Logs:A History of Friends
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| RL Date: 19 November, 2015 |
| Who: Mirinda, Zaisavyth, Olivya, Ivraeth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, Monaco Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Snippets of Rin and Liv. |
| Where: Monaco; Weyrwoman's Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 24, Month 4, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: M'kris/Mentions, Oriane/Mentions, Dahlia/Mentions, N'rov/Mentions, I'kris/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, Lujayn/Mentions, Aishani/Mentions, Indalys/Mentions, M'kar/Mentions, Kyouri/Mentions, Ebeny/Mentions |
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| Turn 23. Weyrwoman Corisa is dead and Oriane's Evielth has risen; new leadership for Monaco! It's not so surprising when Evielth lays a gold egg, and even less surprising when Corisa's granddaughter-- still only fourteen-- is one of the first to be put forward as a candidate to be Monaco's next goldrider. Mirinda's not shy, but she's quiet, and more aware than is perhaps comfortable of her 'famous family' and talked-up chances. Candidacy is hard, but it's finite: Day 13, Month 3 brings with it an early-morning hatching, and Mirinda's there, white-robed and tense, to take her place on the sands. Up in the galleries, she has family to cheer her on: mother, father, little brother, cousins. She doesn't look. It is said, always, that golds prefer hold-bred. Olivya had been the hold-bred option put forward for that distinctly gold egg. A middle child and only daughter of the Holder at Sunrise Cliff Seahold, she's less than a turn older than Mirinda. She is not shy, either, but she hasn't seemed to make many friends during candidacy; she is reserved with sharp-edges, giving the impression of a haughtiness that has put off enough of the dragonriders that no one is cheering for her, especially not with Mirinda on the sands. Still, her shoulders are squared just so as she takes her spot in the ring of girls around the golden egg, looking nowhere except at the egg. Yet, she can't help the minute slant of her gaze towards the other girl closest to her, briefly. "We'll be okay, right?" Mirinda, for a weyrbred girl, for a girl raised for this in particular, sounds uncertain and uncomfortable; she attempts a smile as those brown eyes of hers seek Olivya's, though it doesn't linger. Not far away, eggs are cracking, and one of the other girls is crying out in surprise and horror. Hatchling dragons? Pretty terrifying up close. "We'll be fine," is so sure and simple. There is nothing that shows any doubt in that statement, not in the line of the other girl's shoulders or in the weight of her soft blue eyes as they meet Mirinda's. She certainly carries herself with the presence of a goldrider, or a Lady Holder, despite her limited turns. Then, under the sounds of the hatching and crowd, she adds in a murmur to the other girl, an inappropriate joke made for the moment, "Though, one of us is going to end up being a disappointment." For a moment, Mirinda looks startled... and then she laughs. "Let it be me," she says, with determination, those dark eyes seeking out the non-gold eggs, the non-gold dragons. "They'd get over it and I'd be..." Fine? Free? "You'll be wonderful, I'm sure of it." One of the girls further down the line gives a little squeal: Evielth's golden egg is rocking. Mirinda's eyes squeeze shut. "Weyrwoman Olivya," is intended, most likely, as a tease. Olivya's lips show a subtle smile at Mirinda's answer, but she only shakes her head, blonde curls already slightly wilted by the heat of the sands even where the sheen of sweat catches at her skin. "I don't want her," she admits quietly, her gaze sliding to the rocking egg. "I want to go home and prove to my father that I'm not just a girl. That I can be his heir. If she comes this way--." She doesn't finish that sentence, but her gaze does go to the other girl, her hope settled in her. This time, Mirinda's laugh is just short of giddily hysterical. "Maybe she'll come to neither of us," is not wholly a vain hope, but oh; she doesn't seem sure of it, not even wistfully so. "I hope you get what you want. I hope I do. A green..." Mirinda might like a green; it might suit her. But, as if to shatter her dreams like so much shell, Monaco's new queen is hatching, and she's already headed this way. Because of course she is. "We both will," holds no hesitation, still. Olivya might not have any hesitation to spare in any bone in her body. Yet as the little queen hatches, the confident young girl falls silent, all of her focus on the dragon. There are no welcoming thoughts from her, though; instead, she only has a silent refrain of: no no no, no, no no. Mirinda looks stricken. Perhaps, though, the weight of family expectations is too much for her; perhaps, in the end, she simply can't bring herself to refuse. Perhaps, too, it wouldn't have matter. That dark-and-light queen, that solar shockwave? She knows what she wants. It's with confidence worthy of Olivya that she throws herself at Mirinda, leaving the girl with nothing to do but fall to her knees, to cradle that golden head as, sobbing, she can barely manage to whisper a name: "Zaisavyth." But at least Olivya is spared. Olivya watches that moment of Impression, and it's only in that moment that a true flicker of loneliness passes across the young girl's expression. The connection between them is severed in the moment, as Mirinda is wrapped up in it, and it leaves the blonde on the sidelines. Her soft blue gaze is lifted briefly to the stands, to a pair of Holders that bear the resemblance of family and the tell-tale disappointment, before her gaze falls back to the new goldrider and her dragon. The eggs around them continue to crack and hatch, spilling dragons onto the sands; some of the girls move away to try for another color. Mirinda's lost in her dragon, but not altogether lost. Yes, there's a weyrlingmaster at her elbow within a moment, all congratulations and a promise of food, but Monaco's new goldrider pauses, lifting tear-clouded eyes to find Olivya once more. "You're-- you'll--" The words are too hard, though, and Zaisavyth too overwhelming, that golden head nudging again and again: now, now now. "Be Holder for me." Promise, Olivya. Promise. "Of course." But the young girl's voice breaks only slightly on it, just that crack in armor despite Olivya's fierce nod. Even as she does, a dark green with honeyed flanks slinks along the length of the sands, her whirled gaze catching on her sister for only a moment before she swings her attention to Olivya. "Oh, no. No, no, no. No, Ivraeth," is ripped from the blonde's lips as she turns to meet the dragon's gaze, refusing to cross the distance from her to her dragon even as the hatchling green stands her ground and doesn't budge closer. In the moment, Mirinda doesn't catch any of that; no, she's already been pulled away-- bodily, in part, but also emotionally, as Zaisvyth lures her in, holds her close. But later? Later, once Zaisvyth has been fed and bathed and oiled and tucked up into her couch, she's certainly aware. Later, she sits outside the huge open shelter wherein the weyrlings are housed, arms wrapped around her knees, and waits; Olivya will, surely, come. Olivya comes alone, clad in a midnight blue gown that she came to the Weyr with, a tone that compliments her perfectly and moves in a graceful way with the sway of her hips. It's the sound of those skirts that give her away, though she is not trying to sneak up. Still, she's silent as she takes a seat next to Mirinda, her gaze drawing to the lights of the hatching feast and the noise that spills from it. "We're supposed to be there," supposes (knows) Mirinda, though it's impossible to miss her reluctance to do just that. It is Olivya alongside her; she plainly knows that without looking. And then, blurted: "I'm sorry. I know you didn't... are you all right?" Now she glances, big eyes no longer full of tears, but hardly overjoyed, either. "It is your first appearance as a goldrider. You should be there; they will already be judging you," answers Olivya in a low murmur, sliding a sidelong glance towards Mirinda even as she folds her hands into her lap. "I am fine. We are fine." The words are like a refrain, but she gives them such weight that it would be hard to think she doubts them. "Don't be sorry. Don't apologize unless you truly did something to be sorry for." "I meant..." But Mirinda stops, frowning as she stares off into the well-lit distance. "Can we go together? Can we... will you be my friend, Olivya? In all of this? Now that we're... now that you're staying. I think maybe we could both use a friend." There's something hopeful in her expression, and something very fourteen. It's already been an exhausting day, and seeing her family? That is likely to be more exhausting still. Seeing her own family in all of their disappointed glory isn't a prospect that Olivya seems to relish, if the flicker of hesitation across the weyrling's features is any indication. Yet, she's already dressed for it, and Mirinda only earns that slow, subtle smile from the greenrider. "We can go together. Do you have something to wear? You can borrow something of mine. I will do your hair," she offers simply, though perhaps with a touch of distrust for allowing the younger girl to do her own for this occasion. "That is what friends do for each other." "Friends," agrees Mirinda, firmly. And while the rest of the day is no less stressful than the first part, at least that makes something of a difference. Maybe weyrlinghood (and riderhood to come) won't be so bad! Turn 24. An entire turn and it seems like forever or no time at all, depending on the moment. Olivya, for her part, has flourished during weyrlinghood. Her Holder training has given her enough of an edge, with its private tutoring and extensive lessons in diplomacy. She is a natural leader in her own way as well, making her mark of impressiveness during her time as the weyrling wingleader. It helps, of course, that she has already started to fill out in the turn, muscle honed by training but the rest simply by growing into a woman. There are those that watch her dark green, Ivraeth, with anticipation as none of them have cracked her reserve yet. None except Mirinda. That much is obvious, even as she sits on the protected, isolated beach. A new, outrageously dyed riding jacket has been purchased for the graduation that is to occur in only a few hours, a bold red that only draws attention to the red lipstick that the blonde wears. But her boots have been abandoned and her feet shoved into the sand as she stares off into the ocean in a moment's silent. As Mirinda knows, she is likely thinking through something, prone to do this and then make some sharp observation once complete, but when she speaks it is only to point out simply, "You're going to be a real weyrwoman soon, Rin." A whole turn! It's been both easier and harder than Mirinda might have expected. Between Olivya and Zaisavyth, the young goldrider has flourished, in a way, gaining confidence and assurance although it's still plain she'd prefer not to be in the spotlight. Her father, however, has been a regular and often unwelcome visitor, and those visits have been stumbling blocks. It's plain to those closest to her that Mirinda doesn't like her father, but she does love him, and for him... she will do her best. One thing her father has been good for is making sure she's properly dressed for her position, and today's new leathers are certainly the product of that: cut to fifteen-turn-old curves (though she's never developed many), cut to flatter. Mirinda wraps her arms around her knees and holds them close to her chest, lips pressed tightly together. Liv's words are no surprise, but she exhales, nonetheless; a sigh. "That's what they tell me. If Oriane is ready to have me. And you'll be a real rider. I fully expect to see you ruling this Weyr by force one day, Liv. If anyone could, you could." Olivya's red lips press together in a firm line at the sigh, a sidelong look given with weight to the younger woman beside her. But she only answers, the same sharp wit as her first words to the other weyrling, "Maybe. Though I don't expect to see Ivraeth catch Evielth in a flight any time soon." A pause. "Except, maybe, when Oriane retires and you replace her. Then you'll have me by your side, Rin, and together we can do it all." "Ivraeth can do anything she--" But Mirinda can't quite finish that with a straight face, and dissolves into (teenage!) giggles. As she recovers, however, she adds, more seriously, "I don't want Oriane to ever retire, but if she does, it's good to know I'll have you. Liv and Rin against the world, right? You can beat Father off with a stick when he tries to stick his nose in." She stretches out her legs, bare toes wiggling in the warm sand. "What would you be, if you could be anything in the Weyr?" "Weyrleader," replies Olivya in a quip, not even missing a beat, but even that drags out a low laugh from the older teenager. Instead, she falls silently thoughtful for the moment, lifting her fingers to tuck a blonde curl behind her ear. "Weyrlingmaster, maybe. I would have my own little part of the Weyr to take charge of, only the Weyrleaders to report to. I would be able to keep an eye on Zaisavyth's children." This time, when she looks to Mirinda, it is a steady thing, thoughtful and studying. "Oriane will retire one day. The best you can hope for is if another junior is there to take your place. And in either case, I will deal with your father." There is a hint of threat to the sharp edges of the young woman, naive for her years still to think she could handle it. "Weyrlingmaster," repeats Mirinda, and for this, she has definite approval. "I think you'd be good at that. If I ever can, I'll make it happen for you." It has the sound of a promise to it, though the young goldrider doesn't use that word specifically. Instead, dark eyes seeking out the distant horizon, where sky meets ocean, she says, "We'll see. For the rest, I mean. But I feel better, knowing you'll take on the great M'kris. I do hope they don't put you in his wing." "I don't think he'll ever forgive me for standing against you for the gold. I might as well piss him off more, if it helps you," answers Olivya easily, with a little wink for her friend as she rolls a shoulder. "Wings." She says it as if she forgot it, her humor slipping away into a reserved mask. "I've been told that there's been a number of wingleaders that have already requested me. That is something, at least. Unless--." She doesn't finish that sentence, exhaling a breath. "I envy you at least the simplicity. You know your wing and your knot and your path." Mirinda doesn't comment in response to that first remark, though her eyes flutter closed, and then squeeze more tightly shut as she swallows. It means she misses the wink, but not the intent of it; she's smiling, at least, if ruefully. "Have they? I'm so very glad for you. It-- I think I envy you the freedom. or... no, not freedom. I know it's not freedom. But knowing everything isn't planned out for you already; I do envy that. I don't have itchy feet, and I don't..." Those eyes open again, and her head turns so that she can look at Olivya. "I want to see if I can't pull strings to have Kris," her little brother, "sent elsewhere. He should get to choose his own path, at least." "We will both make our own paths, Rin. Even if the broad layout is already set for us, we will make our own choices. We will be our own people," Olivya answers in a soft murmur, not even waiting until Mirinda opens her eyes to lean over to wrap her slighter friend into a firm hug. "And we'll make sure Kris has his own, too. I promise." Mirinda leans in to that hug, arms squeezing as she rests her chin, just for a moment, upon the other girl's shoulder. "I believe you," she says, firmly. "I do. We'll make everything all right." She withdraws, pressing one hand to each knee, and then draws her shoulders back. "We should get moving," is reluctant, but less reluctant than it might have been. "Before we're late. Come on, Liv. Monaco dragonriders." "I am never late. I am fashionable," counters Olivya with a breath of a laugh, shaking out wild, blonde curls and brushing sand off her hands as soon as she has pushed to her feet. That bold jacket is adjusted, before she starts off in the direction of their dragons, lazing together as only clutchmates can. Turn 30. The last turn and a half have been... turbulent. Zaisavyth's first flight; a success! Her first clutch; a gold egg, also a success! Mirinda was (mostly) unbothered by the trading away of Zaisavyth's gold egg, and rather more bothered by her father's reaction to Kris's-- I'kris'-- Impression to brown Svissath (but not to the Impression herself). She was the one to suggest I'kris be sent to High Reaches for the duration after Svissath's catch of Rielsath; she thought it a smart move. And then everything came tumbling down when Iolene was murdered, and-- no, no-- her brother was convicted. It's the end of month five, now, and I'kris... I'kris is dead. He was back at Monaco for a few days, and during that time Mirinda and her mother sequestered themselves with him; no M'kris. Now he's gone, gone for good, and Mirinda sits in her cottage with her knees drawn up to her chin, and tries, desperately, not to cry. Hasn't she cried enough? There's no need for Mirinda to call for Olivya; there's no need for Zaisavyth to call to Ivraeth. Ivraeth's lush, overripe presence is there before the blonde woman, the touch of it refrained against both the gold's and the goldrider's mind without hesitation, and it's a presence that Mirinda has certainly felt before, the green more willing to communicate with those besides her dragonrider and especially with her. But then Olivya is stepping into the cottage, shutting the door firmly behind her before she strides towards her friend and throws her arms around her. She still smells faintly of firestone from drills, blonde curls a mess from the wind and her cheeks holding a tinge of redness from flight. It's been only in the last turn and a half that she's been promoted to wingsecond of her wing, amid rumors and gossip about her relationship with her older wingleader, H'xas of bronze Licxasth. She hasn't been crass enough, at least, to mention any silver lining that the gossip has faded away as the Weyr focuses on this. Mirinda's never asked; never cared to, perhaps. What Olivya does in her own time has nothing to do with the goldrider-- besides, it's always better not to know. Always. Sometimes. Today, she doesn't glance up, just buries her face into Olivya's shoulder. She does weep, in the end, and her sorrow is amplified by Zaisavyth. But then, Zaisavyth never met an emotion she didn't like. "Father never even acknowledged him," the girl gets out, eventually, though sobs still wrack her thin shoulders. "And now he's gone." "I know, I know," murmurs Olivya against dark hair, her soothing tones carried with the same confidence as when they first met. Her lips press a kiss briefly against her friend's temple, a bare caress for her, before she is adding in sharper tones, "Fuck M'kris. Fuck High Reaches. This is all their fault." But she doesn't linger over that, before she continues softer. "He deserved better than this. He was a good man, a good dragonrider." "He was." Mirinda is sure; of this, if nothing else. "He did." It gives her the strength to pull away from the other woman, finally: to rise, to get down the bottle of spirits that has only ever been for emergencies (not a drinker, Mirinda). She doesn't ask before pouring two glasses, and as she does so, she says, "M'kris will never bother him again. Do you think... no, I know there's nothing, afterwards. It's just nice to imagine that there might be; that he might be able to be happy, now. With Svissath. I don't think I'll be able to look at M'kris, again. I won't call him father." Olivya certainly doesn't turn down drinks, though it may only be Mirinda that has ever seen her truly drunk. Usually, she drinks in moderated measures, enough to enjoy it but not enough to lose any of her hard-won control. But she likely doesn't care, now, as she accepts her glass. "Maybe there is. The dragons can go anywhere, maybe where ever they Between after, they take us," are simple, comforting words, no true weight of belief there on the greenrider's part either but a nice thought to offer. "He isn't any sort of father. No father would have--. I hope he feels his guilt. I hope he knows." Mirinda drains her glass in a single gulp, coughing and spluttering afterwards; it must burn on the way down. It certainly sets her eyes to watering (but then, those recent tears can't have helped). The glass is set back on the table with a thud, tear-stained eyes turning towards Olivya. "I'm never going to have children," she decides. "Not as long as he's alive. I don't know if he can feel guilt... and I don't know that I want to find out, either." "Don't say that. Don't let him control any more of your life, Rin," commands Olivya firmly, only twisting her glass between tense fingers rather than draining it. "As you said, you don't have to look at him again. You don't need a father like that." That she punctuates with a swallow of her liquor, though her soft blue eyes do not leave Mirinda, full of concern. "I don't know that I wanted them anyway, but... don't you see, Liv? Even now, I worry about what he think. He's not just going to go away. It would be easier if I were more like Oriane." No weyrmate, no children, no parents, no family; just Oriane and Evielth, against the world. But Mirinda attempts a bitter smile, still glancing at Olivya. "My mother will go back to him. She always does. And I..." she trails off. "You aren't your mother, Mirinda. And you aren't Oriane. You are strong in your own way and if you can't see that--." Olivya cuts herself off, her fingers white against the glass, but she only lifts it and drains it in her own smooth gesture. The liquor doesn't manage to break her veneer, not even eliciting a wince from the woman. "You are a weyrwoman in your own right. You outrank him. You can make your own terms with your father." What can Mirinda say in reply to that? She opens her mouth, and then closes it again. A heavy swallow follows before, finally, "I'll do my best. I have to." There's no one else. "You will," Olivya agrees firmly, simply. The tall, blonde rises from the couch in one graceful movement, her glass set down on the table beside it precisely. "You have to, for I'kris. He deserves you to be your best. To make your father regret what he's done." "For I'kris," repeats Mirinda, and then again: "For I'kris." It's a solemn promise, in its way, and if she still had a drink in her hand she'd probably lift her glass. As it is, it's no less determined, and no less binding. "After this, M'kar and Oriane will never trust him again, and that's a good thing. It will be okay. Maybe you can jump to his wing and take it over-- that would be delicious." Olivya only exhales a dry, sharp laugh, but she offers her friend that subtle, reserved smile. She doesn't point out the ridiculousness of that idea, the rumor-tainted greenriding wingsecond taking over a veteran bronzerider's wing, but does she really need to? Instead, she answers, "No, they won't trust him. And we won't. It is enough for now." A pause, before she adds, "When she does go back to him, don't judge her too harshly. Being alone is hard." Mirinda opens her mouth to argue, but in the end, elects not to. "Yes," she supposes. "And she doesn't even have a dragon to help. Come swim with me, Liv. I need to clear my head. Tomorrow... I'kris wouldn't want me to wallow." And nor will she, though there's an undercurrent of sadness for days, weeks, and months to come. If she's disappointed at how little Oriane and M'kar seem impacted by her brother's death, she never comments on it. Life, as they say, goes on. Turn 34. There is a certain amount of chaos that has accompanied M'kris' unexpected rise to Weyrleadership and the following ejection of Savannah from the Weyr itself. Even in this chaos, Olivya's promotion to wingleader doesn't go unnoticed, especially not in the chaos. The nicest rumors attribute it to Mirinda's influence, while the nastiest-- She was, after all, sleeping with her wingleader when she became wingsecond. It does not take anyone long to make the connection that she might be sleeping with her best friend's father. It makes taming her wing an exhausting thing, an uphill battle that is maintained with the seemless veneer of confidence and competency that even the cutting whispers don't manage to pierce. By the end of the first week, she is exhausted, not even a single male visitor present in her elegant, artfully decorated cottage, worth of a Lady Holder's chambers. Instead, she sits at her desk, writing pages upon pages of some story she works through. For a while, Mirinda really did manage to separate herself from her father. In grief, well, such things are easier when you're grieving. Feyzeth's catch has changed things, though. It's clear that she misses R'hin's presence-- he was, after all, the first to win one of her flights (of which there have been two, now), and clear that she disapproves, but... what can she do? She sees, works with, her father on a regular basis. For the betterment of the Weyr, she deals. Olivya's promotion, however, is one thing that she is unreservedly pleased about, regardless of the rumours that plague the greenrider. And no doubt that's why she appears in the cottage's doorway, this evening, flinging it wide open with enthusiasm that is unlike her. "You've had a seven," she announces. "Now we're going to celebrate. Zai and I need to get out, and you two are the only ones we want to come with us." The pen in Olivya's hand is set down carefully on the blotter at hand, not even a drip allowed to fall onto her hides. The lush presence of Ivraeth is a note to support Mirinda's, the twining vines that make up her thoughts catching hold of Liv and Rin and even Zai as if to gather all of her things to herself. It is this, just as much as Mirinda, that draws the greenrider reluctantly to her feet. "Nowhere crowded," she bargains, as she reaches to hook her fingers on her bold, red riding jacket. "Some quiet bar somewhere where no one will recognize us. I don't want to deal with anyone else." Zaisavyth is too vast, too powerful, to be held by any one person, but she allows Ivraeth liberties she might offer no one else; this part of herself, yes, she'll share that. Anyone else might be burnt alive, scattered like dust... Ivraeth is exempt. "Would I take you anywhere else?" counters Mirinda, leaning up against the door jam. "Give how much I, traditionally, love having my drinks interrupted every two minutes. How about that place just outside of Cove Hold? It's too nice a night to be indoors." "As long as my dear cousins aren't there," agrees Olivya, a note of true tiredness tinging her words even as she shrugs into her jacket. "Let's get out of here, before anyone can stop us." She casts one last look around her cottage, as if forgetting something or perhaps just to memorize where everything is before she steps to the door to lock it behind herself. Ivraeth is a fast, agile green; they are barely outdoors before she's launched herself into the air and glided over to meet them in the nearest clearing that she's able to land in. She doesn't brag about being faster than her clutchsib, but there is a certain way she preens as she waits for the riders and Zaisavyth. Mirinda, always watchful, can't possibly have missed the tiredness in Olivya's voice, or that final glance, although she's polite enough not to remark on either (yet). Zaisavyth, competitive when she chooses to be, is disgruntled by Ivraeth's quickness, her thoughts darkened by smoke and ash, redolent with bitter klah. But it takes only the soft touch of her rider to ease her mood-- especially when they are so-quickly in the air, hurtling free... at least for as long as it takes to transport them to Cove. Mirinda's bar of choice is open to the water and while not empty, quiet compared to other, more raucous venues. The goldrider buys the first round of drinks, then settles into a chair opposite her friend and says, "So. Tell me everything." "Well, I am not sleeping with your father," is the first words Olivya offers with every bit of her dry, edged humor. "But there isn't a rider in my wing who would believe that. They are all sure that I do not deserve my knot." That knot has been left behind, not inviting any more attention than her usual wild, blonde curls and red lips and that damnable jacket. "I still have no idea why M'kris did this. He hasn't been a fan of mine for turns and vice versa." A pause, before she questions quietly, "Have you talked to him?" The laugh that escapes Mirinda's lips falls not much short from hysterical, though it only lasts a moment; the very idea of her friend sleeping with her father is beyond comprehension. For the rest, however, she shakes her head. "No," she says, very quietly. "At least, not specifically. He has talked to me... sometimes I wonder if he does things to try and win me back." As it were. "I don't like the idea that he might have promoted you for that reason. If so, it's probably the only smart decision he's ever made, Liv, because I think you'll be splendid." Olivya's lips only press into a firmer line briefly before she lifts her glass for a slow sip. When she answers, it is a quiet murmur of, "Well, he did not do either of us any favors. I may be brilliant, but only if I can get any of them to listen to me." She shakes her head, dismissive. "In any case, it is only a matter of time before there is an opening in the weyrlingmaster staff." Her blue eyes sweep the tables around them, lingering for a moment on their handsome bartender, but it comes back swiftly enough. "What does Oriane say? About all of it; the promotion, Savannah, M'kris." "I believe in you, though," is Mirinda's simple answer to that; simple and sure. "As wingleader, as weyrlingmaster; as anything you put your mind towards being." She's in no rush for their drinks to arrive, and hasn't especially noticed the bartender... but then, she's distracted, and it's not as though she has ever been especially focused on such things. "Oriane is loyal," she adds, then. "Feyzeth won, fair and square, and that means he's her Weyrleader. I don't think she likes it, but it is what it is. She misses M'kar, though. I imagine he was easier to work with. I know it bothers her that our relations with High Reaches have degraded so far, too. She misses R'hin." "I hope you don't ever fall into that trap, Rin. Dragons do not always make the right choices; winning fair and square means nothing if the rest of the Weyr will suffer," Olivya says firmly, a fierce spark in blue eyes as they settle on her friend. "The whole Weyr isn't the same without Savannah." She doesn't press that topic, though. Instead, she only lingers in a study of Mirinda, as if to try to read something about the other woman that she may have hidden. Quietly, "I hope I never need to." There's something in her dark eyes; perhaps it's recollection of the fact that, last time Zaisavyth rose, Feyzeth took chase. Not that M'kris was there, in her presence, to consummate any catch. But... still. Those eyes seek to meet Olivya's, now, interrupted only by the arrival of their drinks, which gives her a moment to recompose herself, looking elsewhere. "I don't always know that-- Oriane understands. How complicated it is for me, I mean." There is only that marked lift of Olivya's brow, before she dismisses simply, "But if you do, I will be there to fix it." She won't linger on the subject or press for more of a promise from her friend, instead making a soft, questioning noise. "You don't?" "I mean, I don't think she does. Not that she does." Mirinda shakes her head, reaching to wrap her slender fingers about her condensation-covered glass. "I-- Liv. Why do you always let me get caught up in my own issues? We're supposed to be celebrating you. Whatever the reasons behind you getting that knot, you deserve it, and I'm so, so proud of you." "Because I have no issues," Olivya deadpans with the comic timing to suggest she should have been a stand-up in another life. "We are celebrating. We have drinks and no one that we recognize. And after we get properly drunk, I am going to take that bartender into the bathroom and fuck him." That she punctuates with a toast, lifting her glass to it and then draining it. See, celebrating. "I'll drink to that." See, Mirinda can be fun! She'll even laugh as she downs her own drink (making a face at the end of it; no, never really did get a taste for this stuff). Liv can fuck the bartender and Rin? Rin will do what she always does: walk along the beach, barefooted, shutting out everything. Just... just for a little while. Turn 39, day twenty-four of month four. They've been at Fort for the better part of thirty-six hours, now, and it's been a whirlwind. After the last few months, as difficult and complicated as they have been, this change is just... something more. Tonight, as evening settles in upon a still-plague-ridden Fort, Zaisavyth reaches for Ivraeth. She's a little more restrained than she has been, but radiates smug; Fort is hers. Fort is hers. « She suggests yours should stop by, » she tells the green. « You may join us, if you like. » Inside the Weyrwoman's Weyr, Mirinda sits on the floor, cross-legged. All of the personal touches have been removed, leaving it large and empty and somewhat bleak, despite the finer touches here and there; Mirinda's clothes are borrowed, too, and don't fit the way her usual things do, leaving her to seem even more out of place than she might otherwise be (not to mention the face mask and gloves). Still, she has supplies, including alcohol, and her eyes are trained upon the entrance, ready for new arrivals. Fort is not Ivraeth's, that much is clear; her twining vines only perilously linked to Zaisavyth alone even as the queen claims the whole of the Weyr. « I am enjoying my view, » she responds with the curl of humor in the undertone of her words, even where the darkly honeyed green has claimed the high point of a sunning spot to watch the activity of this Weyr that she has found herself in, seemingly as confident in her place here as her sister to anyone else that might be watching her. The same could be said of Olivya, who has been exploring the Weyr shamelessly since yesterday. She still wears her usual uniform: the bold, red riding jacket trimmed to her size over a white sweater with simple black pants, but she's lacking any protection against plague. But then, the line of her path cuts straight from the guest weyr that she borrowed last night to the Weyrwoman's, not deviating this evening. She meets Mirinda's gaze even as she steps inside the weyr, a rare smile to her lips as she greets, "Weyrwoman." « Do you like my Weyr? » Zaisavyth wants to know, though there's less force in her question for Ivraeth than there might be of another. There's a sense, too, that she has been restrained: that she is not permitted to express herself to everyone the way she might like. Sometimes, it may be said, Mirinda is mean. "If you are determined to call me that, Liv, you may as well turn around and leave again," is Mirinda's immediate answering remark, and even given the mask it's possible to see the suggestion of a face made at it. "Come and have a drink. I need company that doesn't resent me, hate me, want to suck up to me, and especially, isn't dying of plague." Please. « It is poisoned; it is dying. It is too cold and made of stone, » complains Ivraeth in summary of all Fort's negatives, the lush jungle of her mind echoing those thoughts as they begin to decompose and rot. Quickly, though, it is covered with the bright, distracting bloom of fruit and flowers. Olivya only breathes a laugh, stepping further into the empty weyr. Her gaze slides briefly around the structure, considering it before she returns her attention to Mirinda. "Are you sure you don't want to go back to Monaco, first, and grab your things before we start drinking?" she suggests. « Yes, but aside from that. » Zaisavyth, too, yearns for green and grass and light and sun... but she has claimed Fort, and Fort is hers. It is enough. "I don't think we can," admits Mirinda. "We're in quarantine now, too. I suppose someone could pack things up and drop them off outside the Weyr, but I don't know that I would volunteer for such a duty. I'll worry about it later; there are more important things to think about. I hope you're not regretting coming with me." Ivraeth's sharp humor is cut towards Zaisavyth with the simple question of « What more is there aside from that? » Even as she does, the vines of her thoughts twist against her sister's, a deeply rooted love there even if she does not share her claim of Fort. "You are the Weyrwoman; you could do whatever you wished. Though Kyouri wouldn't welcome you, I'd imagine, even if you promised not to see anyone while you were there," considers Olivya, but she shrugs up a shoulder in a dismissive gesture for the thought. It is something to be worried about later, for certain. "No, of course not. Tomorrow? Maybe." Everything, Ivraeth. Everything. Zaisavyth does not try to light those vines on fire the way she might at various other points; she's content to provide warmth for them both. It is enough. "We may need Kyouri," admits Mirinda, making a face. "We may need to beg for candidates or supplies. I'd rather stay on her good side, if I can." She presses her lips together, a gesture that probably isn't visible given the mask, and then abruptly unwraps it-- see, she trusts you, Liv! It gets dumped on the floor beside her, and she adds, "Actually, I may have an opportunity for you. Fort's weyrlingmaster resigned her knot." Ivraeth doesn't see it, even with her prime position on Fort's heights. But she will allow the shared warmth, blossoming under it. "There are other Weyrs than hers. Begging from her--." But Olivya will not continue on that subject, the buried bitterness barely contained even in those brief statements. Instead, she'll reach for the bottle of alcohol, lifting it first to sniff at it, even as she adds lightly, "Today, I heard. But, she may change her mind if she lives through the illness." Mirinda has, as she always has, far less bitterness over the usurper at Monaco-- but then, she was the one who gave Monaco up in the first place. "I'll do what I have to," is all she says on that front, gesturing towards the glasses as she does so. "I don't know how I feel about a weyrlingmaster who has just recently recovered from the plague," she admits. "Especially one who is presently pregnant. I don't know that it will go down well, my naming you weyrlingmaster, but that is my intention." Beat. "If you still wish it." Olivya seems satisfied with the smell of the bottle, splashing out a measure into both glasses before offering Mirinda her's. "There will be talk, but I have dealt with that before," the greenrider points out, a dry, bitter smile of her own for the past. But she is then studying her friend, soft blue eyes settled over the goldrider with an intent look. "I want it; I will take it. You know that you'd always have one person, at least, on your side, but--. It is your decision, not mine, Rin. You'll have to live with what people say, too." Mirinda accepts the glass, lifting it towards her nose to sniff it with appreciation. She's still not really a drinker, but evidently having smelled things only through a scarf all day, it's a rare pleasure to have something to focus on and enjoy. "I know," she says. "I don't intend to do it today, Liv. You may have to wait. But I do intend to do it. I expect I'll need to run it past N'rov, too, but I don't believe it will be an issue. I'll be naming a local headwoman, after all, should Erinta..." She pauses. 'Die' is such a difficult word to insert into a conversation. "N'rov," repeats Olivya, with the curve of her brow upwards standing in place of the question, unspoken as she takes a sip of her own glass. "The weyrlingmaster reports to both weyrleaders," answers Mirinda, though given the way she exhales, afterwards, perhaps she does not actually consider that an answer to the real question, whatever she assumes that is. "He's a good man. I think, anyway. I obviously don't know him well." The sharp tic of Liv's brow higher is a clear dismissal to that first answer, but she does not interrupt her friend to point out that she already knows. "What do you know about him?" she questions, curious. "What I have heard-- I do not know that I'd go so far as to say he's good. But then, he is a bronzerider." Mirinda sips from her glass, first, before answering. "I know he's from Boll. I know he served as wingsecond, and that Zaisavyth's daughter's rider loved him. I know-- we spent much of a night talking, Liv, and I hope I know him better than I did. Dee trusts him; that's a good sign." Though she seems troubled by this, too, her brows furrowing. "It's terrible. I know how it felt when Kyouri came to Monaco, and here I am, doing the same to Fort." "Another goldrider's opinion," is what Olivya answers, clearly dismissive. "If you care who trusts him, you should ask the greenriders and blueriders, Rin. We know that bronzeriders can get goldriders to trust them; it's how they treat the rest of the Weyr that matters." But at the turn in the conversation, she pauses, dangling the glass thoughtfully between her fingers and twisting as she slides a look back to the entrance of the weyr and the Weyr beyond. "If it weren't you, it would be another. You didn't make the decision; the Weyr Council did. And if you left now-- They would just choose the next." "Get to know him for me, then," prompts Mirinda, without pausing to consider it. For the rest, she gives a small, somewhat uncertain nod. "I know," she agrees. "Although if I left now, they might just give it to Dee, now that she's recovered. I feel bad for her, though... the truth is that she's not ready to lead a Weyr. I imagine she's better off with me than one of Nimae's juniors, I just... it's hard. Why should they trust me?" Olivya's lips only curve into a half-smile, as she murmurs simply, "I had planned to." She leets out a sigh at the question, a soft breath, before she finishes off her glass and moves to pour herself some more. "They don't have any reason to, yet. Earn your junior's trust, first, and your Weyrleader's, whether he is good enough for you or not. They are Fortian, and their opinion of you--." She pauses, sliding a considering look to Mirinda. "If you really wanted, use this plague. Live through it with them; go volunteer at the infirmary and beg Faranth that you don't get sick. But if you hold yourself apart from it, keeping yourself safe because of your dragon--." She doesn't say anything else, just hooking a finger against the discarded mask and lifting it. Mirinda's cheeks immediately redden, her gaze dropping towards her crossed legs. "I'm terrified, Liv. I don't want to get sick. I don't... infirmaries terrify me at the best of times." She has always, always been something of a germaphobe. "But I'm not trying to imply that I'm too good to help. I'll do everything I can. Dee's immune, now, and that'll be useful. And I..." She trails off, uncertain and uncomfortable. "If you meet these people, your people, with a mask on, they'll only remember you hiding," Olivya opines, but then she shakes her head. "I don't know, truly, what you should do. You should obviously take every necessary precaution; I do not want you getting sick, either." There is a distant look to soft blue eyes, her attention drawn away by her dragon for a moment. And when she speaks, she offers, "Ivraeth says that we need a solution to the plague. If only it were that simple, if we could offer Fort that--." A pause. "We'll figure something out, Rin." "A cure. Wouldn't that be something. I'm sure the healers are working on it, if such a thing is possible. I mean, there's the story of Moreta's ride, isn't there?" Mirinda's gaze unthinkingly slides towards the weyr alongside hers, the one reputed to have been Moreta's own. "I'll give it thought, though. Doing without the mask. But-- I'm so glad you're here with me, Liv. I don't know if I could do this without a friendly face. Without your friendly face." "Only in meetings, as a show of strength. But keep your distance," advises Olivya for the consideration, as if it were already decided. "Should I take a trip to the Hall, and see? They already have infected; I am not likely to be spreading the disease any further. And having some news for you to announce--." But she doesn't press on that thought, only lifting her glass in a punctuation to the suggestion. "You could, because you have to. And because change is only as scary as you allow it to be." As is so often the case, Mirinda seems willing to take Olivya's advice; her nod firmly acknowledges it, quite a done deal. "Would you? They may be too busy to talk to you, but I don't think it could hurt to see-- though there's word, now, from Fort." A shadow over her expression, now; dark and morose. "The Fort Lord is sick, now. It may be a bad time to press." Bad news or no, she lifts her own glass in response; perhaps it's a toast to better times. Olivya's lips twist into that subtle smile, amusement in her light gaze as she answers, "I can be quite convincing. It's worth a try, at least." That gaze lingers, weighing, on Mirinda for a moment, before she casts a gaze around the weyr instead to question lightly, "So, what are you thinking of doing with this, then? Once there's time for it." "I believe it," Mirinda says, with a low laugh. The weyr itself draws a face from the goldrider who admits, "I don't know that I like the stone, not at all. The paint softens it, but... only so much. Dahlia says she's decking her weyr out with drift wood to make it feel more like home, which is a nice thought. I suspect I ought to be a little more formal than that. But... perhaps a mural?" "A tapestry. Something of Moreta, maybe, as a reminder of what you've lived through with them, subtly," suggest Olivya quietly, casting an artful eye over the rest of the walls. "And then fabric draped over the rest to truly soften it." Mirinda straightened, evidently pleased by this idea. "I like that," she says. "I can have it commissioned officially, once things have calmed down. Not that I suspect there will be a lot of spare marks around, but we'll all need to do our bit to kickstart the economy. I'll otherwise need to replenish my wardrobe from the stores, though; I know this is spring, or what passes for it, but I'm cold all the time." "We'll take a trip to Boll for all of it, when this is over. Not for the entirety of your wardrobe, but--." Olivya casts another artful look over Mirinda, shaking her head softly as she tells her, "I won't have you wearing all cast-offs, though." A pause, before she adds in offers, "We'll bring your junior. I'd like an opportunity to get to know her." "No, I know. I need to look the part." Mirinda gives her present attire a somewhat uneasy glance, but nods in acknowledgement. "You should get to know her. We'll do that. Now-- let's have some more of this. I just want to be me, just for a little while, before I need to be 'Weyrwoman Mirinda' again." "Well, if you ever want to give me the knot--." But Olivya only teases, and she is glad enough to turn the conversation only to light, silly things. What color fabric for this wall, a couch to go here--. But between them, they will certainly drink more. |
Comments
Alida (20:28, 22 November 2015 (PST)) said...
I think I could get to like these two (Olivya with caution). A good read, with very interesting backgrounds. I hope to see more.
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