Logs:Leova 'Happily' Joins Glacier
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| RL Date: 7 February, 2009 |
| Who: Leova, N'thei |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 12, Month 13, Turn 18 (Interval 10) |
| More fortunate people have already downed their dinners and are drinking the night away. Leova? Getting off another shift made long and unexciting by a lack of Fall or weyrlings young enough to break interesting things without real damage. She leans out of the dragon infirmary, checking for Vrianth and her gleaming eyes somewhere out there in the cold cold /cold/ darkness. But. Darkness. Distance. Or maybe Vrianth's eyes are just shut: it's like her. In any case, darkness or no darkness, cold or no cold, the greenrider pulls up her collar. Shoves down her hat. And ventures out into the great and snow-slippery unknown. Shame, that. No threadfall to keep honest dragonriders honest, no teaching to keep honest weyrlingmasters employed. Knitted blue cap pulled low over his head, collar likewise turned up against the cold, N'thei strikes a readily recognizable silhouette when he comes trotting down the steps from the patio-- mind the ice, big guy-- and starts a heavy-footed jog the long distance across the bowl toward a place he seldom visits. Yes, folks, the infirmary. "Hey, buzzcutt," he calls across the distance. While it's nothing Leova answers to, nor would a substituted consonant help matters, she does briefly break stride to look over that assistant weyrlingmaster-knotted shoulder of hers: just a double-check for distance. Nobody likely to run into her? Yet? Good. Same goal, off she goes. N'thei, annoyed. Common, so it's not like he gives more than a moment's thought to the fact that he's actually going to have to keep on jogging in a direction that is not his weyr. Fortunately, long strides make for short-seeming distances, and it's not so very much longer before he's near enough to add, "Still disapprove." There's a moment there, a hesitation in her stride, where the greenrider might have stopped. Instead, she keeps walking, like he's just here to catch the evening air. Though the tall man does get a narrow-eyed glance: "Breaks my heart." "Probably not." N'thei's illusions are not quite so grand as that. Fists shoved into his jacket, he slows to fall into step alongside Leova, uninvited, aware of it, and paces out a few more strides before there's clarification for the intrusion. "Bet I can at least cause you a healthy dose of disappointment, though, while we're on the subject." Silence from Leova, except for the crunch of her footsteps, that begin to slow from their habitual everyone-in-stride measure. Could be ice, after all. Likely is. "Don't doubt it," she says after he breaks both silence and news, her low voice passing it off lightly. Never mind the tension that's taking over her shoulders under the old coat and layers of sweaters. Nor the gust of freezing air overhead, and then beyond them, the dragon landing. N'thei glances up, decides that's not his dragon-- though he probably should have known that all along, come to think of it, but he and Wyaeth don't have that close-close kind of relationship-- and continues walking on the same course without missing a beat. "After careful consideration and review of resources and whatever else ought to go in to making such a decision." He hitches up one shoulder to indicate that he really has no idea how such things are determined; probably just flips coins. And to hell with the whys and wherefors; "You're in Glacier now." Leova's head tilts forward, her shoulders threaten to shake, not-quite-laughter consideration-and-review-/really/, but maybe it's better than caving in the way they might have done a Turn-and-change back. And then he says it. Step, step, deep breath: "Big... honor." Step, step. "No escape," not quite a question, though she does make as if to look around. "Could run for it." N'thei makes a point of crunching a small puddle of ice beneath the heel of his boot, sounds a lot louder than it normally would what with the winter-quiet of the bowl surrounding them. "Think I could pace you for the first quarter-mile though. Then I'd just be pissed and winded, so wouldn't really accomplish much." --Aside from being funny. He does sound, in a vague way, like the thought's entertaining him. Crunch: Leova throws up her hands, like she's spooked and all, though she stops short of a soprano oh-no. "See who could twist an ankle first," she provides for accomplishments. But apparently hell can't be put off forever: "Why your wing?" Realistic; "Probably me. Then I'd be even more pissed. Isn't sounding like your best laid plan." N'thei glances down to Leova for a few paces, lifts his shoulders in another shrug, this one even less conscientious about the whys-and-wherefors than the first one was. "Matters?" "Bad enough, you'd be stuck in the infirmary again. Give me a running start." Leova: helpful wingmate! And, with what winds up being an upward glance back: "Does. Plenty other opportunities to not answer questions, won't run out." "Let me rephrase that." Since Leova counts among the first people not to get the point. "Even if there is a good reason--" And N'thei is by no means saying there is one. "I don't have to tell it to you. You see, I give orders." He takes his hand out of his pocket to lay bracket his fingers across his chest, then open his palm toward the greenrider beside him. "And you follow them." She may have resisted the urge to oh-no, but this time, she looses an exaggerated lift of her brows: oh-really? "Got that already," Leova points out. Patiently. "/And/ you cut my pay. Assistants, we make as much as wingseconds." Helpful; "Economize." N'thei stops, because here's where he can take a cut-off across the bowl that will put him on a more direct course to his weyr. There must be something to add else he'd just walk off, but he waits with a questioning expression just now-- any other complaints he can ignore? It wrinkles her nose. Both do, really: "Still want to know," Leova says, bypassing him, not looking back. N'thei's bright smile will always seem incongruous with... everything else about him. "Great. It's good to have goals in life." Aim for the stars, little greenrider! "Only drill once a month, F'rint will tell you when, best start thinking up things to fill your free time." She's walking off, he's walking off, so much for chitchat. "/That/ what your father told you," Leova says, and with that she /has/ looked back, a long glance bolstered by Vrianth's longer neck snaking up behind her. The rest? No comment, not with F'rint to hassle the next morning, rise-and-shine answer-my-questions-including-why. Lucky F'rint: gets kept around for a reason. Tragically, the best reason F'rint can offer is, "Because he's mean, suppose." Which he probably is. Mean enough that it makes him happy to trot off toward his weyr with a job-well-done left behind him. |
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