Logs:Grow And Change
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| RL Date: 23 March, 2014 |
| Who: Azaylia, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: One rainy evening, R'hin picks on Azaylia. Or, helps her grow. Depends on which one you ask. |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 4, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Heavy, driving rain makes everything a wet and muddy mess today. |
| Mentions: Satiet/Mentions, Taikrin/Mentions |
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| Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life.
There are those that rush about in order to avoid the rain, or minimize their time in it. Either R'hin's not one to rush or whatever he was doing meant he was out in it long enough to be soaked, regardless of his speed. The Savannah bronzerider is fairly soaked, hair plastered darkly against his scalp, even that borrowed jacket of his well-drenched. Damp boot prints mark his path from the caverns to the hearthside, the soft squelch perhaps giving away his otherwise silent approach, stopping just behind Azaylia -- deliberately close enough that a drip or two might draw her attention upwards to him. It's Don who lifts his head at the sound of R'hin's approach, leaping out of his doze and onto Azaylia's shoulder to better snarl at the man. The firelizard's clickgrowl startles her nearly as much as the frigid drops that seep into the fabric of her shoulder. "R'hin." Annoyance, surprise, and perhaps a touch of concern. Surely, she's not the first to utter his name with that exact tone. She'll give him the majority of space, gathering up her supplies and scooting onto the edge of the fire's reach so that he can attempt to dry off. There's curiosity in her upturned gaze, as well as a faint tension to her mouth-- does she even want to know? The firelizard's reaction earns a gruff sort of grunt, but pale eyes are more interested in watching the goldrider, R'hin's lips twitching upwards at the way she says his name. "Bit wet out there," he says, casually, shrugging out of his jacket and laying it out in front of the hearth into some of that space she's cleared. With another sidelong glance he settles down next to her, boots stretched out in front of him, hands providing balance behind him. The questioning look earns a low, amused chuckle from the bronzerider. "We won't much miss the cold weather, nor the rain, when we're gone," he says, in lieu of answering her unspoken question. Azaylia does her best to hush the brown, long finger touching his rumbling muzzle. It quiets Done, but doesn't silence him completely as he shifts to the shoulder nearest R'hin. Her explanation comes with obvious affection, "Don't mind him. He's territorial." The goldrider doesn't seem bothered by R'hin's company just yet, turning her easy gaze onto him. "I didn't think there was much for you to miss, anyway." She points out with gentle amusement. R'hin, indeed, doesn't seem to mind the firelizard: he ignores it like it isn't even there. He runs fingers through his wet hair, making a noise of protest at the Weyrwoman's words. "There's more than even I would have suspected to miss," he admits, after a lengthy pause, sounding distractedly honest. "And it wasn't as... it was easier to adjust than I suspected." That's added as an afterthought, mostly to himself, frowning at the flames. The more he's ignored, the more those noises die down, until Don decides that he has everything under control. The firelizard returns to Azaylia's lap and those stroking fingers, easily lulled back into his doze. She likely doesn't realize she's resumed her petting, attention still aimed at the bronzerider. His admission startles her brows into a light furrow, a flicker of concern before it passes, "For what it's worth, I might miss you. We'll certainly miss Leiventh." Her smile grows some, "He's been on his best behavior." Unlike a certain someone who likes to pester a certain weyrwomen. "Might?" R'hin presses with a twist of lips and a sidelong look. "I was expecting something far more robust and certain, like 'definitely will not', and 'would toss back into the ocean' -- that was the Lady of the Spires' favorite. I see I haven't been doing my job to the utmost -- I'd thought stealing your slippers would at least merit a door slam." A faint pause -- R'hin's been with Leiventh far too long to display jealousy at the more stronger statement towards his bronze: "Leiventh is Leiventh, it's not best behavior or not; that's just his way. This is his home." Pushing forward, now, the bronzerider cups his hands and leans closer to the fire. "You've given me enough space that I don't hate you anymore." It could be a joke. It might be. But for once, it's hard to tell with her open, simplistic tone. Mention of her slippers has her lower lip swelling in a thoughtful pout, "Oh. Oh you did, didn't you?" With such a limited wardrobe, it would be impossible to miss... if Azaylia were one to care about clothing in the first place. "Leiventh is a darling, and he can visit as much as he wants." She argues, knowing full well that the bronze's reserved chill is not something most coo at. It only strikes her then, goldrider straightening with a sharp intake, "I still have your jacket." Oops. "Ahh," R'hin snaps his fingers. "So now I know the key. Give you enough space so that you can get distracted by some... dandy creature," a flicker of fingers might well be intended to indicate the firelizard, "And all is forgiven. I'll remember that for next time." A knowing sort of grin follows this statement. "Leiventh," he says in a no-nonsense tone, "And I are a package deal. If he comes, I come. Or is this your way of saying you'll rescind you ban on me visiting High Reaches once we've left?" a twitch of brows and a tip of head suggests he's waiting with baited breath for the answer. "Mmhmm," he agrees, to the later, sadly patting the not-quite-fit-for-purpose jacket he's borrowed. Azaylia's dark eyes roll up to the stone ceiling, not quite a full revolution but enough of one, "As if that was a secret." And not a 'key' used by R'hin time and time again, even if he's unaware of it. It's all in good humor at least, gaze dropping to the dandy, dozing creature in her lap. The sight rekindles her smile, and with playful resignation for the bronze pair, "I guess you are." A blink, and she straightens up, "Did I..? I don't remember that. What did you do?" Yes, that is a narrow peer of suspicion, although guilt softens it quickly enough. "You could have asked for it back at any time, you know." No, that doesn't make her feel any less guilty for forgetting. "You don't trust me," R'hin reminds her, blandly, putting it in the present, not the past tense, deliberately. His hair is perhaps a little less soaked and more damp, running fingers through it this time gives it back a bit of body and distracts him from looking her way. He leaves the topic of his jacket alone, for now at least. "No." Azaylia agrees, eyes softening with her tone as she goes back to watching him. "Maybe it was before. When I thought that I could." Trust him. Trust at all. Gentle hands gather the brown firelizard up, placing him aside so she can reach for a rag and wipe off her slippery fingers. It gives her something to do as she murmurs, "I'm not going to banish Leiventh, or you, from his home. If that's what you're waiting to hear." Is it what he was waiting to hear? R'hin doesn't respond to that latter directly, instead saying, "It's not a way to live. It's a way to avoid living. That you put no faith in anyone but yourself is your choice, but the Weyr becomes a reflection of you and your Weyrleader." His voice is low; this is not a conversation intended to embarrass her or to be overheard. And yet there's something firm and sure in the bronzerider's tone, as he stretches out his hands to press above hers. His are cold to the touch by contrast. "I want you do do something for me, kitten. Find someone, ask them a favor. Give them an opportunity to earn your trust. Then another person. Perhaps work your way up to Taikrin, if you can't start with her." Azaylia doesn't flinch away from his hands, though hers must be too-warm by comparison. She keeps her gaze on them but has stopped wiping, listening in a silence that is far from comfortable. "It's not like that." She mumbles, voice even quieter now, "You say it like... like I think everything I do is right. It's not. I don't." Taikrin's name has her pulling her hands back, the little shake of her head paired with thin lips. Rather than stubborn, her refusal comes from guilt, "Everything that happened was my fault. I didn't... stop it when I should. I let it go too far. She's the one who shouldn't trust me." "Oh, kitten," he's laughing, now. Laughing at her. Those hands and the towel with them go slamming down into her lap, "What," the heated emotion, rather than the action, is what startles Don, "is so funny?" Azaylia's embarrassed anger also fuels her sharp, "And stop calling me kitten." R'hin's amusement lingers, even in the face of her anger, leaning forward. "Do you even hear yourself? Everything that happened was your fault, as if other people weren't involved, weren't in with their own agendas? You may be a lot of things, but you are no mastermind. Nor were you, at the time, a woman used to commanding an entire Weyr. These things come to you, they don't manifest from nowhere. Do you rebuke a child for not knowing instinctively how to ride a runner?" He shakes his head. "You can forgive yourself. Should do so. Will do so, or the little kitten will get a spanking in front of the entire Weyr." Not that there's anyone around to see right now, but the threat is probably empty anyway. Probably. It's very subtle, the way Azaylia's shoulders bunch as R'hin leans forward, stare unwavering. If his words are sinking in, there is no evidence other than the faint narrowing of her gaze-- a silent warning. And then, then he goes and says it again. "Ugh!" Comes the immature roar of frustration before the Weyrwoman is throwing herself at him, "Why are you so... such a know it all!?" Don lets out a honk, leaping up and away from his incensed owner, gone between in the next second. Should Azaylia get her hands on R'hin, there's no harm that comes to the man other than her strong grip. Maybe an attempt at a little shake. "First I'm supposed to do everything right, and then I'm not, and when I try to own my mistakes I'm being silly..." Alright, so she might aim a smack or two at his arms. Oh, there's definitely amusement and indulgence as R'hin somewhat bemusedly lets Azaylia grab hold of him and shake or smack as she sees fit. "Yes, I totally agree, kitten. Women are so confusing," that the words are likely to infuriate her further are probably deliberate, too, as is the glint of humor in pale eyes. "Now you understand my -- ow! -- pain." Even with the loss of what temper she has, Azaylia doesn't hit R'hin too hard. No more than an old auntie would, were he reaching for sweets that didn't belong to him. After one or two, she slumps against him with another throaty growl of annoyance, "You are the most..." Her fingers release the bronzerider, only to curl as if she could grab the right words out of the air. Instead, palms rush up to her face as she groans, "Why. Why do you always pick on me?" He's wet, so she'll lean away, face still in her hands. Finally, muffled, "I'm sorry I hit you." The 'But you're infuriating' isn't said. It probably doesn't need to be. That amusement of his lingers, even as R'hin murmurs, "I know, I know," when she voices her frustration at him. Finally: "You call it picking. I call it growing. One cannot learn new skills, cannot grow and change, without challenge. And too few people are willing to challenge their Weyrwomen. I've never had that problem," he says, with a wry self-deprecation. "And don't apologize. I deserved it." A beat, then, more order than suggestion: "Go and have a nice glass of wine and a bath." "I don't see how I'm growing." Azaylia admits from within the safety of her hands, comedically muffled. R'hin's strong suggestion has her peeking, one eye still sharp enough to offer challenge. "First I'm going to find a man, then a glass of wine, and then a bath." In that order. It may only be minor defiance, but it's enough that her movements are confident and sure as she gathers up her things. So there. Azaylia does glance over at him as she picks herself up in a crouch, "I'll send you your jacket in the morning." "And I'll bring you your slippers, personally," R'hin says, in counter, pale eyes watching her as she stands, making no move to follow. Azaylia's lips thin then, "Making threats." It's not at all serious, a quiet mutter as she rises to her full height. As exasperated as her sigh is, the Weyrwoman is genuine with her well-wishing, "Have a good night, R'hin." When she's secured her heavy cloak and lifted the hood does she give a command of her own, "And try to stay dry. You'll get sick." With that, the goldrider turns to brave the pouring rain herself. |
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