Logs:Planning Murder
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| RL Date: 20 February, 2016 |
| Who: N'rov, Olivya |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: (and other such things) |
| Where: Weyrling Complex, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 1, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: W'leri/Mentions, K'se/Mentions, Dahlia/Mentions, Kh'tyr/Mentions, Odren/Mentions, Roveny/Mentions, Mirinda/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: The title of this log is not deceptive at all. |
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| The blizzard's well gone, but dunes of snow still mound the ground where they haven't been trampled to death. N'rov doesn't hurt any as he passes by, but he does pause to prise a sword-length icicle from an overhang before entering Olivya's territory: not to observe from the sidelines, as he does most often in respecting the weyrlingmaster's wishes, but evidently one of those periodic check-ins, giving one of those weyrlings he passes a quick grin as he moves to hunt Liv down wherever she might be. Olivya herself is leaning against the arched entrance of the barracks, her back to N'rov as she watches the activity inside of weyrlings picking up their respective spaces and organizing it amidst chaos. She seems content to just observe, herself, rather than giving orders or directing this activity. Perhaps it is enough to just be present, that ever too bright, signature red and wild, blonde curls enough to catch any eyes that might doubt she's there. That curl, one of those curls, must be tempting to tug on as though she were sitting ahead of him in class; N'rov settles for his voice, low baritone behind her ear, "Good day, Weyrlingmaster." Polite, so very polite, but that voice is smiling. Olivya curves a look back at the Weyrleader, over her shoulder. It might seem a distant look itself, but there is something humor filled in her ice blue eyes before she pulls her gaze back to the scene before her with only a tipped nod in invitation. After all, it's a large entrance and plenty of room to stand with her. "Weyrleader, are you planning a murder?" is the woman's greeting in turn. "Not today," N'rov gives her after a moment's deliberation, and a step forward to her other side, though he stays just behind her shoulder. "Why, is there someone new on your naughty list? Sprouting chest hair when they weren't supposed to?" "If you are going to go around murdering anyone who annoys me -- not that I would object, darling -- there's going to be a lot more talk," is Olivya's answer, the words working a smile into the corners of her lips as she slide another look to N'rov beside her. As usual, her red lips match the red jacket, perfectly painted. "I've learned to accept that I can't control when my weyrlings sprout hair, or little else. As long as they are safe and learning--." N'rov's silence implies musing, if also amusement; "It's true," he says, "I've put enough work in finding wingleaders that I'd rather not lose any more." Southern's in his tone, and Southern Boll and Benden, all of it complicated. But, "Still none of them crashed?" It's been a couple days. Matters could have changed. A laugh finds its way into Olivya's tone, a dry thing, as she questions back to the Weyrleader, "Do you expect them to have? With me as their Weyrlingmaster?" She tsks, softly, shaking her head with a soft flick of curls over her shoulder. "They are doing fine, for the most part. K'se is still moping around with his first broken heart, but otherwise--." "Weyrlings are talented at such escapades, no matter if their weyrlingmaster is the most talented on the continent," N'rov drawls with an air of reminiscence. "Hard to believe they'll have weyrs soon. He's lucky to have his first episode after he Impressed." "And when was your first broken heart, Weyrleader?" Olivya says it in an easy way, not close enough involved or aware of N'rov's last relationships to have any influence on what she says. She even smiles, a cocky thing as she tips her head. "I'm sure more of these escapades will happen soon, once they have those weyrs. But I wouldn't underestimate my influence." "Seven, or thereabouts," N'rov says readily. "She had freckles, a runner, and a full Turn on me," and his chuckle is low in his throat. "Looking forward to the new set? Any last-minute plans to steal another assistant?" Or not so last-minute, as the case may be. "And then proceeded to be a heartbreaking bronzerider forever afterwards?" Olivya's question is satirical, however, without any real expectation of a response as she slides her gaze once again away from N'rov to watch the weyrlings. It is a thoughtful watchfulness, since she eventually answers in a mused, "I'd rather they wait until these have moved into their own Weyrs. We may want to consider letting them move a bit early, in any case; it isn't like we are lacking for empty weyrs and it will be better for Taeliyth's weyrlings to settle in without an older group over their shoulder." "At eight, yes," N'rov has to agree with her regardless. "I was precocious." And undoubtedly smirking. Weyrs are Mirinda's territory, but these are their weyrlings, and the bronzerider listens to the weyrlingmaster with interest and a degree of deference; "Not going to enlist the older ones as your eyes and ears, then? I can see it. Were you the oldest?" Olivya exhales a soft laugh as she answers dryly, "I have enough eyes and ears-- and mouths -- that I need between Kh'tyr and the rest of my assistants. At least, those that would do any good." She shakes her head, next; it is a gesture that still holds a hint of long-ago, buried frustrations despite how differently her path has taken her. "I had an older brother. I know exactly how stifling the proverbial older child can be to the younger." "'Had'?" N'rov considers her. "That would explain the consideration. I had two, for what that's worth," and past tense though it recently is, he doesn't permit more than an undertone of sorrow, of resignation, of irony. "Growing up, I had. Now he is a holder, and I am a dragonrider. My family is the Weyr," answers Olivya, the conversation line sobering the woman into something more reserved as she watches N'rov in turn. She adds simply, "My condolences on your loss." "Ah." N'rov says then, a little gruffly, "And on yours as well." Perhaps it's the reserve, oddly, that leads to him saying, "It wasn't even the plague, not directly. When we were little, my oldest brother was always big and strong like in the stories, and my next oldest wasn't. Nobody expected him to die first, nobody at all." He exhales. "But then his wife did. One of his boys." Olivya doesn't interrupt, simply transferring the weight of those light, blue eyes from the weyrlings to N'rov. And she watches him as she waits for him to continue, studying. N'rov's shrug is an abortive gesture, more a flex of his shoulders than anything. "It wasn't even some grand romance where he dueled a suitably old and conniving betrothed for her hand. And the plague was gone." That's all the silence he can fill. "Does anything need to be a grand romance to hurt? K'se is learning that lesson himself, now," Olivya answers, her words kept simple and lighter in an attempt to lift the conversation. Or perhaps just to change it back to the easier subject of weyrlings. She even straightens and glances out to find the brownrider in the barracks. "But he won't give up over it," N'rov says, the irritation in his voice not for weyrlings or weyrlingmaster for all that he's followed her glance to K'se too. As long as he's eyeing them, "Enough children for you?" "More than enough," agrees Olivya to the question, a smile finally touching her lips as she offers it to N'rov before it's gone again. "And how is your little one?" "Looking forward to Impressing," N'rov says of the six-month-old, dryly. "So watch out for that. Everything goes in her mouth, which I'm told is usual. I can't claim to understand everything," anything? "she says." "That one will be trouble for whoever is Weyrlingmaster; it is in her lineage, after all," Olivya agrees easily, eyeing N'rov with a hint of faux-suspicion. "But by then, it may not be me. Not if Rin--." She catches herself on the words, letting them trail off in a clearly dismissive end to the thought. But she'll add, moving on, "I hear the speech skills improve with age. Give it time." That gray gaze considers her, evaluates her; N'rov, known for pressing, does not. Instead, possibly even with sympathy, "Drowns you in a sea of bliss. I know." While he's at it, "She has at least a sevenday before she's in remedial lessons. Speaking of..." he has their weyrlings to ask after: this one's old problem, another's forecast, nothing long but, as usual, clearly interested. |
Comments
Roz (11:59, 23 February 2016 (PST)) said...
I can imagine a few people they'd both like to murder, though perhaps Liv more than N'rov. Go go team WL+WLM. Enjoyed the scene!
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