Logs:Vacation
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| RL Date: 3 January, 2016 |
| Who: Mirinda, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: During Taeliyth's flight, Mirinda and N'rov flee to Monaco. |
| Where: Beach, Monaco Weyr |
| When: Day 17, Month 9, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ali/Mentions, Dahlia/Mentions, E'ten/Mentions, Hattie/Mentions, I'kris/Mentions |
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| Zaisavyth knows things, especially when it comes to the Weyr that she has taken as hers; it's understandable, then, that she knows what's up the moment Taeliyth comes awake. « We're going, » she tells Vhaeryth, surprisingly unfazed by this other proddy queen in her Weyr, though there's something possessive in her announcement... possessive of Vhaeryth. He's coming with; she's already decided. As Taeliyth takes to the pens, Mirinda climbs atop her queen, and her queen circles upwards. It's Monaco they're headed for; that's probably no surprise. There, Zaisavyth circles down towards the beach. Vhaeryth had been lounging; Vhaeryth had been getting oiled, with all the drowsy lassitude that can lead to, that much closer to his rider and his Weyr, mate and autumnal sun and stone. It's a glorious day, he can feel the cycles of it all, and then... and then he's leaving, less because Zaisavyth's decided for him and more because that possessiveness is persuasive; because his rider, after that burst of adrenaline, is urging him up and out and after. Even if that means that he shows up at Monaco half-baked. It's polite to greet the leaders of a foreign Weyr when you arrive, and so Zaisavyth does, though it's with more regal dismissiveness than anything truly genuine; the lateness of the hour makes the perfunctory nature of it acceptable, at least. And Vhaeryth? He's just going to have to get sand in his oil, because that's where she's landing, where her rider is dismounting. Mirinda was dressed for a normal autumn day of meetings: a proper, ankle-length skirt and blouse, over-warm for the early autumn, and definitely over-warm for Monaco's spring, late night or no. She turns her head, gaze lifting towards Vhaeryth, eyes wide with adrenaline. So now Vhaeryth's roughly a quarter sandy, the lower half on the oiled side, but N'rov's not laughing; N'rov hasn't straps to hang onto as he slides down from his bronze's neck, his bronze who spreads his wings (and spills some more sand, flung there by Zaisavyth's wind) with dramatic magnificence. N'rov, in loose trous and patchy tunic and no boots at all, finds Mirinda's gaze like a lodestone; "He's here," he says quickly, so obvious and yet so close. "She was quick enough... Shells." Zaisavyth admires; good Vhaeryth, showing Monaco how it is done. "Shells," agrees Mirinda, on a ragged exhale. "There were no hints, N'rov. I had no idea. And--" She shakes her head, wide eyes lowering towards the ground. "I'm just relieved Zaisavyth didn't feel threatened. That could have been bad, N'rov. I'm glad you came." "Nor had I." Had Vhaeryth? He's not saying, that neck arching and cresting now that his rider's down, reaching to snap his teeth playfully shy of Zaisavyth's copper-gold sails before casting a look over his shoulder at the moonlit ocean. "I hope she never does," N'rov says. "Feel threatened. I'm glad too." He shifts his stance on that hot sand, not solely because of the heat on his soles, sand not as hot as the sands that had been theirs. "Glad he didn't get a better whiff of Taeliyth, it's never been that close," and he just doesn't know. Mirinda exhales heavily, then turns her attention to rolling up the heavy sleeves of her blouse, removing the shawl she'd had wrapped about her shoulders. "He would have chased her," she says, too evenly for there to be any suggestion of jealousy. "If you'd stayed?" And, "Don't tell her that." "I don't know," N'rov says as tersely as if he really had said it before, out loud, where any of them could hear. "I won't. It's better this way." It's the lack of evenness in his voice that may dispel any suggestion of doubt; he moves to take her shawl, as so often he does. "I want her to claim him." Mirinda's expression is a silent apology, one that hovers on her lips but is not actually released. She focuses, instead, on allowing the bronzerider, her weyrleader, to take the shawl. And, "She will. She does." Of course she does: allowing those snapping teeth, angling her own neck to make the game all the more enticing. And mocking, with a wave of amusement, that sand-covered quarter. "At least," she supposes, aiming to sound brighter, "this way there was no build-up for Dahlia. And we won't be exiled for all that long." The positives. He cups her shoulder, briefly, before he folds that shawl. There's nowhere to put it, really, so he just slings it over his arm, and slants a look up to what the night reveals of their dragons. Vhaeryth sees that mockery, and raises it, stretching after that singular neck of Zaisavyth's and allowing as how that sand's just armor, really; it means she daren't get him. Which means N'rov's just starting to check, "A surprise is bet--" when it becomes a quick-laughed, "Let's get out of the way." Time to follow the native? She inclines her head forward, a subtle motion, in reply to that cupping of her shoulder; if there's a specific message to it, it's not an obvious one. "Yes," she agrees. "Let's. Shall we walk? Or there's a bar--" He'd know that, of course. Either one is a good excuse to start walking, booted feet shifting and sinking within the sand. Zaisavyth's amusement echoes between them, shadows upon a fiery-dark sea. She extends her wings, lurching just a short distance off of the sand: chase. "Walk," N'rov agrees and confirms anyway; without his jacket, he's without the small flask he keeps there, or marks, or... then he has to laugh, hot-footing it with her. "No bar, but imagine if we did. 'Why yes, we are the Weyrleaders of Fort, escaping our junior's flight, which is why you should ply us for free'... or do you have marks secreted somewhere?" Is she dropping them like crumbs, to find her way home? Vhaeryth, not being a mere human, could run them down; Vhaeryth, being far more intent on his queen, leaps to skim just over the rolling water than truly for the skies. "I'm sure my credit is still good," says Mirinda, more blithe and carefree now that she's home... or perhaps because she's set aside her duties, for the moment; just plain Mirinda, never mind the reason for her visit. Her boots are probably already full of sand, but she struggles onwards, glancing back to smile at N'rov as her queen skirts over Vhaeryth and moves higher, rumbling her amusement as she extends her neck, swooping across the waves. She knows these waves; they're her own, as much hers as the ones within her mental landscape. "I suppose. I'd have to be reliant upon your benefices, and properly grateful... since you didn't shave your head into unrecognizability or anything," N'rov says, aiming to angle them closer to the water where it's easier for her to tread, or else closer to shore if that's her inclination: anywhere but that in between. Vhaeryth veers sharply to the side before ascending, lest she crowd him back into those waters of hers! Mirinda's mouth twitches. "I did consider it," she tells N'rov, lifting one hand to pull her bangs back, leaving her long, wide forehead bare. "I could be a whole new person. But..." Alas. N'rov's angling redirects her path, smoothing her pace. Closer to the water, then, but well out of reach of their dragons. Zaisavyth descends, avoiding Vhaeryth but only just until her wings trail across the gentle waves. N'rov makes to gawk, with a grin. "You could. I suppose it would grow back," a surely insurmountable flaw in any plan. "Mine was longer, once upon a time." Curlier. Vhaeryth, for his part, makes to skid out of her way... only to dash back in again, either confident in his 'armor' or in its lack. "Alas," says Mirinda, faux-wistful. "I suppose I'll never manage to be a whole new person. My disguise is flawed." She studies N'rov's face-- his hair, mostly-- and then nods. "I can imagine it. You'd make a very pretty girl." « Cheeky, » Zaisavyth decides, drawing her bulk back away from the water. They may go around in circles for hours, at this rate. The grin becomes, on cue, a glower. N'rov even furrows his brows at Mirinda and everything. "Don't you say such a thing," he tells her... in a falsetto. Cheekily. Vhaeryth is, right down to his, « 'Make a wise choice every day,' » only his is deadpan. He'll fly up after her, and toy at nipping at her wingtip as it passes by, now: hours and hours indeed. Mirinda's laughter is distantly related to a giggle... and then less distantly related. "Come now. How can the Weyrleader of Fort, the first Weyr, not be secure in his masculinity? I had expected better from you!" « You were wise, » declares Zaisavyth. « And therefore so am I. » She chose. She chooses again now, too: chooses to push higher, encourage him after her. "You," N'rov leans to bump shoulders with her, or at least biceps-to-shoulder, "did not see me wearing Hattie's dress. No, really, don't laugh," means do laugh, "it was for a 'turnabout time' of sorts. Fort was mellow, so for... a few days? a seven? we drew lots and changed ranks about... except I'm pretty sure someone whose name rhymes with 'Tally' had her hand in it, because my clutchmate E'ten was my Weyrleader. Also, it wasn't strictly Hattie's dress, because that would have split," alas! "so I had to make do." « 'Therefore'? » Vhaeryth's amusement spikes; « Surely you were wise to begin with, » might speak to his after all; it surely doesn't slow him down. So much more familiar with each other's flight by now, it hasn't lost for him its luster, not when he can predict her path and not with her surprises. Of course she laughs; softly at first, and then harder, eyes bright with mirth as she considers N'rov with big, dark eyes. "I wish I'd seen it," she says, genuinely, mouth twitching. "It sounds like fun. We... may need to think of things like that to lighten the mood, this winter. If the tithes comes in short. But not that, because that would be repetitive." « Wisdom is as wisdom does, » says Zaisavyth, less erudite but still heated with that roiling wave of hers, one that moves like she does: stretching away, higher and higher. "If we do it three times, it becomes Tradition," N'rov reminds, or possibly teases, his next steps more mincing before he returns to his usual stride. It carries him away from her, if in the same direction, where the first of the waves can catch at his feet; some he hops over, some he allows to get him. "I have to admit, I don't know what else would do that, that's not just messing around and starting something bigger. A wing's worth of people, they're mostly easy to liven up, but a Weyr? That's not just singing songs or roasts, verbal and edible, or what have you." Vhaeryth lets Zaisavyth's words be his last, for now, sharpening his course up and (mostly) after, up (and around) and away. Mirinda inhales, sharply, though her expression softens, too, as her gaze follows those mincing steps. "I don't have any ideas, either," she admits. "And I don't even know if it is going to get tight. And... now is probably not the right time to worrying about it, really, is it? This is a vacation." Sort of. N'rov stops with any would-be supposition in favor of, "Vacation. You're right," and it sounds so much better than 'exile' besides. "'Barefoot' is good for 'vacations,' you know." He lifts a brow at her, lets the moonlight catch that and his quick smile. "Is it? I wouldn't know; I'm not sure I've ever properly vacationed before. But," Mirinda moves into a crouch, positioned to begin the removal of her boots. "I'm willing to learn. Besides, I'd prefer not to take half the beach home with me. What else is good for vacations? Educate me." This time, the way he looks at her lengthens, that smile playing along his lips: quieter, then momentarily deeper, considering. "Socks go off too," N'rov instructs, as though she could possibly have supposed otherwise. He's stopped too, even if it does mean the littlest waves play around his ankles. That consideration slows his voice, too. "Only a quarter of the beach, at most. Relaxing, something old like that, or going after something new. Something you wouldn't normally do." Socks as well? Mirinda smiles, playing dumb, playing as if she's never walked on a beach before. The socks go; they get stuffed into the boots, bare toes wiggling in the sand that still contains residual heat from the day before. "Relaxing," she repeats, smile in her voice. "Shall we build a sandhold by moonlight? I don't think I've done that since I was a child, and back then it wouldn't have been at night." N'rov glances towards that wiggling; "We could," he agrees. "We probably shouldn't go to a tidepool and see what we could find to nibble at your toes." "Have you seen Monacoan tidepools? It might take my whole foot off!" Mirinda's exaggeration makes her smile, but her gesture is enthusiastic. "And then we could build a driftwood fire." His brows go up. "Your foot?!" N'rov glances over his shoulder and aims to make haste, away from the ocean that might get him too, and towards the boots so as to scoop them up in lieu. Regardless of success, "The kind that turns colors, purple and blue." Not that he has flint. Nor tinder as such. Nor booze. "An often under-estimated danger," avers Mirinda, cheerfully, gaze following N'rov, and those now-kidnapped boots. "In that case, we'd only need one of these." N'rov eyes her. "Though we don't know left or right, do we? So we might as well take two." Mirinda opens her mouth, then stops. Then laughs. "Just in case," she agrees, mock-grave. "I'd hate to try and hobble around with a missing foot and the wrong boot." "Absolutely," N'rov agrees, less close to grave than goofy. Pushing her hair back behind one ear, Mirinda straightens, wiggling her toes. "When I was very little, one of my cousins-- a distant cousin, that is-- convinced Kris and I that all fish had teeth and could eat us whole. And then he pushed Kris into one of the deeper tidepools." Kris. N'rov looks briefly perplexed, but then, Kris. A rough, tight, sharp exhale. Mirinda looks pained. "I'kris. He was a little boy, once. An innocent." Her arms wrap about her shoulders, as if she's abruptly feeling a chill. "Shells," N'rov mutters under his breath, not anything like goofy now. He's looking at her in the moonlight, the rolled-up sleeves and thin arms and how it's all she's got. "What happened then?" It could be that she forgot, just briefly, everything that happened after that childhood; the shock in Mirinda's expression would certainly point towards that. But she swallows, exhales, and says, "I jumped in after him. We climbed out. He had nightmares for a seven, and our mother yelled at the cousin's mother, and she just laughed. He-- Kris-- didn't come back to the beach for months, after." "Of course you did," is an undertone, no doubt there at all; N'rov draws quiet then, with the beginnings of a frown and then far more than that; the woman laughs and he drops the boots, half on one of his feet but no matter, to put his arm (make that arms, the shawl awkwardly half-clutched) around her instead. He doesn't say a word; his jaw's too tight for that. Mirinda's a stiff armful, at first, but then she softens, easing herself into the bronzerider. "I forget," she admits. "Sometimes. That he's my little brother, always, but that... most people will never think of him that way, and why should they? I forget." So he wraps her in, and it's a moment before he thinks to angle an arm to let her better breathe. "Why should you remember," N'rov says in a way that's no real question at all. His hand strokes her shoulders, unassuming, warm. "He's your brother." Breathing's not too much of an issue, as if Mirinda half just wants to bury her face. But with the angling of that arm, she releases a breath, giving a little, miserable nod. "Long before he was anything else," she agrees. "But... but it's not that simple, is it. He'll always be my brother, but he'll also always be a murderer." She doesn't falter over the word. "And that trumps a lot. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to..." De-vacate? N'rov stands there like he would until sunrise, like he would as long as the dragons will fly; his hand's stopped, but to hold her shoulder still. "Yeah," he can only suppose. "I..." his fingers flex with that uncertainty, briefly, "don't know what it's like; the worst my brother... it doesn't matter, I suppose." What could compare to hers? But, "You know who he was before, you remember, and that makes that not go away. What those other people think, what they know even, that'll never be all there is." Another long exhale precedes Mirinda's words; a sigh, really, but less ragged, now, and more like a release. "Yes," she agrees, pulling away from N'rov but only so that she can smile up at him, a little raw about the edges but honest. "Thank you. For the reminder. And... for letting me talk. It's nice to be allowed to remember the good things, sometimes. Shall we walk?" It's not sunrise, yet, but she did smile. N'rov doesn't return it right away, still looking so serious, but then his mouth slants up to one side; "Of course." He reaches unhurriedly around to steal a bit of her hair, the hair that she hadn't shaved, to tickle her cheekbone with its tip; then there are the boots to reclaim, the shawl to adjust, his elbow to offer. They can walk; they don't need a destination. Their dragons can find them wherever they are. |
Comments
Alida (01:46, 4 January 2016 (PST)) said...
I like seeing these two interact...especially off-the-cuff.
Kaleidoscope (08:44, 4 January 2016 (PST)) said...
Awww, Mirinda! The feelz! <3
I love when things steal N'rov's canned crypticness and air of mystery.
Much enjoyed!
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