirely, but there is a sense of heated pride that flushes through her, that she's willing to share with Vrianth. No, the bronze will not be able to feel it, he is offered only rough dirt beneath a layer of smoke. « They respect none but their own. » A snap of jaws not meant for the green, but for once forgotten hurt. The remains of that emotion is quickly turned to ash within her flames, ash swept elsewhere. (Hraedhyth to Vrianth) One, no, Leova can only ever manage both brows lifting, though one more so than the other. She looks from R'hin to Azaylia: she'll go if she'll go. Quietly, not conveying precisely the same meaning, "After you." Instead, out of nowhere, there's a woman's image: ice-blue eyes set in fair skin with dark hair and, moreover, a proud carriage. A particular woman. It might be memory, someone's memory. It might be a painting, in miniature. She has a faint, knowing smile. (Vrianth to Hraedhyth) It strikes Azaylia too late after Leova's words, realizing what she has said and how. Her palm doesn't make it completely to her brow, stopping at her cheek as she gives a full bodied cringe. Before hasty apologies can be made, R'hin is swiftly walking away. "Mmph." Another grimace, though her teeth remain behind thinned lips. She can only manage a glance in Leova's direction, ashamed. "I should... this is why Brieli... I..." Fingers flex and stretch even as she's abandoning dainty steps for strides that suit her long legs. Even before she reaches him, "I didn't mean... I can't speak for the other weyrwomen..." Certainly not in the way she has so far. To Vrianth, Hraedhyth's drums quiet, and if they are capable of notes then even those fall flat. Unamused. Or, unimpressed? At least she's interested, prowling around the image of the woman and snuffling at her skirts. Or, if only an illusion, does it explain itself if roasted over her flames? « Vrianth. » What gives? "Do you know what it's like to try and live up to someone that thinks you're never good enough?" R'hin's voice is distant at first, at odds with an expression that is full of melancholy, though it quickly grows sharper with each passing word. He doesn't look at the pair, but the tree, his hand still pressing against the bark, as if the rough surface might evoke some distant memory. "When I told the boy's father I was coming here, to bring him home -- do you want to know what he said?" Only now does the Monaco bronzerider turn attention from the tree; his gaze is full of emotion, pale eyes brimming with a mixture of anger and sadness. He presses on, not waiting for a response, "He mocked the size of Svissath's clutch, and said, 'High Reaches can keep him.'" R'hin's voice shifts, mimicking a whinier tone with comic accuracy, if it weren't for the subject to hand. Don't presume to know what he--" the intentness of his voice has become something heated, and loud, and he catches himself with a sharp exhale. Softer, though there's no apology for his tone, as he looks at Azyalia. "The boy wants to go home. I made him a promise. It's the best for all; you won't much like the stick, and I'd prefer not to have to use it. High Reaches' was my home, too." There is, perhaps, something wistful brief in his voice, but it's gone swiftly enough that one might doubt it ever existed. Tauntingly familiar, yes. But something crashes over like a wave, a sense of something intent, and he withdraws abruptly. (Leiventh to Vrianth) The gold gets to snuffle, once, and then the image vanishes as though it had never appeared: certainly it won't stay to be singed. It's difficult to piece together, and yet: « She was, » and there's no pause. Interruption. (Vrianth to Hraedhyth) There'd been that answering glimpse of painting, dragonpoker perhaps, or a miniature with a thin gilt frame and the beginnings of dark hair only... the not-a-wave overrides that 'too. (Vrianth to Leiventh) That tight, stern look returns, though Azaylia isn't aiming it at the bronzerider even if what he says is the cause. The junior doesn't interrupt, though her response is quick, "And you want to send him back to that?" Bewildered, more than angry, arm reaching blindly in a direction meant to motion towards Monaco. It's probably wrong. "And my friend wants his heart back. My-" A sharp inhale, "Brieli wants her friend back." With her outburst earlier, she's much more careful now, though upset. "I don't think you even h-have a 'stick'." Not quite calling his bluff, the younger woman's arms fall straight down at her sides. "He's a rider from Monaco, but what he did makes him our problem. And until I know that everything is going to be..." It never will be alright, and she doesn't lie. "Until our Weyr can feel safe again, I can't just let him go." Not without consulting her own 'leaders, unofficial as they all may be. It's just as well, Hraedhyth's attention shifting from vanishing women and Vrianth's interruption. The queen does not lurch to her feet, though the urge is enough to have muscles leaping beneath tawny hide. « I do not like this. » Her rider's emotions aren't enough for her to launch into action, though a disgruntled growl eases out on her next exhale. (Hraedhyth to Vrianth) Leova's paled, as much as that warm skin of hers can, even at the beginning. Even before she'd followed Azaylia in following the man, who was High Reaches' once. Who was High Reaches, once. Now she says softly, smoky voice turned smoke-and-ashes. "He poisoned her. He said as much. What if it had been Satiet? What then." Dismissive, R'hin's quick to reply, "A man who runs from his problems never overcomes them," with a vehemence that suggests personal experience. "And he won't be alone." The contrast as Leova mentions Satiet is sharp: pale eyes narrow, glittering with anger. "Don't you dare--!" His hand drops from the bark of the tree, and with it, any air of distraction. Instead, he takes a step towards Azaylia -- just a single step, then, heated: "If Brieli wants her friend back, then she'll support his return to Monaco, where he belongs. She knows it's the right choice. And," a tip of head, a forced smile: "So should you, if you want to keep her. After all, it's within my Weyrleaders' purview to press for a queen to be returned to Monaco." Satiet -- yes. That's who it was, that girl in the tree, a little too far from the Weyrwoman she knew to be immediately recognizable. (Leiventh to Vrianth) The girl in the tree. The woman in the dragonpoker deck. The woman in the portrait. The woman in the girls, dark and fair. The woman who is remembered. They know. (Vrianth to Leiventh) "He's just a boy." Azaylia's words are far more gentle, at least in volume now. "And how is going back to Monaco any better? He's running either way." His anger has her flinching but not backing away, hands balling into fists as he snaps at her wingmate. She takes her own step towards R'hin on unsteady legs, "Iolene is gone. I'kris did it, said he did it." He also said other things, things that are lost at the shock running through her. The lines in her face smooth only slightly, quivering voice even, "You know Brieli better than I do." Not that she believes that, but given his claims, "I can't keep Brieli. She doesn't belong to me." Now there are tears, though she ignores them, "I don't think even Monaco is cruel enough to steal two queens from us." Arms twitch, urges are suppressed and she turns on her heel with the intent of returning to her dragon. To Leiventh, Hraedhyth is even less moved by the threat, drums pounding with her rider's aggitation. She is not calm, but the gold is not enraged either, fire crackling, restless, but contained. « Monaco dragons look out for their own. » It seems. So, she will look out for Hers. Vrianth's wings flare. Then furl, a twig caught on one spar, and its greens brighter and bluer than her own olive hide. There is no green in her eyes but here, there, shifting like the gilt edges of cards. Leova's moved forward, not back, darker-eyed now. With focus, now. Does she dare? To step not precisely between them, but where she could, most assuredly. Her lifted hand would ease Azaylia if it could, but as the junior weyrwoman speaks, she's silent. Only once Azaylia's turned away, still low, low enough that the goldrider might not hear: "She was my Weyrwoman. That one wasn't. But at least she got to choose her death, before it got her." Her gaze flicks up momentarily, still long enough to mark that tree, for someone with the acuity trained for between. And then it returns to him. "I'm still sorry for your loss." R'hin's gaze doesn't waver from Azaylia, even if there's a slight flicker of something that might be interest as she steps forward. He's silent as she talks, gaze flickering over her gaze. Finally, as she's walking away: "It's not stealing if we're taking back what belongs to us in the first place." Whether he talks of I'kris, or Brieli -- maybe both -- isn't clear. Leova's words focus the bronzerider's intent gaze on her, and with his jaw clenched tight beneath the faint shadow of his almost beard, there's the low utterance of an almost inaudible growl, before he turns to retreat into the orchard wordlessly. There's something coiled and tight flaring briefly, like a wave of emotion being held back by the steady calmness of the bronze and his chill tones, in contrast to her fire. « As do High Reaches. I, and Svissath, and Iesaryth are all borne of High Reaches, Hraedyth. » (Leiventh to Hraedhyth) To Leiventh, Hraedhyth is distracted by her rider, by the need to go and put as much distance between them and the bronze pair. The gold lingers, not callously but to wait for her green wingmate. Perhaps, it's in defiance of Leiventh, « Blood can only take you so far. » Jaws snap shut, severing the line between them and guarding it with bared fangs. To Hraedhyth, Leiventh has never been one to press, or overstay his welcome. He's not intimidated by the fangs, he simply withdraws, since there's nothing more to share, leaving behind a distant sense of sadness that seems to linger in the air. |
Comments
Comments on "Logs:Damaged"Brieli (Brieli) left a comment on Fri, 16 Nov 2012 16:36:55 GMT.
Man, I really wanted to play this. :(
I guess it wouldn't have gone as badly.
K'del (K'del) left a comment on Fri, 16 Nov 2012 21:38:15 GMT.
What a disaster.
R'hin now needs to approach Brieli and make the same demand of her, and thus play the two goldriders off each other.
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