Logs:Inni and Rath
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| RL Date: 14 March, 2015 |
| Who: Irianke, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Igen Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: R'hin dresses Irianke and convinces her to leave Niahvth for a few hours. He makes her cry. |
| Where: Irianke's Weyr and Igen Hold |
| When: Day 2, Month 4, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Joremy/Mentions, Yuliye/Mentions |
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| Niahvth has taken to sleeping on the sands, half-burying herself into a wallow there as she, and Irianke for that matter, wait for that inevitable day when all the bloating pressure in her body is relieved and there are tangible objects to dote over. When the gold sleeps, which is quite often these days, Irianke escapes to tend to her duties, or unwind in her weyr, and on the morning of the second, the goldrider is sitting on a chaise pulled out onto Niahvth's ledge, writing on one of those portable breakfast-in-bed tables. Spring is in the air, winter's nip only evident when there's a gust of wind in the air, but otherwise, the snow is beginning to melt, the weather is warming up, and sometimes, blue skies are visible. There's no draconic warning, no scrape of boot or indication of the arrival of a visitor on her ledge. Just, suddenly, R'hin, leaning against the archway of the entrance, watching her. He's dressed in flight gear, though his jacket is unzipped. He gives an audible cluck of his tongue. Reclined there, one leg bent, the other hung off the side of the chair, Irianke writes and writes and writes, until what she's writing is visible and it's not writing as much as doodles. Sketches of those who pass by some realistic, others more caricature. R'hin is not among them, and with no noise or dragon to let her know, the goldrider remains unaware of the person behind her watching until that cluck. Turns have allowed her the ability to not startle, at least not visibly, and to take her time in turning to level a look upon her visitor. It's a cordial look, friendly without being particularly open until Savannah's wingleader comes into view and blossoms into a full blown smile. "It's you," pleased and far more genuine in her welcome, she gestures to her chair, scooting her legs into less of a sprawl and more compact, "Sit, unless," another glance takes in those leathers. "Not a social call?" "Mm. I prefer not to define it." The nature of his call, presumably. And the bronzerider, it seems, prefers to prowl, moving closer to take a passing look at her sketches, before moving past her. "That will not do at all," R'hin adds, after a glance at her, an unrepentant grin flashed before he roams deeper into the weyr. It's not the first time he's perused the contents of her wardrobe, but he does so now with an eye for... something, in particular, expression intent and focused. That he walks back into her weyr and disappears is of little concern to Irianke until she hears the rustle of fabric. "What are you doing?" she calls back, though the idea of what he is doing is forming fairly quickly in her brain, putting the clues of what he's said and what he's doing together, as evidenced by eyes that narrow and a mouth that quirks to one side. She rises, walks in, and stands just within the beaded entrance of her bed chamber and considers the man pawing through her things. "If you're looking for my naughty things, they're not in that wardrobe." While those words do make him laugh, it doesn't seem to be the focus of R'hin's foraging, given he continues to rifle through her clothing. "I think -- something that sits somewhere between, trader showing off her wares, and something practical." He reaches in, pulling out a light, more summery dress, red intermingled with white and gold patterns. He holds it up in her direction, squinting as if deciding how it'll look on her. "Mm. This might do." He turns it around for her inspection, like she hasn't seen it before. Dryly, "I do know what I own, even if it seems like the mass amount of clothing in there cannot be recalled at a moment's notice." A slim hand reaches out, the goldrider unlatching herself from the wall to step forward and stand taller and bringing it up to herself. "This pairs with some of the wooden jewelry I was gifted a few turns back. Unless it's a more upscale event and Nimae gave me some gold chains and bracelets that might work better." He doesn't have to ask, she's already stripping, losing her floral skirt, the too large sweater, and the tank beneath in easy movements, with the dress pulled over her head. The back of it sinks low along the small of her back and the slim ties come about her neck. "Tie me up?" She'll oblige by holding her hair out of the way. Dutifully, R'hin steps forward to tie the ends together, and -- as he does so -- adds, "You should put your hair up." She can feel the rough pads of his fingers against the back of her neck, as he settles the tied ends in place. "And the wooden, I think. Unless you want to be recognized." And the weight might suggest he thinks she shouldn't, and yet he seems to leave it up to her, pacing around to view the dress from the front with a noise of approval in the back of his throat after an intent inspection. The asymmetric lines of the dress suit her body, but really, Irianke seems like the type of woman to have the confidence to pull off much of anything. He's allowed a moment's appreciation before she turns, the skirt of her dress flaring up with her sudden movement. Her hair is still held up, with a few tendrils allowed to escape, and she studies reflection in the mirror on the inside of her wardrobe's door. "This isn't some whim of yours then, is it? To see me all dolled up and take me out for a drink at the lounge I've heard so much of." With her head just barely turned, her blue-gray eyes cut back to where R'hin is. "Third drawer, there should be two gilded wooden cuffs and a necklace." "What kind of man do you take me for?" R'hin retorts, mock-offended. "I wouldn't go to this much effort for the rider's lounge." He strides towards the indicated drawer, and takes his time -- even if the items she indicated are immediately visible, he regards the contents for some moments before selecting the ones she's indicated. Stepping over behind her, he murmurs, "All dolled up and nowhere to go is a terrible offense," as he hands her the cuffs; the necklace he keeps hold of for the moment. "All dolled up and right here is fine too," opines Irianke, a none too subtle glance for her bed. She crooks a smile upward and slips on the cuffs, making sure the right decorative side is on the outside. "Let me do my hair first." Intrigued enough to continue playing along, the goldrider steps through the beaded curtains to her baths, where with the help of steam and other beauty products, she multi-braids her hair and pins it up with the speed of one who does this often. "Bored out there? You can help yourself to my liquor while you wait." R'hin's not unaware of the glance, and yet his reaction is an easy chuckle, in a manner that is completely uncommitted. While she retreats to her bathing chamber, he, of course, makes himself at home, picking up where he left off in his inspection of her belongings, even forgoing the offer of liquor in favor of satisfying his curiosity. He's still holding that necklace, pausing only to glance towards the ledge. Her belongings are neatly catalogued, tiny little cheat notes set into each drawer, glued onto the inside of doors, and an alphabetized system that lines her books. Irianke is, if anything, absolutely orderly in her life. She's the type to have color coded her under garments, her jewelry by fanciness, and her attire by season and appropriateness. There are letters too, set on a table near her bed, in her script, titled 'Dear Laastianke' and filled with mundane items of life. Each one, unsent, and dating back to her arrival at High Reaches. A few muffled swear words can be heard and the sound of splashing water, but eventually, Irianke returns, her face made up with dark kohl to highlight her features, her hair in tiny braids pinned into smaller circles about her head, and a matching rouge on her lips. She stands there, one hand at her waist, and a close lipped smile that twinkles her eyes for R'hin. "My necklace, please." If R'hin has any particular reaction to the notes, to the orderly attentiveness, or the unsent letters to her son, he doesn't voice it aloud, nor is it visible in his expression when she emerges and his pale gaze lands on her. A hand stretches out to touch her shoulder as he strides to join her, with the intention of turning her to face the mirror. Over her shoulder, the bronzerider reaches around her neck, settling the necklace into place before closing the clasp. He's watching over her shoulder, in the mirror, expression mostly inscrutable, though there's a sense of approval in pale gaze. "Perfect," he finally says. From the bed, he reaches for the coat he'd selected and laid there while she was in the bathing area, holding it out for her to slip her arms into. "No." The coat is the last straw in her intrigued obedience to commands he doesn't quite give. Irianke straightens, fingering her necklace and repositioning it slightly with just a finger nudge here and then there. So many things she wants to say, so many emotions running through her wide gray-blue eyes, but all she does is repeat, "No." "How long have you and Niahvth been together?" is all R'hin asks, as if he might not know the answer, still holding the coat. "Fifteen turns." Irianke doesn't even stop to think. "Less time than you and Leiventh. Still, you wouldn't leave your dragon's side when it could mean your safety. Why should I be different?" It's not a stand off, the slender woman stepping towards R'hin, the sound of a chunky wooden heel clattering against the stone floor. R'hin seems to acknowledge that with the merest of pauses, and yet: "Would she begrudge you a single night of freedom before you spend all of your waking hours by her side for sevens at a time?" "Would he?" Her chin slips forward a little, the smile on her lips the barest curve and her eyes lit with both curiosity and challenge. "He would never. I, however, have many hang-ups I have difficulty getting past at my age. You, are young enough to escape such things," R'hin counters, with a low-throated chuckle. "So, what I propose is this: two hours. You can drink as much as you want, eat as much as you want, dance as much as you want, and I promise I'll get you home safely to Niahvth. If you're lucky, Leiventh might even consent to keeping an eye on her." His temptations speak to her inner soul of trapped and bored and lonely. There's an ache that comes alive when he lists all she could do, and a longing that sketches deep within her features. A sound escapes, an ech that's the sound of someone being slowly killed by indecision, and her eyes close even as her arms rise, as if unbidden, for him to put that coat on her. When, should, he get closer, she'll look up. "You'll make it worth my while?" While she debates, he watches, pale eyes amused, a patience in the way he continues to hold the coat, gaze fixed on her. Finally, slowly, dutifully, R'hin slides the coat onto her, settling it in place, hands resting on her shoulders for a moment. His, "Mmhmm," precedes a step to the side, stretching out a hand for her. "Why I even ask..." tapers off into nothing and Irianke rolls her shoulders to settle the coat into place under his hands. Irianke considers the hand before reaching for it, feather light fingers turning into a stronger grip. "Take me away. Far, far, far away from here, my love," the endearment is paired with a twist of her lips, a laugh unvoiced, but the trusting shift of her body to go where he'll lead. "With my luck, Niahvth will sleep the rest of the night and not even notice." There's a snort for that term, opinion unvoiced as R'hin leads the way out to the ledge. There, the angular bulk of Leiventh's form greets them. "I'm sure you'll know if otherwise, before we would." His grip on her hand releases, only to allow him to climb, his offering of a hand to her when it's her term more habit (or perhaps excuse?) than any reflection of his opinion on her ability to climb a dragon marginally shorter than her own. Irianke scales Leiventh handily, pun intended, R'hin's assistance taken with a firm grip, and settles behind the dragon's rider. Even after securing herself into the passenger straps, her hands rest at his hips, gripping the bottom ends of his flight jacket between two fingers. "I can't remember the last time I've been on a dragon other than Niahvth." Her knees flex against the unfamiliar bronze hide. The skirt of her dress is tucked beneath her discreetly, "And I am rethinking this dress entirely now if you mean to take us between." He trusts her enough not to check her straps, even if it is habit for him; instead, R'hin regards her, what he can see of her, twisted to look, reaching back to catch the edges of that coat and pull it over the length of an exposed leg. "Too late," he tells her with a grin, as they can feel the tense of Leiventh's muscles, a moment before he pushes aloft. One, two wingbeats -- and then the cold of between. The contrast between cold and warmth is notable, the heat of the Igen spring likely familiar to the goldrider passenger. Beneath, on the familiar heights of Igen's cliffs, the flags snap and fly in the wind in, presumably, shared celebration of the wedding of Igen's current Lord. While the ceremony itself is closed off, that's not what draws the rider, and the dragon circles down on the outskirts, landing at the edge of the gather that the commonfolk have already begun their celebrations at. Between is all the more painful without the layers of protection and though the coat does some part of its job, it doesn't do quite enough and in the heartbeats after they emerge, Irianke's arms are about R'hin, tight and her slender frame shivers. "Let me catch my breath. It's warm. It's," her eyes open and she's looking and suddenly pale. "I shouldn't be here. R'hin. I shouldn't be here." "No. Irianke of Igen should not be here. Inni of an Igen trader family is perfectly fine being here." R'hin glances towards the distant gather, the sounds of harper music drifting in their direction, enticingly. "Anyone that would recognize you is inside." Still, he shifts weighted, pale gaze back to her, apparently letting her make the decision. Silence is Irianke's response, her arms retracting so they're not in a death grip of cold, such cold, about his waist and back to her fingers latching onto the bottom of his jacket at his hips. There's a swallow and no other words, and just a look down a the festivities outside. "Land over there." Her hand wretches free to point towards a distant, but not too distant, area of browned shrubbery. "We can walk from there." There's rumbling -- hard to tell whether it's dragon, rider or both -- but dutifully, Leiventh angles them further away from the gather itself, into the indicated area. R'hin, at least, seems to take the direction as indication they're staying, unclasping his straps and unzipping his flight jacket, reading to offer a hand if she makes motions to descend. "If I'm to be Inni, who are you?" It's an important question she asks, while still atop the dragon. R'hin's, "Who do you want me to be?" is both amused and self-aware of the dual nature of the question. Irianke doesn't answer, unbuckling herself, brushing her skirt down up here first, and then working her way down. She might flash him on the way, but what does it matter, he's already seen her underwear anyway earlier. And she waits, looking up and then back to the festival. "All this time, I always forget what you don't know about me. Come," Irianke holds out her hand, a smile, half-hearted but still genuine, emerging, "You'll figure out who you are the longer we're here." R'hin takes the time to take off his jacket -- underneath he's wearing a white shirt, the material light and suitable for the warmer climes. He doesn't disagree with her words, instead taking her coat, adding it to his, folding both of them over the saddlebags. Leiventh doesn't seem to mind, the dragon already dropping to an eye-lidded stillness, as his rider takes Irianke's hand, and lets her lead him where she will, accompanied by low-throated laughter. "Wait." Her coat! Irianke drops his hand long enough to do the same with her coat, her arms rubbing the deep-seated, if residual, cold of between out before claiming his once more. However, it's not a walk she favors, the skipping light gait that emerges one likely from her childhood, an easy way to walk across sand, which isn't present here, but habit nonetheless. She's a few steps ahead, fingers barely curled in his when she turns to traipse backwards, an easy, beckoning smile emerging. "You're slow, old man." Subtly, perhaps deliberately, R'hin slows his gait. "You should find yourself a younger partner," he suggests in counter, pale eyes amused, "And I will do the same." "So are you my father?" Irianke inquires, her dark, mascara heavy lashes suddenly demure and her gait becoming more respectful. "My brother? A long lost uncle to my trading clan?" They're still moving towards the gathering. "Wife number five helping you find wife number six?" Not unaware of the change of demneanor, R'hin nevertheless doesn't change his slowed gait; it's part of his character, now. "A lackadaisical chaperone, seeking your husband number... mm, ten?" he counters with, after a moment of inspection. "The assistant, drawing the flies to the spider." They're almost there. "These are my people, R'hin. I'm an Igen born trader with family here. Perhaps we'll meet my father." Unlikely, but it does make Irianke laugh to a side not directly at the bronzerider. "Perhaps he'll skin you alive. Perhaps," the goldrider looks at R'hin, releasing his hand and stopping until he catches up. Her smile fades. "Irianke of the Bethari." A well known, eminent, due to their Weyr connections, group based at Igen Hold. "Follow me," she confides, her arm slipping about his waist, "I know where they tuck away the best of what the Lord offers. Then," she drawls out the vowel, "I might consider letting you go to seek out younger, more nubile prey." "Perhaps," returns R'hin, "I'd enjoy that." Being skinned by her father? Or merely the challenge of it. He doesn't look all that surprised by her mention of her trader clan; it takes him a beat or two before he responds, "R'hin of the Beowins." Though mostly a northern route trading family, their route takes them to Lemos, undoubtedly interacting with many Igen-based traders. A low-throated chuckle follows her proposal, and he seems amiable enough to that suggestion, as he murmurs, "Whatever strikes your fancy, Irianke-of-the-Bethari. It is your borrowed time." If there is a slight emphasis on the borrowed, it is subtle and not visible in the bronzerider's expression as he falls into step with the goldrider. "No," utters the goldrider, a throatiness to the response and such, such joy suddenly vibrating in her limbs. "If Niahvth should wake, she will know I am here and she will..." A hand lifts, the splayed fingers covering her trembling mouth and sudden tears in her eyes. "Come on, quit making me cry. Come drink with me, dance with me, and then fuck me all night and I'll forgive you for making me cry." For good measure, she punches him in the upper arm, which is such an endearing gesture. "Thank you." R'hin, in turn, gives her an even, measuring look, for the tears, whether they're real or not. "I'll drink, and dance, as promised. For the rest: we'll see. Surely there's a younger, prettier goldrider lurking about to draw my eye," is his light-hearted retort, his wincing grimace at the punch of hand to his arm clearly exaggerated. For a moment, he'll break 'character', enough to speed his stride towards the promised wine. |
Comments
Alida (03:02, 16 March 2015 (EDT)) said...
I *like* this pause between life's duties. A nice glimpse. :)
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