Logs:One Day
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 31 May, 2014 |
| Who: Azaylia, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Talk of tapestries turns to Monaco and riders work themselves up into a tizzy. |
| Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 8, Month 12, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: M'kris/Mentions |
  |
| Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet, and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's offerings. Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven -- only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed. With the dinner rush trickling into more of a lull, there's more room for Azaylia to maneuver around the edge of the living cavern. There's enough traffic that she's not terribly conspicuous, even pausing to talk to those who greet her. The plate in her hand has been picked at, fork resting gently in the center as she makes her round. It's the tapestries that have her attention, the Weyrwoman pausing to wipe her fingertips off on her skirt before she reaches up and samples the artwork. There's no tugging, but she is paying mind to the edges, visibly pensive in her easy gaze and slow chewing. It's been the better part of a sevenday since various members of Savannah Wing arrived at High Reaches. Tonight, most of the wing has settled themselves on the table they've claimed as their own -- since Polaris has taken back theirs. The occupants are subdued -- far from their previously lively, convivial demeanor of the past Turn. "Enough of that. Off you go, up to the rider's lounge. It's time for poker," Bristia's tone is a mixture of no-nonsense and patient cajoling, as she begins the process of herding the various wing members towards the bowl. There's a brief exchange between her and R'hin -- the latter still eating -- which ends with the greenrider stalking out after the wing, and the Wingleader turning attention back to his food, though with little gusto. Instead he's watching -- first the departure of Bristia, then others around the caverns, and finally the dark-haired Weyrwoman. Poke, poke, miss. Azaylia's fork scrapes against an empty part of her plate, causing her to wince and turn more toward the tapestry in front of her. Many of the woven scenes are centered around High Reaches, or include the region within a grander depiction of Pern. The one which has her attention is of the coast, and after running her fingers along the worn edges she takes a step back. With head tilted there are more steps backward, fork successful in blindly spearing a bit of beef as the goldrider examines the large work of art. One of her steps backwards has her unexpectedly pressing up against a solid form. A hand snakes out to the arm that is not holding the plate to steady her, if needed, while a familiar voice murmurs, "Those have been there since I came. Since before. Perhaps it is time for new things." R'hin's usual amusement is lacking from his voice: it is a bland statement of fact as he stares past her at the tapestries that has her attention. Azaylia gives a startled squeak upon impact, her attempt to spin around halted by his hand. "Ah, sorry... Oh." It's R'hin. She doesn't look quite so guilty, smile small but warm as she puts a step's worth of space between them. "That's... actually what I was thinking. The duller ones, at least." She's stared enough at the tapestries, her full attention settling on the Savannah rider in front of her. The tilt to her head returns, voice gentle, "How are... things? The wing?" His attention more on the tapestries than her, R'hin apparently misses her expression as she eases away. "That costs marks, though. Unless you've an ex-weaver who wants to earn his or her way lying around?" Pale gaze flickers towards her for a beat. "Things are fine." It's a rote answer, well-practiced and well-used by the casual way the former Monacoan throws it out, breezing past it. "Giorda has done fine work finding us places to stay -- though a couple of riders are still bunking with Bristia and I for the time being." "I don't. It was just... a nice thought." Azaylia accepts the reality of marks with a light sigh, glancing down and plucking up the last bit of food on her plate. She's careful in her glance backward, making sure that no one is behind her as she eases back to rest her hip against the nearest table. With a twist of her lips, she sets her fork and plate aside, "You could say nothing, if you're going to fake it." There's a glance past him, looking for those wing mates of his, "If there isn't enough room they're always welcome to stay in my weyr. I've done it before." Not quite hopeful, but certainly fond of the idea. "One day." It's words that should prove a salve, yet the dry phrasing suggests that R'hin, at least, thinks one day is a very far off day, indeed. A twist of lips, and her words finally evoke a short bark of laughter, his, "But I'm usually so good at faking it," coming on its heels. Its her latter words that get the bronzerider's attention: he's watching Azaylia, not his wingmates. "Your riders shouldn't be your bunkmates, kitten. How will they respect you once they learn the quality of your wardrobe? Or your undergarments?" Despite the fact it's something he is already privy to. That dry realism is why Azaylia lets the subject fall away, along with the little jump she gives at R'hin's sudden mirth. "I bet you are." Less of a jab and more of a wild swing that lacks any real bite. The goldrider's eyes widen before they narrow, "So you don't respect me?" Pushing off the table, she straightens up to her full height-- possibly straining to make up for those inches R'hin has on her. "Or is it you'll get jealous if other snobby riders start teasing me about my clothes?" "I didn't say that, you did," R'hin retorts without heat, pale eyes taking in her attempt to draw herself to her full height with a flicker of amusement, head tipping to regard her. "It's all about appearances, kitten. Besides, if you start to take in too many strays people might get ideas." The playful huff and puff deflates at his retort, "So? Doesn't make it any less true." An accusation that is paired with crossed arms, doubt weighing down the corners of her lips. "You're all about appearances. I'm allowed to offer help my way." There's a long silence from the bronzerider, like he's weighing up his answer, the usual lightness of pale eyes far from present. "And what do you plan to do about Monaco?" R'hin asks, finally, voice cast low. In the silence comes a breathless mumble which speaks of "rain" and appearances, or something of that nature. His question does nothing to brighten the Weyrwoman's expression as she tilts her chin up, "Do?" Now there's some bite, although her voice remains low, "I want nothing to do with them." If that's what he means. "Other than letting people know just what kind of..." Flustered, it takes a moment for her to find the word, "Of... creature their Weyrwoman supports." Oddly, there's an agreeably nod from R'hin on that. "Good," he says, as if it was the answer he was hoping for. The latter though makes his lips thin briefly, his fingers clenching into fists for a moment, his voice intent, "He's a Weyrleader now, whatever else he may be. Anything you declare pits the entire Weyr against theirs." And while he warns her, he doesn't warn her off such a course. "He's a heartless bastard and he's lucky his... his overgrown firelizard didn't catch a dragon like Hraedhyth." Not quite sputtering, there is certainly some stifled fury. With a quick breath, "We've never been close with Monaco, anyway. Trading the wings was a start but this..? No." Another stubborn jut of her jaw, "It's my opinion. I wouldn't keep our riders from going there, and I'm not stopping their riders from visiting--" A spark of realization behind her eyes has her arms tightening, "Except for whenever Hraedhyth rises." There's something growing in R'hin's gaze, pale eyes edging closer to a hard light as he listens to Azaylia. The sudden tightness in his jaw and stiffness of his posture betrays his mood, though he keeps his voice relatively level: "Good," he echoes again -- though whether in response to her lack of restrictions on High Reaches' riders, or the latter isn't clear. "I need--" there's something abruptly harsh and guttural in the uttered words before he turns on a heel and stalks for the exit wordlessly, as if they weren't in the middle of a conversation. Azaylia is left blinking blankly in the wake of R'hin's sudden departure, arms eventually falling to her sides. With a quick glance around, the Weyrwoman gives little thought to the plate she leaves to be picked up by kitchen staff. Long legs catch up with him, keeping his pace while searching the side of the bronzerider's face. "What?" Quiet words carry a hint of concern, "You need..?" Anger snuffed by her confusion, "Was it something I said?" "No," R'hin replies tightly without looking at her -- and without slowing his pace. "You've the right of it." Out in the bowl, the angular form of his bronze is barely discernible in the dark, as the bronzerider makes a beeline for him, though he pauses, abruptly, looking back at Azaylia all of a sudden. The words are barely audible, though fuelled by intensity as he growls, "He'll get what's coming to him." He makes it sound like a promise, and a moment later he's climbing for Leiventh's neckridges. The Weyrwoman keeps up, looking all the more confused for it. Ignoring the night's chill, she skids to a halt at R'hin's sudden focus. The words send a jolt through her, Azaylia giving a hiss that doesn't completely mask her worry, "Don't you do anything stupid." As he climbs, she steps closer, "R'hin. I mean it." There's doubt there. Hesitation. She could just be jumping to conclusions. It's the reason that he's able to mount Leiventh with only a concerned flicker from Hraedhyth, attention on the pair but not intruding. For a moment, R'hin stares down at her, his face a mask of shadows concealing his expression as he does so. A dark chuckle accompanies his eventual response, "Stupid is what I do. What I'm here for." A beat, voice softer, "It's cold out," serves for warning and farewell both, Leiventh's angular form snaking away in the darkness for just enough space before he launches skywards. In the moments before they disappear, a chill wind flares up around Hraedhyth in reassurance, « I protect him from himself, as I have always done. » R'hin probably doesn't catch her displeased groan, more of a soft growl that eases from Azaylia's throat as she looks up at him. She watches Leiventh, or what she can make of him the dark, arms crossed and stubbornly staying until they disappear. Before they do, Hraedhyth's drums join her growl of encouragement, « Good. Be well. » Wherever it is they're heading, as she then withdraws. Once he's no longer there to be smug, then the Weyrwoman rushes back inside to escape the cold. |
Leave A Comment