Logs:No More Secrets
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| RL Date: 9 February, 2013 |
| Who: Azaylia, K'del, Iesaryth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Azaylia goes looking for answers. K'del has them. |
| Where: Lights in Darkness Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 13, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Brieli/Mentions, H'kon/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, Lujayn/Mentions, N'rov/Mentions, Taikrin/Mentions |
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| Lights in Darkness Weyr, High Reaches Weyr A heavy, brocade curtain separates the ledge from the weyr within, which opens up into a long, wide wallow and a walkway beside it. There's easily enough room for a bronze in here; the ceiling is high enough that sound tends to echo. Down the wall beside the walkway, small circles appear to float within the dim light like miniature moons; a high panel of them that's perhaps four or five times as long as a man is tall. They end abruptly as the wall curves around and opens out into the rest of the weyr. It's a good sized weyr, and laid out nicely with a fine collection of solid, expensive furniture. A niche off to one side offers built-in shelving and a desk set out beneath it, while much of the rest of the space has been taken up by a couch and several chairs, laid out in front of the hearth. It's reflective, that hearth, made up of squares tiled on point, many of which look very new indeed. To one side of that is a dark opening that might be another niche, or perhaps a passageway. A tunnel leads off from that dark opening - narrow, if still tall. It turns a corner and then opens out into an expansive room set against the other side of the hearth. Most of /this/ space is taken up by a bed that has clearly been made to fit the space exactly, although there's still room to step around to another niche - this one with a plugged basin above and a drain below. There are more of those moons here, too: moons that glow with light from the room beyond. It's not right for anyone to stay cooped up in their weyr, never mind snow and wind or perpetual sulk. Though Cadejoth's ledge may be empty, it hasn't always been. The light snowfall is no help in covering up massive tracks, displaced white revealing stone as well as the tale of a graceless landing. It's the much smaller prints that might intrigue, steps with a heavy heel leading up to the heavy, undisturbed curtain that blocks the way inside. Cadejoth and his rider have been gone for many hours, and the bronze, usually so irrepressible, is tired when he finally circles down to a landing upon his ledge. Maybe that's why he doesn't seem to immediately notice that something is wrong... but by the time K'del is clambering down onto the stone surface, there's definitely some awareness of what is up. It's paranoia that has the bronzerider reaching for his belt-knife, carefully forcing stiff limbs into quiet action, though there's no missing the crunch of snow beneath his feet. He measures his footprints against the smaller ones, his expression turning quizzical, even outright confused. Finally, with a decisive shove, he throws open the curtain. "Who's there?" He's not at all a crazy man with a knife... honest! The sound of a dragon landing prompts no sound from within, and neither does the crunch of snow underfoot. Cool winter light pours into the weyr, revealing that there is no tiny trained assassin waiting for K'del. Just Azaylia. There's warmth to combat the cold air he's letting in, hearth alive with a well sized fire that casts the weyrwoman in a warm glow. She doesn't look guilty at his arrival, though her eyes are a touch wider from where she's curled up on the couch. Long legs are tucked up beneath the skirt of her dress, track-making boots left near the entrance to melt and dry. Firelight dances off of the glass in her hand, the amber liquid within, as well as a bottle which should be familiar to him. It's his, after all, sitting within reach of the young woman. "Busy day?" Innocent blinking is well matched with the easy question. For a moment - the smallest of moments - it looks as though K'del might consider the possibility of Azaylia as a tiny trained assassin, but reason overcomes paranoia, and he tucks the knife back into his belt, stepping in to the weyr and closing the curtain behind him. "Sweeps," he says, placing undue emphasis on the word: he's a normal wingrider, with normal duties. Certainly, the stiffness of his movements backs up his explanation, along with the frozen pallor of his cheeks, and all those layers of outer clothing, boots included, that need to be taken off. "Make yourself at home, Weyrwoman. My weyr is your weyr, of course." He sounds too tired to be effectively sarcastic, but there's a biting edge there nonetheless. "I was going to wait for you outside. You took longer than I thought." It's not much of an excuse, but there it is. And with a noticeable lack of apology, too. Once Azaylia's surprise wears off, it's replaced by a weary expression that borders on apathetic. "Well, you think my Weyr is..." Limp right out of the gate, she can't seem to bring herself to finish turning his own words around. Instead she takes a deep drink from the glass, numb enough to the taste by now that her shudder is short-lived. "I just have a question." One. "And then I'll leave you alone for ever and ever." No fire, no hate... it might have something to do with just much of his liquor she's stolen by now. Not enough to drown bitter tones, however gentle they may be with her equally soft voice. There's a subtle difference between the w in 'Weyr' and the one in 'weyr', but it's unmistakable in K'del's reply. "I love your Weyr. I always will. What is it, Azaylia?" Whatever he's feeling - bitterness, unhappiness, loathing; one or none of these - it's not audible in his tone. Instead, he crosses the room to fetch another glass, leaning past Azaylia to reclaim the bottle for himself, pouring several fingers in to it before setting the bottle aside, out of her reach. He slumps into one of the other chairs, closing his eyes, and waits. Hesitation. It leaves her with nothing to say for K'del's claim, or the fact that he's reclaiming his liquor. Azaylia glances at the now too-far bottle, her only movement is the shift within dark socks, toes peeking out from under the rich blue of her dress. No, she decides, it's not worth uncurling from her warm spot in order to retrieve the liquor. The heavy silence may be maddening, but it keeps on. Her brown eyes shift to search for some comfort in the roaring fire, glass balancing on the edge of her lower lip as she finally asks, "What did Brieli tell you?" The glass is drained quickly after. Of all the questions she could have asked, that one is - almost without question - the one with the most power to discompose K'del. He looks-- wretched, utterly lost, as though the chair is about to swallow him whole, taking him willingly. His sharp intake of breath is the only sound he makes for one second, two seconds, three seconds. When he finally moves again, it's to drain the entirety of his glass in a single gulp, and set the empty glass down upon the table. "About Iolene, of course," he says, then, no longer able to control the bitter misery the explanation brings up in him. "Her lies." Azaylia stares at K'del, a flicker of concern shining through the cloud of everything else she feels for the man. Her face might not say much, but her eyes reveal that she hasn't forgotten. Hasn't forgiven. The breath she's holding is stolen away in a whisper, "Iolene." With furrowed brows she moves slowly, cautiously, allowing her glass to join his on the table. "She lied." The weyrwoman doesn't sound all that certain, parroting the information as if it won't, can't, sink in. "What did she do, K'del?" There's a hunger, perhaps intuition long sinced forgotten returning with a vengence. Still, her voice is barely a murmur, "What did she lie about?" If he looks her way, he'll find her frozen in a lean above the table, eyes wide and searching. To Cadejoth, Hraedhyth's black smoke creeps in, not terribly subtle in her prowling. The dragon mirrors that hunger from within K'del's weyr, drums mingling well with primal growl. There's no trace of the chill she's carried so fondly as of late, nothing but the queen's heat settling on the bronze. Cadejoth will feel her presence, the focus, keeping her prey within sight. K'del is - has been - inclined to keep his eyes closed, as if not seeing will protect him from all the things he's been trying so hard not to think about. It's obvious, though, that he hasn't expected Azaylia's reaction, and it's this that has his eyes flickering open again, and his head turning so that he can regard her. His laugh is bitter. "Going to make me say it, aren't you? Why not - let me live that hell again. A faked flight, one lie after another, all the way through. And you-- all of you, helping her with it. Keeping the lie. Hiding it from me. Did she even love me, Azaylia, or was that just another part of the ruse?" His glass is empty, and his hand: he grabs for the bottle, refilling both glasses with an unsteady gesture, whisky spilling onto the table. To Hraedhyth, Cadejoth is predator, not prey - he can be as dangerous as she can, and as fierce. Now, protectiveness forms a wreath around his thoughts, chains curling in and clinking dully together as they tighten, and tighten again. They grind together, a quiet warning: haven't they done enough? There is no move to retrieve the glass so near her splayed palm, Azaylia frozen like some wildcat ready to pounce. Flames flicker within her brown gaze, possibly from the hearth as they search his bitter misery. "Faked." A harsh whisper, raspy. She has nothing for his accusations, far too distracted by what she didn't - hasn't known for so long. Stretched fingers begin to curl, stopped when nails bite into wood, digits turned into grasping claws. "Swear it." Comes out after a heavy swallow, mouth suddenly too dry. The whiskey is still ignored, "Swear on Cadejoth that that's what happened. I won't believe you unless you do." But she so wants too, desperate for something so horrible to be true. To Cadejoth, Hraedhyth allows him this, his final rite. Here, the accusation strikes home, thunderous snarl paired with the glint of ferocious jaws. « I have done nothing to you and Yours. » Drums pound with an adrenaline-heightened heart, and as always they echo with the truth. Is he capable of similar honesty? « Does Yours speak the truth? » Smoke coils, tense and ready to unleash her fire should he prove to be dealing in lies. Before, he couldn't look; now, K'del can't seem to look away. Isn't the look on his face truth enough? Isn't the slump of his shoulders? Or the way he swigs back that second glass of whisky without so much as blinking? His voice is raw and rough when he says, "I swear it on Cadejoth. And you? Can you swear that you knew nothing? Don't believe-- too many lies. She threw it in my face." He's clearly not talking about Iolene, here. "She wanted to hurt me. But it's true. Knew it, as soon as she said it. It all made sense." Those walls Cadejoth built up so painstakingly are banished in an instant. Is Hraedhyth prepared for the onslaught of emotion - the betrayal, the grief, the heart-rending aches? He keeps nothing back. « He never lies, » he says, so quiet, his voice no louder than the low rasp of metal upon metal. (Cadejoth to Hraedhyth) "I swear." No, that's not good enough. "I swear it on Hreadhyth and her eggs, K'del. I had no... I thought. I thought. I didn't dislike her," Might not even now, despite what she's been told, "But I felt it. I couldn't understand it. I thought I was..." Azaylia's words spill, breathless and rushed, a torrent in response to the onslaught of his emotions shared. Now her shoulders begin to relax, giving under the weight of the truth, head bowing to stare at her claw hand. "Brieli knew." It's enough to have fingers tucking fully into her hand, fist resting on the table. Expression remains lost, her breath speeding up as she tries to process it all. To Cadejoth, Hraedhyth can handle it. Does. The smoke dissipates, revealing not rage, but a heat that attempts to be comforting. « He never lies. » Echoes she, echoes her drums. Flames attempt to heat his chains, the weight of her mind now a warm blanket. She makes no attempt to shield herself, or her rider, from what His has suffered through. It is felt, deeply. For some seconds, it's all K'del can do to just breathe: responding to Azaylia, for better or for worse, will have to wait. "Brieli helped her. Iesaryth helped her. It-- I should have known. When Ysavaeth," he has to swallow, hard, and barely manages to make it through the queen's name without his voice cracking, "went between. The difference. Shells, even before then. The so-called lost clutch. The fact I couldn't really remember the flight. All of it. I was stupid, Azaylia, and that let her hurt me." He stares at his empty glass, unseeing. "Never fall in love." To Hraedhyth, Cadejoth is comforted, though it may not seem so initially. The torrent of emotions swarms and floods, leaving Cadejoth - puppy Cadejoth - caught in the middle, sucking in Hraedhyth's heat like a frostbitten child. « He tries to pretend, » he says, in little more than a whisper. « That everything is well. He manages, for a while. And then... he can't. » Azaylia remains too far gone, even as K'del makes his recovery. In and out. The weyrwoman's breath might hitch, but there's no sign of tears in those unfocused eyes, her chest rising and falling rapidly. It stops, suddenly, a shudder visibly running through her entire frame. There's a hint of something raspy, but nothing is able to lessen the high pitch in her roar, "I can't believe her!" For it is too deep, for the young woman, to be a mere scream. She's on her feet, thankfully not overturning the table as she rises. Her glass is not so lucky, knocked over and forgotten as she begins to pace, features twisting at the battle held within. "I can't... I can't... Iolene. Brieli." HEAT. Hraedhyth scorches all in her path, fury unchecked as it feeds off of another, flames roar matching the primal bellow that sounds from her ledge. There's no sense of it, black silhouettes writhing in agony, their wails felt rather than heard. Betrayal. Pain. Loss. Inky black soot is thick enough to choke on, restraint belatedly smearing in an attempt to block the source of the inferno. Even after, the heat lingers, drums thump with far too much force, though little else is revealed. (Hraedhyth to all High Reaches dragons) K'del has had longer to get his head around this information, but a few murky stains on the bare wall are excellent reminders of how it felt: he glances in that direction only once before drawing himself out of his chair, and going to Azaylia, wrapping both arms around her if only she doesn't pull away. "I know," he says, in that quiet, devastated, overwhelmed whisper. "It hurts. How could they." He looks like he's about to cry, but is holding back: trying to be strong. « Hraedhyth. » Cadejoth's entreaty is both warning and apology, and reaches out in an attempt to sooth not only the queen, but the Weyr she has surely disconcerted. « All will be well. » Nothing to see here, move along! « All is well. » (Cadejoth to all High Reaches dragons) "How could she?!" Another scream, one that matches far too well with Hraedhyth's own roar outside. Azaylia recoils from K'del, turning to find him with eyes that are as much Hraedhyth's as they are hers. "Don't." With a raw throat, the harsh whisper sounds much like a growl, "It's not okay. You're not okay. Just because-- It doesn't change what you're doing. It doesn't." It's unsure as to who she is trying to convince, arms stiffly at her sides with hands balled into fists. His expression manages to break through. As the weyrwoman struggles with her lifemate, bent fingers reach out, grasping blindly for the man. Whether arm or clothing, she'll try to pull him back in despite being in no condition to comfort anyone. The whisper of the ocean that lingers over the Weyr intensifies at the bellow, the fury, the heat. Iesaryth isn't precisely helping Cadejoth, but their instinct is similar; with a weight to the tide rolling out, she seeks to calm the dragons, if not Hraedhyth. Breezes carry away soot, though smoke lingers there on the winds, like bonfires on the beach. (Iesaryth to all High Reaches dragons) To Cadejoth, Hraedhyth is pulled back, struggling against the reigns that run through to her very core. Azaylia is as felt as easily as the torrent of rage and hate, so open is the link between bronze and gold. It lessens, drums throbbing with an ache that is shared, « All is not well. » But then she remembers the frostbitten puppy, focusing some of that ferocity into warming him inside and out. As Azaylia recoils, K'del draws his arms away, hands lifted: he meant no harm. Something in his expression turns steely, despite the raw emotion still present there, as she references what he's been doing, but it doesn't linger-- she may be in no condition to comfort, but he's so easily pulled, and so easily sent hurtling back over the precipice of raw grief and suffering. Their height disparity means he can't simply bury his head in her chest, or even her shoulder, but she'll probably be able to feel his dripping tears, dropping one by one into her hair. « No, » agrees Cadejoth, with a long, yearning, echoing sigh - the clatter and rustle of sun-bleached bones. « It is not. But we will make it so. » His torrent of emotion has subsided, but his presence remains troubled: one part soother, one part soothee. One part pack leader, one part loyal follower, man's best friend. « We have to. » For High Reaches. (Cadejoth to Hraedhyth) The grip is not gentle. Nothing about Azaylia in this moment is soft, her tense muscles felt beneath her winter finery. She's unable to ease into K'del, but the embrace is still offered, arms wrapped around him to squeeze that's far too tight. Still, she's there, at least physically. With her cheek resting on his chest, her gaze is once again lost to the fire, both in his weyr and within her own mind. She won't pull away until he does, allowing the man to shed his grief (and tears) into the dual buns atop her head. To Cadejoth, Hraedhyth's smoke clouds her thoughts, keeping them hidden from the replies that come bouncing back from various confused dragons. Curious. Not alarmed, not with Iesaryth and Cadejoth insisting that her outburst was nothing noteworthy. « We will. » The we is ambiguous enough, the bronze is welcome to feel included. He's not excluded, and that's what matters. Her scorched plains echo his sentiment with a haunting rumble: For High Reaches. At first, K'del's arms hang limp at his sides, as though he's unwilling to risk drawing them around the goldrider again. As his tears continue to fall, however, they reach up and squeeze in return, wordlessly offering mutual comfort: yes, he's a mess, but he's here for her too. They can share in this grief, at least, if not in those other things that pull them apart. Finally, however, he pulls himself free, using the back of his hand to wipe the remaining tears from his eyes. "I'm sorry," he says, dully. Azaylia may not have minded in the moment, but once she's released her hands reach up to smooth down her damp locks. With one, steeling inhale, "It's okay. I'm sorry too. I... I'm sure she still cared for you, K'del." Not that she sounds terrible convincing, not until, "Just because people do bad things sometimes, doesn't mean... that they're bad inside. It can't." A quiet plea. She finally looks to the bronzerider after giving him some time to compose himself, lips parting as if to speak. There's so much to say, too much, and it leaves her silent. K'del's low exhale is the only answer he can offer, immediately, before he turns away, disappearing into the room behind the hearth for some seconds. There's the sound of splashing water, and then, finally, he returns, face damp, eyes bloodshot. He's able to answer, then, as he moves to reclaim his seat, but not, this time, reach for his glass, or for the whisky bottle. "Maybe," he says. "But a person does have to wonder why. Why did Iolene lie? Why did Brieli help her? Why did they keep it from you? I never thought to wonder, and now it's too late to know. But-- Azaylia. It's important. We need to try and work out why people do what they do, and find their motivations. We can't just assume that their motives are good." While K'del is gone, Azaylia looks around the room and finally notices the mess she's made of his table. She does what she can, whether that means sopping it up with spare rag or just turning the glass right-side up again. "Because she wanted to be Senior." The answer is prompt enough to sound sharp. "Lying about eggs." Clearly the more unforgivable offense. "I don't know why Brieli would help her." She slowly lowers back into her corner of the couch, arms hugging knees to her chest. "Or why she wouldn't tell me." It hurts to say, but she does anyway. Even on his return, K'del doesn't seem to notice, or particularly care, about the state of his table and glasses. He lets a long, low breath ease out of his mouth, and shuts his eyes. "Never seemed to me like something she'd lie to get," he says, quietly. "Shows how much I didn't know, I guess. I--" He pauses, then scrubs at his face with both fists. "Don't want to argue. Or upset you. Know she's your friend, and I respect that. But-- there's more to Brieli than what she shows you. Her motivations. Don't know what it is, but-- all I ask is that you think carefully over anything she suggests. Anything she tells you. Not asking you to believe me. Just to keep it in mind." "I don't know why everyone wants it so badly." The goldrider sounds tired. Tired and bitter, "Iolene. Lujayn. Why does being Senior matter so much? We're supposed to work together..." Closing her eyes, her words become more than a rambling murmur, "I know that." Now? Has she always known? What of it? "I'm going to talk to her. Later. Much later, I can't be... Just, later." Disappointed to the point of heartbreak, she fights to keep the heavy frown off her face. "If I do that, you have to do something for me." Firm, but not unmoving, "You don't have to support what's happening, K'del. But it makes it harder for us to settle the Weyr when you're... Until something bad actually happens, something that hurts the Weyr," More than just throwing it into unrest, obviously, "I don't like you riling people, bronzeriders, up." A pointed stare, vague enough that she doesn't know what exactly he's doing, just that he's doing it. Quiet bitterness returns to K'del's voice when he answers; his expression is sad. "Until something bad actually happens? Like you lot attempting to manoeuvre H'kon out-- H'kon, who is trying to be sensible. Like Brieli running south so that Iesaryth can be caught by Vhaeryth. Like Brieli's insistence that High Reaches 'owes' her. Like Taikrin just grabbing a Wing for herself. Face facts Azaylia: the Weyr doesn't want two Weyrwomen, and it definitely doesn't want two brownriding Weyrleaders. All this rabbiting on about how there have been female Acting Weyrleaders in the past doesn't change the fact that people don't trust this situation, and they don't trust Taikrin. I'm not your problem." Azaylia remains silent, her face slowly solidifying into something stubborn as well as annoyed by the bronzerider's words. "H'kon is an ass." Right off, no mercy. "If the Weyr doesn't want two 'leaders, then we'll make Taikrin Acting. She caught, fair and square. H'kon doesn't even want anything to do with-- us." With a sour twist to her lips, "It's not fair that a faked flight is easier to accepted than a real one." He's not the only one who can sound jaded. "N'rov being there doesn't matter. If I had someone special who could chase, I'd want him to..." Her voice falters at Brieli's defense. Brieli. Who lied. Looking suddenly ill, "You need to trust me. I won't let our Weyr down. I can't. But not everything she does can be bad." But, "That doesn't mean I can ignore what she has done." "H'kon also caught, fair and square. You can't just cut him out, because you prefer Taikrin. If you're not going to pick an Acting Weyrleader based on merit, then you should at least stick with the both of them." K'del's words escape before he can really consider the rest of what she has to say, though that state doesn't last long. "Of course you'd want him to. But you wouldn't take your queen away deliberately to make sure he could win. Because if you did--" He looks sick, and has to turn away. "I'm trying to trust you, Azaylia. I am. But the more I see, the more concerned I am. Why does Taikrin deserve this more than H'kon? He's trying to do the right thing. Don't agree to everything Brieli wants without thinking about it. That's all I ask." "If he actually wants it, then I suppose we can't really pick an Acting." Azaylia takes her time in admitting it, clearly still convinced of the brownrider's resemblance to a donkey. "Brieli mentioned that he isn't interested, and from what I've seen I agree. He doesn't want to lead." Which may explain why, warts and all, she prefers her once-wingmate. "Brieli isn't me." Is all she can offer on the subject of Vhaeryth possibly catching, carried on a defeated sigh. "And I'm not her." The goldrider puffs up in her corner, "I don't. I never have. I can think for myself, you know." Insulted, "Just don't try to make things worse to prove yourself right. That's what I ask." Quietly, "He doesn't want to lead. But he wants to protect the Weyr. He worries about leaving Taikrin in charge. Frankly, I think that's commendable. He's willing to sacrifice his own desires for the sake of this Weyr." K'del stands, turning to face the fire, his shoulders slumped. "I'm trying to keep things from combusting. It's not in anyone's best interests for that to happen. Trust me, Azaylia, and I will trust you. You're as capable as she is, and you, at least, care about people." "Then he shouldn't have left the Weyr and caught." Azaylia looks towards the backlit bronzerider, taking in his silhouette as she mulls things over. "I want to trust you, too. I believe that you want to do what's right, I just don't think challenging the Weyrwomen is a good way to go. The Weyr acts like it doesn't need us, not since Tiri-- Queens protect the Weyr." On her feet once more, she's very careful not to upset anymore of his furniature. "I'm really not." As capable. "But I'm trying. I'm learning." Clearing a throat that is far too sore, "Do you think Cadejoth could drop me off at my weyr? I don't want to disturb them. Hraedhyth." Who will be soaking up brown comfort like a particularly furious sponge. "He didn't intend to," points out K'del, still staring at the fire: evidently, the flames are a far more comfortable thing than Azaylia herself. "Of course we need you. A Weyr's queens are the most important thing. Don't think for a moment that I don't believe that." Now, quietly, he turns. He's evidently acknowledging, and acceding to, her request, but first-- "But a Weyr needs a strong Weyrwoman and a strong Weyrleader. It's a partnership. Right now, feels like it's being cut out, and that makes people uncomfortable. You can replace a Weyrleader much more easily than a Weyrwoman." He steps forward, then hesitates, and steps back again. "You're doing fine. Keep at it, Azaylia. He's outside, ready and waiting." There's more muttering for intentions, cast aside as her eyes ease away, words not meant to really be heard. "Weyrleaders are important. Don't think that I'm happy this happened. I'm not. If I could back and change it, somehow..." There's no good thinking like that, so she stops. His step has her attention, Azaylia taking the few needed around the table in order to close the gap between them. "I also think... people should know. About Iolene." Not a question, and yet she searches his face for an answer as if it is. The goldrider will steal a firm hug, much better than the earlier embrace, if she's allowed. "Thank you, K'del. For telling me. I needed to know." And for the ride down, which is halted only so she can put her boots back on and find her cloak. Once she dismounts from the borrowed bronze, she hugs his muzzle tight before sending Cadejoth on his way. The hug is returned in kind; all K'del has to say that isn't expressed in his gentle squeeze, and the look on his face, is the quiet truth that, "If people know, then Lujayn is Weyrwoman. Is that better or worse?" He'll leave that thought with her-- something for future consideration. Cadejoth, before he's released, huffs warm, comforting breath at the goldrider. All is well. All will be well. If it can be. |
Comments
Barnabas (Barnabas (talk)) left a comment on Sun, 10 Feb 2013 05:05:49 GMT.
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Oh what a tangle web we weave, eh Brieli? This is gonna be wicked!
Brieli (Brieli (talk)) left a comment on Sun, 10 Feb 2013 05:10:17 GMT.
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Why me? It's Iolene's secret!
Zian (Zian (talk)) left a comment on Sun, 10 Feb 2013 17:49:50 GMT.
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Ooooh, this log was delightful. ^^ Well, I mean. And sad too. But good.
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