Logs:Handle With Care
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| RL Date: 5 July, 2015 |
| Who: I'dro, X'vin, Lilah, Nasmaeth, Besmernyth, Eliyaveith |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Besmernyth tries to impress the importance of caution on a Nasmaeth; Lilah |
| Where: Southern Bowl, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 7, Month 3, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
>---< Southern Bowl, Fort Weyr(#675RJLs$) >----------------------------------<
This end of the Bowl is grassy and serene, the sparkling blue beyond the
Lake Shore a draw for residents, riders, and dragons alike. An earthslide
has revealed a dramatic view of the mountain slopes beyond the circle of
the Weyr, past the lake, where a faint misty haze often shimmers above the
small Bowl Falls. The Feeding Grounds are fenced off to on the
northeastern end of the lake, just a short walk from the weyrling
barracks, the hot springs, and infirmary.
Early in the morning and late in the evening, the cold rain falling turns
to almost-pleasant snow, but most of the day is mired in a bleak, gray
drizzle. It's early days yet, which means a weyrling's life is not so structured as it will be at some point later. Lots of feeding and oiling and sleeping. But the lunch hour, well--the dragons have been fed, and then the people are fed, and then it's hours until they're needed again. Some of the babies are no doubt sleeping off their repast, but Nasmaeth has made the not-entirely-endorsed trip to the living cavern with her I'dro, and after that, the long process of walking back. Or, it was a long process. Some distance through the bowl, he ends up scooping her up, even though she's to the point of being much more of an armful than on Hatching day. Besmernyth is like a hawk in his landing: a huge swooping shadow and powerful wingbeats to slow the breakneck speed of his dive. From below, he's all claws and bones, but he manages every time to not hit anyone. Still, the impression that he might snap up anyone that lands under his claws, to carry them away and feast on them, is not something easily shaken, and he doesn't seem to have any preference for who he descends upon or near in this manner: not even innocent weyrlings carrying their dragons through the bowl. There's no rider on his back - that comes later, X'vin emerging from the infirmary with several bags of dried herbs just in time to watch Besmernyth calmly fold his wings, like he's done absolutely nothing wrong. Shaken, that's it. For a young man with a bunch of green dragon trying desperately to arrange herself in such a way that she fits on his shoulders even though she increasingly does not, I'dro was still managing to walk with some sort of straight-backed dignity. The huge looming shadow gets him looking up with wide eyes--and then he's rushing out of the way. Problem: Nasmaeth, clearly not prepared for this, ends up digging in to his coat and letting out a piercing shriek to go along with whatever less-audible protest is for her rider alone. "Ow, no, ow, ow," are the first words I'dro actually says aloud, trying to disentangle the two of them, but she's not showing any sign of letting go. Five feet of wings are awkward when they're being flailed around without regard for how. "Oh, Besmernyth," sounds absolutely dismayed, but notably not reprimanding. For as calmly as the bronze is arranging his wings, settling his long form down low like a luxuriating cat. He reaches for Nasmaeth. It's not physical but mental. « Calm, little one, » sounds oddly amused at her fright, but there is a gentle and fabricated warmth around the natural cold of his mind. The smell of spices baking and black tea mingling with a cold night. « You'll hurt yourself, and yours. I only did not see you, you're so small. » X'vin's made his way hastily closer, shoving those bags of tea in his pocket to check on I'dro and his small dragon properly. "He does that, I'm finding," the bronzerider is explaining as he moves, reaching his hands for Nasmaeth as if to help, then recoiling them so he doesn't get scoured by her claws in the process as well. "I'm sorry, he says he didn't pick you out until it was too late." He at least looks genuine enough in that apology. The weyrling manages to get his dragon disengaged from his coat, but that doesn't mean she's done. Held out almost arm's length for a moment, she could almost get airborne if he'd just let her go, wings going like that. « I am not calm! » As though that were an observation and not a reassurance. Indeed, Nasmaeth is not. Her voice is the searing heat of desert sun on stone. Her thoughts could fry eggs. She is... she is abruptly fading to a presence of radiating warmth as the flurry settles, and her attention is distracted by her rider. I'dro actually sets her down properly, then straightens. "We're just fine." Whatever it is he does with his hair, it has been completely undisturbed by the whole affair, so at least something is right with the world. It's a bit of an afterthought, the salute, and his expression isn't nearly serious enough for it. "I know she's small, but I thought maybe I'd at least put on enough muscle not to be totally invisible." Cawing birds relay what Besmernyth cannot hold in any longer: his laughter bubbles over through them. « Sure enough, » he agrees, and he cannot make his mind more welcoming, more warm, more like hers, but then maybe he doesn't want to; she would melt pieces of him, leave him barren and dessicated. He withdraws more, his voice an echo, « I would not have snatched you up. » X'vin watches this with one hand up near his mouth, half-covering a smile as I'dro brings Nasmaeth back under control and into calm, but it's still funny to see him juggle her so, to see his hair resist everything about the natural world. "He knows the difference between you and a wherry, at least," should absolutely not be taken as an insult, "but he loves the speed of a dive." It's an odd juxtaposition now, with Besmernyth looking like he wants nothing more than to lie where he is and never move again, outwardly disinterested by anything and everybody. "Can I - are you sure she didn't claw you too badly?" He cranes his neck for a better look. Relegated to the ground, Nasmaeth takes a few steps towards the bronze, but it's clear immediately that she is not a graceful creature in doing so, and it's only a few steps before she sits down heavily. Or as heavily as anything her size can manage. « Why not? » Bright, the question, but not nuclear. I'dro, meanwhile, is having a look at his jacket, doing his own neck-craning. "I--think I'm all right?" Except where she's clipped his ear. Fun fact: Ears have a lot of blood vessels. His is becoming progressively more educational by the moment. "I'm going to have to file her nails down one of these days," he goes on, oblivious. Besmernyth protects himself from her brightness - she illuminates wilted flowers and leaning, skeletal trees. It is not a beautiful landscape. « I don't eat sweets, » relays the bronze, watching her placidly with only a snort for his joke. It's enough that it drags X'vin's gaze away from his concern, to give the bronze a long-suffering eyeroll. It's possible the only person impressed now is Besmernyth himself, and he whuffs a sound that sounds more like a cough. X'vin turns back and, no, he doesn't know much about blood vessels in ears, but he does know enough to recognize blood. "You're -- " he starts, stepping forward briskly, reaching into his pocket as he moves now that he's not at risk of being gouged. He points to his own ear, then I'dro's, "You're bleeding, here." The kerchief is convenient, crisp and clean, and he reaches out to press it to I'dro's ear, ordering, "Hold that there. She got you. Sorry, again, weyrling..." he dangles that, for a name. "I'dro," the name comes automatically, though the young man is considerably more involved in the moment with getting his hand over X'vin's. At least not so much pressure that X'vin can't get his own hand back again. Nasmaeth, she is too young to recognize the joke, to be anything but mollified by the answer, but her attention of course is diverted. She seems quite ready to climb right up I'dro to see what the problem is, but this he manages to just avert with a wave of a hand and a silent something. "And whose handkerchief am I ruining, sir?" "X'vin," the bronzerider says, lingering long enough with his hand under I'dro's to make sure the greenrider has the kerchief in place, and to give a once over at closer proximity. When he's satisfied, he pulls his hand back, tilting his head. "It'll be soon enough she's not big enough to do that," X'vin assures, "might want to be careful trying to file down her claws. "Is she always so...flighty?" This as the little green comes back, her intentions clear, and Besmernyth watches her gawky movements to say, « You should take care with your claws. And your wings, » his open slightly, close back, demonstrating. There's a slight pause. "We haven't," I'dro says, "had very much time for there to be an 'always' of. She's really no trouble. Nicked me a few times, but nothing serious. We don't usually have anything looming like that. Anyway, she's only little, yet." Does it sound defensive? It really does sound defensive. He doesn't pick Nasmaeth back up again, but he does bend to stroke her neck. She arches up into the touch, and her response isn't defensive at all, even if it is heated: « My wings are perfect just like they are. But they don't always listen. » X'vin is not oblivious to I'dro's defensiveness, and he gives him a comforting smile. "Smaller spans of time are better for always and nevers," he points out, "fewer things to muddle up your statistics. But I mean no offense. Only what you said, that she's young and it will get easier." His face does this thing, where it comes awfully close to a frown. "I'm really very sorry for him," X'vin says, with no further explanation to why his dragon chose that precise moment to be terrible. As he continues to be, with, « That is an imperfection, then, is it not? Your wings should always do as you bid. It will be important when you must fly higher, fly farther, fly faster. Your claws should always know their targets, and know what isn't. Your body has much to learn. » « Of course not. Imperfect would be if they thought they knew better than you what you wanted of your wings. » But this, this isn't the least bit hot-tempered. Just a... radiant sure-ness. But I'dro is not very attentive to that, or too much so to X'vin to have particularly noticed the line of his dragon's conversation, one or the other. "At least I'll never have to worry about keeping that much dragon out of trouble." "I wouldn't think it's her size that measures her trouble," X'vin laughs, though Besmernyth is large, "I wouldn't think it's her size that measures her trouble," X'vin laughs, though Besmernyth is large, even as bronzes go. "But even so, I hope she doesn't get you again. Does it hurt?" « As imperfect as a youngling green, barely shelled, knowing better than her elders, » equally lacks malice, and Besmernyth's huge head lowers so he can turn one eye on her. He could fit her in his mouth, easily. « Tell me, Nasmaeth, did you want of your claws to draw your rider's blood? I would understand if you did; I scored X'vin often. » So offhand as to clearly not be very well thought out ahead of time: "It's not the size that counts, it's how you use it? I've heard that one before, and I'm not entirely sure it holds up very well." I'dro's distraction, perhaps, born of the way that Nasmaeth responds to the eye on her, scooting with more alacrity than she's previously managed to put I'dro between herself and the bronze. That glowing and confident warmth has faltered. There are a few stabs of flame that try to find themselves the shapes of words, but in the end she only manages a dry and distant, « You aren't very nice. » By the time I'dro's caught himself, he doesn't have the grace to blush--or the complexion--but he does check the handkerchief and say, "I'm fine. I think it's stopped." X'vin looks briefly surprised at I'dro's words, but it dissolves into laughter quickly, genuine amusement at the lack of forethought, at the fact that he's said it at all. "No, I suppose it's a shallow thing," he says, his eyes tipping to I'dro's ear so that it might well be for the cut on his ear, and not the phrase. Even so, he follows up with, "I wouldn't make a habit of bedding people who say that. Anyone who has to tell you probably won't show you well." Sage advice from a bronzerider, who certainly must have conquests to back it up, right? Besmernyth's jaw moves, to reveal the sharp edge of huge teeth. « Am I not? » He sounds shocked. « I am only trying to help you. » "Sir," pointedly, "I am not at present in the habit of bedding anyone at all." It isn't a complaint. Or a rebuke. I'dro's tone, in fact, is such that one could imagine him thinking this is some sort of test, that these rules might be enforced somehow through vague comments during random encounters with members of the appropriate sex. But that doesn't stop him from smiling. "But I'll keep this in mind, down the line." Nasmaeth, meanwhile, is too curious about those teeth to not look. « No, you are not, » though it doesn't keep her from peering around I'dros's legs. « Help me what? » X'vin finds him terribly amusing, if the way he tries to sober his expression and fails is any indication at all. The corners of his mouth are tight with the effort, and his eyes are big with gravity he can't actually feel with the way the conversation is going. "Of course you aren't," he agrees, "I wasn't suggesting that, either. Just things I've learned over the turns, advice free of charge that you may thank me for later." He gives I'dro a sidelong look. "Where are you from, I'dro?" is a curious query in the face of everything else, as Besmernyth snakes his head closer to the soon-to-be trio. « I suppose you are correct, » yields the older dragon gracefully. « Help you realize how frail he is. How delicate. How easily you could end, if you aren't careful with him. Our riders are fragile things, yours even more so. » Besmernyth's critical faceted eye turns on I'dro. "Is that all?" The question is light. I'dro's eyes have dropped down to track what it is Nasmaeth's up to, but since she doesn't seem in danger of hurting herself or anyone else for the moment, he looks back to X'vin with raised eyebrows. "Boll. Time-honored tradition, isn't it? Young men of an insufficiently holder-ish bent winding up at the Weyr." Like that's got to be what X'vin is asking, whether he's weyrbred. Nasmaeth takes a few steps back as the bronze comes closer. She apparently trusts that I'dro is capable of fending for himself, and he takes relatively little notice. « Even more so? » That makes her look back at her chosen rider with eyes whirling quicker. Concern? Except she sounds somehow pleased at this new exceptionalism. I'dro keeps surprising him, it seems. "The weyrs poach," he says delicately, not the least bit critical. "Insufficient? How so?" « He is so thin, » Besmernyth says, projecting an image of I'dro that is...oddly distorted. Too thin in the delicate places like wrists and knees and specifially neck. « You must be careful, or you will break him. » The image snaps abruptly in those brittle spots, unpleasantly detailed, like Besmernyth's seen it, in a vision. « Careful, careful. With your claws. With your wings. As you get bigger, he will not. They are so small. » He could eat his rider, too, that's clear when he angles his head just so. X'vin's smile shutters for a second, his eyes rolling over to examine the bronze, and he shakes his head. Besmernyth retreats, not cowed, just bored. "Is that all?" The question is light. I'dro's eyes have dropped down to track what it is Nasmaeth's up to, but since she doesn't seem in danger of hurting herself or anyone else for the moment, he looks back to X'vin with raised eyebrows. "Boll. Time-honored tradition, isn't it? Young men of an insufficiently holder-ish bent winding up at the Weyr." Like that's got to be what X'vin is asking, whether he's weyrbred. Nasmaeth takes a few steps back as the bronze comes closer. She apparently trusts that I'dro is capable of fending for himself, and he takes relatively little notice. « Even more so? » That makes her look back at her chosen rider with eyes whirling quicker. Concern? Except she sounds somehow pleased at this new exceptionalism. I'dro keeps surprising him, it seems. "The weyrs poach," he says delicately, not the least bit critical. "Insufficient? How so?" « He is so thin, » Besmernyth says, projecting an image of I'dro that is...oddly distorted. Too thin in the delicate places like wrists and knees and specifially neck. « You must be careful, or you will break him. » The image snaps abruptly in those brittle spots, unpleasantly detailed, like Besmernyth's seen it, in a vision. « Careful, careful. With your claws. With your wings. As you get bigger, he will not. They are so small. » He could eat his rider, too, that's clear when he angles his head just so. X'vin's smile shutters for a second, his eyes rolling over to examine the bronze, and he shakes his head. Besmernyth retreats, not cowed, just bored. Huh? (Type "help" for help.) The question is waved off with a flutter of fingers. "I have more interest in men than in cotton yields. I got myself here before anybody ever brought up dragons--though, in retrospect, I wonder if it wasn't fate." I'dro has more interest in Nasmaeth than anything else, says the look he gives her--which means this time he is actually paying attention when she recoils. « No breaking! » An edge to the words like burned sugar. She tries to twine around I'dro's legs at approximately the same time he's trying to sit down next to her, which could end very badly, but thankfully he's considerably more graceful with his skinny limbs than she is with hers. "Sshh. Look, I'm fine." "Cotton. From --" he starts to guess, but then cuts off. "Besmernyth." X'vin's voice is low and dangerous, a fair cry from the amicable tone he was using with I'dro. In point of fact, his attention has strayed considerably from the greenrider, as interested as he was in his past in the moments leading up to that sense of panic. « You don't break him, » says Besmernyth anyways, « you are sharp and uncontrolled. » Not like him, who is sharp too, but so calculated. The bronze withdraws, leaving a stray corvid on the outskirts of her mind, as sentry. The better to turn on X'vin with an air of challenge, eyes whirling through various shades of annoyance. "Leave her." A silence hangs. Rider winces; dragon tenses, but nothing is forthcoming. Bes's gaze lingers on Nasmaeth. This time, X'vin doesn't apologize, watching I'dro settle beside her. "I'll take him off," is his offer, careful. "He's intense." If that's the word. Sorry, Telavi is not connected. No one to page. "She'll be fine," I'dro assures, though he doesn't get up just yet, and the little green in question seems to require a full-contact sort of reassurance. At least she's now resolutely pretending that Besmernyth isn't there, so there's no provocation to make this parting more difficult. Earlier questions have been forgotten, but weyrlings do have to have their priorities, don't they? "Perhaps they'll get on better another day?" His gaze drifts back up, there, to X'vin. "Maybe if we just don't start off on the wrong foot." Lilah heads over from the northeast. Lilah has arrived. To walk up now looks almost completely innocuous: I'dro sitting down with Nasmaeth, the little green pressed wholly against him as if she's the clingiest creature to live; Besmernyth a distance away, watching with eyes that are bored in their regard, if those facets can be bored, and X'vin standing between them, cutting glances from one to the other with alternating irritation and concern, respectively. His smile is, surprise, gone. "He likes to make strong first impressions," the bronzerider says. "They linger. Sometimes for a long time." It sounds like it might be a warning for I'dro, and probably doesn't help that X'vin looks sympathetic for the little green. "Maybe," sounds dubious, but X'vin seems hesitant to leave, anyways. "I do hope we didn't," he prompts, meaning he and I'dro. The dragons are another matter. In the skies above, one of the Weyr's queens returns, the fact that she is large and almost bronze-ish marking her immediately as Eliyaveith, as well as the returning blanket of warmth that extends over the Weyr at the presence of the gold. That she curves her landing towards Nasmaeth is likely not a surprise, the flicker of flames more focused on the little green than the bronze there. Clad in the form-fitting, dark riding leathers and knot of her position, it is towards that little group that Lilah walks as soon as she has slid off her dragon, greeting, "Weyrling, wingleader." Her gaze lingers on X'vin for longer than I'dro, as she names each. "No, of course we..." I'dro's attention is much distracted by the arrival of the queen, and the fact that this means getting onto his feet again. Proper salute, after shoving a handkerchief in his pocket. Look how good he is at doing all these things right. Nasmaeth is much less concerned with doing anything right and considerably more concerned with maintaining that contact. Clingiest creature ever? That might be uncharitable. She might rank second or even third. But, it's up there, and her interest in anyone else seems to be utterly lacking at present. "Weyrwoman," deferential. "Weyrwoman," confident. A tip of the head and two fingers to the temple for salute. Ebeny's training them well, it seems, not like those pesky Bendenites. "Good afternoon. I hope the day's treating you well." Besmernyth is cautious with that last bird of his, the one that is still lurking on the edges for Nasmaeth's discomfort like a carrion bird over carcass. « Shhhh, » it says, just for her, but there is a hint of warning in it. And two more appear for Eliyaveith, silent in their flight around her mind as they await an invitation. "As well as any other day," is answered dismissively, though Lilah's gaze finally finds I'dro and studies him for a moment, then his dragon. "She is growing quickly. Nasmaeth and I'dro, wasn't it? How are you adjusting to weyrlinghood?" Those birds are met with the usual warmth; inviting, pleasant, mothering even in the presence of her daughter. But, there is something that marks him as a foreigner, despite Eliyaveith's willing welcome, and it is her family and blood that draws most of her attention. She offers her silent warmth out to Nasmaeth, wrapping around her and not the bronze. Shhh, he said, and Nasmaeth seems to take it to heart in a very literal way, which does not mean she's entirely unresponsive to that warmth. It gets echoed back, like the heat radiating off a sun-baked stone. "Well enough. It's not easy, the adjustment." I'dro glances downwards. "I mean, she's fine, although we're soon going to get to the point where I can't carry her but she still won't be able to keep up on foot, and that's going to be a pain in the--well, a challenge, I mean. But everything else." X'vin's good at this, fading into the background but not leaving. He's watching the weyrling pair with eyes as keen as Besmernyth's. "I told him it gets easier," the bronzerider volunteers dismissively, gesturing to the side of I'dro's head, at his ear. "She nicked him, while he was carrying her." « I was teaching her the importance of caution, » Besmernyth offers, equally as dismissive as X'vin, his head craning around to watch his rider begin adjusting straps for their getaway. « Caution is important, » echoes Eliyaveith in agreement, her own patience touching the warmth that matches her daughter's. "If it ever gets too easy, though, you are probably not doing weyrlinghood right," Lilah counters to X'vin, the curve of a brow upwards but paired with a buried hint of a smile, there. But, the flick of her gaze over X'vin only lasts a moment before she returns her attention to I'dro. "He's right, though. Weyrlinghood is challenging, but it will get easier as she gets bigger. When you can have your own weyr, especially." There is something very reserved about Nasmaeth's response, but it's entirely proper: « I will endeavor to be more careful. » Oh, sure, for Eliyaveith she'll say that? Yes, apparently for Eliyaveith she'll say that. I'dro reaches to give her a caress, but then straightens again. "When we can have our own weyr, yes. It feels a bit like... I don't know. I think I might be the oldest of us, you know? Or close to. I'm not planning on asking the girls, obviously." The last of the true gentlemen. "It will be nice to rejoin the world of grown-ups again, for a whole host of reasons." Just a flick of a glance at X'vin, there. "Anyway, it was an accident, I'm fine. Just clipped my ear, that's all." A victory is a victory, it seems. The sightless raven that persists with Nasmaeth spreads wings as if summoned and takes flight, back from whence it came; it was deceptively cold for such a small intrusion, leaving frost behind where it had perched. « I told you, I was only trying to help. » X'vin has something to say on the point of weyrlinghood though, his smile back, chasing the end of a laugh. "Yes, true enough. But I don't know it ever got that easy for me." He grunts as he pulls one of Besmernyth's straps tighter; Besmernyth grunts too. "It's hard, being the oldest. I was twenty-four. It feels like babysitting, depending on the people your with and," a pointed look at Nasmaeth, "the demeanor of your lifemate." "I was twenty-four, too," is offered with a quick smile, the softening that comes when anyone finds that they have something in common with another as Lilah glances towards X'vin. "Well, for most of weyrlinghood. I had my turnday when I was still in the first months of it, didn't even have time to stop--. But, I was lucky enough that some of my clutchmates were older as well. Yours--." Is there a measure of sympathy from the Weyrwoman to the weyrling, as she looks to I'dro? Well. "They will adjust. And when you aren't living with them, well." "She," says I'dro, "seems content enough with things as they are. I'd pictured better friends, maybe, and not so much..." Not so much something he doesn't actually go on to specify, just shaking his head. "Anyway, everybody says that. Just hold on, it will be fine. So, we hold on. Don't we?" The green doesn't actually say as much, at least not to anybody else, but she makes a pleased sort of noise, anyway. "But, see, now I won't feel so bad. Though my twenty-third is probably going to still leave much to be desired, since it's only another month. Ah, well. We never did much back home for it, either." X'vin's raise of the brow is suggestive. "You'll be better prepared for life, in general. I truly can't imagine having Impressed at fourteen. To have to deal with a child," dragon, "and then not a turn later Flights and..." He shakes his head. "Don't be surprised if they look to you as an anchor. She's not the only one who will need you, as it is." He does have a grimace for the turnday, and behind them, Besmernyth finds this all very droll indeed, because he won't terrorize children with thier parents in earshot. "You can still enjoy yourself. Celebrate your ability to go more than five feet away from her. Take a sparkler with you." Lilah only makes a soft sound of agreement for X'vin's suggestion that the other weyrlings may look towards I'dro. It is at the other statement, though, that the Weyrwoman only offers a mysterious, "Perhaps the Weyr will be different, weyrling. After all, we are not a hold." Eliyaveith is content to merely be in her daughter's presence, remaining ignorant of Besmernyth's apparent boredom and even more clueless about what may have transpired before. "I don't doubt that," I'dro points out, his tone rather dry, "but most of the benefits of being here are negated by weyrlinghood. Maybe I'll wait and celebrate twenty-three and a half instead." But he smiles, nevertheless, flashes teeth. To X'vin, he adds, "That's about it. I'll have my one glass of wine and pretend that constitutes having a nice time." But in this company, this is a strange subject of conversation, and there's a slight discomfort in the way he clears his throat. "I should probably get her back to the barracks so that I don't end up having to carry her back to bed." Lilah's mysteriousness catches X'vin's attention, openly, for all he's trying to include I'dro now. Perhaps that's why he has to wonder, aloud, "What benefits, exactly? Lots of...laundry? Menial jobs? Sometimes clutches to Stand for?" It's not a glamorous life, is what he's getting at, but he doesn't press hard for an answer. "Twenty-four will come, and then you can celebrate doubly, if you'd like." The weyrlings have already learned the benefit of using their dragons to escape, though, and he nods. "Of course, yes. We distracted you in the first place. We wouldn't want a rehash." "I don't know; what benefits do you see in it, wingleader?" challenges Lilah as an answer, her brow curving upwards as she meets his gaze. But then the weyrling excuses himself, and she draws her attention back there with a simple tip of her chin in dismissal. "If you need anything, she only needs to reach out to Eliyaveith," she adds for I'dro's benefit. Under the circumstances, there's just too much temptation. It's all been laid out there. You can't have that sort of set-up and then just leave it be, can you? "I don't know why you two would want to be here, but I figured that coming to the Weyr would mean I could get laid regularly." How things change, from when I'dro first set foot here, willing to say such a thing in mixed company. There's a snappy salute to follow it. "But if I need anything else, I won't hesitate to ask." Nasmaeth heard something about bed--she's finally unwrapped herself from I'dro's legs and has started resolutely making her way back in the direction of the barracks, and this time he seems content to head there with her under her own steam. "He's punchy," X'vin says, when he's done laughing at I'dro's response. Not much to do; the kid's funny. As for Lilah's challenge? X'vin has a short shrug. "I see plenty beyond getting laid, if that's what you mean. A multitude of possibilities. But most, I'd rather discuss elsewhere." It's a dangling invitation for the weyrwoman, even as X'vin watches I'dro and Nasmaeth amble off. Lilah doesn't laugh, but humor dances in dark eyes and amusement infuse her words dryly as she remarks casually to X'vin, "What is the point, if we aren't getting laid?" But, as soon as I'dro and Nasmaeth have stepped far enough away, she turns to X'vin to add in equally light inquiry, "My weyr or yours?" "It's a perk," agrees X'vin lightly. "Mine. It's got better wine." Besmernyth's bellow is amused, but he does hunker down to be helpful. It's a long way up. Sorry, Besmernyth, Lilah is used to bigger. Not to say that he's small, exactly, so his hunkering is appreciated as the Weyrwoman moves to the bronze even as she counters, "What if I prefer whiskey?" |
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