Logs:Proper Fortian Fruit
| |
|---|
| RL Date: 18 November, 2015 |
| Who: Mirinda, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Zaisavyth rises to confirm Fort's leadership. |
| Where: Flight Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 23, Month 4, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Dahlia/Mentions, Hattie/Mentions |
    |
| By the middle of the afternoon, Zaisavyth slept-- a reprieve from her reign of emotional terror, perhaps, though her dreams, well. A handful of hours later, not so far before the first hints of sunset, she roused again, and then everything was on at once. Someone, at least, made sure Mirinda made it to the flight weyr, and probably even settled her down in her position upon the old bed. For much of the flight, as her queen bloods and boils and bounds higher and higher still, she's silent and aloof, lost within herself rather than engaging with her chasers. She shows some backbone later, though: not so much a little girl lost as a woman with a sharp kick as required, and after that, it's as if her apprehensions have eased. Might she even smile, a little? She might. At the height of it all, however, everything comes down to Zaisavyth. She has claimed these skies, these males; she may have dismissed most of them, may even have permitted a trail of violence in some, but in the end, she knows what she wants. For Vhaeryth, it's just the subtlest flick of her fire, a solar shockwave that pushes him this way so that she might meet him there. Here. Now. Mirinda's gasp is loud within the weyr below, as she reaches for N'rov-- she knows him, even as she doesn't. Now, so much time later, twilight having lengthened shadows and then let them lengthen some more, she stirs against the bronzerider beside her. He's on his back and she's curled up against his side, still more-or-less wearing that unseasonal sundress from earlier. Dark eyes turn to study N'rov's sleeping face; so this is who he is, then, though recognition she has not. Push, pull, press: pyrotechnics. High, far, further, a different set of shockwaves, past their floating aftermath Vhaeryth diverts his queen for a breather on the Rim and then, when she has a mind for occupying her new ledge (big grassy patch that it isn't, but simply solid rock) there as well; they stay close, Vhaeryth not fully asleep but watching. Watching over. His rider, though... N'rov naps, warm and lazy and worn, the first time he's slept so long since the plague hit; surely this is a dream, his arm about her, all of that stress and weariness gone in this lazy, still-floating haze. Who would want to wake up, after all, to cold and empty all too much tenebrous loss. Zaisavyth enjoys that view over her territory, and enjoys, too, claiming that ledge as her own-- her right and proper mate alongside her. All is as it should be. Perhaps that's also true for her rider, that dark-eyed woman who watches so intently beneath half-lowered lashes, snuggling in to his warmth against the spring chill. Wakefulness has definite downsides, and after a moment, those eyes close again, that dark head nestling back down. That's not the lark; not yet. Just the nightingale, it must be. He accommodates that, half-turning to accommodate her, instinctive and unstudied so they fit that little bit better; it's quiet, no one chirping by the time he finally does begin to wake, perhaps even no oil lamp at the ready. But it isn't exactly waking, is it; stirring, perhaps, those slow, savoring strokes of his hand down the line of her back. Mirinda's, "Mmm," is not much more than an exhale, really, and probably not even intentional. He stirs and she shifts, closer and closer though the skirt of her dress may tangle further between them. Unfortunately, that mood may soon be lost, because a sudden realisation has hit the goldrider and now? "I do hope you haven't just infected me with your plague, Vhaeryth's rider." Crash. "What?" Sleepy. Clueless. Not awake. His eyes, opening, are gray without the trace of violet that lingers about Vhaeryth's blue. Huffing out a breath that falls a little short of irritated, but only a little, Mirinda abruptly rolls away, taking a good deal of the blanket with her. "The plague," she repeats. "Have you had it? Have you had any symptoms. I need to know if I am compromised. I didn't think to wear a mask." Stupid Mirinda, failing to think of such things during her time of proddiness. Not so sleepy that, with the cold racing in after her, he doesn't grab for the blanket; N'rov tugs. "Shells. No, no plague. No symptoms. Also, hello." That tug, at least, stops Mirinda from pulling further, and so she sits there: half-dressed, half-covered, half-awake, though maybe a little more than that. Or a lot more. "I'm sorry," she blurts, a pink flush suffusing her cheeks. "You're absolutely sure? I don't-- I'm Mirinda. Hello, Vhaeryth's rider. I'm sorry, I don't know your name." "Absolutely," the third-awake bronzerider says with confidence, even if it is followed by a quick grin; he doesn't let go, but neither does he drag it closer, delaying any tug-of-war. Surely he'd give her the right name, wouldn't he, the correct name, as quickly as he might be found out? "N'rov." Just like that, looking at her, extending his hand. His palm's up. "N'rov," repeats Mirinda, taking this, his name, on face-value. Even with a grin like that, he wouldn't play with her at a moment like this, right? After a moment's pause, she extends her own hand, taking his. "Weyrleader N'rov." That grin drops; taken at face value, he's taken aback. Wryly, "I suppose so. 'Weyrwoman Mirinda,'" N'rov gives her back, with his own hand's clasp, before releasing them both that much that he can. "How do you like the sound of that?" Mirinda's hand returns to her lap upon release, fingers curling about each other. She hesitates... and then she makes a face. "Not especially," she admits. "I won't call you that again, if you prefer. Unless you deserve it." She's not smiling, but she could, nearly, almost, if she tried. "You're going to have to teach me Fort. You, and... Hattie and Dahlia. I've not been here before. I've never even slept in a cave before." For that, at least, she's the faintest of wry laughs. He doesn't seem to need her to try, not even with the momentary quirk to his mouth. Deserving. Rather, "Deal," N'rov says, sitting up further as though he might initiate tutorials right now. Except, meeting her this way too, "I'm from Boll. Froze everything off, my first Turn here. We'll get you all the coal and furs we can, unless you'd rather just live in the Sands." It's a tentative smile, in reply to his agreement, but true enough for what it is. It turns rather more wry, however, as he continues. "I know this is spring," she says, "but it doesn't feel like it, not to me. The furs will help. I-- didn't even pack." There's that pink flush again." It's only belatedly that she thinks to add, "Boll. Is your family, uh, safe? That may be indelicate of me to ask, I'm sorry." "You were distracted," says N'rov, wry in his turn before... before he's reaching to hold onto the back of his neck, without regard for the blanket's fall. "Yeah. No. They're not." He looks past her before he can look back. "Guess I got distracted for a while there, too," his voice the rougher for it. He should speak further, should quip, should distract and deflect. He doesn't, or can't. "I'm sorry," is so very quiet, and so very honest, Mirinda's gaze dropping from N'rov's to stare at the blanket between them, the one she's not pulled closer to her side even now that the bronzerider has released it. He can't say it's okay, either, but there's no pause before what he does say. "I don't want you to worry about it," N'rov tells Mirinda. "We'll have enough to deal with, just as soon as we step out of our cave." He glances up and around it, its low ceiling, its glows dim. There's nothing like luxury. There hasn't been for a long time. But what he can give her, "Thirsty?" A nod is what answers the first of N'rov's answer, though it's for their luxurious cave that she slides into an uneasy laugh. "I don't know that I'm ready to go out there yet," she admits. "A drink would be good." Now she'll pull that blanket up a little further, clearly more for warmth than coverage. "We don't have to," is said in much the same time as he'd said that she's good, right there where she is. "Here." He extricates himself, carefully, easy with his body and the use they'd made of it; it's cold, but he can be all daring, leave her the blanket and prowl all goose-bumpy around the cavern. "The bed, you've already met." He gestures in its direction. "Possessed of all four legs and, originally, a complement of linens." If said linens aren't the softest in the world, he doesn't have to mention it. "Water... ah, here's water." And a cloth; he can cleanse his hands before he pours. "Want something harder? The fruit, well, they call it fruit but it's nothing like down South." Mirinda watches, following N'rov with her gaze as he so darlingly ventures away from the bed and its warm (if not soft) covers. His tour makes her laugh, a quietly musical sound, though she holds her words until, "Water. Water would be good. I'm not much of a drinker, for the most part-- there, you know something else about me. I'll miss real fruit. But you have... apples. Pears?" Pause. "We do, I mean." "Water for the weyrwoman," N'rov intones, not making her bear its full weight just yet. He pours one mug, two, and then tucks fruit into the crook of his arm before balancing all those and the bowl of nuts; along the way, he has a quick grin for that rephrasing of hers. "Both, even. Though I might want to cut out a bit or two. Or bite around? Whichever." Walking over is no problem; the bed he has to navigate, perching on the edge nearest her so that she can have her selection. "Who knew," he adds with a bit more of a grin, "we'd get a picnic." "Proper Fortian fruit," is what Mirinda means by her fruit preferences; she pauses to examine both before ultimately selecting an apple that, naturally, has seen better days: it's not apple season. "A picnic. In bed. I feel appropriately decadent-- my mother always said it wasn't polite." The apple, turned within her hand, is examined rather than eaten. "You're a man of many talents." Balancing so many things at once! What few rejects there are, other than his own apple, N'rov piles atop the nuts. The water she may take if she wishes, or else he'll set the mug by the bed. "It's a good thing your mother isn't here," he says very seriously, but there is a gleam in his eye. "Mine..." there's a little of that roughness again, he doesn't know, but even so, "has lacquered trays for that very purpose, as I recall, and bed-jackets, and a girl to fluff her hair just so. I think she'd object, however, to my risking cold." Mirinda does take the water, setting down her apple in order to do so, both hands wrapping about the mug as she looks up towards the bronzerider. "I object to you risking cold," she decides. "So I'll share my covers with you. Since you've so kindly fetched us our provisions. We can save the shop-talk until the morning, can't we?" For that, her tone is quietly wistful. "I'd rather just get to know you, for now." Her covers. Proper Fortian covers. N'rov might even have said as much, but, "Absolutely," he promises Mirinda instead, and rounds the bed to make it so. They don't have to be Weyrwoman and Weyrleader yet. |
Leave A Comment