Logs:Little Spoon
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 23 January, 2013 |
| Who: R'hin, Vienne |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After Hraedhyth's flight, Vienne helps tends to Leiventh. And R'hin. |
| Where: Bowl, Closest to the Ground Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 11, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
  |
| The wake of Hraedhyth's flight is a visible thing -- not in the way most gold flights are, exactly. Oh, there's the usual already-drunk maleriders here and there, but along with them are dragon healers, tending to the various, injured dragons here and there. Leiventh's one amongst them, having flopped down onto the bowl, stretched out -- a claw mark visible down the length of one flank. An unsteady-looking R'hin's muttering angrily under his breath as he plasters the wound in numbweed. "...it'll be fine. Doesn't look that bad," then louder, "Where are all those damn dragonhealers?" Yes, someone's in a mood, but then he's probably not the worst off of them out here. Some people (smart people) get the hell out when the gold starts getting antsy, choosing to skip the tension and excitement and binge drinking. Perhaps now that the queen is sated, it's safe to return, and a meager little blue has touched down in the bowl to let his rider off. With wide eyes taking in the lingering chaos, a spare sweater folded over her arm, Vienne might have passed right by R'hin if it weren't for his complaining. Her neat boots slow and stutter in the dirt and she turns toward him, attention for the dragon as much as his lifemate. "Is it bad?" she wonders, a quick glance over her shoulder to see if there really is a dragonhealer available who just needs a little waving over. Most of the dragonhealers are undoubtedly occupied with what are probably worse-by-comparison wounds. But still, it's difficult to maintain equilibrium when it's your dragon. There's a shuddering movement throughout Leiventh's posture, making R'hin inhale sharply, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. He looks, blankly at first, at Vienne. "He's had worse, during 'Fall. He just doesn't remember it, so--" with a grimace, and a strained sense of politeness, "Think they're going to be a while. Any chance of some drink? As I recall, High Reaches is well-stocked for these sort of things." Something wry, briefly amused, in his expression, before fades swiftly under the strain. It might be a blank-at-first glance, but it probably doesn't take much to guess that the girl in front of him never fought any Thread. Her expression, as eyes flick between dragon and rider, is calm but serious. At least until the man asks for a drink, and then a wry quirk comes to her lips. "Yeah, let me see what I can get." Another glance around, this time to see what sort of ready booze might be available, and then: "Is there anything you need for him? Supplies to tend it yourself? Some dressings, maybe?" She can see he's got the numbweed started. "Appreciate it," R'hin replies, tightly. By now, there's probably some of the lower caverns staff -- those that can be coaxed out -- starting to hand out skins of wine to the injured dragons' riders. A sharp, almost surprised look at Vienne, before he nods slowly. "If you can find some dressing... I might be able to convince him to between. Get help back at Monaco. Gotta make sure the wound's covered, though," that last, a mutter, is more to himself than to her, examining the wound again. Leiventh's posture eases by measures, as the numbweed starts to take effect, and his rider, too, breathes a sigh of relief. There's no nonsense from Vienne. As soon as he's done speaking, she nods and turns away. There are handy staff members doling out wine, but there's also a pair of men standing closer, sharing a bottle between them as they have no doubt started to disseminate tonight's events. The bluerider walks up to them and, well, whatever she says is too quiet to be heard from R'hin's distance, and he's likely to busy with his lifemate to see her gesture for the guys to go get themselves wine if they need it. Either way, she comes back with the bottle first, better than wine, holding it out silently for the bronzerider to take before she heads off again to pester the nearest dragonhealer for spare bandages. She returns to stand, offering the dressing over, though her eyes are only on Leiventh's wound. "What..." The word she's looking for is 'happened'. By the time she returns, R'hin's settled himself in an exhausted slump against Leiventh's side. The bottle is accepted wordlessly (even if there's a hint of gratitude visible in pale eyes before she turns away again), and he gulps down the first few mouthfuls without tasting it, glazed expression following the bluerider's path away, and back again. The bandages are stared at blankly a moment, and he doesn't reach for them, instead focusing on her, gaze intent. "A High Reaches queen," he says, with a rough laugh, as if this should explain everything. Even though he doesn't take the dressing, Vienne still stands there, holding it out, apparently having forgotten she's doing so. And maybe, if she'd had a little more experience with Reaches prior to this night, it wouldn't take her that extra moment to grasp the meaning of his words. Instead, the eyes that shift back to him are expectant. Yes, a High Reaches queen rose and then... But it's only a beat before she figures it out, and for that she has to take a long, deep breath. Probably a 'what did I get myself into' breath. And then she remembers the bandages. "Would you like me to..." she lifts them toward Leiventh, in suggestion rather than real action. At least the prospect doesn't seem to freak her out too much, no matter how young and fresh-faced she looks. R'hin's silent, still apart from the lift of the bottle to his lips, while she follows that thought through. It's a ragged, if strangely genuine sort of smile that he gives at her deep breath, maybe even a hint of a chuckle that isn't quite voiced aloud. A slight turn of his head, and a low exhale, and he replies, "Thanks. Leiventh's not bothered, and now that the pain's gone it's... hard... to concentrate." Indeed, while his gaze is on her, the intent look has become something rather more distant, determined almost. "...what's your name?" So Vienne goes about rearranging what she's got, freeing the downy little sweater she has over her arm and holding it out to him. "Would you mind?" Though she does take a quick look at his hands, just in case he's over there slathered with numbweed or something. It would seem that she isn't so overcome by the chaos that she's lost interest in keeping her clothes safe. As for the slow change forming in him, it urges her to look him over again, more carefully this time, up and down and back to his face. Or maybe it's something else that inspires her glance. "Vienne," she answers. "What's yours?" This -- her care for her clothing -- seems to bemuse the bronzerider, and yet R'hin dutifully accepts care of her sweater. No numbweed on his hands -- the paddle he was using is still sitting in the opened pot he's left there, forgotten already. He matches her scrutiny in kind, lips twitching upwards, something rougher creeping into his voice, "Vienne. I like it. R'hin. And Leiventh." Habit, although he's already given her his dragon's name. After a beat, "Thanks," with a vague twitch of the bottle. Ok, so liking her name might get a little smile, but it's hardly the giggly, flattered sort; there's some hint of knowing around the edges. "You said," comes her quick reply. "Leiventh," she repeats, turning her attention and her free hands toward the injured bronze. "R'hin and Leiventh." There might, just might, be a hint of a teaching song somewhere behind those syllables, and she flicks another glance at the man. Yes, she knows the names. And then she goes about applying the bandages. Her hands might be a little more hesitant than the rest of her demeanor -- which seems to address the task like a good student presented with a new assignment -- but she doesn't appear to be entirely unfamiliar with dragonhealing. Her tongue pokes out, focused, until the little twitch of the bottle. She smiles at him again. "I thought you could use more than wine." But... "Will you be safe to fly?" she asks, already expecting the usual hard-man answer. "Right." Momentarily put-off by his lack of remembering, R'hin's smile fades, and he purposely takes another gulp of the liquid. If he's noticed her recognition, or the way she says it, he doesn't let on, distracted, quite possibly. He does shift his position enough to watch her work, silent, though she can probably feel the weight of his gaze all the same. Leiventh is an excellent patient -- he barely stirs. Her expectations are not unmet, of course: "We'll be fine," he says, roughly. Lying, of course, but he's good at it. Even so, he concedes, "Leiventh'll just need a couple of hours, is all." Maybe it's the fading smile and the gulp, but Vienne has a swallow of her own. "Sorry." And it starts to look like she's content to leave it at that, to go back to her ministrations, and the sympathetic slide of her hand across some bronze hide that is not covered in numbweed, but her eyes slip back to him, quiet and curious, if only for a moment. Instead, she lets his forseen reply turn her exale into a grin as the bandages are settled into place. "Oswinth, he's mine, had a few cuts like this," she says, as if her abilities here needed any explanation. She stretches her neck, not that she's been at this dragon-tending long enough to get a crick, so maybe it's the weight of that stare. And more to herself than R'hin or Leiventh, she murmurs, "I guess I missed the worst of it, but not all of it." Rather than look at the man again, she lifts her gaze to view the actual dragonhealers still hard at work. "Are you just going to sit with him?" "Oswinth," R'hin echoes, deliberately, like he's committing it to memory. Because he's watching her, he doesn't miss that sympathetic gesture for Leiventh, and it elicits a lingering look. It's the latter that makes a smile appear again, the bronzerider's voice low, somewhat wry, as his gaze remains steady on her, "Undoubtedly. Unless someone's kind enough to let me share their bed for a time." It's definitely suggestive, as is the way his gaze lingers, but then it's phrased so easily as to suggest he'll take the rejection in stride, too. She's sharp enough to hear the suggestion and her head drops, eyes closed, though he can still see the profile of her smile just before it's tucked in between her teeth. Vienne lets her hands smooth lightly over the completed work of the bandage and turns her head to lift her gaze to the man who has been staring at her so intently. Her eyes consider him, careful in the way the look over his face, and it takes another beat before she has lips again to speak with. "You... could come up. To get out of the cold. I know the living cavern and the bar don't..." It might be sounding like her bed is not part of the offer. "But I'm sure you know people..." Her eyes flick around then, like some old friend of R'hin's is about to step forward from the milling crowds and make him a better off. And so in the end, she just shrugs and sink her teeth into her smile. Maybe one thing has no appeal without the other. "I'd be a perfect gentleman," R'hin's quick to reply, taking note of that smile, however brief, eliciting one of his own. And while his gaze might suggest he'd wish otherwise, he is not looking around for a better offer. "I know people," he allows. "But I also like getting to know new people, too." With a grunt -- careful not to spill a drop of that liquid -- he pushes himself to his feet, rather unsteadily, hand braced against Leiventh's hide, his expression gone softer, distant a moment. "Would Oswinth mind..?" it doesn't seem he'd stir Leiventh even if he could. She expected some things, like the insistence that he can fly with booze in his belly, but it seems that his response takes her by surprise and Vienne's eyebrows pop up and her smile stretches between the pinch of her teeth. "Okay." A step back affords her one last look at Leiventh's bandages, so she can be certain they won't slip off as soon as her back is turned, and with a glance aside to R'hin, she asks, "Do you climb?" It's an... odd question, no? "My weyr has a..." Yeah, it gets odder, and she knows it. "Rope... ladder." It almost hurts to say it, like she's inviting him to her play fort. She turns to point in its direction, but is also quick to offer, "Or I can ask Oswinth to come get us." If anything, R'hin seems oddly pleased at her surprise, if the glitter of pale eyes and growing smile is anything to judge by. But now it's Vienne that's surprised him in turn, regarding her a moment as if waiting for the joke, and when it doesn't come... "I think so. Is this some punishment to make me work for a bit of shelter?" Yup, that's definite teasing in his tone; he doesn't otherwise seem bothered. The bronzerider doesn't look back at Leiventh; he has other ways of reassuring himself, after all, moving alongside Vienne -- with the intention of slipping an arm beneath her hand, if she'll let him. It's all bluster, anyway -- he's way more unsteady than she is, which might be part of the reason why he does it, as well. She likes the teasing. It brightens her smile to a wide honest grin. And then she twists a purse of her lips to one side, a narrowed eye cast over at R'hin and Leiventh both, almost a wink. "I think you've been punished enough for one evening." And so off she starts, a glance after her sweater to make sure he hasn't somehow misplaced the delicate thing somewhere between his dragon and her side. It does seem safe enough in his possession. Plus, she becomes quite distracted from it when his arm shows up under her hand -- another thing that's unexpected. She gives him a curious grin and takes his arm to slip her own through it more properly, so she can hold onto him. It only makes his unsteadiness more obvious and so she has to check, that grin lingering adding a touch of her own teasing when she asks, "You okay?" To walk? "It's not a long climb but..." If he's plastered, it might be a short climb to a hard fall. There's a faint groan at the reminder, more exaggerated than anything, humorously playing along: "I'm glad someone agrees with that." R'hin might misread the glance he's giving her; the sweater's draped loosely over his shoulder, and though it might get dislodged on the upcoming climb, it seems save enough for now. He slows his pace, trying to match hers, trying to make that unsteadiness less obvious. "The day I can't manage a short climb -- no matter what my condition -- is the day I can't ride my own dragon anymore. Besides -- I'm sure you'll catch me, if I fall." The idea tickles him, judging by the darkly amused chuckle. Somewhere behind them, someone already well in his cups let out a wolf whistle. Maybe it's not meant for R'hin, fresh off a flight, heading off with a tiny girl who is probably half his age. And it probably says something about Vienne that it makes her duck her head just a bit. It might also keep her from fully appreciating his playful groan. She does get back in the game for his chuckle, mouth quirking to the side. "Oh yes. Catch is definitely the word. Which is why I should probably go first." And for convenience's sake, it isn't far to her ledge. It's very low, which is a plus, but the ladder, is well, rope. Not in the best of shape either. She slips her arm from his to step ahead of him, "It should hold you." Encouraging words. "But maybe I should take the bottle?" If he still has it, someone might have lost track. R'hin's response is far more light-hearted; the wolf-whistle makes him laugh. "That's definitely for you, not me." He slows as they approach said rope ladder, head tipping back to study the height. Nothing imposing, at least not when you're sober. Now? Well, he's hardly about to back out, especially with Vienne looking at him; his manhood is on the line! He definitely still has the bottle, which he willingly offers towards the other rider. Stepping closer after he, he puts a foot in the bottom rung of the ladder to help steady it for her, waiting for her to proceed him. "If I fall and break my neck," he says, with a smile, as he watches, "Do me a favor and let people think it was through some heroic rescue, would you?" She takes the bottle, lips rubbing together as if she isn't sure what to make of this feat ahead of them, ahead of him. "I'll tell the world your story," she promises, putting her free hand to the ladder first, since the other is really just two spare fingers. "I'll turn it into a song about your gallantry and sing it everywhere I go. Do you want it to be tragic or just stick to bold heroism?" It would seem, since she asks this as she starts to climb, and the bottle doesn't really slow her down all that much aside from having to hold on with the crook of her elbow. So she's probably been up and down this ladder a good number of time already, no matter how fresh faced she is about this Weyr. And when she gets to the top, where Oswinth is waiting, uselessly, with curious, whirling eyes, Vienne has a moment's misgiving and has to warn down to R'hin, "I just moved in." With one hand free, (the other still steadying the ladder), R'hin pulls the precious sweater from his shoulder, fingers absently brushing over the material, as he looks up after her. "Definitely heroism. People won't believe it either way, but at least they're more likely to scoff at heroism than be pleased with a tragedy." Then, resettling the sweater a little more deliberately over a shoulder, he begins to climb -- fast, trying to show off, and probably ruining that at least once or twice with a foot that slips a little on the rope. "I don't mind," he's saying, and there's a tightness back in his voice as he reaches the top, "As long as there's somewhere--" he trails off, and there's Oswinth, and pure habit alone, he's nodding respectfully to the dragon, before looking around. "To sit?" she supplies the word. That's what he wanted to say? "I have a chair." She may have just used the singular there. She's been peering down over the edge, a hand catching her hair back so that she can watch his ascent, so that she knows where to gasp quietly when his foot slips. And as he climbs over the top, which is hardly the most graceful thing and probably something of a wonder that she manages to do it without mussing up her nice clothes, she steps back to give him room. "They aren't supposed to be pleased. With tragedy. They're supposed to be sympathetic." There's a curtain that hangs across the weyr entrance and now she pulls it back with the bottle, slipping inside and crouching to uncover the glowbasket that sits just inside on the floor. A little table would make more sense, but once she holds that curtain back for him to look in, he'll see that a handy entryway table is probably not first on the list. There's basically no furniture in here. A rug, a chair and a few trunks. That's it. "You can sit," Vienne tells him, offering the bottle back and turning to get the hearth going so that the empty space will at least be warm. "Right. To sit." R'hin's agreement is languid enough, but then perhaps it's because he's catching his breath, steadying himself. "Yes, well... my time here won more detractors than sympathisers. And time hasn't much changed that aspect." He sounds more at ease than worried, and he's more interested in the surroundings. "How long did you say you'd been here?" he asks, twisting head to look back at Vienne; he takes the bottle, and settles into the seat with an exhausted exhale, gaze still tracking the other rider. The sweater is settled neatly over the arm of the chair, and he takes a gulp while she works on the fire. It's not a hard wood chair, at least, but an upholstered one. If you're only going to have one chair, it should be comfortable. And it's big enough that Vienne can probably curl up sideways in it. Now she's crouched in front of the hearth, letting the growing glow of it add light to the room. "It warms up quickly," she says, trying to soften the stark surroundings. She straightens up and hangs her jacket on a wall hook, answering as she turns back, "More than a seven, now." And then she's looking around the space as if seeing it for the first time all over again, certainly for the first time with a man sitting in ehr lone chair. "You're regretting it, aren't you. The ladder and... now you get a chair. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... I know that I wouldn't have wanted to go sit in the bar but you..." Yeah, well, he's gone through a lot of work here for little pay off here, and so she'll change the subject. "How is Leiventh?" Smooth. Pale gaze tracks her throughout her movements, R'hin taking another deep drought from the bottle. Her abrupt change of subject has him, of all things, laughing -- not unkindly -- a deep, infectious sort of thing. "It's fine," he reassures her, hefting the bottle. "You secured me booze, and you helped with Leiventh. It's greatly appreciated." The Monacoan rider goes quiet as she asks about Leiventh, his humor fading by measures, distant for a moment, before refocusing. "Asleep. Fast asleep." He shifts a little in place, trying to get more comfortable in the chair, leaning his head back. "Tell me about yourself, Vienne. Distract me. I'd wager you were harper trained?" That he had to be helped with Leiventh by her instead of someone who is properly trained, well, it keeps her from really appreciating that rich laugh. That and the fact that she has very little to offer as a hostess. "I'm sorry there wasn't someone to work on him. I've never seen a goldflight like that. I've been around them all my life and..." But that is probably not distracting. So she flashes him another smile, an apologetic one, and stops talking. Plus, that he notes her harper training has her giving him rather impressed look. But rather than sit on the floor, she pulls one of her trunks toward the center of the room and takes a seat facing him, palms together between her knees. "How did you know?" "Under the circumstances... I was lucky. Leiventh could've been hurt a hell of a lot worse." R'hin doesn't seem inclined to linger on that thought overmuch, though. He pushes up in his chair, just enough so that he see Vienne's expression; his is an attempt at reassuring. "I have before, once or twice. Normally only when there's another queen involved." He hasn't heard that part of it yet. When she settles on the trunk, he starts to push up from the chair, albeit with a grimace. "Here, you take the chair," he insists, before the latter elicits a faint smile. "Your cadence. The way you phrase things. I've worked with a lot of harpers. The way they talk it's distinctive, in the way they try hard not to be." Her expression? Vienne is interested, and probably a good deal more alert than him. But at the mention of another queen, her mouth shrinks, tucked between her teeth for a moment. And when he starts to move to stand, her hands go up -- palms out, though nowhere near him -- to still his effort. "No, I'm fine. Really," she insists right back. "I just... I haven't had anyone up here. You can see why," tacked on with a glance around the empty room. "I'm flustered." An open admission, and probably not much of a secret, either. So many things she could comment on, the second queen, the awkwardness of two strangers, but instead she opts for, "You think I try not to be distinctive?" And really, the idea pulls her smile to one side. Let's face it, it doesn't take all that much urging before R'hin sinks down again into the seat, if only so that he can comfortable take another gulp from the bottle. He even, after a pause, offers it towards her, too. It's her admission of being flustered that has him smiling, now, at the idea of it. Instead of answering her latter question immediately, he returns with a question of his own, "What was your specialty, at the hall? You weren't composition or instrument, or you'd have those set up in here already, after a seven." He gestures at the bare walls, but his eyes remains on her face. While something intent still shadows his gaze, the bronzerider's tense posture has faded by measures. "Maybe law, but those that study the law speak in a certain way -- so I don't think that either. My guess would be history -- maybe one of the Masterharper's special apprentices?" Her hands fall as soon as he starts to settle down again, and one comes back up to refuse the bottle only... halfway through the gesture she changes her mind and reaches for it. "Maybe not a bad idea," she realizes, considering it could potential ease a bit of this 'fluster' she's feeling. She takes a swig, complete with some wincing, but she manages to supress the coughing, though it looks like that might take a bit of effort. And when she passes the bottle back, her voice is rough when she thanks him. But all his guesses make her smile again. "Mm, you forgot some instruments can't be seen," she points out, something a little cheeky in the way she narrows an eye at him. "I wasn't a 'special apprentice', no." She says it like such a thing doesn't even exist. "And if I was, I'm not sure I'd be allowed to tell you." R'hin eases back against the chair while she indulges, tugging a hand through his hair. Her reaction to the drink isn't lingered on, and he's all too quick to take the bottle back in turn. "Well, you're not a member of the craft anymore, you're a dragonrider," he reminds her, perhaps unnecessarily. "And some of those skills you've learnt could definitely be put to use." He doesn't exactly elaborate just how, just throws that out there, a little smile touching his lips. Maybe he's just teasing her again? It's a knowing smile Vienne wears as she bows her head for a moment's appreciation. "Yes," she agrees, lifting it again to look at him. "That is generally what people think." Her hands end up between her knees once more, and though she's perched on the edge of the trunk, there's a relaxed roundness to her shoulders that wasn't there when she first sat. "Because we generally study all of those things. Instrument, composition, music theory, voice," she pauses there to give him a look. See, he missed a big one. Big for her at least. "That's were I started. Voice. -- I did have a guitar, but gave it away when I transfered. -- And we study history and diplomacy and politics. And yes, I like those last ones." Her eyebrows up, her smile sly, she waits, fully expecting the usual suspicion to take hold. She's had this conversation before. Suspicion? Of a former harper? Surely not. If anything, R'hin's smile deepens into a low-throated chuckle, as he leans forward to offer her the bottle again after he's taken his mouthful. "That's where you started," he echoes, pointedly. "See -- you still talk like a harper. We study history," he gets her intonation almost right, except for perhaps a bit of a slur on the 's'. Abruptly, he asks, "Sing me a song, would you, Vienne? Your choice." The request might be abrupt, but the way he's studying her is not, gaze lingering. Vienne chuckles along with him, her own laugh quiet but irrepressible, as evidenced by her lips' inability to stay closed despite some attempt for them to do so. "So yes, I'm just the most ineffectual kind of spy. The kind everyone suspects." She has to roll her eyes at it, and she reaches forward again to take the bottle, though it just rests against her knee without another taste. Instead, like a good little voice student, her posture straightens, and she sings. It's an older song, a classic but often overlooked, about a river and memories and the passage of time. Her voice is not a high, fluttery soprano but a sweet, clear alto. She only gives him two verses, though there are many more. And then she smiles. "You watch me. Do you always do that or just... tonight." Instead of laughing at her admission, R'hin tips his head, smile still genuine for all that, pale eyes glittering with interest. He doesn't speak, though, leaning forward to listening intently. "Interesting. I don't hear that often. You're a lovely voice, Vienne." It's her latter words that earn a rough smile, completely without embarrasement, "Often. Probably more so tonight," he admits, with a lift-and-drop of shoulder, "But still often. I find people fascinating. Some more than others. You, certainly." "You know," Vienne begins, leaning in just a bit, since he's pitched himself forward and she's about to share a harper secret. "It makes people suspicious when you watch them." She quirks that smile again. "And thank you," tacked on, because he did pay her a compliment. Without righting her lean, she chews at her lips for a beat, staring back at him and letting her curiosity form into clearer questions. "Do you often watch people like this?" Her smile drifts away, her words growing quiet. "Not as a subtle observer, but plain and steady, so they can feel it? I feel your eyes on me." And that, she finds that interesting. "I like making people suspicious, nervous, on edge. You see a lot more that way," R'hin murmurs, lowering his voice given how close they are. He stretches forward, presumably to capture control of that bottle again, fingers brushing against hers, though he isn't exactly in a hurry with the gesture. "I like to watch... watch people. Watch what they say, and more what they don't say. That is a language that harpers speak, too, I well suspect." His smile is easy, not accusing, simply matter-of-fact. "Would you like me to stop?" "Maybe," Vienne will allow, the idea of seeing more when a person is on edge. "But there are things people show when they don't think anyone is paying attention, too. Things they say when they don't feel like it's a trap." She doesn't sound like she's arguing the point so much as expressing some kind of wist or nostalgia. "I don't want to trap people. I have no reason to. I just... like to understand why people do what they do." Her eyes drop down when he reaches for the bottle, like it takes her a beat to realize that's what the touch of is hand is for. She lets his fingers take it from hers. But her gaze is on him again, more intent now, like maybe it's just entrancing to not talk in circles about topics like these. And so when he asks his question, she shakes her head before she recognizes that talking is not the thing he's offering to stop. And she blinks before actually answering, "No." "People can only pretend for so long," R'hin says, like he's speaking from experience, "Before their true natures come out." With the bottle won free of her touch, he takes a hefty gulp, a moment needed after as the liquid burns down his throat. He stretches out to set the bottle back in her hands, (is he trying to get her drunk? Or just an excuse to touch her fingers again?), before he murmurs, "You want to know what makes people tick. As do I. I'm sure you take a smoother approach, though," a deep chuckle, his gaze -- since she's given her answer -- lingering still, examining her expression. His own reflects a muted exhaustion, but also a keen, sharp interest in glittering, pale eyes. If his aim is the former, he's out of luck, because Vienne doesn't take another drink. She just holds that bottle for safe keeping, so that he doesn't have to as he sits there, worn out out as he seems. Or rather, as all of him seems except for those watchful eyes. She stares back now, less like she's watching him in return and more like she's caught. Until his chuckle. Her approach? Vienne lets out a short, mirthless breath of a laugh. "Oh, I'm smooth," she says dryly, clear implication that she thinks very much the opposite. "Your approach probably works better. Less confusion all around." With another pinch of her teeth on her lip, her gaze starts to meander across his face, his hair. "Tell me something else. About you." And while she takes hold of the bottle, R'hin's fingers linger there too, the contact light. The latter earns a smile, wry in response to her comment of smoothness, "I doubt many would agree with you. What do you want to know?" But before she can clarify, he's answering all the same, like a thought suddenly comes to him: "The night after I Impressed, I was sure it was the biggest mistake that had ever been made. It felt like... every part of me had been exposed, and I didn't like what I'd seen. What he had seen." His voice is soft, like he doesn't want to wake Leiventh, not that much would stir the bronze right now, not even this. Even at that volume, it carries the weight of reminiscence. "I'm still not convinced it wasn't." His gaze cuts away briefly as he speaks, possibly in the direction of the bowl, then back to Vienne. Beneath his fingers, hers move, maybe just to better grip the bottle, maybe just to offer it back since his touch remains after the transfer is complete. And then they're still again, her attention focused on his story, a faint flare of her lashes for the word 'mistake', and the parting of her lips like she might have some urge to interrupt him. But she doesn't. She's just motionless and watching, listening, her breath quiet so as not to disturb the way his words fill the glowy little space of her empty weyr. After his glance toward the bowl, Vienne asks, "What made you think of that now?" A fainter, ghost of a smile, now, from the Monacoan. "You like to understand why people do what they do," R'hin answers, with the implication being that he's indulging her in that regard. "They'll be candidates, soon. I wonder if they'll understand what it means. To give up your craft," a gesture towards her, that frees that lingering touch between them, "Or your sense of self." There's a little pinch of her lips, a faint flick of her brow, all coming together in a subtle momentary pout. It scolds him for the game and remains determined anyway. "You don't think almost everyone feels that? It hurts to have your life changed in an instant. To know there's no going back to who you were." Behind her lips, her tongue runs over her teeth. "I don't know why you hold onto it. Why you would think of it tonight. I could guess, but that's all it would be: fabrications that could apply to anyone." "Not everyone does, Vienne," R'hin replies, easily, and then he's reaching to free the bottle from her grip again, though not ungently. Another gulp of that liquid, and he eases himself back in his seat, his gaze going distant, drifting from her to focus on the roof, his voice languid. "You asked for something. I try not to... think too much of here, when I'm not here." He doesn't elaborate on that, but then a student of history might read between the lines. Vienne will allow that that's true, the faint incline of her head, -- not everyone does -- but her expression doesn't award him a point for it, like it's neither here nor there. She releases the bottle to his custody again and though it might seem like the time when she should sit back and leave him his space, she doesn't. And yes, she might not be an expert on High Reaches history, but she does know some things. Whether or not they're a help is yet undetermined. But the wheels do turn behind her eyes and there's regret in there too, sympathy. So she puts her hand on his knee, like it might anchor him back down to the ground instead up on the ceiling where all the thoughts and feelings live. Maybe that's enough of a reply. The touch to his knee draws pale, intent gaze back down, finally, and he regards her with an expression full of something heated. His hands strain against the arm of the chair and the bottle respectively, and he leans forward, bringing him close to Vienne for a moment. His free hand stretches out, to catch a lock of her hair, curling it around his fingers briefly, regret chasing the vexxed noise that follows. Finally, leaden words are offered, "Thank you for the hospitality, Vienne." It sounds like a farewell, yet he doesn't stir immediately. That heated thing makes her draw in a breath, but Vienne doesn't back away, not even when he leans forward again and his hand comes out to touch her hair. That hand still lingers on his knee, just fingertips, and the other comes up, light fingers wrapping at his wrist, barely holding. "Stay." It comes out on impulse. "I don't know why." Her eyes are on his, hunting like they might be able to find some explanation over there. "If Leiventh is..." Okay? "Sleep here." There's no doubt; R'hin doesn't need to be asked twice, nor does he need much convincing -- his lips curve upwards as he leans forward, just shy of brushing lips against hers. "I promised to be a gentleman," he murmurs teasingly, heat growing in his gaze. If there's any explanation in his expression, he doesn't wonder, doesn't question as she does, just accepts her statement. A beat, a moment of reality, gaze gone distant for a second. "He sleeps. As should we," and he's setting the bottle aside, standing, with the intention of drawing her up, too. He comes in close and Vienne closes her eyes. There's no lift of her chin, though, no expectant tilt of her mouth like she's ready for his lips. She just shuts her eyes to feel him close without distraction. And when he teases, she smiles. Really, it's not until he tugs her to stand with him that her lashes lift again. "I'm not lonely. I don't have daddy issues. I don't have plans and I don't know what you're doing here." And these, it would seem, are all the reasons why it makes no sense. And even though he's already agreed, she quirks that small, wry smile up at him. "But stay. Be my little spoon." Yeah, that's right. She said little spoon. Her glance flicks past his shoulder, to the dark alcove behind him which is presumably where she sleeps. Each addition to that list pulls R'hin's lips a little higher, as if all the reasons why not interest him just as much. It's the last that elicits a rumbled laughter and genuine amusement in the glitter of his pale eyes. Little spoon, indeed. "As the harper wishes," the Monacoan murmurs, nothing if not accommodating, his hand settling comfortably in the curve of her back to escort her to the, admittedly short, distant towards the bed. Yeah, it's a real hike. But she leads the way from the chair to the bed, looking up at him over her shoulder. "You get to have all kinds of explanations," she muses, rather like it just isn't fair even if she does wear a smile. "There was a flight. And you're drunk. And you want a bed. And you do this all the time." She bends to get her shoes off, nudges them aside with her foot. "What's my reason?" And then she can start unfastening her trousers, only her fingers stop because... she has no idea what the sleeping dress code is for gentlemen. A glance over at him checks to see if there are any clues. "Are you sure about that?" R'hin counters, to her assumptions of his reasons. His fingertips fall free of the curve of her back as she starts to undress, and after a moment of shamelessly regarding her, he tugs off his shirt over his head, muffling his words at first, "Maybe... maybe you just feel sorry for me. You find me intriguing but you're not sure why. Or you're kind hearted enough to offer a poor old man a bed. Or just... Leiventh. Everyone feels sorry for Leiventh." It's light-hearted, especially that last, but that doesn't mean he doesn't say it with a genuine sentiment. He continues to undress, seeming to settle for shorts, before he moves around to the far side of the bed, reaching for the covers -- pausing to watch her as he climbs in. The shirt is enough of a clue, and when it comes off, Vienne solidifies her own decisions about her state of dress, going about removing her trousers, but leaving socks, pulling sweaters overhead but leaving the camisole. "No I'm not." Sure about her guesses. "They're just the easiest answers." The bed is, really, the whole of the room, a mattress on a shelf surrounded by three walls. And climbing in isn't the most dignified of endeavors. But in she climbs, arranging already unmade blankets, layer upon layer, throwing them over her legs and his. "It's not Leiventh," she says. "I am sorry he's hurt, though." And when they both have pillow, she settles in, laying on her back, looking up at the dark ceiling. There's a low exhale that probably indicates more of R'hin's exhaustion than he means to as he settles in on his back, one hand propped up underneath his head. Half turned towards her, he murmurs, "I'm glad." That it's not Leiventh? Or that she's sorry he's hurt? He doesn't clarify, and he's silent for long enough that she might well suspect he's fallen asleep already, except, murmured almost inaudibly: "I like your place. It needs a few more you things, though." His gladness just hangs in the darkness without reply. Maybe he really could have dozed off, but there's no reason to believe Vienne is sleeping. Just lies there. When he murmurs again, she answers: "Thanks." It's automatic, ingrained politeness. "I tried to get some stuff but everything I found in the stores was shitty." So not too polite. Her hand slides over to him, his arm, his ribs, wherever it happens to land, just to touch him. "Maybe I'm not looking in the right places. I'm sorry about the furniture." Or lack of it. There's certainly no protest protest from R'hin as she reaches out to explore, only a slight shift of his body as if he's angling himself to watch her in the dark with a little more ease -- not that there's much to be seen. If there's surprise it's not audible in his voice; instead, there's lighthearted amusement, for her apology. "Don't be," he says, gruffly. Another little shift eases his hand from behind his head, reaching over to slide his arm behind her neck. There isn't much to watch, just the faint outline of her profile, silhouetted by what light there is from the low-burning hearth. But if he can see it, her lips press together tightly and that's all the warning he gets before she suddenly starts to move. Her hand finds his reaching arm, grabbing it by the wrist to put it back across his chest while she shifts herself against his side. With their discrepency of height, there's no lining anything up anyway, but she lands herself higher up on the bed. "Little spoon," Vienne reminds him, a push at his shoulder for him to roll away from her so she can press herself against his back. "Force of habit," R'hin says, presumably by way of apology, and yet there's amusement in his tone, rather than apology. accommodating, and perhaps a trace of bemusement briefly visible in his gaze that he does so, too, he rolls over onto his side, reaching to resettle all the blankets around them. "Anyone ever told you you're oddly pushy?" It seems less criticism and more compliment. "This is my bed," Vienne reminds him, taking no offence nor feeling flattered. "And you're playing the role of gentleman." But once he does as she says, she plays the role of big spoon, as promised, and she begins to wrap around him with the tenative slip of her arm over his shoulder, her hand across his chest. Her other arm cradles around the top of his head, fingertips in his hair. A great inhale fills her chest against his back and the exhale comes out slow and controlled. "Is this okay?" "Touche," R'hin responds, "I'm trying very, very hard," he reassures her, and she can feel more than see the line of his body slowly relaxing. "Mmhmm," he murmurs by way of response. There's a brief brush of his fingers against the hand over his chest, before he falls still. Vienne squeezes him, a sudden, fierce, prossessive hug of those skinny arms, protective, perhaps, as if there's anything she can do, as if she could explain the reason she feels the desire to do anything at all. So maybe, yes, she feels sorry for him. But with her quiet breath behind his ear, she says nothing else. He's free to fall asleep. There's a sharp, surprised exhale of breath from R'hin at the sudden squeeze -- no quick, witty retort to hand, which might say something in and of itself. But when she says nothing further, neither does he, and it isn't much longer before he follows Leiventh into a deep, much-needed sleep to the sound of her breathing. |
Leave A Comment