Logs:Fashionably Late
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| RL Date: 1 August, 2012 |
| Who: N'rov, Azaylia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'rov makes it to the weyrwarming bash just as it's getting good. And he comes bearing gifts! |
| Where: Azaylia and Hraedhyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 20, Month 5, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Brieli/Mentions, K'del/Mentions |
| Azaylia and Hraedhyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr Accessed via a narrow staircase from the Weyrleader's Complex, or from the broad, sunny ledge beyond, this weyr was clearly designed to be for one of the weyr's junior queens. Spacious, but not extravagant, it boasts a well-sized outer room, narrowing in front the well-sized dragon couch and ledge beyond. Much of this main room has been turned over to a couch and several chairs, which circle the hearth and the blue rug set down in front of it. There's a low table here, too, set in the middle of that rug. A tack-cupboard stands tidily behind the couch, keeping out of sight a rider's paraphernalia. Three low steps lead up onto a peculiar little landing, just large enough for the brand new desk and set of shelves that have been placed there. Here, too, there are definite pointers to the lived-in state of the weyr: the desk could in no way be described as tidy. Behind the desk, a narrow passage leads in an inner set of chambers, made up of a sleeping cavern and a private bathing area. A decent-sized bed fills much of the space, the mattress piled high with overstuffed down pillows and comforter. There's a nightstand on either side, and against one of the other walls, a tall, heavy wardrobe made from a dark wood that matches the bed. The bathing area is part of the same cavern, a folding screen shielding the toilet and slightly raised, double-sized bathtub built into the stone, and a small shelf to hold toiletries. Unusually, the walls, ceiling and floor of this weyr have all been whitewashed thickly, covering the natural stone. The hearth is brand new, too, as are most of the built-in fittings, as though they have recently needed to be replaced. So as it happens, there was this story of an upcoming /party/, a weyrwarming, anyway... and that's why Vhaeryth bursts out of /between/, aiming for genial and managing something closer to boisterous. Of /course/ he greets Cadejoth, per request. Of /course/, he bespeaks Iesaryth, shortest-of-short-notice incoming. Hraedhyth? There's a distant, creaky jingling as though of foil-thin chimes hung in trees. Or a tambourine, maybe. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth, Cadejoth, and Iesaryth) The tide that rolls out to welcome the bronze - Iesaryth's - is typically warm and bright, sunlight on waves. Perhaps a touch warmer right now, despite efforts to dampen that before the others. She's perched on her ledge to watch the gathering of dragons below Hraedhyth's; there's room for him here though her rider is somewhere in there - her sister's weyr, spilling forth people and noise and light into the darkness. (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth, Hraedhyth, and Cadejoth) To Hraedhyth, Iesaryth, and Vhaeryth, Cadejoth may only be watching the revelries, but he has the situation well in hand all the same. For the incoming bronze, his rattle of bones is restrained, but not unwelcoming: he has made his introductions, he is allowed. For now. Only now could Vhaeryth tred on her lands without difficulty, this day that is quickly fading into night. « Welcome! » Hraedhyth roars from where she's lost among so many Reachian dragons, perhaps using a bit too much force in greeting the Fortian. Black smoke and stomping feet to rattle the bronze mentally, but nothing compares to those drums that may even drown out the ones struck within her weyr. « Iesaryth watches. » Since she's sure that's where he wants to be. The implication that he's too weak manages not to involve her Sister's strength- Iesaryth could be down here if she wanted. (Hraedhyth to Vhaeryth, Cadejoth, and Iesaryth) For now. Vhaeryth descends, following the sunlit warmth like a lighthouse's beacon, just a missed wingbeat somewhere along the line: something to do with the sound of not-so-distant drums, perhaps? (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth, Hraedhyth, and Cadejoth) There's a missed wingbeat, then: « Hraedhyth! » Vhaeryth reverberates back to her, the clanging of shield to shield. Fairly new shields, admittedly, as yet unscarred, just a dimple of a dent here and there. « Hraedhyyyyyth, » for the fun of it, more like a feral canine's yi-yi-yi call. He sends quick assent, lands on her sister's ledge... as that's where she seems to want him, after all. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) The raucousness is a beacon of another sort, one N'rov enters gladly, his riding gear swapped for casual trous and shirtsleeves... and with a traditional bottle under one arm, along with a less-traditional lump in his pocket that almost certainly doesn't have to do with him being happy to see them. As for his knot? It got abandoned with his jacket, alas. To Vhaeryth, Hraedhyth is so sure that it's her will being done when the foreign bronze lands near her sister. Uh huh, sure. Sorry, she can't see the two being disgusting- having too much fun! It's a whirling madness on the senses, impossible to tell whether the stomping is real or a product of the gold's savage joy. Drums everywhere; in their heads, in their ears, and the sound of merriment that pours from the weyr. She is teaching her tribe and their riders, showing them how to celebrate Hraedhyth-style. So much for a small get together. The weyr is packed with bodies, some riders some not, all seeming to enjoy themselves. A low table has been picked clean, a good deal of tea untouched and left to cool. The liquor should have run out just as soon, but with the state everyone's in it's a good bet that many have brought their own. There's dancing (or something like it) on the side closest to the harpers, and several games of dragon poker have broken out with each group more rowdy than the last. And where is the hostess? Somewhere. She has to be, unless all the chaos has overwhelmed the poor dear and chased her out of her own home. Is she here, is there, is she anywhere? While N'rov refuses to hesitate before walking into the sea of visitors, greeting people here and there in a casual sort of way but also with an eye for how the other half lives, Vhaeryth's listening just now, right at first. It's hard to distance oneself in such noise, to keep a sense of /separate/, but for now he lets it wash over him as observer rather than participant, watching how even this might ebb and flow. And in the meantime, N'rov's started to drop in questions here and there, 'have they seen Az,' even as he searches for that face never seen in the flesh. It may be daunting at how many people answer N'rov with a distracted "Who?" There may be just as many shrugs, and folks who know Azaylia (or of her) and still can't point the bronzerider in the right direction. And suddenly, counting. "One... two... three!" Followed by a frightened squeak that borders on a squeal, a wave of strong arms and backs used to hoist her up. The young woman is flailing somewhat, head turning this way and that too fast to catch her expression save for those wide, brown eyes. Carried over the crowd, function over form is the only reason half of her guests aren't being flashed as Azaylia is passed off as if she weighs nothing. Eventually snatched away and set rightly on her feet, the gold weyrling simply stands there with hands over her face and shoulders which threaten to quake. This is where N'rov could rush over and put his arm around her and ask is she all right, is she all right? but no: he's waiting a moment or two, to see who cares about her or at least who cares about a girl plonked down like that, or else whether she's about to drop her hands and start laughing after all. Which doesn't stop him easing a few steps closer anyway, in case. Though there are tears, N'rov's hesitation is rewarded with a bright smile as her hands fall away. Azaylia still can't seem to make a sound, or if she is it's far too quiet to be heard over everyone else. Shoulders still shaking with laughter, she bends forward to tuck clasped hands into her skirt and tries to catch her breath. Pigtails are long gone, dark waves messy in a manner that can only be managed when one is having too much fun to care. All /right/, then. N'rov crouches, the better to squint up at Azaylia, not to mention act as a buffer of sorts for the crowd. "Wine," he says with a good-humored quirk of one brow, almost as though it were her name, as though she should recognize it, as though she should recognize /him/. Azaylia squints through her blurred vision, not expecting a face to suddenly appear. Another sharp squeak as she straightens, "Oh!" Genuine fear is quick to melt into a friendly smile. He isn't the first unfamiliar man she's met tonight and he isn't bound to be the last. "Uhm, I don't know if there is anymore..." Palms and fingers are used to wipe her flushed face clean, making it even more difficult for him to hear her naturally quiet voice. "Did you ask around? People've been very sweet about sharing." "No, no. Here," N'rov says, standing to follow her up, letting the bottle slip into his hand as he does. Perhaps he doesn't instantaneously deciphe, but then, "Wine for /you/. It's your weyr, yes?" He's got the base, he's offering her the neck, but it's still weighted mostly towards the base. "Brieli's getting her own present, but these are for you." Will she check the label? Will she take it at all? Azaylia wears her momentary confusion on her face, and he'll be able to see the moment she understands what he's saying. Another sudden inhale, words even more breathless as her eyes scan over the label. "Thank you." She accepts the gift, cradling it securely in one arm. With good reason, as she's jostled by a few people passing by. It only convinces her to take a few steps forward and out of the way, still looking at N'rov. "Oh, you're a friend of Bri-" Click click wait. Realization. And then... oh goodness, could those eyes get any bigger? It's from Boll, of course, and good if you like the fruity type: maybe N'rov thinks she might, maybe that's all he has, but either way he follows her those few easy steps, leaning one hand against the nice, cool, probably non-moving (for all that sometimes it may feel like it) wall. And as she stops, as those eyes get big, he gives her a grin that's full of boyish mischief. "At your service. In the flesh." One hand lifts to tap an eyetooth. "There aren't even fangs. ...You all right?" Azaylia is so good at staring. In answer to the previous narrative, yes, somehow her eyes manage to widen with each passing moment. At least she doesn't seem scared this time, just... in shock. The whitewashed wall is bare, a little pocket for them to speak in as long as he doesn't mind the sizable herdbeast skull resting on a shelf nearby. Lips part and some unearthly, pathetic squeak begins to ease from her throat before she suddenly stops trying to speak. Embarrassment has her hands flying back up to her face, wine held in place against her chest by her arm. "M'Azaylia." She manages to introduce herself, though it's hardly necessary. It's something, at least. He waits with seeming patience, continuing to lean, eyes largely on her face. And yes, that smile reappears at that squeak of hers, if it had ever been truly gone. "N'rov," buys her time. "Vhaeryth's," of course. "Do I get to call you 'Az'?" No hurry. Not for him, anyway, although moments later, Vhaeryth stops just watching the throng and finally bounds right off the ledge and into it. N'rov stretches his fingers against the wall, just shy of cracking their knuckles. Peeking at him through her fingers helps. So does his introductions. Her silence can only last so long in such an environment, and as sobering as the surprise meeting is it's no match for the amount of liquor she's had so far. Azaylia goes from being still to a fit of soft giggles that seems disproportionate to how much they make her body move. "Az, or Zay?" She offers with a smile, bashful and pleased all at once. Hraedhyth will roar at the new body, one she hasn't yet dragged her hide against and shoulderchecked. It's affectionate and rough all at once, just like her! "Sounds like a primer, from Az to Zay,'" N'rov jokes, gray eyes staying on her expression, not straying for more than an instant. "One or the other, or maybe alternating." He does turn slightly, head and shoulder, as still-young Vhaeryth rears onto hind legs (look! he's still taller!) and jolts into the charge, and then the man's shaking his head, laughing. "Looks like quite a bash. Anyway, here." Whatever he's just dug into his pocket, he's weighing it in his hand, and at the last moment offers it to her on his palm instead of just tossing it: a small light cylinder of horn or maybe it's bone, with decorative hash marks scored into it and darkened, one indentation going all the way around. "Good luck with /betweening/, don't get lost. All right?" He straightens then, dusting his hands together, less as though the whitewash might have rubbed off and more out of habit. Probably. Azaylia giggles even more, shoulders giving an upwards bump at how her names sound. She can't help it! But she can enjoy his little joke, and does so. "It's... something alright." Whatever her quiet weyrwarming has turned into, it's not inherently bad in the weyrling's opinion. It's now that she remembers to look into the crowd, search cut short as N'rov extends his palm. "What's this?" Said just as she plucks it out of his hand, fingertips smoothing over the cylinder. Eyes shift from their inspection back up to his face, "O-Oh, thank you. Yes, we won't. Ah- I don't know where Brieli is. You'll find her?" Hraedhyth gives another throaty bellow at the sight of Vhaeryth, and for all those times she's threatened she won't bang him up too badly. Nothing overly vicious. For this night, he is welcome to join in on the celebrations, though there's no telling how she'll feel the next day. Now is the only thing that matters. "Just a little box. Nothing in it, yet. That's for you to decide," and there's that mischief again: just how easy will that be? As for his girl, "I've found her," N'rov not-quite-corrects. "I'll find her again. Bye for now, Zay," and he gives her a flourish of a bow before turning to melt into the crowd: not hunting, not hurrying, just aiming for socializing with the masses without getting decked... in a way that might /also/ keep him from getting decked later. Maybe. As for Vhaeryth, he'll indulge in some boisterous play, a shove of forepaws or shoulder maybe, before his rider calls him unwillingly back to Iesaryth's ledge: playing is one thing, but if he accidentally injured some /High Reaches/ dragon... evidently it's not a risk N'rov wants to take. And yes, he'll disappear before dawn. The only question: will the party? How many times in a night can Azaylia say thank you and still mean it? A lot. Each more breathless than the last. She's reluctant to let him leave, if only because her curiosity has been piqued. Certainly not because he's easy on the eyes or anything. But there are other riders for that, and she lets N'rov go on a Brieli hunt with a wiggle of her fingers. "Bye!" Somewhat sing-song, she gazes down at the bottle and her box with a small smile. The attempt she makes to put them safely away in her bedroom is hard to miss, what with another startled squeal and a trio of half-dressed riders being shooed out. Hraedhyth will snort at Vhaeryth's retreat, but even in this she doesn't linger for long. He's saved from her ridicule by the same festive force which drives her to celebrate until her brawny figure gives out. |
Comments
Brieli (Brieli) left a comment on Thu, 02 Aug 2012 01:40:56 GMT.
That's the squeakiest Azaylia's been in a long time!
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