Logs:Growing Up
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| RL Date: 4 February, 2013 |
| Who: Azaylia, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: There's a truce, of sorts. Azaylia learns a new word, and R'hin gets surprised. |
| Where: Orchards, Nabol Hold |
| When: Day 24, Month 12, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Rukbat is barely noticeable behind a layer of dull gray clouds. The day stays dark and drab, without even rain or snow to break the bleakness of the overcast weather. |
| Mentions: Brieli/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Satiet/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. Bare tree limbs are festooned with pillows of snow and decorated with slim icicles as winter blankets the orchards. A puff of heat serves as a prelude to Hraedhyth's flames, tongues of crimson dancing to content drums. « Leiventh. » The rumbling contralto holds no passion, anger or otherwise. « We wish to speak with you. » Last word carries weight enough for both bronze and his rider. Black smoke is twisted by chilly air not his own, curling into a question mark. (Hraedhyth to Leiventh) The sense of Leiventh is dim, distant. At first it might seem like he doesn't hear, but the chill wind of a curiosity curls around Hraedhyth, then around that smoke. Bemusement, not solely his own, threads the chill winds. Do they, indeed? The bronze, despite his rider's inclination, is not one for fussing around, and asks simply: « Where? » (Leiventh to Hraedhyth) To Leiventh, Hraedhyth may find the question absurd, smoke snorted at the bronze and left to the whims of his wind. « You are welcome here. » Why wouldn't he be? While the gold might be oblivious, a thoughtful pause proves that there is a more mindful presence at work. « If not, Yours is welcome to suggest a place. One that is not far from here. » High Reaches Weyr. While there is no hesitation on Leiventh's part -- the play of the wind dips off momentarily to suggest his rider's weighing in, too. He is intrigued, perhaps. And so, there's a weight to the words when the Monacoan bronze asks the gold, « Would yours feel safest, there? » At High Reaches. (Leiventh to Hraedhyth) Another unladylike snort, « Mine feels safest when I am with her. » Hraedhyth's confidence burns hot, drums pounding with the confidence used to speak for her rider. During the boast there's another possibility which blooms, « The trees. » The smoke clears enough to share the image of Nobol Hold, crips memory lent by her rider. It is not so far from Home. (Hraedhyth to Leiventh) Another momentary pause. « The trees, » the bronze's deep, rumbling voice agrees, as his presence fades. Not one to linger, it seems, though the image of the trees is in his mind as he retreats. (Leiventh to Hraedhyth) Without the lush green of either tree or grass, the orchards don't hold as much appeal to those in the area. Hraedhyth is lounging near what could be considered an entrance, where bare trees become too thick for her to roam. Azaylia is easy to spot, sitting on one of her queen's forelimbs, dressed in warm riding leathers that are reminiscent of her dragon's hue. The young woman looks polished with dual buns pulled tight and not a wavy lock out of place. Or rather, she would look professional if not for the childlike tilt to her head, leaning back on her hands and watching the early evening sky. And she is afforded a view of the arriving bronze, the Monacoan creature appearing low enough to the ground to suggest a strong familiarity with the area. Leiventh circles, lazy and slow -- not his normal style -- before finally settling down a short distance away, the landing ginger and soft. R'hin's already shucking out of his jacket and other flight gear as he touches the ground, lingering by Leiventh's side, his low-voiced conversation inaudible. The scruffy nature of his hair and his ill-buttoned shirt suggest maybe he dressed in a hurry, though his steps, when he makes his way to the Reachian pair, are even and paced. The bronzerider nods towards Hraedhyth, as is his habit, before his gaze settles on Azaylia. She has the advantage of height over him, where she sits, and the twist of lips suggests R'hin's not unaware of that. Azaylia has enough sense to wait for Leiventh to land rather than try to predict where that lazy circling might lead him. Hraedhyth lobs a low snarl of welcome once he finds a spot, blue-green eyes revealing her to be in a fine mood. The goldrider watches R'hin's easy approach, giving him only a moment to see her perched so high before she's gathering herself for a leap. There's little thought to the way she pushes off, landing with a soft grunt and straightening from bent knees. "Hello, R'hin." Her head turns away from him all too quickly, and she just might brush past the man as long legs take on purposeful strides. He won't have to wonder for long, "How's Leiventh?" Only a hint of urgency to the question that's tossed over her shoulder, making her way to the bronze dragon. R'hin is welcome to follow her, it doesn't seem as if Hraedhyth might mind this time. Leiventh's deep, rumbling reply is laced with a sense of comforting familiarity -- he knows this place, even if he doesn't remember, and he's content to hunker down, half lidded eyes shedding light in the growing dimness. There's a dutifully polite hand that reaches out to steady her -- not that she needs it -- though R'hin lets his hand drop away swiftly enough. The way she turns away quickly and focuses on Leiventh might well mean she misses the press of lips, the momentarily stiff way the bronzerider follows in her wake. He stays back, though, perhaps oddly, hands clasping together behind his back. The bronze doesn't much seem to mind the expectation, only a bare turn of his head acknowledging Azaylia's nearness. The claw wound on his flank is all but healed over, though the scar tissue is readily visible over the top of it. Though R'hin watches, he doesn't answer -- perhaps because Azaylia can see for herself? The lack of an answer doesn't slow the young woman, close to jogging in order to leave the uncomfortable silence (and R'hin) behind. When the bronze turns his head, Azaylia has a nervous smile that might hold something from the dragonless little apprentice she used to be. "Leiventh. Hello." She doesn't offer a bow, but there's a dip to her whole self before she moves to get a better look at his flank. "Oh." Her breathless gasp is muffed by gloved fingertips, reaching up to touch her lips at the sight of those scars. "Poor thing." Yes, she'll coo over the Monacoan bronze as if he were still Reachian. In the midst of her inspection, her head will turn just so - to get an idea of where R'hin might be - and back again too swiftly to be inconspicuous. "I'm sorry, Leiventh." The apology may be for the dragon, but it's within ear shot of the rider who actually remembers it all. "I'm sure it impresses all the greens." She might sneak in a quick pat to his hide, unsolicited as it is. While the steady, almost statuesque stillness of Leiventh might be offputting, there's certainly nothing otherwise in the dragon's posture to encourage nerves. There's a faint rumble that can probably be felt through that brief touch of Azaylia's hand to the bronze's hide. "He doesn't remember," R'hin finally says, and while his tone can't be said to be gruff per se, there's definitely something deliberately neutral. He's picked a deliberate distance at which to prevent any discomfort, closer to the trees than dragon, though he's able to speak at a comfortable tone: "And he's not much for impressing greens." "Neither does Hraedhyth." Azaylia answers, touch lingering just enough to show that she's enjoying it. It feels strange, not unpleasantly so, to hear another's dragon rumble beneath her hands. "But I do. Some of it." There's no flinch for his tone, the weyrwoman keeping her eyes on the bronze until it's all too obvious she's avoiding his rider. As if it weren't already. "I don't see why not. Greens are probably more fun... you don't get mauled, chasing one." Guilt has her words coming out a bit more quickly. A breath slows her down, head turning to find R'hin with an innocently curious expression, "Why were you there that night?" There's a grunt from the Monaco rider, that might be something sympathetic as she says she remembers, but it's gone by the time she looks at R'hin. His expression is even, as he says to her comment of greens: "He's never had much of an interest for them." If anything, there's a faint note of gratitude for all that, perhaps at odds with his reputation. When Azaylia turns, she finds the Monacoan's pale eyes fixed on her, something amused creeping into his expression. "I didn't mean to be there," a breath, and perhaps a little harsher than he means to: "Or want to be there." The startled whisper probably isn't meant to sound so offended, "Well..! I didn't want you there, either." As if Azaylia hadn't made that perfectly clear during the flight. Her eyes close, resting a hand against her temple as she tries to collect herself. She mutters, "I don't know why I even asked. I can't trust anything you say." There's a faint note of annoyance, but perhaps an inkling of defeat. When her eyes open, they search for his, "I am sorry, though. I wouldn't ever want to hurt Leiventh-- anyone's dragon, for any reason." Even if the rider is R'hin, of which she's trying so hard to convince him. There's a pause, genuine surprise in R'hin's expression, before he, of all things, laughs. Low-throated, and full of genuine amusement, he says, "I only meant -- I don't want to be a Weyrleader, again. Never did." A beat, "If it was a junior flight, on the other hand..." his hands spread, amusement creeping into his gaze, his moment of genuine sentiment perhaps vanishing with that. Except that his, "Leiventh wanted to be there," sounds smooth enough to be the truth. But it is R'hin, so who knows? There's a sharp nod of acknowledgement, another rumble felt, more than heard, from Leiventh, before R'hin relays: "I know that. He knows that. Believe it or not, I was trying to help. But I suspect I made it worse rather than better." Azaylia tries not to look amused as R'hin talks of junior flights, lips turned down in an attempt to look disturbed at the very idea. "Well it wasn't." The note of longing isn't for the bronzerider, but for the lack of two senior flights happening simultaneously. "He did?" The look she turns on the dragon is stern, a faint scold in her posture and the way hands find hips. Sigh, "Bronzes." Hands remain where they are as she turns back to R'hin, taking a few steps so that her light voice is easily heard, "When has crowding someone during their flight," Male greenriders included, "-ever been helpful?" Not too accusitory, it seems as though she's still fighting off some hint of humor. Another sigh, one to help alleviate the pain of her next words, "It wasn't your fault, anyway. It was mine. I'm trying to fix that." Brown eyes flicker, focusing on him while she speaks, and only softening after. An arch of brow is R'hin's response to her comment on it not being a junior flight. "Mm," the faint grunt he gives is purposefully vague. He counters: "I never claimed the outcome was tried and true. Only my intentions. I'm not immune to the effects of a flight, either, Azaylia." His head tips momentarily, hands finally unfolding in order to run through his hair, gaze shifting past her to Leiventh: the dragon's still, but then that's normal for him. Back to Azaylia: "Trying to fix... what?" he seems genuinely curious. There's a similar sound from the weyrwoman, a light "Hm," at his being affected by a flight. With such a soft voice, it might sound like a huff. Azaylia takes a moment to consider her words, "I can't let you..." No, that's not right. A shake of her head has one stubborn lock escaping, curling just above one of her eyes as she tries again, "I need to take responsibility for how I act. And even if I can't ever trust you, that's not... your fault." Not entirely, is what her hesitance seems to say. "So I'm just going to accept you for who you are. How you are." Gloved hands move from her hips, left open at her sides until they drop to a more relaxed position. "Unless, until, it harms my Weyr in some way." Her gaze sharpens for only a moment, "The Weyr you claim to care about." There's a quick smile, and there's no doubt that R'hin reads between the lines of her words. Not entirely, and he doesn't seek to dispute that: "That's very... magnanimous of you, Azaylia." He says her name with an edge of familiarity, but something else too: studied, thoughtful surprise. His hand brushes over shadowed chin, head tipping to study the other woman in turn. "I understand your reticence. Actions, not words, prove the measure of one's statement. Have I given you cause to doubt where my loyalties lie? If I have, tell me and I shall refute it." Azaylia's lips silently mouth the word: Magnanimous. Though she means to be taken seriously, there's no hiding the faint furrow in her brow. Harper lessons, weyrwoman training, it can only do so much for a holdbred farmgirl from Keroon. His tone helps, prompting her own soft smile. "I was told..." A hint of something painful in her gaze doesn't completely banish the curl of her lips, "I have to grow up. I figure this is a good start." Not that she sounds completely sure of it. "You like to get on my nerves. You like bothering me." Now she's accusing him, not that it carries to her decision, "But that doesn't hurt High Reaches, no. So I guess... you haven't done anything." That she's aware of. Yet. "Whoever it is was wise," R'hin says, with a hint of humor briefly visible in his gaze. As to her accusations, there's the slightest twitches of shoulders: "I am. But I am to everyone. You need not take it personally, and it serves me... and those I work for... very well." There's not the least trace of apology in his tone for it. "As far as hurting High Reaches -- it's not necessarily the external you have to worry about, Azaylia. There's a saying, oft said and more often true: keep your friends close, and your enemies closer." There's something sober, serious in his expression, the warning accompanied by a nod in her direction as if to impress his sentiment on her. "Not wise. Just nasty and angry enough to be honest." Azaylia is quick to argue, one hand curling into a fist with narrowed eyes aimed elsewhere. It's a hint of how she was during that night, a possibility that so rarely is with the otherwise gentle goldrider. With a breath meant to calm Hraedhyth, who has begun to snarl, she finds R'hin with an even gaze. His advice has her falling quiet, questions held at bay as long as it takes her to find the right words. When she does speak, it's with the clumsy curiosity of youth, "Is that what Satiet would have done?" Perhaps she doesn't know how deep it goes with him, but speaking of the dead has her careful. "Imean-- I've been reading about her. A lot. I don't... She was the last good one." Or so it seems, especially to a lost weyrwoman. Twice in as many minutes, she surprises him -- or more accurately this time, her anger surprises him. R'hin's lips are pursed, curiosity clearly visible in pale gaze, even if he doesn't voice it aloud. He's too good a judge of character not to let her have that moment to compose herself, and he waits with a patience reflective more of Leiventh. The mention of Satiet does make for a brief shift of posture, like the aborted rocking of heels, but his tone remains mostly even: "Satiet," he says her name with feed of emotions that softens his gaze, likely inadvertently, "--was a Weyrwoman made for change." Made by him, some would say, given the previous Weyrwoman's expected retirement. "That was what High Reaches needed, at the time. What you need, now, is a Weyrwoman made for a time of crises. Beloved enough to hold a Weyr together that is beginning to fray at the edges. Alert enough to spot the dangers that already exist in her den. Mindful enough," a smile, here, something that's approving and oddly, for him, warm: "To know her weaknesses, and be able to compensate for them with the use of others around her." As R'hin speaks, Azaylia begins to step with no real destination in mind. It could be called pacing, unease and thought leading her into circles that tighten and spread at seemingly random. He has her attention despite this, one arm resting across the chest, propping the other that has fingers biting into her cheek. Or would be, if not for the gloves. Something he says has her suddenly stopping, eyes shut against whatever emotion might have been revealed. "Brieli is... She's the one to go to for a crisis. She's... I'm probably just getting in the way." Not that the younger goldrider is exactly beloved. His warmth is met with a smile that holds none, but she's trying, "You don't have to be nice to me." Mistaking it for pity, "Would you feel better pulling my hair?" The Weyr isn't the only thing frayed at the edges. "Are you sure of that?" R'hin asks, with a lift of brow, as she names Brieli. Perhaps it's meant to be rhetorical, since he goes on without waiting for an answer, or providing one of his own: "Self doubt does not become you, kitten. Hraedhyth knows better than that." His use of that nickname is no doubt deliberate, the bronzerider's head twisting to follow her pacing movements. For his part, his stance shifts, turning his back to the cool wind that rises as the evening draws darker, intentionally or not blocking some of that wind from her. "Your hair?" it's echoed with some bemusement. "Much as I might be tempted to accept, I wouldn't dare risk Hraedhyth's anger." But he seems all too amused at the idea, all the same. The moment to answer R'hin, rhetorical question or no, passes by all too quickly. Azaylia is left with parted lips that close suddenly and press into a thin line, "You almost get punched, and you still call me that." Exasperation coats her words rather than actual anger, giving up on that particular fight. Her dragon's infamous temper has a shadow of a smile returning once more, taking a few steps towards the man if only to approach Hraedhyth. "She's pretty content, lately." A certain brown might have to do with that. Turning her head, as if just now remembering, "You're welcome to visit. Not snoop, but visit." As if there hasn't been any animosity between the two, riders and weyrs both. "At least for the hatching...s. Hatchings." She offers over her shoulder, having moved past him. There's no apology, of course, only pale eyes glittering amusement at her exasperation, as if it's to be expected. R'hin, glances at Hraedhyth with a twitch of brow, and then as she begins to move past, a step closer, to match her, like a well-timed dance. It brings him just close enough to reach for her hand -- and perhaps if he's quick enough -- to lift it to his lips. Whether or not he succeeds there's a smile, light, at her words: "Then I'd best not visit, as snooping is nothing if not in my nature, kitten. Perhaps you'd be better served directing me elsewhere." Is that... an offer? It seems to be, and yet the bronzerider's backing away with a last nod towards Hraedhyth, drawn to his dragon's side by the gleaming of half-lidded eyes. For all of the guard she tries to keep up around R'hin, he still manages to catch the goldrider's suddenly tense hand. Azaylia doesn't snatch it back, and she doesn't rub it on the back of her leg, but there's some of that stare present when she eyes him. It's all banished by surprise, watching him with a wider gaze as the bronzerider backs away, "Ah..." Not so quick to send him off with her own agenda in mind, she hasn't said no. "If I think of something," Somewhere. "I'll let you know." There's distance between them now, enough that Azaylia feels comfortable turning her back on him. Only when she's mounting Hraedhyth does she realize there was no true farewell, at least from her. The gold's flames are quick to burn up any lingering embarrassment at the lack of manners, « Clear skies. To you and Yours. » For R'hin's part? A farewell isn't normally part of his repertoire. That's not to say the same of his dragon, however. « And to you, Hraedhyth, » the bronze's bassy rumble intones, the chill winds of his thoughts fading swiftly. |
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