Logs:A Weyrwoman's Request
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| RL Date: 18 November, 2015 |
| Who: Dahlia, N'rov, Taeliyth, Vhaeryth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'rov walks Dahlia home from the infirmary after she's released; she has a request for him. |
| Where: Bowl, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 21, Month 4, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: E'dre/Mentions, Hattie/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Backdated to post Weyr Council decision and pre- knowing Mirinda will be coming. |
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| It's not time for the daily report when Taeliyth reaches for Vhaeryth's mind. Even after those first frightening days when she asked for him and leaned on his companionship to help make it less scary, her presence has been frequent enough that this reach shouldn't be a sign of doom. In fact, it's the opposite. « Vhaeryth, is N'rov free? The healers are releasing Dee to go home but don't want her walking alone. » Obviously, there's a little annoyance that Taeliyth doesn't count as enough, even if it's true that another person will have an easier time supporting some of Dee's weight without whisking her off her feet should it become necessary. « We can make him so, » is Vhaeryth's approval, a warmer gleam amidst the weariness that touches even him. « Does she need to be carried? » There are straps for that. The amusement suddenly in Taeliyth's mind is more than it should be. She's relieved, really. Even if other things are awful still, Dee isn't going to die, and that-- that is the most important thing. « Dee says if he tries to carry her, it will only beget rumors, and he wouldn't want that. She doesn't say she would see to it that those rumors get around, but... » This is why Taeliyth is so amused. (Hysterically.) Rumors: « That she will throw up on his back? » That would be bad and wrong. « 'Two small jumps are sometimes better than one big leap.' » « Yes, » Taeliyth decides. That one would be good. Or rather, that she has. Everyone knows goldrider puke smell clings like getting dipped into an eternally odiferous bog. « She is waiting for him. They won't let her go until he comes. » Her thoughts on jumping and leaping are kept private, though there's a wryness to the reception of the words. « Soon, » Vhaeryth says when the man's already there, if stopped short of the ring of doom; N'rov would look exhausted were one to draw him out of motion, but as it is, gray eyes are sharp as ever. Sharper, perhaps. "Hal-llo-oo," he calls. Dee waits at the outermost point of the dragon infirmary, her bag a small one but left on the floor beside her. She might have shouldered it already, save for the watchful eye of the infirmary aide waiting with her. "You're sure you're all right," N'rov says, even as he's already reaching (with an eye for her guardian, lest the aide pounce him and puke instead) for that bag of hers; she can have, his outthrust elbow signals, his other arm. "That's not my call," Dee tells him, simply. "Thank you for coming." She exchanges a few words with the aide who's needed back anyway, so they're left to themselves for the actual departure. The goldrider looks at the arm a moment before taking it, almost reluctant in her contact, just her hand wrapping around his elbow and resting delicately - ready for a firmer grip should she start feeling faint. She must be alright, though, since the infirmary aide didn't seek to stop them. "What's the problem?" N'rov checks, glancing down to her and her seeming lack of commitment. This problem, of all the many. "Nothing. It's just-- weird to touch people." Dee murmurs the confession, seeking to take steps that will lead them toward her weyr, a glance cast to Taeliyth, their other escort. He nods, and doesn't question; she knows the way, but even so he chooses a path that sometimes departs from the shortest route, navigating the odd substantial puddle from a dragon's rough landing or a muddy patch tromped by too many feet. Nor does N'rov make small talk, careful with the human delivery he's about to make. "N'rov," Dee isn't making small talk either. "The Weyr Council decision..." Definitely not small talk. "Despite how you're better," isn't happy. Not by any means. "Despite," Dee agrees. "Taeliyth wants to fight the decision. I want to fight for Taeliyth," her words are quiet, "but I don't feel well yet." Better and well are not the same things. "I'm sure we have time," she lets out a slow exhale. "A little, anyway. I've heard the bets." Already. Even the sick need some entertainment when they're conscious. What rumors Dee must have heard while she was in an infirmary with so many loose lips. "Of course she does." N'rov exhales, looking up before back down, back at her. "There's a lot to be said for someone running things while you need it. But." Dee stops abruptly, giving N'rov a look of what. "Someone else stepping in to take the seniorship when I'm not dead is very different than someone stepping in to run things while I need it." In case he was unclear on that point. There's a hardness to Dahlia's voice that might never have existed before she ended up in the infirmary. He doesn't drag her; he stops, too. "Hence," N'rov tells her quite firmly, "the 'But.' Don't think that I'm looking for this. For any of them." "They bet on my dying." Dahlia's eyes are narrowed, but perhaps because of 'they' not him; who does that?! "They bet on there being no one to mind that some other goldrider was going to come in and try to run a Weyr she might never even have seen. It wasn't a consideration of who would do well by Fort, the best they could do to further their own sharding agendas was to throw it open, and hope they bet well." Dahlia's rage is a cold rage, a feeling that makes her distant, aloof, and nearly frightening, if one forgets she's an eighteen turn old who recently was at death's door. N'rov, who wasn't there, who doesn't know what was considered, can see that nevertheless and all too well; what he can also see is her, and that change. "Keep walking," he tells her. "So," starts to be something. She does, perhaps a little grudgingly. Cutting into whatever N'rov might have said, Dahlia looks up at him, "N'rov, if there's a foreign gold to come here, I need to ask you to chase. To try to win." Obviously, a lot of thought (fevered?) has gone into this. Dee might regret having to ask, but Dahlia asks. "I trust you to lead this Weyr. To help any stranger learn it. I don't want it to come to that, but if it does-- please." She's not really asking as his friend. She's asking as his weyrwoman. There's tightness to his jaw, as it lifts, muscle working there; then he looks down at her again, and then straight ahead. What he doesn't do is slow down. "I suppose," he says finally, though it can't be the first time N'rov's thought of it, likely not the first time someone's told him what they want, but it is Dee/Dahlia this time, "we don't want another Monaco." Only that, another outsider, is only half of it. "Listen," is quiet, and sort of urgent. "I don't think it will come to it," Dee looks wide-eyed up at her friend now, "once I'm well enough, I'll go to the Weyr Council. I'll ask E'dre and Hattie to back me. I'll get it all sorted out." She'll try. "If I'm there, and alive and well and fighting for my position, they'll have to consider it, at least, especially with the Weyr behind me." She hopes. "I just... need there to be a contingency plan." Guess what? That's N'rov. N'rov, whose nod was brief and certain, for sorting; whose nod, as she concludes, is slower. He maneuvers them around another puddle. "If it isn't sorted in time," he says. "May I say again," rueful and just plain tired, "get well soon. Chase, and catch, and help, and lead; and then what, Dee?" "I thought you were the one of us who could tell the future," Dee manages a small wry smile that's underscored by the seriousness of the topic at hand. She exhales heavily and Dahlia goes on, "Pull together," there's a slightly wry glance askance for that, "Rebuild, build anew what can't be salvaged. Work with the Holders to get us all through the turn, and the turns after. Healing takes time, for people and land and life." That last is the most solemn and yet there's a wistfulness that says she would wish it different if she could. "There's the future, and there's what you, we, want." That ends more quietly than it had begun, but not into resignation. Rather, after all that quoting, "That's a lot of Turns." The bronzerider cracks his knuckles, his free hand's knuckles against his thigh, but he lets seriousness show when he looks at Dee. "Then I'll give it a go." N'rov tightens his elbow about her hold, steady and there and something to get better with. They have reached her steps, and so N'rov walks her up them, bag(gage) and all. It's carefully, with decidedly chaste affection, that Dee's peck arrives on N'rov's cheek. It's a sisterly gesture of gratitude. "Thank you," is simple. "Whatever comes, whatever great decisions we have ahead of us, we'll figure it out," together, goes unsaid but there. If nothing else, they're not alone in this. And if N'rov wants to make faces about her kiss, at least it wasn't wet, and at least she didn't ask for a hug. |
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