Logs:A Prison with a View
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| RL Date: 7 July, 2015 |
| Who: Dee, R'oan |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A bitter brownrider and a troubled weyrling. What could go wrong? |
| Where: Lakeside Grove, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 13, Month 3, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
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>---< Lakeside Grove, Fort Weyr(#2047RJs$) >---------------------------------------------------------------< Hardy mountain trees cluster together on the far end of the lake, providing a shady retreat beneath high, spreading branches. Right along the edge of the trees, several stone picnic tables are set up to welcome fresh air diners. Here and there within the grove, tumbled boulders from ages ago provide places to sit for those taking a break from a walk around the shore. Toward the Bowl wall, the trees grow more closely together providing a somewhat secluded spot for a private conversation or quiet contemplation. Ranging from mist to drizzle to downpour, rain falls almost unbroken all day long-- that cold, persistent spring rain. That there's been a flight is inevitable in a Weyr full of dragons; the green has finally risen and Etrevth finally chased. For all his confidence in his charm before, she ended up twinned with a bronze. Always those fucking bronzes. Etrevth pouts, hidden away beneath the surface of the lake even as it suffers under the assault of the rains below, churning that surface so that even the brown isn't visible any longer. His rider isn't pouting, but he's certainly hid himself away in the copse of trees close to the Bowl wall, careless of the rain that slicks from his leathers and plasters hair, with only the warmth of his flask to chase away the chill. "Nice day for a walk," Dee's voice offers warning of her approach to the rider. She's one to talk, of course, soaked to the bone as she must be in her simple work clothes, short shorn hair doing little to protect her face from the rain as it falls. She's without a companion now, but perhaps seeing Dee here, now, in the rain is the most natural thing in the world. Really, from a girl like Dee, R'oan might even have expected it. R'oan's gaze flicks up towards the voice, and what might be a fuck slips past his lips, mumbled into the mouth of the flask as he takes a swallow. It is a respectful greeting all around, brownrider to goldrider, weyrling to dragonrider. But when he does speak, it is to drawl towards Dee, "You should go back inside. Catching a cold would be a stupid way to lose Fort's newest goldrider." "Some might not be sad even if it were a stupid way," Dee's words carry a dry edge but also a grimness that doesn't help make the words a real joke. "Should I salute?" She asks. Of course, the real answer is yes, given her knot, but she asks all the same. "I hear flasks, or what men keep in them chase the cold away easily enough. The whiskey did, that night, anyway." Fishing for a nip~ "Do you think? There's been enough lost goldriders-- and no one's ever been relieved about it," counters R'oan dryly, though he only wiggles his flask in an indeterminate gesture that dismisses the subject. Instead, he'll answer that fishing with a light, "That is assuming that I want to encourage you to stay." Nothing about breaking rules or anything like that; don't be silly. "Are you so sure?" Dee queries, her tone no longer light. Her expression briefly betrays how far away some of her thoughts range just now, but her hazel gaze comes back to him swiftly enough. "Would you like me to? Go, that is." It's a simple enough question with simple enough delivery. "Everyone I know acts differently toward me now. I won't force my company on you." There's a sadness to that, but also acceptance; this is not a guilt trip. "How could they not? You are different now," R'oan only answers simply, this time the tip of his flask given over Dee in a gesture as he speaks. "Or did you expect to go onto those Sands, Impress, and not be different? Not have things change?" His tone implies what he doesn't say; that would be stupid. "I expected to not Impress. To go home." Dee sighs, shaking her head. "Maybe if I had convinced you to take me home that night she'd have picked someone better suited. She's not sure she chose right. I'm not either." Despite that phrasing, it sounds from Dee's tone more like she's sure Taeliyth didn't. She looks at him a long moment, deciding. "Then you were stupid to take the risk," replies R'oan carelessly, saying the words he implied before. "Fuck me; you could have had anyone take you home. And now you'll get to rule a Weyr, one day." He lifts his flask to his lips, taking a long, slow sip before he adds on a murmur, "Teenagers." "I was. I've been told so many times." Dee answers soberly despite a fleetingly amused smile. The pinch of her lips that follows erases any levity. "I don't want to rule a Weyr. I don't even want to be a Weyrwoman. I just wanted to be a master, like Old Guzman, far away from the Hall, doing good work." She wraps her arms around herself, looking at him unhappily. "What makes you so mad? That there was a gold at all or that I ended up paired with her?" She may not be angling to hit the mark, but these are certainly test shots for direction. There might be a third inquiry, but it goes unasked. "Shells, life is so tough for you, isn't it? Having all that unwanted privilege," is not really all that sympathetic as R'oan's grey-green gaze slides over Dee in a brief, marked study. A pause, but then he'll answer dismissively, "Neither. I don't give a fuck either way. Just don't come crying to me about it." "You're an ass," is simply said before Dee's stepping toward him with every intention of swindling his flask out of his hands to claim a sip for herself. "Do you want my one-day knot? I'll give it to you, gladly." As if she could. As if it would be her choice. R'oan's brow slides upward in a question, silently mocking for her statement. What, did she expect him to be something else? But there is only the token resistance on allowing her to take the flask, before he answers, "What, out of anything I said, makes you think I want it?" "Why else would you be so bent out of shape that I got it?" Dee asks in turn, "It's not as though you care about my stupidity or misfortunes that seem so fortunate to you." She cocks a single challenging brow at him - R'oan admitting he cares? It would be a feat. She takes a second sip before holding the flask for him to reclaim. There is a silence there; it may be a warning for some, as R'oan pushes to his feet only to reach out and reclaim the flask at the offer. Then he says, lowly, "Because whether you want to or not, darling, one day you will hold rank over me." A pause, before he adds in case she missed it, "So whine about your stupid, dumb luck to someone who isn't beneath you." "And it doesn't matter that I don't want to hold rank over anyone?" Dee's brows are lifted but in inquiry now: does she have this right? "And what do you plan on doing about it then?" counters R'oan with a bare laugh to the words. "I don't know that I'll have the chance to to do anything about it." This is statement of fact not admission of defeat. Dee looks to the brownrider, "What would you do in my place?" "Then no, it doesn't matter," comes the answer to her previous question, R'oan's lips curving into a crooked, almost mocking smile. "Does it matter? I'm not." "Prick." Dee accuses glumly, not even bothering to look at him. "Do we need to be drunk for you to give me anything resembling safe advice?" R'oan's smirk only twitches wider for a moment for that accusation, his free fingers lifting in the flick of a salute towards the goldrider before he moves to brush past her, to retreat. "If I did, would you listen this time?" is a rhetorical question that he offers. Dee sighs. What kind of assurance could she offer? When the time comes, it might not even be good advice. "Perhaps," she'll say honestly. "It seems I'll be here to share the whiskey though, one way or another." She might even buy. "Welcome to our prison," R'oan greets dryly, the edge of his words still mocking as he turns briefly to walk backwards as he gestures to the Weyr around them with the spread of his arms. But then the brownrider turns backs, carrying himself further away. "At least there's whiskey and a nice view!" Dee calls to his retreating form, her tone half-exasperated and half-resigned. Her eyes follow his back a distance before she's looking back to the lake. |
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