Logs:Not Taking Advantage
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| RL Date: 29 July, 2013 |
| Who: Azaylia, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: The gold pair decides to visit a recovering Leiventh and R'hin. Neither rider takes advantage of each other's 'weakness'. |
| Where: R'hin's Weyr, Monaco Weyr |
| When: Day 17, Month 5, Turn 32 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Kyouri/Mentions, M'kris/Mentions |
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| R'hin's Weyr, Monaco Weyr
Evielth, while holding a slightly wary tone to her greeting, is nothing if not polite in returning the greeting -- even if the Monaco senior's presence is heavy in the air for the length of the High Reaches queen's stay. Hraedhyth's first roar is met with a silence -- that might be sleep, except there's a faint sense of cold wind drifting away, as if drawing the queen further away from the Weyr-proper. Like the pied piper playing his song to lead the unwary children on, the Monaco bronze doesn't answer verbally, but his presence is there, out in the jungle, to be followed. Monaco's weyrs, by and large, aren't exactly traditional. While some are built into the rock-face, many more are spaced out in the jungle, for those who are comfortable with the notion of sleeping without the protection of stone overhead. In R'hin's case, it's an open-aired structure with a solid roof, but loose material serving as walls. The adjunct where Leiventh's flickering thoughts come from is a leafy, covered wallow, sheltered from the rain -- and today, despite the sunshine, a dark cave in which he can hide. 'Nothing if not polite' is taken at face value by the younger queen, who has none of the reservations as far as Weyr politics goes. That's human business. Hraedhyth means no harm, therefore there is none, and she takes her time in drifting from the Weyr. Once she catches Leiventh's 'scent', she's on the hunt and flies with a purpose towards R'hin's den. Occasionally, her thoughts attempt to capture that elusive wind, snapping with ineffective, impatient jaws. « Leiventh. » Hraedhyth greets after landing and making the short trek into the jungle, « Your wounds, they are healing well? » Is that... pride? Azaylia's dismount isn't terribly graceful, doing what she can while wearing an oversized riding jacket over a gauzy, yellow sundress. The thick leather is shoved off, and a small wicker box is unfastened from her dragon's straps, "R'hin?" Manners keep her outside of the loose material. And Leiventh? He's the elusive wind, twisting out of the way of her snapping jaws just in time, every time, leading her on. « Hraedhyth, » that greeting finally afforded her when she hunts him down successfully, the glimmer of eyes inside his den perhaps foreboding. « I am well enough. » Truth, of a sort, if perhaps not a complete answer. Still, the bronze's wind twists, curling curiously about her flames with a sharp interest not normally displayed by the taciturn bronze. "Azaylia." That R'hin actually uses her name and not her moniker might well mean something, but what isn't immediately apparent; the greeting apparently serves as invitation, since there's no more noise. Inside the structure, it's rather spartan -- a large bed, wardrobe, chest, table and chairs. And of course, a cabinet that no doubt stocks whatever liquor he has to hand. R'hin's stretched out on the bed in his shorts, propped up by a pillow. He's shirtless, making the tight wrappings that bind around his chest all the more visible. The bronzerider's setting aside a set of straps, the glimmer of the material and the scent of oil in the air suggesting his occupation previous to her arrival, his feet touching the ground but not standing as blue eyes track the Reachian goldrider with an immeasurable intensity. Yes, it's pride that has Hraedhyth's drums chanting for Leiventh as champion, « Better than your enemy? That is what matters. » As bold as ever, the tawny gold snakes her stocky neck to part the 'walls' and get a better look at the creature in his dark 'cave'. His interest is not lost on the queen, though the cause of it is, her dark smoke curling curiously within his wind. Azaylia hesitates at the sound of her name, shock flickering across her features as she stands within the gap created by her dragon. It eventually passes, slippered feet bringing her inside as she looks around, turning in place to try and find what R'hin is staring at so intently. "Am I... interrupting?" One more circulation in place before she stops and takes a step towards the bed. Another. "How are you?" As Hraedhyth has likely shared the bronze's response already. Enemy. That surprises the Monacoan bronze, and it makes him retreat warily for moments, like a spooked animal, keeping his own thoughts at bay from hers. Inside his den, Leiventh is -- as always -- statuesque, still as Hraedhyth invades his space, but no defensiveness on his part: there is no sense of territorialness or his in the light touch that begins to creep back around the edges of her thoughts. « Feyzeth has yet to fly, » comes Leiventh's ice-soaked words, picked carefully before being shared, « But he is not an enemy. » Leiventh bears no ill-will towards the other dragon, and it stands to reason that R'hin does not, either. The rider might well be a different story. R'hin's gaze has shifted from her to Leiventh, a kind of frowning intensity creeping into his expression. It doesn't linger long, though: he's too adept for that, and easy pleasantry soon spills across his face as his gaze tracks Azaylia's approach, grunting a little as he stands to meet her. "Healing," is his diffident answer. "Not much to do around here, though -- fairly bored. I hear," with a warmer smile, as he stretches out a hand towards her, like he intends for her to take it -- "You have been quite the adventurer." Suddenly startled herself, Hreadhyth jerks her head back in a physical echo of Leiventh's thoughts. Jeweled gaze carries confusion in those facets, pale head tilting to the side as she stares at where her head once was. « You battled in the sky. » There is little animosity aimed at this 'enemy', placeholder for an actual name. Now she knows, and there's a protective roll of her drums, « You hurt because of Feyzeth. » Azaylia also turns towards the dragons after Hraedhyth's jerky motion, already being undone as she eases her muzzle back into Leiventh's wallow. "She's glad he's okay." Her soft murmur acts as a partial explanation, "She isn't happy the other dragon got hurt, just... that Leiventh can take care of himself." But now R'hin is smiling, and while she doesn't return it just yet the goldrider attempts to relax. It's all undone in a rushed breath, "You don't have to get up." Her hand stops short, reaching for his outstretched palm rather than try to push him back, wicker box cradled in the opposite arm. "Oh? Oh, yes. It's Hreadhyth... Not now, but soon." Her certainty grows with each passing day. « There was a queen. » Leiventh says it matter-of-factly, as if otherwise such an event never would have happened. For any other dragon, that might not be true, but for Leiventh, it's stated as a fact. There's a slight shift of his body, easing his weight marginally -- perhaps to get more comfortable. It's mere coincidence that it leaves enough room for her to enter, should she choose. "She's nice to be worried about him," R'hin says with a hint of something amused in his gaze. He draws closer to her with his hand in hers, and his other curving around the arm that holds that basket as he leans to murmur in her ear, all-too-reminiscent of Hraedhyth's first flight: "You'll do well, kitten. Don't be afraid. Find yourself a strong Weyrleader." This close, she can likely smell that mingling scent that dragonriders have, that fresh-oiled leather smell, combined with the muskiness of dragonskin. He doesn't linger though: eyes glimmering as his hand releases hers to move past her, voice more casual: "Drink?" He's curious about the basket, but there's more pressing matters to attend to. It doesn't take long for the gold's confidence to recover, inviting herself in to tuck up against Leiventh's side. Nothing about the way Hraedhyth moves inspires caution, and yet when she lays beside him she isn't quite touching. This way, she can get a closer look at his wounds and make sure that they're healing well. If not, she may have to disinfect them herself. Azaylia goes stiff in R'hin's arms, muscles slowly beginning to relax as he speaks, though they ocassionally twitch in his grasp. Turning her head a fraction towards him, her reply isn't quite defiant, but, "I'm not afraid." While he may not linger, her gaze does, following the bronzerider as he moves past with some of that usual suspicion, "I didn't try to punch you, this time." She's improving by leaps and bounds. As he goes hunting for a drink, she uncovers the basket and pulls out a glass bottle filled with dark liquid. "It's not quite whiskey, but it's... spiced? I had some down at Igen. I thought you might like it." Who visits an invalid without bearing gifts? There's a taut gingerness with which Leiventh, slowly and by inches -- leans against Hraedhyth, taking advantage of her extra warmth. He looks mostly okay, though there's some newer, pinker scars lower on his body. "Good," is R'hin's amused tone -- does he believe her? Does it matter, either way? -- and he's reaching the cabinet, pulling out a couple of glasses, pausing to regard his stash. "I appreciate your restraint, kitten," he adds with a dark chuckle, glancing over his shoulder. It's surprise in his gaze as she displays her gift -- and appreciation, too, in the low whistle that follows. "Clearly I should get myself injured more often," he says with a short laugh, collecting the glasses and walking back towards her. "Are you being this nice because I'm an invalid," of a sorts, "Or because you're after more of my sage, helpful insights? How are you doing with everything?" With weyrlings graduated and hatchlings that haven't needed their dam for longer than that, Hraedhyth has no maternal instincts to call upon. Instead, she admires Leiventh's new scars, relaxing against the bronze with her usual entitlement in regards to the property of other dragons. Luckily, it's always temporary. Azaylia gives the bottle a little shake, as if ringing the R'hin bell to bring him back over-- hopefully with glasses. "It's not because you're hurt. It's why you're hurt." She admits to his table, gazing at it longer than it takes to set basket and bottle down. There's a bowl of candied dates as well as a flaky, layered pastry, no longer tempted to pick at either since she had her fill days ago. When she finally does glance up, she attempts a soft smile, "Not this time..." Covering the basket up again, she pushes it aside, "I'm... it's hard. The work, the Holds and... I don't know if I've got the right help." Rather than place blame, "I know the traveling doesn't make it any easier, but... soon we won't have that." Not that she sounds disappointed at such a trade, not even realizing the secretive, hopeful smile that crosses her lips. For once, Leiventh doesn't seem to mind as much -- but perhaps that's as much due to the shade of her hide as the Reachian queen's lack of further prodding. Dutifully -- with a wry grimace as she shakes the bottle -- "You know that'll have any good vintner having multiple chest pains," -- he carries the glasses to the table and sets them down. Briefly, a frown flickers across R'hin's features, and his gaze cuts towards Leiventh's wallow, but he seats himself -- with a visible grimace -- and the expression is gone. "You oughtn't stay long," he says, all-too-casually. "But long enough for a drink, I'd imagine. And... food." Surprise is visible in his gaze, and he doesn't try to hide it: "Why I'm hurt?" he affects an innocence on that score, tipping his head to better see her expression. "Kitten," amused, "You know you can always make time for the things you like doing. Satiet and I used to loudly announce we were off to a diplomatic visit to Nabol, and we'd always be back at the expected time." "Well..." Azaylia is caught off guard, not realizing her mistake in handling the booze, "Good thing you're not a vintner." There's a quick little double-take, as if she has to check to make sure. He isn't, is he? It's then that she catches R'hin's frown, halting her efforts to open the squat, curved bottle. "Why?" Should she fret? She already is, "Should I get a healer? Is it Leiventh?" Looking over at the dragons, Hraedhyth reveals that there's nothing worthy of such alarm... as far as she knows. It keeps the goldrider anchored, rather than heading off half-cocked for a Healer that likely isn't needed. Still, she leans on flat palms rather than sit, just in case. A distracted afterthought, "Don't call me that." And, "Yes. I don't like that dragons were hurt, but... I know what it's like to want to hit people." As difficult as that is to believe, or would be if not for that errant swing the last time R'hin visited 'Reaches. "I'm glad you hit him." "Not a vintner," R'hin agrees with a wave of hand that gets her off the hook, but he's quick to add: "But a connoisseur." Which might explain the grimace. The Monacoan bronzerider weathers her sudden bout of concern as a well-trained seacrafter might weather a storm: with casual disregard -- or at least, focus on what he might well consider to be the more important matter to hand: "Are you going to leave me high and dry here, after all that build up?" he asks, a finger tapping the glass nearest him, eyes glinting with unrestrained amusement. His shoulder lifts-and-drops in a single motion: "I don't recommend it. Especially not in your position. Goldriders ought to be proper," even if the grin suggests he, personally might well think otherwise. Like a casual afterthought, as he reaches for one of the pastries, "M'kris is a nobody." "I, but... no?" Azaylia answers, clearly torn between worry and manners. Those pesky manners win in the end, though she's keeping even more of an eye on the bronzerider, as if he'll keel over any minute. She manages to finish opening the liquor with minimal shaking, pouring a generous amount for R'hin, and a little less for herself. "Kyouri's taught me how to act proper." Which is different than being proper, lifting her glass and bringing it up for a subtle sniff of the dark drink. Breath fogging the glass, she murmurs, "He is." It's far from a decent toast, but it's enough for the goldrider. She actually savors the spirit with small sips, a touch sweeter than whiskey but undetectable to any but experienced palates. It's be hard for R'hin to miss the pointed eyeing the goldrider's given him, nor to miss the fact that she fills their glasses so differently. "Kyouri clearly needs to teach you how to pour drinks, too," he says, rather blandly, reaching for the bottle and lifting it as if preparing to top up her drink the second she sets it down again. He hasn't touched his yet, notably. Leiventh is asleep. No -- not asleep -- watching, as usual, consistent in his guardedness, at least, even with Hraedhyth leaning against him. (Or possibly the other way around, but he'd never admit it.) It's in that direction that the bronzerider casts another casual look -- but then few things the Monacoan does are particularly casual as much as deliberately casual. Rather than set the glass down where he can reach, she holds it up a bit higher, "You want me to leave." Not an accusation but a statement that's almost sweet, an attempt to be even more considerate. "Or maybe... Hraedhyth? But, the less drink I have the sooner you'll have your weyr-- home to yourself." It's not a proper weyr at all, is it? His gaze is meant to be casual, and so that is how the goldrider interprets them or so it would seem. After another slow sip, "Is Hraedhyth bothering him?" While she holds the glass out of reach, he continues to hold the bottle aloft, as if preparing to pounce the moment she lets her guard down. "I want you to drink as much as you gave me, or--" R'hin tips his head to one side, a knowing sort of smile slipping across his features, "--are you trying to take advantage of me, kitten? Get me drunk, have your way with me? I'm injured, you know." The bronzerider doesn't bother to answer her comment on his wish to have her leave: perhaps he thinks Hraedhyth's mood makes clear enough the reason that needn't explain. "It almost sounds fair when you say it like that." Reluctantly, she'll lower her glass for him to even the score. "I'm... You'd have to be drunk?" Of course that's how Azaylia interprets his words, not that she sounds all that insulted. Instead, it's the cause for the first bright smile of the day, "I repulse you." She teases, albeit gently. It's such a grand word for the plain-speaking woman, a thick underline drawn under her attempt at a joke. Finally, she takes a seat across from him, some of the tension in her shoulders banished by self deprecating humor. "We won't stay long." She reassures him, giving up on trying to find a reason for wanting such a short visit. The success rides with only a marginal increase of smile. It's only once R'hin's satisfied himself with the topping up of her glass that he finally reaches for his own, pausing at her question. "To take advantage of an obviously proddy goldrider who might well not be capable of her own, rational judgment? You bet I'd have to be drunk. I am many things, but I'm not that person." A beat, as he adds, "Repulse would not be the word I would choose, no. Leiventh's distracted, and I find that... discomforting." A ring of truth, perhaps? Who can say. Either way, he's lifting his glass to his lips, now, breathing in the scent of the liquid, taking the smallest sip and savouring the taste with an approving smile. "Sweeter than I'm used to," and his gaze fixes on her, "Is that what you like? Sweet things?" Realization doesn't just dawn on Azaylia, it smacks her across the face and leaves the goldrider staring with wide eyes. "An obviously..?" With a little smile she tucks her chin in to look down at her drink, fingertips sliding back and forth on either side of the glass. "Just because I'm being nice to you doesn't mean... Not yet." She sounds so sure, even as she peeks over at him. "It probably wouldn't matter if you were injured, then." Leiventh's distraction is another matter entirely. Hraedhyth might not even be aware of the subtle stirring in her flames, a heat that's meant to draw in the older bronze. Surprised, "He is?" Now it's her turn to look towards the dragons, not bothering to hide the suspicion in her gaze. Not for R'hin's lifemate, but her own. "Mm?" Not yet taking her eyes off the gold, inspecting her hide for any hint of a glow, "Sometimes. Yes... What?" Once she's able to offer a proper answer, her focus shifts back to R'hin, "I do like sweet things, actually." "Mm," R'hin's disagreement is, for the moment, wordless. Despite his earlier savouring of the drink, he's now gulping it down, setting the glass down with a smack and pushing to his feet. While she's looking at Hraedhyth, it's towards his bed that he walks, movements stiff and careful. "Plying me with wine and food -- the fastest way to a man's heart," his voice is full of amusement, though it might well cut off at the end in a sharp intake of breath as he eases his way onto the bed. He doesn't linger on the topic of Leiventh, rather pointedly and smoothly avoiding further discussion with an easy, "I'll make good use of both, later." Is it dismissal? It's close to, avoiding her gaze in a way that's pointed for all that it's unusual for him, eyes closing as he settles into a recline. There's a spark of annoyance aimed at the bronzerider's back for his doubt, lips parting to argue before she decides against it. For all of five seconds. Her mouth is drawn into a thin line, "If I were proddy," she pauses long enough to follow his example, draining her glass of the stinging, sweet liquor. Pushing past a shiver that follows the alcoholic burn, "You wouldn't have to worry about me going after your heart." Standing up, she leaves the basket sitting next to those infamous ways to a man's heart. The hitch in his breathing dulls her sharp, pointed motions, "Be careful." Lingering insult turns her concern into an order, one that serves as a goodbye that matches his. On her way out, her voice manages some warmth for the bronze, "Leiventh." Hraedhyth stands after the goldrider has passed through the 'walls', pausing to touch her brow to his in a soft headbutt before following her rider out. « Be well. » The protest, and the warning -- well, order that follows -- earns a low-throated chuckle from the bronzerider. "Yes, ma'am," comes the amused response from R'hin. Maybe he cracks an eye to watch her depart; certainly Leiventh does, shifting his weight to watch, and while Hraedhyth's gesture isn't returned -- he doesn't seem overly given to any particular displays of well, anything, the ice cold wind of his thoughts twists around the edges of her flames, accompanying her into the skies until the pair disappear from Monaco's skies. |
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