Logs:Dancing with Snowflakes
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| RL Date: 11 October, 2011 |
| Who: Iolene, Leova |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Iolene receives her weyr while Ysavaeth and Sevierth dance with the snowflakes outside. |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Weather: Snowy~! |
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| In the skies above, Ysavaeth dances with the falling snow, her wings slanting left and then right in a game that might exist only in her head: avoid the snowflakes, never mind just how large she is now. The young queen's frolick without brings an unbidden smile to Iolene's lips, even as her blonde head bends over a thin stack of hides she's poring over. Her pencil makes markings along the margins, predominately question marks and every so often, she looks up to stare at the wall in front of her before going back to her studies. The rusty-haired woman doesn't emerge from the wall, but rather behind Iolene and to one side, and quietly enough that some time elapses before she clears her throat. It's a moderate sort of thing, neither diffident nor pointed, and if there's a slight curve to the woman's own mouth at all those question marks, it's soon to linger into general pleasantness. Her Vrianth had flown earlier, but high, above the clouds. She's warmer now, all curled up with a clutchmate, her long tail tucked over his paws. "Find a good stopping spot?" asks her rider. Over her shoulder, what Iolene reads is visible in diagrams, mostly of the human body -- healer stuff that would cross the eyes of even the most studious, let alone Io. It's during one of those pauses where her eyes train back up to the wall that Leova's interruption comes, but only elicits the most minute twitch of surprise. One careful hand folds over her papers and the pencil comes up to rest against her lower lip as she turns, the very picture of innocence with those big dark blue eyes. "I can stop right now if-," a beat, "You need something, Leova?" Ysavaeth's own flight falters for the hiccup in Iolene's emotions, but resumes at a slower pace as her rider speaks. "I don't," Leova assures not quite blandly, humor only half-hidden in that smoky voice. "If you'd rather... wait, for your weyr?" Wait /longer/. "To make it official, at least." Nearly on cue, yet another of Vrianth's clutchmates appears out of nothingness, Sevierth trumpeting casual greeting towards the dragon on watch before slanting into a descent that's slowed for the snow-obscured conditions. Beyond even vision, his thoughts range ahead: checking who's there, warning them off his path. There's warned and then there's doing something about being warned and Ysavaeth's slow figure eights in the sky create a much tighter holding pattern for being warned. She doesn't get out of Sevierth's way, instead twist her neck so that she might look up with a languid veil not masking at all the curious playfulness beneath it all. Whatchu going do now? "M-," the pencil to Iolene's lip falls and the teenager can't suppress her sudden smile. "The barracks were starting to get lonely, even though Ysavaeth was enjoying trying out a new couch every night. She says it's not fair Hiyanoth got the nicest one of them all." So there's someone, someone /not/ moving, and a moment more to identify who it is: the little girl, the maybe not so little girl. That playfulness finds masculine humor, a breath of fresh air that carries a whistle upon it. Sevierth /could/ barrel on down, he could. Maybe he should. Instead he twists the whole of him where she'd just twisted her neck, and there's a wordless suggestion that she /hold/ that pattern she'd made, and he'll just slip right on by. Wouldn't want to break her, after all. Or his rider, who'd just wanted a warm mug and a warm... well. Never mind that. Never mind Leova's lazy stretch, either, made happier for seeing Iolene's reaction. "She could about try out two at once," the greenrider says on a half-laugh. "Come on!" This time, the scramble's up the stairs. There's a flicker of hesitation in the way Iolene's lashes dart to what she was working on, indecision writ on her fine features. Ultimately, a overly leisurely arm reaches out to scoop up her work and press it to her chest like the craft apprentices at the Hall Io's never seen. It pairs well with the two pigtails down the side of her head, keeping her hair out of her face. "Are you-," the blonde girl is careful in pushing her chair when Leova's scrambling up the stairs. Hurrying after, she repeats, "Are you- are you mad at me still?" Like the child she still is, despite the snow-glistened hue of her hide, Ysavaeth pauses in an unintended mirror of Iolene's hesitation - as if deciding whether to listen to those nonverbalized suggestions or stubbornly stay still. It's fleeting, that moment, as she's soon banking down and then up to meet Sevierth, coasting past him in a rush of youthful limbs and a wind-swept beat of her pale, majestic wings. In his head, though not S'turn's, is a bell-like singsong laughter that fits all too well with the winter landscape. Surprise. Leova pauses nearly at the stairs' height, looking down at the weyrling, the wooden door at her back and the latch in her hand. /Her/ features are briefly foreign, shadowed that way, as though she were someone else... or is, beneath it all. "I'm not mad at you," she says, and makes it so. She isn't troubled or troubling about those healer-studies, after all. Or trying to explain, in a way that might seem as though she'd split every golden hair. She just smiles, and she's Leova again, warm and laconic and helpful where she can be. More helpful, through the walk through the tunnel to the weyrleaders' snow-scraped ledge and cautiously along it, than Sevierth is: Sevierth, who's swerving into Ysavaeth's flight path /just/ enough that he might sideswipe one long wing past hers. Just because he can. Just because she might let him, or might not stop him. Just because, yes, it's /fun/. S'trun? Huddled up and hanging on. |
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