Logs:The Line
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| RL Date: 26 April, 2015 |
| Who: Hattie, N'muir, R'oan, Elaruth, Bijedth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: The situation isn't really all that compromising. It's what said that makes it so. |
| Where: Galleries, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 21, Month 8, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| It doesn't "seem" as if anyone is in the Galleries as the sun draws brighter in the skies, for all that the whole of the Weyr is awake and busy. On close examination, though, if one were to enter the rows of seats themselves, they would find a certain brownrider sprawled out on one in the spectator's box, so normally reserved for those of rank. He must not have been here long, because a mostly-melted block of ice lays on his hand that has swollen into an ugly mess of red and purple. That same hand lays on his chest, his other arm over his eyes to protect against even the faint light of the glows in here. It's on quiet paws that Elaruth makes her way into the hatching cavern and onto the Sands, her progress slow as she stops here and there to investigate bumps in the sand and odd, tiny pieces of shell scattered here and there. It's not time /yet/; there's no urgency to her arrival or manner. In-fact, she seems entirely calm, her gaze washed with an easy, sky-blue shade, and when she finally finds a spot that's acceptable to curl up in, she's a little lazy about it, sprawling before she settles properly. Except she doesn't quite get to settle, head lifted from her paws at the realisation that something (someone) else is nearby. And then, shortly, another someone arrives to go and investigate that matter, Hattie's hike through the tiers of seating one with an edge of irritation. When she reaches the box and takes in the sight before her, all she finds to utter is, "What the bloody... What did you do /now/?" "Don't worry, darling. I haven't done anything," drawls R'oan in response to that question, his arm sliding away so that grey-green eyes can peer up to the Weyrwoman. So that that crooked, too-easy smile can curve at his lips in a flash directed at her. "It's just me, beautiful," is directed towards the "other" female in the cavern as he slowly moves to sit up, as if he somehow has a second-sense about her reaction to his presence. "Didn't mean to disturb you." "Oh, of course. I'm sure you're entirely the innocent party, as usual. I can think it of Etrevth, but you've got a different record to him. And fewer excuses." Whether he likes it or not, Hattie reaches to grab at him in an effort to help to haul him upright, avoiding his hand to hook fingers at elbow and shoulder, into fabric or flesh; whichever gives her the most purchase to do what she wishes. "So, you hit a wall, or you hit /someone/, or someone decided that breaking your hand was the right payment for whatever you did," she assumes, rambling more to herself than the brownrider. Down on the Sands, Elaruth watches for a moment more, absolute focus given that spot in the galleries, then drops her head back down, tip of her tail twitching. Elaruth's move to the Hatching Cavern earns the attention of her adoring mate, and Bijedth abandons where he lays sunbathing on the outside, southern-most side of the Weyr's walls. He peaks in from the sky entrance high above a moment before N'muir clips in at the ground entrance, seeking out the Sands and giving Elaruth a study before his gaze roams across the Galleries in search. Voices lure him up into the stands but it's Elaruth's focus (while it remains, at least) that give him some indication of where the voices might come from, and he begins to wander up closer to the spectator's box. Bijedth, meanwhile, drops down from above to watch from a ledge closer to the Sands, leaning off the ledge to rumble encouragingly at his pale golden mate. "Entirely innocent. I was defending a woman's honor against intrusive men feeling like they can put their hands wherever," is murmurs with a low, warm humor for the hypocrisy that R'oan likely even sees in that statement. Perhaps that is the point he's making where he draws his own fingers against the line of Hattie's cheek as she leans so conveniently close. But his injured fingers curve around the escaping ice, causing a wince of the brownrider's features, distracting him. Probably from noticing the Weyrleader, there. Elaruth turns her head the tiniest bit to peer over at N'muir, the slight flex of her shoulders that ruffles her wings either coincidental or a form of wave in greeting, yet then she looks up again and tips her gaze towards Bijedth, facets flooding with a vivid, cheerful green. It's at the sight of him that her tail ceases to twitch, the edge of worry or tension soothed, and she croons a low note up at her mate, inviting. Snuggles? "Because you only put your hands wherever when the invitation's been made loud and clear," Hattie drawls just for emphasis, oblivious, for the moment, to the arrival of her weyrmate. She doesn't knock R'oan's fingers away, if only hoping that distraction will let her get a better look at his injured hand as she demands, "Have you even been to a healer?" Unnoticed, N'muir slows as he draws closer to the dignitaries' box at the top of the Galleries, his brows knitting with growing irritation with each step. Close enough to see R'oan's hand touch Hattie's cheek, and the effect it doesn't (or does?) have. Close enough to square off and direct a very cold, cutting glare at the brownrider. "And what would this be a case of? An intrusive man putting his hands wherever or was it invited?" There might not be a right answer. "A Healer looked at it," isn't even a lie! That is as far as R'oan gets, however, as the Weyrleader's voice cuts through with that question and grey-green eyes draw up to him instead. There's no jerk of guilt on his part, at least; no rush to put space between himself and the Weyrwoman. Only the slight curve of a brow before his gaze slides to Hattie for an answer, putting "her" on the spot (like a gentleman). "I think you put your hands on me first," he even informs her lowly. "You mean you passed one in the cor-" Though Hattie falls silent as she notes N'muir's enquiry, she doesn't glance back at him, nor does she glare at R'oan with the Weyrleader's presence realised. She simply tilts her head slightly in a motion that might bring Elaruth just into view, as though to put a simple 'really?' to her, for the lack of warning or just the situation she finds herself in. Straightening a little, she mutters a heavily sarcastic, "Yes, because I'm practically in your lap," to R'oan, deliberately loud enough for them both to hear. "Look at me, here without any of my clothes," she exclaims a little too dramatically, followed up with a deadpan, "Oh, wait..." as she swings a dark, steady stare to N'muir. Bijedth drops down from the ledge above, letting himself land harder than he might otherwise, likely in an attempt to disturb as little sand as possible. He extends his nose to Elaruth, whirling eyes reflecting that happy green, vaguely tainted with speckles of concern for her that come and go until he's settled himself down at her shoulder, his paws curled under him. N'muir doesn't share his lifemate's content. "I just want to know where the line is drawn," he explains, his glare never leaving R'oan regardless of which of them his reply is intended for. "It sounds like it's drawn somewhere around being naked. Or is the the combination of naked and touching? We should really get this ironed out before I transfer anyone else out of the Weyr." But more seriously: "Elaruth came to the Sands. We wanted to make sure everything was okay, and that you didn't need any help with anything." That most definitely is for Hattie. What N'muir has for R'oan is expressed in the dark, unkind stare that doesn't waiver. "Is that how this works? As long as she touches you first, it's fair game?" "Sounds about right," is the answer that meets that question, the brownrider not giving in to that dark stare as his own brow curves upwards in a challenge. "Though, to be clear, my line isn't drawn at naked "or" touching." Just in case that needed to be clarified. He is probably not still drunk, but at least this distracts him from the pain of his hand. Elaruth gently bumps her nose against Bijedth's, but the moment that he settles is when she takes the opportunity to burrow her head in against bronze hide, attempting to literally block out whatever it is that that's beginning to upset her, her wings and tail tucked tighter to her than they were only seconds ago. The unhappy little noise that she makes is likely only heard by him, a soft note of unease caught in her throat. "/She/ is right here, thank you," Hattie snaps, darting a sharp glare between bronze and brownrider. "I can't get any of this right, can I?" is a rhetorical demand, meant more for herself than either of them. "You," she accuses R'oan, "are a ridiculous manchild, who doesn't know how to take kindness, and /you/," this for N'muir now, only she runs out of steam before she manages to say anything at all. She gives a loose shrug. "It's okay to make the idea of fucking me a joke between you, isn't it? Except you don't like it now." "Yeah, /I'm/ perfectly aware of your line - or lack of it," N'muir assures R'oan. /He/ is aware, suggesting someone else isn't. "If I hear of you laying a finger on someone without invitation-" The cause of Elaruth's unease isn't lost on her mate, clearly, for he nestles all the closer, wing extended as if it were an external force he could block out. He doesn't so much point his nose at the spectator's box as tip his head slightly towards it. It's in the middle of his threat that N'muir is cut off by an invisible hand tugging by his shoulder and pulling him back a step. Maybe it's Hattie's words that hit him hard, or R'oan's. Either way, something has him guiltily casting his eyes down to the stone at their feet and turning to wander back down from the spectator's box, staring at his feet except to lift a repentant look over at Elaruth. R'oan falls silent as well, as Hattie levels her accusations around. But there's no guilt on the brownrider's part, only the dry answer of, "Maybe because I have never "wanted" that kind of kindness from you, Hattie," without regards for what N'muir will overhear. Maybe he's just "trying" to provoke him into transferring him. He moves to slide to his feet as well, a hiss of breath escaping when he bumps his knuckles just so against the bench as he does so. It's to N'muir's back that he aims the assurance of, "Don't worry; she's all yours." "Fine," Hattie tells R'oan, very coolly and calmly. "You're on your own. Thank you for the reminder that women are merely objects to you. If you don't want kindness, you can have the cold fact of the matter: get out of this cavern and stop disturbing my queen." She turns, moving away to follow in N'muir's footsteps, or perhaps it's just a similar path that begins to take her down towards the Sands and her lifemate, who continues to huddle close to her mate, safe beneath his wing. "If I find you passed out in here again, I'll make sure your wingleader has you on dawn sweeps for a month." She keeps on towards the Sands, what she mutters under her breath mostly unintelligible. N'muir slips out of the cavern and heads immediately for his office, leaving Bijedth behind with faintly worried hues fluttering in the very rims of his eyes. The big bronze watches Hattie's approach, dropping his head to extend his nose out to her without moving away from Elaruth but not without keeping R'oan in his line of sight. "Darling, if any of us here view everyone around as mere objects-." R'oan doesn't finish that sentence, but does he really need to finish the implication as his gaze slides so pointedly over Hattie as she descends. But he won't push that, moving to slip out of the cavern after the Weyrleader too. There's a very creative sort of curse meant for R'oan that neither he nor Bijedth are likely to hear, but Hattie predictably softens when faced with the bronze's greeting and the sight of her queen curled up beneath her mate's wing. She lifts both hands towards Bijedth, to smooth gentle hands over his nose, though one leaves bronze hide to reach out to Elaruth's more angular muzzle and coax her into lifting her head and uncurling a little. "Don't suppose I can have cuddles too?" she asks them in a dry murmur. Joking or otherwise, it's with them that she'll linger a while, before leaving with the intention of hunting down her weyrmate. |
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