Logs:Paying Your Debts
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| RL Date: 23 January, 2015 |
| Who: Leova, R'hin, Enwei |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Leova and R'hin repay their respective debts to a healer in what seems like an easy experiment at face value, but is... not so much. For either of them. |
| Where: Healer Hall |
| When: Day 22, Month 11, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: I'daur/Mentions, Vesik/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Satiet/Mentions, N'thei/Mentions, Anvori/Mentions, Suireh/Mentions, Riahla/Mentions, Via/Mentions, Varian/Mentions, Veylin/Mentions, Bristia/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: After reading this fascinating article, we decided to try the experiment on two very reticent characters. |
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| The greenrider's watching the door. When it's R'hin who walks into the barren little room, enlivened only by a couple of soft chairs, a rug and a folding table of refreshments, she almost doesn't look surprised. Dry, "Who really planned this thing?" R'hin's expression says far more than any words might; he's trailing Enwei into the room, stopping in the entrance and rocking back on his heels when he spots Leova. There's a sharp exhale, gaze narrowing briefly, at her, rather than the healer, suspicious in kind. "Enwei," he addresses the healer, all-too-casually; she grins, both at his expression and at the greenrider, too. "I'm very grateful you're both willing to assist." Enwei doesn't even stumble on the word willing, blandness riding over that the favors were owed and paid out to the healer Journeywoman, or her compatriots. Carefully, she sets a sheaf of hides down on the table, tapping them. "The instructions are in here. Follow them all, and tomorrow, you'll come back for individual interviews with me. I really," and Enwei smiles now, pleased, "Appreciate you assisting my research. This is going to be invaluable for my Master's." Leova has a slight shake of her head for R'hin. Her gaze moves to this Enwei, then, the healer she'd all but ignored. It stays there, to a stranger reflective and even mild. "Understood." That tone's a hair too flat for merely mild. So is, "Doing our part to save Pern, and all that." "Yes. Saving Pern. Good, I like that," Enwei says in a tone that suggests she might well use that. Maybe even steal it for the title of her research. The bronzerider's still blocking the door, and so she gives him an even look that, after a beat, causes the Savannah rider to grudgingly concede to sliding sidewards, allowing the healer to exit. The door gives a very ordinary sounding click when it shuts behind her. R'hin, for his part, gives the hides a cursory glances, and walks instead to examine the offerings on the refreshment's table. "Must've been a big debt," he says, easily, not bothering to throw a glance over her shoulder. "Me, I can think of worse things than talking. Been asked to do worse things than talking, so..." an amused, familiar chuckle comes from his direction. "Can tell me what you owed," Leova says, less mild and more dry once more. "Don't mind." Another thoughtful look to where Enwei disappeared, and she's rounding her chair to take up those hides. She leafs through them, now and again hmning to herself, certain of those remarks for R'hin's benefit rather than her own. "Maybe it's even in here. 'What did I do that was worse. Worst.'" "You first," R'hin replies laughingly, with no expectation that she will, and an understanding that he won't, either. There's the familiar pop of a bottle being opened, and the splash of liquid. "Best start with the white -- they didn't even bother to leave something to keep it cool." The heathens is implied. As he walks back over, offering her one of the glasses, his brow rises. "Is this part of Enwei's experiment?" he says, with low-throated laughter, "Or are you just really that curious." "Could do," Leova remarks with a one-cornered smile. Call her bluff. Just try. She accepts the glass, setting it safely on the chair's arm before shaking out her shoulders. "That's for bringing it up. Shells, R'hin. I just don't know about this." It's not what she does. He gives a shrug, then shifts around so that he can lean over Leova's shoulder to peruse the hides she's holding. Clucking his tongue, R'hin says, "Not so adventurous in your old age? Settling down's really changed you," he remarks, with familiar glibness. "'Who would I want as a dinner guest? Anyone in the world?'," he reads. "That's easy." She doesn't twitch, though there may be a solidity to the set of her shoulder that wasn't there before. She even angles the hides to make it easier. "It's easy to pull out an answer," Leova notes. "But if you only had the one chance? 'Course. The longer it takes to answer," the longer they're here? Something else? She doesn't deliberate much longer. "I'll go with the Masterharper. Quiz him about our girl." His turn. R'hin's browse rise at her suggestion of drawing things out, but he gives an easy shake of his head, moving past her and over to the other arm chair. He stretches his legs out, crossing one boot over the other, taking a generous sip. A twitch of lips answers her pick, but his comes soon after: "Fax." "Not much of a conversationalist," Leova mentions. What with being dead and all. "Not going to say why?" Though she'll relent if it must: "'The next wants to know if you'd like to be famous." She eyes him. "'More famous,'" has an indugent quality before, "In what way." Possibly she made that last up, but then would she, even if he hadn't looked over her shoulder? "It didn't say they had to be alive," R'hin says, with a shrug. "If she didn't mean not-dead-people, she should've clarified. Wouldn't you," he leans forward, adjusting his glass adroitly so he doesn't spill a drop, "Want to know what sort of man he was? Why he did what he did? How he did it? How one man put the Weyrs so thoroughly on their back foot?" He certainly would, and it doesn't sound like he admires the man so much as a need to satisfy his own curiosity. The next question is easy: "No. I like anonymity." But her? His head tips as if to guess at her answer before she gives it. "I'd want to know," Leova admits, and she could deny it but. She doesn't. She even slides back down into her chair, adjusting it with a heel on the way so it's more aslant. "But it's not what I'd pick, R'hin. Not over something else. Not," she stops with a one-shouldered shrug and carries it into the next topic's laugh, low. "Not hardly," suggests understatement, right before she turns the hide around so he can read it aloud. "An opportunity like that..." R'hin clucks his tongue, as if it's one he couldn't pass up. His brows go up in a no? fashion, chuckling under his breath, at her, of course. "No songs of Leova's ride for you, then?" He takes a long, savoring drink from his glass, the proffering of hides forcing him to uncross his stretched legs to lean close enough to see. "Mm. Do you ever rehearse what you're going to say to people before you talk to them, and why?" He grins, knowingly. "All the time. Because anticipation is advantage." A flip of his wrist towards the greenrider, as if to say over to you. "Not a whole lot of people I'd want to know it," Leova underscores. The way she side-eyes R'hin suggests he might not be one of them. Might intend to suggest. "No songs, no story, no picture books. And, 'course I do. Saves time." Among other things. "'What would constitute a perfect day for you,'" turns out dubious indeed, and worth her first drink. "I'd like to hear it," R'hin says, with a chuckle. "Bet Bristia'd write something for you. I'll ask her, later," he says, as if making a mental note to himself, rather than asking the Glacier rider's permission. He does however, seem surprised at her answer to the latter, giving a huh, and a long, considering regard of pale eyes. "Should've figured. You're always so... measured." Hard to tell whether he means that as compliment or not. The next question has him shaking his head, and the response is tossed out facetiously, indeed: "Every day with Leiventh." She looks at him, sharply. The moment doesn't, won't, last. She doesn't tell him not to, doesn't invite more attention to the mix. By contrast, she receives 'measured' in a suitably corresponding way and, for Leiventh, "I believe you." Facetiously said or not. Leova's gaze is level. "'Course, now I have to say Vrianth and something. Something pieced together, something taught, something... made better than it was." The something earns a quizzical look from the bronzerider, and a brief gesture of fingers, as if to say, go on. Apparently vague isn't overly satisfying. Leova eyes those fingers like she might have snapped them if he'd snapped them, pointedly, before meeting his gaze again with a shrug. "Don't have to be any one thing." It's slipped deeper into her accent like an old housecoat, but with the ring of truth. "Going to read?" Apparently Leova isn't living to satisfy R'hin... and neither does she live to thwart him. "Just... Vrianth and something," he echoes, dubiously. R'hin stares at her for a moment, finally stirred to movement by taking a drink. His gaze falls to the hides, and with a sudden grin, starts to hum -- it's familiar, the Ballad of Lessa's ride, and abruptly he starts to sing in a low baritone, "Yet promise lives by those of heart, salvation lies in gleam of eye; revealed by Leova, greenrider! undaunted by a wise guy." He's mangled the lyrics, deliberately, laughing. Leova doesn't blush often, nor do her brown cheeks show it well. She presses her lips together, that most visible sign of discomfiture not leaving until he's a line or two in... and then those amber eyes narrow. Right when he's done, "R'hin." Only, how can she not laugh? Barely. Sliding even further into the depths of her chair, her expression nearly a laugh on its own, she moves quickly. "Fine, have that one. I sang the 'get up already' song to the twins," her twins, "this morning. 'If you were able to live to the age of ninety, would you rather think or look like a thirty-Turn-old for the last sixty?'" The bronzerider is pleased with himself, clearly, but more pleased at the reaction. "A much better refrain than the original, don't you think?" R'hin tips his glass to her in toast, draining out the rest of it, balancing it on the arm of his chair. "That's easy: I'd keep the mind of the ninety-year-old and the body of a thirty-year-old. Why would you give up all those Turns of knowledge and experience?" he makes a noise, like that one was an easy giveaway. And yet, he does wait for her answer, too, pale eyes glittering. Leova merely smiles, deliberately close-lipped at that. But for the other, "Same," she says, though not as readily. "Don't want to wind up as one of the droolers, hm? But then between's got a cure for that. Speaking of." But he has to read it. So say the rules. She's following the rules when she holds the hide high. "Think they help us keep our minds sharp," R'hin speculates, undoubtedly referring to their dragons. "Not a thing the healers can bottle up and send out, though." With a shrug of shoulders, he makes a face at her, pale eyes shifting from her face to the hide she holds up. "Do you..." he trails off, expression mutating marginally into something tighter -- but then that's a lot for R'hin, before he continues in a voice that's suddenly lacking his previous humor: "Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?" "Better, if they know what's good for 'em." But Leova's regarding him even before he starts reading, close, close. She doesn't override his reactions with anything light, doesn't dredge them down with an anchor of sorrow. "Between," comes as not only repetition but near-relief. Her pause is perhaps-unexpectedly delicate. "For Turns... I had a plan." This pause is longer, but poised on the brink. R'hin's not putting off his own answer, but he doesn't say anything yet, waiting for the greenrider to tip over into the edge of sharing. He pushes to his feet, walking deliberately towards the refreshments table, the splash of liquid indicating his purpose. That it gives her a moment of privacy, artificial as it is, is probably deliberate. That it gives him some is, perhaps, more so. "You remember I'daur," Leova says to begin with. Her head's turned only enough to glimpse him from the side. He doesn't turn, fully. "We picked him as our Weyrlingmaster. To make things... better." A dryness in the response, as he takes a gulp from his glass. "Pieced or otherwise," comes with a half-smile. Her smoky voice drifts, not aimlessly but as though on some quiet current one can't quite see. "He'd told me about their accident. Everyone knew they had one, but Zunaeth... we had in mind to find out just when, and just how, and over time we did. At night I'd show her, and she'd remind me, and we could see it. We could go, when it came to that." "Why?" R'hin asks, simply, turning to face her, now. Why would they do that. "They say you can't change what you didn't change." Her gaze is like her voice. "Reckoned when we got that far, we're dying anyhow, we could /try/. Maybe, somewhere, there'd be a Zunaeth who made it whole." The bronzerider gives a nod to that; confirmation. Personal experience? R'hin picks up the bottle and walks to her side, offering her a refill. "So," with a smile, a hint of his more usual lightness: "Singing Lessa's song was not far off. Except it wasn't the five Weyrs, but the Weyrlingmaster you sought to save." She accepts the libation if not the libretto. "Would have done," Leova says simply. "'The Weyrlingmaster,' suppose that's as good a translation as any." And as insufficient as many. He hums a few more lines of the ballad, but perhaps mercifully doesn't break into song again. "Your turn," Leova adds at the very end, in time. He sighs, like she's interrupted some masterpiece in progress, but complies after a fashion, once he's reclaimed his chair. "A bar somewhere. Back of a bar, somewhere. A knife." His gaze goes ceiling-wards. "Probably from behind. A man whose face I've probably seen before but no longer remember. Leiventh'd go without me. That's the only part of it I'd regret." For a hunch, the details seem fairly specific. "Is... that a dream?" Her wondering voice is quiet, for all that he can overlook what's loud. "When do you feel it?" "Late at night. When I'm alone." A dream then? He doesn't confirm. She doesn't need him to. There's quiet, for a little while. "They want," rises out of that quiet. "three things we think we have in common." They want, for all that she gives it no emphasis. He's staring past her, like he doesn't hear her. Maybe he doesn't, at first, processing it slowly. "We love our families," the Savannah rider finally says, in a low voice, with a grimace, "But we struggle to show it." He tugs a hand through his hair. "Neither of us make apologies for putting our dragons first." Frowning, now, as if he finds a third difficult -- or maybe seeks to find the best way to phrase it. "We would die, for the right thought, the right ideal." It's only at the last that pale eyes seek the greenrider, as much to gauge her reaction, as a prompt for her response. If he also doesn't see her, see her own grimace, she doesn't bring it to his attention. It's fading anyway, maybe faded, by the time he seeks her out. "Don't give myself that credit," Leova says, looking right back at the other rider. "That last. Not when it means Vrianth." Validating the second. "Won't say you're not right about family. Can't. But that last? Suppose I would, if needs must. Fall, protecting, that's not the same as an ideal. A thought worth her, don't know what that would be." "I'daur," is all he says, in counter to her waving off that credit. "How's he, they an ideal." She might give him a chance. But. "You almost died trying to spare someone something they'd long grown adjusted to. Because of the idea of a Zunaeth who made it whole." He mimics her tone and phrasing precisely, deliberately. "That's an ideal." "Didn't. Only would've, if Fall did get us." Leova stops there, but it has the cadence of a recitation halted. "Would've, could've, should've," R'hin seems to think the semantics don't matter. Some would count it agreement that Leova says, "Gratitude time," and points. Right there it says it. R'hin holds up both hands, as if to indicate she should slow down. "Now there, missy. What about your three? Surely you can't just agree." "I think I can," Leova tells him, deadpan. 'Think'? Know. "You got the good ones. What's left? Two eyes, two legs, so on." A dismissive snort answers that, do better, the expectant flicker of fingers seems to say. Leova glances at the door. If it weren't for the healers, no doubt she could keep this up all night. Then she eyes him, considering. Helpfully, R'hin stands, and does a full, slow spin, as if doing so might jog an answer. She relents, laugh-lines deepening, into a low chuckle. She also doesn't reply right away, apparently content to let hm do his thing and watch. In time, "We're far from where we started out." One. "We've reasons to be where we are, to do what we do. Didn't just fall into it." Three. "We don't," Leova says, "take things for granted." With a cluck of his tongue, R'hin's opinion on her comments, "Vague, vaguer, vaguest," he smooths down his shirt and sinks back into his chair. "You should be one of those fortune tellers. And," he gives a low-throated chuckle, "You missed out on the obvious, we're both good looking. Disappointing, Leova, very disappointing." But it seems he'll allow the answers, since he doesn't press, instead giving a thoughtful twist of lips before he answers the next, what he's grateful for. The obvious answer is Leiventh, and yet; "People who believe in me, despite being me," is his chosen answer. "Look, R'hin," Leova says tartly, shaking her head as he sits. And then she sighs. "You and your hot air. Shells." It's her turn to fill up drinks, or something. "Believe in you for what, I wonder," isn't even sarcastic. Or demanding. Sliding back into her seat, this time sideways with a knee hooked over the chair's arm, "'Grateful' isn't good enough for Vrianth. Call it, not having screwed over more than I have." Earlier, a pause had suggested continuation. This one doesn't. But she'd left the hides behind, on accident, so she reaches out for him to hand them over. R'hin gives a shake of his head, as if her asking means he can't explain, and he doesn't try to. Having perhaps anticipated the answer from the greenrider, there's little surprise there. Dutifully, he passes over the hides, though not before he recites the next question: "If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?" Now this answer the bronzerider's interested in, pale eyes settling on his companion. "'The way I was raised.' It's not like they didn't try to keep me in line," Leova says with a curl to her lip. She pushes out a breath. Stares at the hide like the words would change somehow. Says, finally, "My mother did better than I do. My father," she shrugs, whatever. Except, amber eyes lifting to pale at last, "What he could've done, the biggest difference he could've made, isn't how he raised me but something I saw. That he could've done. That he didn't do." Does it count? If he won't, she won't. "Yes," R'hin's chuckling under his breath now, pale eyes glittering, "I bet you were quite the little rascal. Difficult to control, always off... climbing a tree, or falling over something, into, through something." But amusement fades from his expression as she continues, a crease appearing on his brow. "He should've protected you from seeing it?" He doesn't ask what is. He gives her that much. And, too, he appears to allow it to count. "Something," is dry and, somehow, not quite benign. It disappears into weariness. "No. He... should have done something, R'hin. Someone, one of ours, don't know if he could have helped her but he didn't. Shells, I think back now and it's not like I saw everything, not like everyone told me everything, so maybe he did but... I never saw it. Reckon maybe he never saw it." As something that was his business, as something that was a problem at all. The other rider's finger taps against his glass, though pale eyes don't waver from her. Considering her words, considering his, too. After a lengthy moment, what he finally says is: "You didn't try and change it." "Oh, no." Beat. "I made things worse." No beat; his question is immediate: "Would you have gone back and fixed it, like you tried with Zunaeth, if you could?" "I should." She hasn't. She won't. She... can't? His voice is whisper soft, almost inaudible: "But you haven't, because you didn't." "No." Agreement. Negation. "Don't..." Her fist finds her heart, overlies it like a rock. "That it could happen." That it works that way. And: "Vrianth." He's on his feet, not moving for her but the table, off to one side. There's the sounds of clinking, splashing, and then he's coming back to her side, pressing a cool glass into her hand, the liquid dark, the scent of it strong. Not for her at all, no. With the glass cool in her hand, cooling her hands, "I'm very selfish, you see." "No," he disagrees with her, firmly, as he takes his seat again. Her laugh is all but soundless. She drinks, cooled hand and heated tongue, and tips her head back. "If I could change anything," he leaves her to her silence, but picks up the slack, voice even, "I would change where I was raised. Anywhere else." R'hin's jaw tightens. "It would've made things different." Not better, just different. Different. The greenrider doesn't turn her head, but her eyes do move. They stay on him, until at last she rouses herself to say, "Wouldn't you know it." She reshuffles the wineglass from the chair's arm, setting it aside to keep the other one. And the hides. "They want us to give life stories, now. In four minutes. In detail." She doesn't have to emphasize that last. She doesn't. That makes him stop, and, three heartbeats later -- by no coincidence -- he gives a low-throated chuckle. "That wily minx," he says, voice an odd mixture of admiration and antipathy. Now it's his turn to switch to something stronger, abandoning his wineglass on the table in favor of the same liquid he'd chosen for her. "Four minutes." Is that even possible? "Long as she's not listening at the door," full agreement. Otherwise known as: Leova's not spilling. Enough that it's to R'hin. "Show me how it's done, hm?" "Good..." R'hin's already moving to the door, cracking it to check, "...point. She's not." Listening at the crack. "Didn't think she would, it'd spoil her experiment," he notes, wryly. He doesn't, however, retake his seat, instead choosing to lean against the door -- to give them both some more space, to listen for listeners, or something. There's subtle indicators, even for someone used to covering up their reactions: a slight tenseness in his posture, in the way he holds his glass; he doesn't want to go first, either. "I..." he shakes his head, lets out a throaty laugh, and says, "It's hard to know where to start. I'm -- I was, Bitran, born and bred." Strangely, that is the hardest part for him to get it, and it makes him pause, take a breath. His gaze isn't on her; it's not an invitation for comment so much as a chance to gather his thoughts. Another confirmation: they weren't locked in. Leova turns in her chair to accommodate, not to stare. Not to ask over the experiment. That space he creates for them, he's welcome to it, but it might say something for that experiment that she's more settled than she could have been. Or for having worked with runners, with weyrlings, with the wounded. But then... it isn't her turn to speak. Not even for that change in tense. "I was -- I spent a lot of time at the tables. Learned a lot," he grimaces. "I was good. Addicted. And Bitrans cheat, and the house always wins, no matter how good you are. I got in debt, got my family in debt. They bailed me out... once, twice... three times the fool," he sing-songs that last, closely followed with a bitter laugh. "Some of the debt, they said, couldn't be paid in marks. There were things I did," he stops. Doesn't elaborate. "And there was a boy that died." He stops again. "Was killed," he corrects himself. And then, with a grimace, he amends, "Was murdered." Almost inaudibly, on his exhale: "Depending on who you ask." The dragonhealer doesn't stop him, doesn't slow him. She most certainly doesn't ask. If he looks, she's there, but he doesn't even have to do that. Her turn is coming. R'hin continues, his voice less natural, more constrained than normal. "My parents decided -- too little, too late -- that it was wise to move. I spent a couple of turns at Keogh with them," he says it, casually, like it's nothing, "And then I joined the Beowin traders, because I was bored, and I couldn't..." he hisses, catches himself, and takes a breath. More evenly, he says, "The Beowins become my family. They spend the winters at Nabol, I met a weyrwoman there once stealing an apple from Lord Nabol's orchard," there's a sudden, fleeting smile for the memory of Satiet, "And..." he spreads his hands, as if to say that's it. Life Before Leiventh. She witnesses it all. "You made it here." It's quiet, measured, not to dismiss. "Going to try not to 'rehearse.' Too much." Too far ahead. "L'sen found me, L'vae, at Tillek. The Hold, I mean. In the stables. Never would have thought I'd be a stablegirl." It's reflective, a little distanced, but nothing there speaks of regret. It doesn't mean the stable doesn't slip back into the smoky song of her speech. It doesn't mean she doesn't look at him at all. "Not because I ran away from Blood or nothing. Born in a small hold, raised in a small hold," not smallhold, not the Hold. "Traders came by maybe thrice a Turn." She sips, she takes it slow. She clears her throat against what wants to stay swallowed. "Not so small as to not have the others to run with. That much, you were right about that." It's probably significant, the way R'hin gulps down the entirety of his glass without any regard for the quality. Her try, not rehearse, earns a genuine, rueful smile, as if he's all-too-aware how hard that can be. He gives her the same courtesy she gave him: attentive silence, sometimes studying her sidelong, sometimes giving her space to collect her thoughts. "'Difficult to control.' Well, and they hadn't time." Leova's deep in her chair, one boot drawn up, arm hooked about her knee. "Don't know what I'm going to do about ours," hers and Anvori's, "when they're there... Anyhow. Seems too proud to say, I could have my way with them when I wanted. Lean 'em into things. Out of things. Just had to want. Not as though they didn't like it." It could be a different person, that laughing-eyed girl, from the weatherworn woman who sits here now. That inspiring girl. That manipulative girl. It's supposed to be different. And still, even more removed, "They didn't all like it. Sometimes that made it better." There's a low-throated chuckle, for theirs, sympathetic. R'hin doesn't have any advice on that score, and not the best track record even if he'd a mind to share any. The musing look he gives her is as if perhaps it's not far off what he might have suspected, moving over towards the table to refill his glass, glancing over his shoulder at her, with a quirk of brow as he holds up the bottle. The offer's enough for Leova to finish off what she's got, to offer her glass back again. Once she does, "It's an old story, anyhow. Old the rest of the way too. You got your hold boys, good as far as they go. You got your old crafter leaving and a new one, a fine one, in his place... apprenticing, you weren't about to do that, but a journeyman's something different. It's not like... his ties... were there." If R'hin knows what she means, and by the set of her mouth, she doesn't expect surprise. Dutifully, R'hin refills her glass. "...and holders worry about weyrfolk," he says, with a wry twitch of lips, setting the bottle back down. He doesn't yet reclaim his seat, shifting back nearer, but not quite at, the door. "Aye." Hers is wry too, oh yes. "So, that's how I wound up back at the Hold," Leova says. She keeps her glass low. She won't hide. She'll even make something like a joke of it, a fine icing of humor that doesn't pretend not to reveal the self-criticism beneath. "Minus the detour when things went wrong, mind. Couldn't stay there." No, no, couldn't let that happen. "But we'd family a ways a way, and as I said, I had a way of getting my way. I managed." Not, perhaps, that easy. "And nigh as soon as I could, I left again a different way." "So... resourceful, determined," R'hin holds up one, then two fingers, then after a beat, a third: "Unbroken. Count those towards my praises for you later, should that question come up." Her brows tighten together. "Did you even hear," only Leova exhales. Eyes him. One corner of her mouth turns up and then, slowly, the other. She swaps knees, circling an arm around the other instead. "Easy one?" Last one? "Your turn to read." She's still got the hides, technically, but she tilts them so he can see. "I heard," R'hin returns. "You were a young girl, drawn to a powerful, older man, pulled no doubt by fanciful dreams and promises. It happens. It's on him, not you. But you, you managed." He pushes away from the door, and nears her, glancing down. "Gain any one quality or ability," he recites, making a grimace as he takes a bracing gulp from his glass, before answering with rough voice: "The ability to trust people." "I knew what I wanted." Leova's firm on that. But for that quality, wryly: "Here I was going to say, reading minds." The idea of reading minds makes him shake his head. "I'd not want to know what people really think of me," is R'hin's opinion as he reclaims his chair -- sort of -- leaning on the arm of it, one hand on the back to steady himself, lifting his glass as he waits for the next, tipping his head towards her. "You know," with a smile, "We could skip a few. Enwei would never know." "Mmm." Then, eyeing him, "She would know. She'd look. She's a healer, R'hin." Young Leova may not have had such standards, or 'Leova,' but this woman... is trying. "Maybe some will overlap," she allows, turning the hides around. "'If Moreta came back,'" maybe not the original words, "and could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future, whatever, what would you want to know." "Look?" R'hin echoes. "We're not exactly writing this down." Better not be, the brief narrow of gaze seems to suggest. That doesn't need much consideration, at least. "I'd want her to tell me how the girls turn out. If they're... ok. Happy." "Look at us. Healers know these things," and what's a poor rider to do? Leova's expression changes as he continues, though. Quiet, "And if not, 'how to change it,'" she supplies. "Maybe I should pick that." But. "How to fix this, this thing that's been going on with the dragons. How to set it right." R'hin's, "Mmhmm," is clearly humoring her. He nods, at her amendment, and the flicker of fingers suggests that, in this case at least, he'd be willing to let her take the same answer. Her final answer, though, is surprising: "With the eggs?" He shakes his head, slowly, not dismissive, so much as accepting. He leans forward, reading mostly-upside-down: "Is there something you've dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven't you done it?" There's a quiet chuckle from the bronzerider, his answer to the question immediate, rather than waiting for her to go first: "Just... leaving. Leaving the Weyr for good. Living alone, on a beach, or in the jungle somewhere. Living off the land. But..." as for why not? Well, he seems to think that mostly obvious: "Leiventh." His needs outweigh R'hin's. "With the eggs, or with before the eggs." That last's quiet. Precise. Unelaborated. But for the beach... "That'd be something," Leova says, quiet but not precise. Intrigued. "As you say. Leiventh. Vrianth. But." A quick breath, "It could happen." She's slower to admit, "Haven't been dreaming of aught like that. Good with what I am doing, already. Doesn't mean I don't think ahead, try and decide right. Doesn't mean I don't sometimes want different as what I have. But.... 'Dreaming' sounds so out of reach. Wistful. Watching the clouds go by." She rolls one shoulder. "Here we go, anyhow: 'What's the greatest accomplishment of your life.'" "Dreamer Leova," R'hin tries to complicate that title, but the grin that soon follows suggests he doesn't think it suits her overly well. He's interested, perhaps, in her side project, but the gleam of eye doesn't turn into anything verbal; perhaps he's tucking it away for later. It's the latter question that requires some consideration. "Much as I'd like to claim the girls... don't think I have much right to be attributed that," with a twitch of lips. So... "Making Satiet Weyrwoman." He's unapologetic about that, too. "You can claim it," Leova notes, amused. "What all did you do? Making it happen. 'Greatest accomplishment': don't think about it that way." She sets her glass aside to pick at her sock, newly discovered to have squished into her boot and all. "I don't know. Done some work for the Weyr, as needed. Helped out where I could. Didn't tell a few people to jump between," this with a one-cornered grin. "That's got to count. But it sounds, well. Everyday, put that way." She's got the hide, she's got the next question: can she go on? R'hin gives a little flicker of fingers. It could be, not elaborating, as much as go on, though he gives her a look for her answer. "That's very non-specific," but he appears to be giving her a pass, for now. Leova lifts her brows at him, one slightly more than the other: so kind. "Friendship. What do you value most in a friendship." Easy one, given her immediate answer: "Got each other's back." Easy for him, also: "Bluntness." R'hin must've read ahead to the next, since he asks, "Your most treasured memory?" An immediate smile, genuine and reminiscent, "Holding the twins for the first time." Again, not Leiventh. "Really." Leova's pursed her lips. She can't smile. Then she just plain doesn't. "Can tell you weren't the one expected to milk," she says. Since she has to answer too, though, "Don't carry one of those around." Something to give him, though: she hunts for that. "Used to have one, back before Vrianth: there was this time with Little... told you I worked in the stables. Big runner, called her 'Big Foot,'" and her voice plays the humor deadpan. "She was a hauler. Sun was coming in golden, and I was cleaning tack and she was looking over my shoulder, and it was grand. I remember that it was. Don't remember it so well." If he sees the difference. "A moment," R'hin says, after a beat of silence. "That's nice," he says, genuinely pleased. "If Vrianth hadn't gotten rid of it, now." It's dry, but it's not a grudge. It's also not, even after twenty-odd Turns, having forgotten. Then Leova's looking at the hide again. "Most horrible memory. Great." She exhales. "Running out, back when. Not even all the dragons dying, dragons and dragonmen." R'hin, too, grimaces, this requiring a bracing gulp of liquid. "The first comet Threadfall. Hearing dragons -- through Leiventh, too, in pain. Having them all look to me for answers. And... Jorea." He exhales. Again, his glass is lifted, in silent toast, letting the liquid slip down his throat. "Trying to... just talking to her, after she'd lost Iseuth, and not being able to make it right," he says, with a bitter sharpness, turning his head away, pressing his free hand to his forehead for a moment. "Shells." Not surprise. Just a quiet, answering sibilant. Leova looks away when he looks away, gets up and walks away. Not a lot of room to walk, but she takes it, a slow and measured pace. "Think I know the names." Her fingers drum against her thigh as though they could pull her Records right here, where she needs them. "What was she like? They like. Before." So they're not forgotten, not just names. He needs that moment, of privacy, of silence. And, neither, does R'hin seem inclined to dwell, or elaborate; he doesn't answer her question, instead taking another, draining gulp from that glass. Still not looking at her, he leans forward to take the hides. Staring at them, but also not. Seeing that, again Leova looks away, that one small grace. Her bootsteps fall, quiet. Slower now. When they stop, it's with the leather-blunted press of shoulder against stone. Eventually, he speaks again: not to answer her questions, but to ask the next. There's a roughness in his voice as he says, "If you knew... you would die in a year, what would you change about how you're living, if anything?" The stone reflects her reply, the quiet huh of not-surprise. "Cheerful." She rakes a hand through her hair, left longer than it had been a couple Turns past, still not long. "Spend more time with Anvori, give him what I can. The girls, kids, too. Tell U'sot no, for real this time." "Is that old man propositioning you again?" There's a blandness to his voice -- none of the unusual color, but the words are more familiarly him, at least. He seems to accept her answer without question, adding his own: "Not a lot I'd do different. Try to act like... there's not a lot of time, anyway. Like to spend time with the girls, but they've got their own lives." Dry: "What can I say. I'm a lucky woman." She is, even just in this. There are still a lot more male wingleaders, male wingseconds, and the dragon infirmary isn't a whole lot different. "'Their own lives'? You say that like they wouldn't want to see you. Like you don't keep tabs." "They're grown up. They don't want to live in the shadow of their father, or their father's reputation." R'hin is accepting, in that much, at least. "Leiventh talks to Zeth frequently. Or," a little smile that makes it to his voice, warming it: "Zeth talks endlessly to Leiventh. And Suireh," he sighs. "I used to sneak into every performance. She never knew I was there." "Zeth." Leova, or rather Vrianth, not resigned. "Of our dragons, let's keep it that way." Warmer, "If you go before I do, I'll tell her, you know." Not that she was there all the time, herself. Not quite. Pale eyes still marked with a gleam -- not of pleasure, something else -- settle on her for a moment, and R'hin gives a nod of his head, in assent. He sets aside the hide, and stands, walking towards her, stopping a pace away -- within her personal space. She lifts her brows, quizzical, if unpaired with an uptilt of her chin. He'd left that hide behind. "We could just tell her we've done the rest." He's done; is she? "You could." Amber eyes don't laugh, this time. "You give?" In or up, "I won't lie." "We have to do it together." It's not quite wheedling, but not far off, either. On an exhale, she emends, "I won't lie for this." He, too, exhales, but it's one of resignation. "Go on, then," R'hin jerks a head towards the hides, while he heads for the drinks. She pushes off. She goes, she reads, and then there's a sound through her teeth. "You're reading ahead, aren't you. Or is it... really? Friendship? That's a whole lot like that other question." "Skip," is R'hin's opinion, in between refills of his glass. She looks. Then she looks over her shoulder. Really? He wants to jump into this one? "'What roles,'" Leova reads out loud, one small slip away from following the rules. "'Do love and affection play in your life.' Refill mine too, would you?" There's a note of please. R'hin shakes his head; seemingly at the question rather than her request for additional reinforcements in the form of alcohol, given the answering splash of liquid suggests he's complying. "I love High Reaches. She is my mistress. She has guided, coerced, enforced and protected me in many ways, for most of my life." Undoubtedly that's not what the question is intended for, and he strides over, offering her the glass as he adds: "I've known love, and it's often done more harm than good. Affection misguides and misjudges even as it gives. I'm happy with the loves I've known, and my eternal mistress," it is a typically, R'hin kind of answer, but no less honest for all that. She takes that glass and then, as long as she's over there, his seat. There's always hers. "High Reaches is my home," Leova gives R'hin in return. "Guess I've done what I've known would help. What I've been told would. What I've hoped would. But I feel... better for being here. Don't know her as intimately as you, haven't moved her like you." She glances from him to the door, then the hide. 'Affection,' it says. She doesn't back down from saying it. "Think affection gives. It may misguide, it may misjudge, but it.... 'soothes' isn't the word I want. Makes things go better, though. Makes people go better. Maybe it makes it harder to cut ties when that's got to be done. But it's like sunlight when the winter's been dark, warm, not sun off ice as you can't see." R'hin regards her acquisition of his seat with a twitch of brows, and a silent toast before he takes a sip from his glass. While she has his full attention, it's clear on this point he doesn't agree; but he humors her, it seems, by not attempting to argue, which is extremely conciliatory for him. He moves over to lean against his chair, enabling him to see the hides over her shoulder. "Compliment each other... You have nice hair. And you smell nice. And your dragon is pleasant. And you drink like a fish when the occasion calls for it." Apparently that is a compliment, too. "And your eyes are... very evocative. Expressive." Not arguing means that they needn't linger, and Leova's hardly intent on talking of love. "We're supposed to alternate," she says with a dry look back over her shoulder. "Think that's important. Also reckon you might be the first to call my Vrianth anything so bland as pleasant." "I never insult nor overly flatter a lady larger and more fearsome than me," R'hin says, and at her admonishment, he gives a not-very-apologetic grin. "I don't always pay attention to the rules. And," he holds up a hand, quickly, "That can't be one of your compliments, as amazing as I am." "More particular than pleasant would be flattery? R'hin." Except it's not precisely playful, with or without the nudge to his knee. "Canny," Leova settles on instead of 'humble.' "But you know that. Count-on-able." She's still regarding him as she continues. "Can make things happen. Keep," not the same letter but the same sound, "track of your daughters. Can... and have, R'hin, let them go." "I thought you didn't agree with that?" Letting them go, presumably. "Not the way you did it. Letter or no letter." "But you still think it's a positive characteristic?" He's amused. "Reckon they're turning out all right. Reckon," Leova says, quiet, "you could have made it work. Would have. But you didn't, when they'd already lost their mother, tear them up in a fight." R'hin shakes his head, disagreeing: "I couldn't make me work, let alone make it work for them." He gestures, with one hand, to the hides; with the other, he's taking another gulp: apparently the question deserves it. Whether or not Leova changed her mind, "So you did it right." She doesn't touch him with more than her gaze. She just moves on, just reads. "'How close and warm is your family,' did you have a happier childhood than most." She also gives him time for more gulps if he needs it. "Mm. Family, here? Warm, aye. Anvori's better at... close," Leova both wistful and grateful for her weyrmate. More subtle is that twinge of guilt. "Don't know about happier than most, but happy enough. Happy enough to not just want anywhere else." "Family, here," R'hin echoes, and there might be a detectable note of relief that she doesn't focus on the past, and thus neither does he; "You know better than I. I love the girls, but we are not... I'm a rider, before I'm a father. I think they're happy enough." And he's happy enough to press onto the next question, reading over her shoulder again: "How do you feel about your relationship with your mother?" He makes a noise in the back of his throat: "That is a mindhealer question, if ever I've heard one." He gestures; she can go first, he needs a moment. To drink. "Where's the father in this?" Leova mutters, but consents to comply. "Feel there's not much of one. Might like it different, but it wouldn't be, couldn't be. Not any good. Your turn." That didn't take long. It is an autumn night, 22:53 of day 25, month 11, turn 36 of Interval 10. "I haven't spoken to mine in..." R'hin pauses, possibly to calculate, then gives up with a sharp exhale. "For the best, for everyone." Leova's certainly not counting. "Hear, hear." She rubs the side of the hides between her fingers, gauging how much room is left, but with a sigh goes on. Not that he can't see, but, "We have to make three true 'we' statements. As in, 'We are both in this room feeling... blank.'" The kicker? "Each." She adds, quickly, "Alternate." R'hin gives her a sidelong look, like he suspects she's making it up, and leans over to check the hide to make sure, with a noise. "We are both in this room getting drunk and hoping this will end." He gestures, your turn. Leova gives him an approving look, of all things. "We are both in this room getting drunk and hoping this will end and... not going to reward Enwei by going crazy so she can keep us around full-time." He chuckles in approval at her amendment. "We are both in this room regretting owing a healer a favor, and undoubtedly planning how to pay off any other debts that might get traded that way, again." "Might, we might even," Leova rewords to follow instructions, "both be in this room, thinking of how to get these healers to owe us debts. And what to do with said debts should we get them." The knowing grin of R'hin's suggests he's thinking the very same thing. "We are both in this room feeling... exposed." He'll put it out there, if she won't. She won't. She wasn't. Leova slides a look back at R'hin, even if that's vindicating: did he have to? "We," she says. Sighs. "Are both in this room feeling like we'd never, ever have done this otherwise. Maybe even surprised that we did." Not that it's over yet. Of course he had to; it's his modus operandi. R'hin nods at her assessment, exhaling. More reading: "Complete this sentence: 'I wish I had someone with whom I could share...'" he pauses, glances at her, then, after a beat, two, three: "The dark parts of myself that Leiventh can't comprehend." Those amber eyes widen: that, out of nowhere. Or... not nowhere so much as between. "I wish," Leova says slowly, as though walking along a path whose destination's unseen, "...that I had someone with whom I could share..." but she can, can't she? what can't she? "...the, this." Her hand moves to her heart again, not a rock this time but looser, gripping, a tangle. "My knots. What people don't understand, and riders don't either... where it wouldn't be a betrayal of anyone." R'hin's exhale is slow, but he nods, like he understands. It moves him, moves him to stand, to walk away, to get distance, to refresh his drink and make a show of it, over by the table. Leova sinks back. She shuts her eyes. She doesn't even drink. For a while, she doesn't speak. After that while, she opens her eyes and finds their place: the place on the list. "'If you were going to be a close friend with your partner, please share what would be important for him or her to know.'" That one is easy; he answers it without needing to think: "I can't be trusted." Slightly, suddenly, she straightens. Steadily: "I trust you to be yourself." It makes him, unaccountably, laugh. One those those sorts of honest, belly-laughs. It makes her, not unaccountably, smile. She slides the hides into the side of the chair, and stretches, crackles popping along her shoulders before she stops. "Was there water?" "Mm?" "Over there. That one pitcher." The one that's opaque. Lidded. Not smelling of klah, but not smelling of something else. He checks, opening the lid, sniffing the contents experimentally, splashing some out into a glass. He shifts his body, slightly, just so -- so she can see, sticks a finger in the clear liquid, puts the tip of his tongue to it, testingly, before taking a small, wary sip. Throws a glance over his shoulder, all-faking-serious-like: "Think you might be safe, kid." "Wait," she recommends. "There could be delayed effects. Setting your hair on fire and so forth." "Fair point," he concedes. "Let's wait ten minutes to see if I faint." Meanwhile, he'll come back over, easing those hides away from where she's tucked them, looking. (Cheating? Peeking ahead?) She doesn't stop him. She does seek to put him to work. "Go ahead, read the next." His laughter, her indulgence, his new drink -- some combination thereof -- puts him in a good enough mood that there's a lightness, a warmth and humor when he reads, aloud: "Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest..." he chuckles, briefly. "I like that you're comfortable with silence, with space, and not space." "'I like,'" she repeats after him, playing with the repetition. Maybe just playing. "That you come up with, mm. Particular things. That you notice. That you aren't all," all? "...closed." "For tonight, only," he warns her, but there's a humor that touches the words, too. And, because he's read ahead, he laughs, and passes the hides to her. "Before tonight," she warns him, and sits up enough to take the hides. And read. And... laugh. "Embarrassing moment? Nothing like switching gaits." Leova reconsiders R'hin. "How to choose? There's, 'Yes, your whittling knife was right on the other side of your mug'. There's, 'That man looking in on your novice quizzing when you got muscles mixed up, that was the Istan dragonhealer..." "Hm. Doesn't seem overly embarrassing. Not the most, surely." R'hin says, with a cluck of tongue, picking up the thread smoothly. "There was this girl, that I really liked. She had this... long, dark hair," he pauses, reminiscent, hand lifting as if to trail along an imaginary head of hair. "And we hung out a lot, as teenagers. And I... wanted her, really badly, for ages, but she had a boyfriend and... you know." He shakes his head, expression implying, boys. "Anyway, months later, she'd broken up with her boyfriend and she took me to this out of the way place and just... bam -- undressed right in front of me with no warning, and I..." he's laughing, but there's the expected hint of embarrasement there, too, for his awkward teenage self: "I'd built it up in my head so much it was like my brain just froze, and I just... I stared at her, and didn't say anything. It kind of freaked her out... a lot. We didn't talk after that." He gives an amused snort, before pale eyes seek her out, again: "Surely you can top that." Leova's gotten into the story, from near-laughing to rueful to something like a groan. "R'hin." Then, "Not so much. Yours is funny, 'least, the way you tell it. Not then, but looking back. Mine," she rolls her shoulders again, short, tight. "They wind up more like, 'walking in on someone you didn't want to,'" though at least she didn't get thrown out of a tower window. "'Everyone else is wearing dresses like you used to.' Or. 'Father's yelling you're a slut in front of half the Hold.' I'll settle for baby spit-up on my just-changed shirt." "Not then," R'hin agrees, firmly. "I couldn't look sideways at girls with long, dark hair for Turns." The amusement fades, however, as she continues, and -- in the space where an awkward pause would usually follow, asks the next: "When did you last cry in front of another person?" A beat. "Does Leiventh count?" Of course he does; what is he saying? He doesn't wait for her to allow it: "Six and a half months ago." Which seems a fairly specific period to remember. If anyone says R'hin's never kind, Leova has another reason to dispute it. The problem: saying, or more importantly not-saying, why. She picks up the beat even though it means a pause. Thinking, thinking. "Ah." She has a half-smile, three-quarters rueful. It stays through the next beat, too. "Mine, mm, in this last seven. Twins. I," and then she leans forward. "Thing is. R'hin. You're not hearing the good parts. Not of them, not of my folks. You're hearing 'bout me helping the twins and right when I think we're set... them fussing and tearing up and breaking out the 'go away, they want Daddy, Daddy-Daddy-Daddy,' no one else will do." Except that she could never prove it, and he'd always deny it. "I'd have guessed you'd be the ball-breaker in the relationship," R'hin says, laughingly, pale eyes flickering over her expression. Exactly. It doesn't stop Leova from eyeing him. "Don't think I don't know about that thing you do." She twitches her brows at him. "Also. He deserves it, Anvori does: not like he doesn't spend the most time with them, of the two of us, and he's also better. I have Vrianth, but I also get Vrianth." A getaway. More quietly, "Know you like to see me get my back up when you dismiss him. But I don't want to have you believing it." With wide eyes: "What thing?" The playing innocent thing, or some other thing? R'hin nods, for her getting Vrianth: it makes sense to him, even if there's a brief grimace. "I don't forget what he did for the twins," he says, if rather grudgingly at that. "Too much water to ever get past all the shit between us, though." Him innocent, her enigmatic: for the moment it had lasted, before such intentness. She nods, once. Says, without looking at the hides, "'I like'... that you can listen, and take that seriously. And I like," Leova further admits, "that you can be funny about it. Even when it's exasperating. I miss that." "You miss exasperation? But you have the boor," R'hin's quick to reply, retreating to the other chair, her chair, to claim it has his. "I like that your hair is not long and dark." He's laughing. "And I like," he's read ahead: does he remember they only had to say one thing, or is he just following her lead? "...that you accept and see my flaws as positives." "Miss being that," Leova tells him, and shakes the hides at him and his flaws while she's at it. Exasperated. Exaggerated. "Anything too serious to joke at?" isn't actually rhetorical. Not if he's read ahead. "Threadfall." He's read ahead, and he had that answer ready. Question is, how far. "I do. Did," Leova says simply. "With my wing. When it was happening." When Vrianth was new and eager. "Part of how we got by, I reckon." "When it was happening," R'hin concedes that, but not now. "Not by people who weren't there; couldn't understand." "That's the thing, isn't it? Who's doing it. How." Leova lifts a shoulder, lets it fall. "Who's joking, how they do it." It must have been ten minutes. He hasn't fainted. Doesn't mean that, when she sits up to reach for her glass, it's the one with the water instead of the liquor. "We hadn't flown it for long. Not Turns on Turns or nothing. But..." "But..." enough that she's allowed. "If you were to die, what would you regret not having told someone?" It's not exactly the phrasing used, and not the entirety of it, but then R'hin's doing it from memory. "No quibbling over, well, I'd be dead and it wouldn't matter?" Leova hesitates through a drink, amber eyes deliberative. "Don't know. Most things I have. That I love them. But maybe it's better to say it all over again. Or maybe, that they should have amazing lives, that they're wonderful, that I didn't want to leave? Then there's where I came from. Maybe they need to know, to be careful." "It always matters. The dead leave a mark." R'hin is being serious again, enough so that he leans forward, gaze fixed on Leova, to impress as much. Or perhaps he's that interested in her answer. "You'd regret not telling them, -- warning them -- not to make the same mistake?" "Meant, more, wouldn't be around to regret," Leova says rather wryly. She holds his gaze. "Maybe. Not like I don't say 'be careful', here, 'be kind,' there, 'just because she gives you her favorite doll doesn't mean you should keep it.'" One corner to her mouth edges up. "'Think ahead.' I could warn them about cousins." About inclinations. "I think it's meant to be about the stuff you... you want to say but can't. Like... telling my girls I'm proud of them. That I'm happy with their life choices, and I don't have expectations for them to do anything else than be happy." Which is R'hin's answer, as it happens. He grimaces. "Can't tell 'em that, straight out. They'd think I was being... well, me." "Likely." She considers him. "Don't mean it's not worth saying. Even if they won't believe it quite yet. They'd look back and remember." A breath. "Or... you could always write it down. If that isn't," deadpan, "too much like evidence. He shakes his head; disagreement with her assessment. "No," to her suggestion of writing it down. "But you'll tell them, if it comes to that. They'll believe you." And it makes him smile, a twist of lip turning it sad, the thought of it, or maybe the fact that his children would believe her, over him. "Assumptions," Leova says gently, not unkindly. What might be, though openly in her expression is that she doesn't want it to be, "You're right, though. Don't believe they do think you're proud of them. Where they're going. Maybe Riahla, now.... But." "But.." and he's gesturing impatiently, clearly uncomfortable and wanting to move past this, to the next question. She keeps looking at him, amber gaze steady and seeing. It doesn't mean she doesn't move along with him. She looks down at the hides. Whatever Leova sees, that incomplete question asked meeting with a nod for the question still answered, what it leads to is that she reads."Your weyr burns. Your weyr, wherever you have all your things, whatever. 'After saving your loved ones, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item.' And then of course it's 'what' and 'why.'" "A necklace. With a key on it." R'hin hesitates, undoubtedly, on the why, staring at his now-empty-glass. "Because, long ago, I gave it to Satiet. Thought... maybe one of the girls might want it, someday." Someday, but now, he still has it in his possession. "Mm." Leova gets up. Gets the refill: for him if he wants it, after her. "Hope it opened what you," both, "wanted." He gets the hides, too, though the last page is bent around where it had been sewn to the rest: not much left. R'hin nods; he does, of course, holding up his glass helpfully, and toasting her silently in appreciation when she's done. "Not really," he replies, with a low-throated laugh, shaking his head a little. He sets the hides to one side, though: he's instead watching the greenrider, thoughtfully. "Don't know how you'll choose between them," Leova says wryly. She leans over her chair's back, near to languid, glass in hand. "Mine, mm. I've my trinkets, and a necklace of my own." If not, perhaps, quite like his. "I thought of Via's toy, she has a soft one, 'Vee.'" He can guess who that was named after, surely? Via's toy, though she's older than Vey and Var. "But then: Anvori's book. It'd have to be. I'd even let melt," her brows have lifted over dramatic eyes, "N'thei's ring." "Wait for one to lose my love and respect, presumably," R'hin says, with a low-throated laugh, as for how he'd choose. There's a snort, for her mention of the former Weyrleader. "Did he try to woo you with trinkets and gifts?" "Ah, yes." How could she forget! Then Leova's laughing, quietly and deeply but all the lighter for it. "Imagine. No. Don't tell: it's his rider's ring, but he left it. In my weyr," Vrianth's weyr, no longer Wyaeth's weyr. In her keeping. "I never did give it back." "Why Leova," R'hin is shocked, genuinely shocked, and only exaggerating a little, with fingers pressed to his heart: "You little thief! He's probably off somewhere, bemoaning its loss, and you'd let it burn. You're a cruel, cruel woman." That pale eyes are glittering, and there's a low thread of amusement through it all kind of spoils the drama, however. "I like that in you. Count that as my compliment, if there's another round of that." If he's read ahead -- which he has -- he knows there isn't. This one's a freebie. More laughter. "N'thei. Bemoaning." It doesn't mean she doesn't look, momentarily, reflective. Might be, it's only because of, "You know. Could ask K'del sometime, you could." Would that be cruel? She'll take the compliment with a lift of her own glass, a sip, and... a wrinkle of her nose, because she's not looking at him anymore. "'Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why." Why, says her tone. Why do they ask these things. Why. R'hin's brow lifts in momentary surprise. "K'del? What's he got to do with it?" And of course, he's curious, and he has to know, leaning forward to express his interest. He'll forgoe an answer for now, not with much more interesting things at play. "His weyr actually got burned," Leova points out, that simple. It's even been long enough, and enough of a distraction from disturbing, that she can be amused. "Well. 'Got burned,' as though somehow it didn't happen on his own. Maybe he inspired it." "Ask," he challenges her, instead, "And let me know what he tells you." After a suitably fortifying drink, R'hin adds, "Ask a few of the others at random, too. I'd love to know whether he rehearses conversations. Though I can guess his answer to whom he last sang." "Hold your breath," Leova recommends, dry. Nor does she literally rise, though her mouth tightens momentarily before R'hin makes his own suggestions. "Disturbing death. Mm." She taps her fingers, less indecisive than decisive, less decisive than checking. Finally comes the admission, not lightly but steadily, "Via. Reckon Anvori's might be the hardest, but Via... she's not supposed to." Which doesn't address the twins. R'hin's not unaware that she's pushed on, and her change in demeanor from something light to something darker -- it makes him look at her intently. Not for her answer -- that's probably expected. That's the thing about known attachments, attachments vowed in front of a crowd no less. Sometimes, they measure up in private. "Here." She sips and then, having made the gesture less precarious, raises her glass towards the hides. "Your answer, R'hin. And then," a quiet roll of humor and disbelief, "the last." R'hin's still staring at her, in that intent, speculative way, then -- with no prompting, away. Not towards the hides in his possession, where she indicates, but ceiling-wards. "My father. Because he's... he's the stalwart. And you always want to know those exist, even if you don't talk with them. They'll always be there, just in case, if you change your mind, or..." he shrugs. He doesn't continue; not yet. "We did have different fathers." Leova, quiet. "We did," he concedes. "Funny," and it is funny, enough to stir him to a smile, "How it keeps asking us to compare and not to contrast. People find familiarity in shared interests. You realize," with a snorted breath, "This whole thing has been one big mindfuck." "'Tell me,'" Leova says, her voice deep and steady and rolling, "'about your mindfuck.'" "Not mine," R'hin corrects. "Us. We're the experiment." "Of course we are," Leova says, more in her natural voice. "What do you think they're going for?" Not as though she hasn't a clue. More: curious about his. He shakes his head; not because he doesn't have an answer, likely so much as not wanting to answer. Not wanting to have it aloud. "Tell me," R'hin says, "What to do with someone who knows all your secrets. The ones you haven't told anyone. The ones that could hurt you. What to do with someone whom you don't know how to predict, exactly." Time to go onto the final round. She hears that. It's reflected in her gaze, what he doesn't speak. When he does, she straightens some, one hand sliding across the faded upholtery. Her glass doesn't unbalance, doesn't spill. It could be facetious. "Live with it." It's not. The way she says it, it's simple. It's not. Not with that live. R'hin finally averts gaze from the ceiling, to look at her again, expression clearly saying really? in an expressive enough way that he doesn't have to verbalize it. He doesn't believe in her sentiment. Some days, she can't afford sentiment. Some days. "Once," Leova says to R'hin. "You had me all but kill you." "I did?" Does he not remember, or is he playing? Hard to say. Leova: "Invited." A flip of wrist, as if to say, go on. "What's an alternative," quiet. "What do you mean, invited?" he counters. "You were passing out. You didn't say to stop." Oh, that. He grins, at the memory. "That was training." He picks an imaginary bit of fluff off the arm of his chair. "I like teaching. Think I would've been a harper, if I'd felt and urge to be a bit more of a dick than I currently am." Leova laughs, not out of nowhere. "Training that could've killed you," she says tartly. "But. Going to guess your answer: distract, deflect, avoid." "You wouldn't have." he seems sure of that much. Not, noteably, couldn't have. And, after a measured beat of consideration for her guess at his answer: "No." It's said with a smile, that is at once joking, and not, and typically, inherently, R'hin: "Mutual destruction." "Aggravating enough." To tempt her, then or now. But no. Leova keeps that half-smile when she regards him. When she asks, "What does that look like." Like there could be more than one. R'hin gestures, expansively. "Spanning turns and continents. Lives ruined, bloodshed. You know." "The usual, then." Leova nods soberly. "The usual." R'hin's smiling. "Let me know when you get bored of common existence," Leova even suggests. "Might arrange something." "I promise." She'll be his first call. She toasts to it. But: "'Fraid anything else is commonplace after that. 'Less I could pull a personal problem regarding Fax and F'lar out of my hat." But he's looking at her expectantly, all the same. "If you wanted," he's smiling. "You can owe it to me. Later." "Only," Leova notes. "If you never trade it away. Accept no substitutes." That's what got them here. "I would never." It's possible R'hin's genuinely insulted by the suggestion that he would. He glances to the hides, again, chuckling in rueful appreciation of the healer's phrasing, it would seem. "She really is fucking with us." He turns it around so she can see. 'Stare at each other, without speaking, for four minutes.' Leova stares at R'hin, all right. Only it's not without speaking. "That's on the back. What's she doing, putting that on the back." Then she eyes it again. To compare the handwriting? In turn, he stares at her. Only she's not starting the experiment, because: "You're talking." And breaking the rules, clearly. He stands, and steps closer, offering the hides for close inspection. It certainly does seem consistent, and there's no writing tools in here, anyway. "She's fucking with us," he asserts. But, nonetheless, he appears game to try. Leova, always breaking the rules! Given the hides, she doesn't bother with them, dropping them off onto the seat of her chair before she, too, turns. "Yes. Yes, she is." She has her chair's back to lean on and look up from. He has height. Of course then, after a little time has passed, she gets a smile and asks. "Who's counting?" "Shh," he scolds her, pale eyes on her amber ones, "You just reset it." The amusement in those eyes might be reflected in a smile, but then he'd have to look away. Look away, too, to see how she mouths, 'Fine,' without actually saying. He can't see, but he can see the muscles move in her face, just as she can no doubt see the slight crinkling of eyes when he smiles. It's not awkward, not yet, not at first. But as the first minute drags into the second, and they're still looking at each other... ...there's a ripple of electricity without, quite, words. Not that Vrianth's minded to follow human rules, but she is paying attention. Leova blinks, not for the first time. More deliberate this time. She shifts against the chair. ...and cold, in turn, from Leiventh. The affairs of humans have never stirred his interest, and the bronze keeps at bay. There's no shifting, from R'hin. Hard to tell what the time is, without looking away. That's the dilemna. Unbidden, however, the bronzerider lifts a hand to brush at her hair. Is he cheating? Is he laughing at her while he's cheating? The glimmer of pale eyes might suggest so. ...and pricking, if not necessarily of anyone's thumbs. Perhaps the back of her rider's neck, Leova looking, amber eyes wide and then narrowing. So much cheating. She puts her hands pointedly behind her back. He leans, closer, too. Which forces her to adjust her angle, to still meet his gaze. To the extent that they are forced. Her jaw moves, only then the exhales's silent. Yup. He's definitely laughing at her. But then that is just R'hin. Once he's determined that he can't bait her into a response, he seems content to wait it out, pale eyes steady on her amber ones. Not talking, that's one thing. Not doing.... there's the sound of short nails against upholstery, once. Frustration. Then she settles. Then she's just looking. If R'hin has any rings around his eyes, rings in the irises of his eyes, missing eyelashes, the odd scar only glimpsed from the side... she might see them, and then they might no longer matter. Whatever else she discovers, this much is true: he's steady, gaze unwavering, now. It's what she's used to doing. It's what she does. She does it. And then this too will end. And it does, in a way. Whether R'hin was counting, or whether he just decided it ended. He leans near, again -- bends down, this time -- to press lips against her forehead, breaking that eye contact in the process. And then he's leaving, not looking back. Not seeing... what there is, and isn't, to see. |
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Comments
Roz (01:25, 26 January 2015 (EST)) said...
You guise. YOU GUISE. I thoroughly enjoyed this and I think the word that stood out to me the most was "exposed". They really did, and I'm glad they did! It's fun to see the internal thoughts sometimes. Anyway, good job! :D
Azaylia (02:27, 26 January 2015 (EST)) said...
This was hilarious, fascinating... sad and amazing and just... guh. GUH. I want every character (or pair of characters) to do this now. Just... the questions are so good and the answers were better.
Going to be "GUH-ING" all night at random. All your fault.
R'hin (02:39, 26 January 2015 (EST)) said...
I want every character (or pair of characters) to do this now.
The way it was set it up, others can. :D I'm sure Enwei would be looking for other participants in her 'study' -- it's just a matter of finding a reason your character would be willing to do it, and with whom. :D
Edyis (06:32, 26 January 2015 (EST)) said...
I really loved seeing deeper into both of these characters. Especially since both of them tend to keep the truth close to the vest. Awesome.
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