Logs:Snow Happy
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| RL Date: 25 October, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'rov comes to see High Reaches' new clutch. |
| Where: Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 23, Month 1, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Snowing. |
| Mentions: A'rist/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: The most backdated scene there ever was. |
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| High Reaches is blanketed in white, though the dunes and plateaus of snow change as the day wears on. It's such a severe contrast to the consistently-warm hatching cavern with its now-singular queen in residence and her quickly hardening brood of thirteen. In the morning, the galleries are mostly empty, but Farideh is present, sitting in the dignitary section, utilizing a cushion. She's been there for a bit now, evidenced by the now-cold mug of drink and the blanket draped over her lap. Hides and books form a tidy stack next to her, and in her hands she's got another cracked open to the middle from which she reads with focused attention. There's nothing out of the ordinary here-- not the weyrwoman's simple attire, her sleeping dragon's manner, or the tranquility of the atmosphere. Vhaeryth hasn't sought to tease at more than the edges of Roszadyth's dreams, once he realizes to let her rest in peace. Peaceful too are the bronzerider's quiet footsteps as he heads inside, pausing for an expanded breath of the warm air with the relief of someone who's just arriving, of who hasn't had to stay and stay and stay. He surveys the cavern; spots the few people, each by each; stays there, brows slanted, for a few moments; and then leaves. That might be all, except that not long thereafter he returns, quickly and decisively as he makes for the row behind the seated girl. He has now, after all, three hard-packed snowballs in his care. The quiet entry of the bronzerider doesn't garner Farideh's attention, not with her nose stuck in a book as it is now, but something changes in his reentry; a gust of wind, a scuffed toe, or a cough from above? Whichever, has the weyrwoman looking up and frowning, though not towards N'rov. Book poised between her palms, she surveys the eggs, still nestled in their sandy nests, before tipping her head up to glance behind. There. He gives her a wry look, and lifts one of his prizes on a gloved hand as though he were indeed a wine pourer, or one of those other fabled people who make the world go 'round: snowball? At least it's not someone's head. In his natural Boll-touched baritone, "Overheated yet?" It takes an awkward silence, and perhaps a half, for the goldrider's lips to set in a signal of oh and close her book. "I don't mind the heat at all-- do you?" Farideh is staring pointedly at the snowball he's holding out to her, without actually accepting it. "Not when I'm used to it," N'rov assures. "It's not as though there's an ocean to jump in here. Or a pool." He glances at the snowball, as though seeing it for the first time; "It's not yellow snow, for what it's worth. And, Farideh," turned back to her now, despite even the hardpack beginning to melt in his palm, "I didn't know who you are." "Fort is in much the same boat as High Reaches." Farideh, given the chance to stare at him up close, takes the opportunity. "Not quite the same. Not Ista or-- Igen." Her lips curve upwards then, in a smile that's not effusive. "I didn't expect you to. I didn't know who you were until after. It was when I was trying to figure out whom those annoying riders from Monaco were, and everyone else. I was surprised. Right under my very own nose." N'rov crosses his eyes at Farideh, just for a moment as she gets to staring, and then sets the snowballs down next to him; that way he can strip off his jacket while she talks, can set it to his other side and roll up his sleeves. "A surprise for me too, believe me. I don't hunt down flights." He takes back one of the others, tossing it lightly from one hand to the other; it's wet, cool, melting. "'Under your own nose.' Do you feel tricked?" The back and forth of the snowball, as it melts, has Farideh's eyes dancing to the movements. "No?" Her voice is light and free of recrimination, but the smile remains. "I don't know what to think. It's an unthinkable series of coincidences. Don't you think? First, to meet at Ista, and then--" Fingers curling around her chin, her eyes slant to the snowball again. "Your fingers will freeze off if you're not careful." N'rov's own smile's tugged wry; "I'm not always careful," he says, and perhaps as proof, changes the snowball's motion: instead of hand to hand, swayed forward and back, forward and back, as though he'd toss it to her. And he does, on three. "I believe that." Farideh's smile dies, then. It's because he's tossing that snowball at her. She has a moment of panic, her eyes widening, but she just manages to have the icy mess slide into the cup of her hands-- and promptly roll off and splat on the ground. "Oops." Is he mad? She isn't looking up to see. He's underhanded, but only literally; this time, N'rov says, "Now," as he releases the melting ball towards her hands. This time the snowball is easily captured, even if Farideh is staring at it like an odd creature that crawled up from the pipes. "Are we to throw it back and forth?" she asks, only glancing up through her eyelashes at the bronzerider. "If you like," N'rov says, a smile fleeting through gray eyes. "And when it melts all the way, there's a prize in the center... No. Sorry. I'd just thought you might like to cool off," and he runs his snowmelt-wet palms down his forearms illustratively. "Don't be such a tease," is said of his offer and then take-away of prizes; how dare he! "You could have gotten the same results-- better-- with a nice, frosty beverage. Ice cream." Farideh is laughing by the end, and despite her words, good-naturedly touches the quickly-melting mass to her cheek, which is rosy; likely from the heat of the cavern. "What brings you here today? All the way to offer me snow?" N'rov has a quick grin at that; the lift and fall of his shoulders is all quietly debonair, as though he couldn't help himself one bit. "Apparently. Is there a better reason? Aside from," and here N'rov's drawl deepens, "'I wanted to warm up after sweeps, and Southern was just too far away.' Also, I saw A'rist last time." The snowball leaves a glistening spot on her face where it's touched, but she doesn't seem to mind. "I don't know that I'd seek out the hatching cavern of a High Reaches if I wanted to get away from the cold," Farideh laughs, and once she's gotten control of the sound, "Did you? Was he welcoming, at least?" "No? Where would you recommend I go next time, then?" as though N'rov's perfectly willing to be guided. A'rist, though; the bronzerider grows thoughtful, looking past Farideh before returning to meet her gaze. "Seemed the most... content I've seen him for a long time." "Anywhere." Farideh slips the snowball from one hand to the next, as it melts and dribbles between her fingers. "Ista? Igen. Nerat. Boll. They're not quite as far as Southern." Her smile is bright until then, when it dims. "Have you known him very long? I confess I don't know him much at all." The third snowball's just sitting there, melting all on its own; N'rov's watching what she does with hers. He might play, along or otherwise, but she goes on; "Since he stood for Vhaeryth and Iesaryth. I like to keep in touch with his get," might be the simplest way of putting it. "But I don't know how much use I'll be to you, there, Farideh." It's a statement, his look at her the question. The snowball goes splat as she drops it on the floor and turns to face the gallery railing, after giving N'rov a very appropriate, pursed-like stare. "No. You wouldn't be, and I don't suppose it really matters." Farideh falls silent for a short period, her eyes scanning the eggs below, before she finally says, "All of them? At all the Weyrs?" Which meets with the all too polite angle of a brow. N'rov's evidently fine with the silence; when she breaks it, though, he remarks, "They aren't exactly at all the Weyrs. Not even," dry as the last snowball he's picking up isn't, especially as he squeezes it to condense the ice and let the water drip, "the entire northern continent." A beat or two later, it's back to A'rist. "Why wouldn't it matter?" "How many has he sired by now?" Farideh asks, watching him with open curiosity; maybe she expects him not to know. "Because, it shouldn't, right? It's just what it is. It's a--" with a peculiar hand gesture, "and then-- but you're not friends. You don't have to know them, after. It's not like you're weyrleaders together. They're just the lucky soul whose dragon happened to be there at the right moment. It could have been anyone." A slight duck of his chin precedes N'rov's wry, "Three." And, "Thankfully, juniors." For the rest, he's got a roll of his shoulders. "It could've," yet his tone suggests otherwise even before, "But it wasn't, see? Maybe you don't have to, but you get to." He moves his hand, moves the drips, creating a pattern that dries on the stone nearly as quickly as it's formed. "Plus, heritage." "Three and the potential for more," Farideh says, idly, but she's re-focusing on the second portion of their talk with alacrity. "If you want to. Not everyone's meant to be-- friends, partners--" She shrugs, punctuating the gesture with a sigh. "What does heritage have to do with anything?" Here and there, where the drip-patterns overlap, the stone stays darker, damper; when N'rov avoids those spots, though, even that doesn't last. "Why not?" he says for wanting. "Though I don't believe a whole lot in 'meant to be.' Heritage..." Now N'rov sits back, snowmelt pooling in his hand that's set safely away from his trous, its back to the stone. "It's the connections, I suppose," and perhaps it's the quasi-tautology that has him giving her a rueful look rather than immediately continuing. "Why not?" comes with a mirthless laugh. "You can't want to make the acquaintance of everyone-- or can you? A'rist is-- he's-- different. It's too awkward. I'd rather not. I'm sure he's a-- nice person." It's a lukewarm description, accompanied by small, mincing expressions that mostly denote ambivalent emotion. "Do you keep up with the people you've slept with, because of your dragon? That seems odd." N'rov can't seem to help a slantwise smile, a lift of open palms: what can he say. "Acquaintance isn't so hard. It's not like it requires more." Perhaps it's Farideh's difficulty that forestalls a rolling laugh as she continues, as her face moves like that, laughter dwelling instead in his eyes. "Yes, I require them to sign a book with their names and contact information, that I have procured precisely for the purpose. ...No, actually. It depends on the people. A'rist and awkwardness aside, aren't you interested in what traits you'll be able to pick out, whether they're like him," Lythronath, "or her? Which are dragons of their line, and which are sports, or throwbacks? Do they always wind up the way they begin?" "It is strange, is what I'm saying. I'd rather not--" Farideh's nose scrunches up. "I suppose I'm not that adapted to weyrlife, even now. Not even after-- everything, but seeing them, being friends with them, after that. After a flight? It seems lewd." She gives him a sidelong look, that is part sulk, part apprehension; is this real-Weyr life!? And the latter, well: "No." Simple. "Have anyone remember that he touched as much as your pinky finger?" N'rov interrupts with his guess, with a grin. Then, "'Lewd.' How is that lewd? The way I figure, turning the cold shoulder gives people more to gossip about. And no, the book's not real. The rest..." He glances out with a half-crooked smile, then back to Farideh. "Maybe that part's due to my grandmother's inculcating family stories, such as they are. Though we never threw litters, and ours are much less inbred than theirs." "Yes," since he mentioned it! "It's something I think I'd rather not talk about again. Certainly, not brought up in polite conversation or bantered around like it's funny-- we all know what happens, but that doesn't mean we need to linger on it. Unless you're a partnership of weyrwoman and weyrleader, I don't see much of a need." Farideh's face is long when she looks at him next. "Dragon lineage is not quite the same as-- say, Blood lineage. There's many more of them to count and it's not as though you're trying to pick out an heir." "I can't promise not to banter," N'rov admits with perhaps-too-solemn truthfulness, and opens his hand, the last of the droplets falling to their stony doom; at least it's a well-meaning admission, if still (for the snowmelt) a tragic metaphor. "No, it's not. Thank Faranth, no heir. No hatred for centuries. Not even worries about how they'll arrange their," he touches his, and grins at her even as he stands and takes up his jacket, "'hair.'" With that, and good luck wished, the bronzerider escapes. |
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