H'kon and Arekoth

d7, m6, t4, 7th.

2007-09-16T04:49:36Z

>> I cannot believe I forgot him. <<
<< He'll forgive you. >>

Northern Bowl
The bowl floor is a broad expanse of gravel and dust, packed flat over decades of dragonweight landing on it. Kept free of vegetation, the only color variation across the vast hollow of the bowl are the dragons, in good weather often found sunning on low ledges or sprawled along the floor itself. The well-worn, charcoal-grey walls of the bowl are nearly vertical, far too steep for even the most adventurous climber to attempt. The rim of the bowl, marked by a rainbow of perching dragons at all times of the day, is topped with massive stone spires that stretch upwards into the blue vault of the sky. There are seven in all, great black fingers of stone that seem, from where you stand, to touch the clouds.
A number of tunnels breach the walls of the bowl, leading to various indoor parts of the Weyr. To the southwest, a vast tunnel entrance descends to the baths, curls of steam seeping out on colder days. On the northern face of the stone, a huge gaping maw betrays the presence of the Hatching cavern. Somewhat more modest tunnel entrances lead to the living caverns and the versatile classroom chamber to the west, and the Weyrleaders' complex to the east. In the distance to the south, the vast grey-blue of the lake stretches off to meet the southern wall of the bowl.

Officially, the pair have already been relieved of duty, and are moved. Unofficially, they need an extra trip to get the last remnants of things, to deal with any final issues. And so, Arekoth is in the bowl, standing three-legged, anticipating the arrival of his rider. Said rider is on his way from the caverns with a bag of some description slung over his shoulder. Jaw is jut forward, brow is furrowed, and he looks in one of his less approachable moods. It's a distracted mood as well, though - the compact man keeps throwing glances up toward the rim of the bowl, to its walls... taking in his surroundings. Those last looks, at least, for a while.

A slim figure in a blue slacks and a soft grey shirt comes running lightly from the living caverns, heading towards H'kon at a quick pace but slowing as he comes near. Despite the fact that it's light out, Akos is lacking his usual protectively concealing clothing, and so he burns like some kind of odd star - at least where his skin is visible, and especially when it comes to his hair. He pauses alongside H'kon, not waiting the usual time of greeting and such, only blurting out, "You're leaving?"

H'kon's head tilts at the sound of footsteps in such a way as to make his ears more readily available to receive them. Head turns to the younger man alongside him, and rider's pale eyes go a bit wider, mouth forming, ever so briefly, into an 'o'. Then, a dull nod. "Yes. We... must." He gauges the distance between himself and his dragon, between Akos and himself - and chooses, in the end, to pause where he is.

Akos's brow furrows as he says, voice, in one of those moments of rarities, annoyed, "And you weren't going to say goodbye to me?" Hurt and annoyed. Akos tosses his windblown hair from his eyes only to wince and lift an arm in an attempt to shade his eyes from the sunlight. He really shouldn't be out here, but he seems unwilling to leave H'kon to run off on his own.

H'kon looks appropriately guilty at this, lips twitching toward a frown, though never quite getting there, head drooping a little, face turned to the ground. A little negating shake. "There has been so much..." Deep breath, look up. The bag on his shoulder is adjusted, and his head has canted a little to the side. "I did not purposefully...."

Akos's lips press into a taut line before he drops his arm, ignoring the pain the sun might cause him, "No. I imagine you didn't... though being forgotten is twice as bad as being snubbed." His feelings are hurt, but that's not the only reason he's behaving rather immaturely now. Though it's true he likely still has a mild crush on H'kon, the rider is like his older brother, quite a bit more than his real brothers, and having him leave is difficult for Akos to acclimate to. This all explains the teary quality of those pale blue eyes, which prove surprisingly vibrant in the sun.

H'kon is at a loss for a moment, looking as apologetic as any canine who has fallen out of disfavour with the one he's chosen as master, and is crawling back with his tail between his legs. Eventually, though, he does think to push himself into some form of action, and so reaches for Akos' arm, with a gentle grip. Eyes stay fixed on the ground when he speaks, though. "Arekoth can at least use his wing to shield the sun." A little tug.

Akos seems to debate shaking the arm off and continuing with his anger, but he ultimately allows himself to be tugged, nodding a little and moving towards the man's lifemate with his head partially bowed. He lifts his other arm so that he can rub his knuckles beneath his nose, sniffing lightly once but not actually crying just yet. He licks his lips and moves that same hand to push his hair away from his eyes once more, though it's more of a fidget, causing his bangs to stick up in an oddly amusing fashion.

Arekoth extends a wing, surely as a result of a mental request, dipping his head to peer at the little albino he's been drafted into sheltering. A whuff strong enough to get some strands of hair floating on dragonbreath is given, and, amused, the brown continues his watching of the whole process. "I am certain that, once settled, I would have thou-" but that attempt at an explanation gets cut off. And isntead, H'kon, releasing Akos' arm, manages to look to him and offer, "I am sorry." Sincerity that cannot be doubted.

Akos smiles a little bit up at Arekoth by way of thanking him for both the shade and for the amusement, though he generally enjoys seeing the dragon, anyway. He pushes his hair back again, this time getting some cooperation, but only enough that it isn't directly in his eyes. He folds his arms over his chest and looks back up at the rider, sniffing once more only to drop his chin and nod a little bit, "I know..." He rubs his knuckles against his cheek and shrugs slightly, laughing as he says, sadly, "I don't know when I'm going to see you again. My appointment is almost up, so even if you come back here..." He rubs at his eyes a bit, then looking quite miserable, if in his usual soft fashion.

H'kon presses his lips together in a line, giving a quick nod. "It should not be so difficult... you only would need to send me a message." The tip of his tongue receives a quick bite, before he thinks to note, "Ista. If we are not here, that should be where we are. That is where we are going."

Akos nods his head slightly, but it is in that fashion that he sometimes has when he isn't certain something will come through. Sulking about the mouth a bit, he scuffs his heel against the ground before he says, "What if you forget me again?" He blinks and lifts his head further before he asks, "What about your girlfriend? Is she going to Ista, too?"

"I will not forget you," H'kon insists. "This was just... I will not forget you again." There's that guilt on his face again. There's a facial twinge at the term 'girlfriend' - there's always some sort of response to it, isn't there? - but H'kon does give a little bit of a nod. "She has chosen to stay with me. And... Arekoth." It's a package deal.

Akos nods his head in understanding at that, tugging at the bottom of his shirt now as he fidgets from one foot to the other. Ultimately, in a moment of unprecedented physicality, the young man throws his arms around H'kon's neck and hugs him tightly. In a faintly tearful, sincere voice, he exclaims, "I'm going to miss you! Please, take care of yourself!" He releases the rider and throws to Arekoth, "You, too, Arekoth!" Just like that, he takes off back towards the living caverns, trying to escape before he embarrasses himself or H'kon any more than he already has.

H'kon goes rigid for the hug. What else is to be expected from him? The man does manage to bring one arm to pat at the albino's shoulder before he's released. "I..." and then Akos is running, so H'kon will interrupt himself with a shout of, "Goodbye!" And in the end it's to Arekoth, as he circles around to stow that bag he's carrying, that he murmurs, "I will."

OOC Information

2007-09-15T15:15:33Z

So with the game closing, the usual way of reaching me (for most of the people reading this) will be rather... well, gone.

I'm meaning to transfer H'kon to another game, so this journal will stay active. (I'll update changes made to his history, etc. before I start posting logs, should anyone be curious.) If you do want to get in touch with me, leaving me a comment on the journal is a guaranteed way - they forward right to an e-mail address that I check regularly.

I am also easily found on Harper's Tale (harpers-tale.com (209.189.198.111) port 7007) as either D'baji or Rallaei - just drop me a page, or an @send.

Leading Edge has been fantastic, and great big hearts for you all.

Ta for now.

d25, m5, t4, 7th.

2007-09-15T15:10:34Z

>> You should tell her. <<
<< Fine. >>

Arekoth's Ledge
This narrow ledge is longer than it is wide, fanning out on either side of the entrance into the weyr. The stone has been deeply scored by the passage of countless dragons over the turns. Its location is optimal; natural outcroppings of the bowl wall keep the wind from raking the ledge's surface and the sun reaches the rock to heat it for most of the day.

It's not a good day for Miniyal today. Which means it's not a good day for Peloth either, but unlike her rider the gold doesn't let that stop her from doing things. Like visit her favorite brown to share a nice sunny spot. Being a nice guest Peloth sends a little mental nudge before she arrives on the ledge belonging to the brown. Of course she has to buzz the ledge first. He gets to see her streak straight up before coming to almost a full stop and then dropping straight down to hover on the ledge. << You have a good spot right now. Share? >> A formality. Like she doesn't know he won't share.

His rider relieved of duty (as per his request), Arekoth has nowhere particular to be today. Well-fed, freshly bathed and oiled, the brown is content enough tow atch the world go by on the ledge, while offering the occasional word or two of advice to H'kon, who, in the weyr, is packing up those things that can yet be packed. The streak of a gold catches the brown's attention, and his head lifts. A rumbled admiration for the aerial moves comes along with his draggong himself a bit more to one side - careful of the foot. << Of course. You can even have the sunnier spot. >> The rider may have no sense of hosting, but here Arekoth distinguishes himself from H'kon once again.

Peloth's sense of being a good guest doesn't extend to leaving her rider behind. Which really only makes her flying that much more impressive. At least in her mind. <> And there is something of apology in her tone at having brought her along to begin with. For her part, Miniyal waits patiently for Peloth to land before climbing down less than gracefully. She lingers near the entrance to the weyr clearly not wanting to go inside. Still, she is out of the way as Peloth curls up in the sunnier spot after stretching her neck to headbutt the brown with affection.

Arekoth returns that headbutt - when can he not? - before getting himself settled once more. It takes three or four rounds of picking up the leg and putting it back down until he's satisfactorily comfortable, but with his friend on the ledge, the requirement seems more distraction than frustration. << You should stay at least a while. It's a perfect day for this ledge. >> After a while, H'kon does indeed surface, having been alerted to the presence of another biped. An innate will to bristle at someone being so close to his personal space isn't quite fought back, but he does manage a dip of his head, a greeting of, "Weyrling."

The settling of the leg is watched by Peloth and her rider. Once the leg is settled the gold whips her tail out to smack against Arekoth's. << It bothers you. That is not good. I am sorry. >> As best she can with the space given her tail swishes back and forth slowly. << We will stay awhile. I like this spot. >> Miniyal was, likely, hoping to not have to actually converse. Not spared that she just nods her head. "H'kon." He gets no title. Although she surely hasn't heard anything. Not the day after the transfer was requested. She also might have the faintest odor of wine about her.

Arekoth flicks out his own tail to offer Peloth a smack right back. Affectionate, entirely. << It's not so bad. I'm very strong. >> The rider is not in such a hurry to make any conversation. Miniyal is accorded a careful look, however (maybe the man has a good nose), before H'kon's attention goes to his dragon. An upward lift of his chin toward the fiery brown. And Arekoth gives Peloth's tail another thwack, emanating quite the sharp sadness. He's been reminded.

If he doesn't want to talk Miniyal will content herself with twisting her ring around on her finger and staring off at nothing at all. Peloth looks at the leg in question as her tail stops swishing briefly. Then it starts again. << You are strong. Stronger than a lot of the others. That is why I like you. >> She is content to rest comfortably with her friend until she picks up on the sadness. It must take her by enough surprise she shares it with her rider because Miniyal looks confused a moment and steals a glance at H'kon. Without speaking. << What is wrong? Did he do something to make you unhappy? We will tell him to stop. >>

H'kon presses his lips together, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. Arekoth, for his part, swivels his head to look at that young gold. << It's good you're here today. You get to see the ledge. >> Thwack. << We're going away. >> And it's at this point that H'kon tilts his face up just enough to shoot a quick and apologetic look to Miniyal, and promptly turns on his heel, and walks right back into the weyr.

He's allowed to go without a word. Miniyal's not in the mood to talk. She just slips a hand into her jacket and pulls out a flask to have a sip from it. This earns her a look from the gold, but only momentarily. She then is focused on the brown she lies beside. << Away? Who said you could leave? I did not say you could leave. Who will fly with me? No one else is as good. >> Swish goes the tail, not quite touching the brown. Like a cat lazily sunning herself she lets slow swishing be her only movement. Her own sadness comes in a gentle wave that is sure to reach every spot it can. << You will come back? >>

Arekoth hop-claws his way a bit closer to that sunnier spot. Or, more rightly, to the one occupying it. Wings give a quick rustle as they resettle. The injured leg, of course, takes a bit longer to arrange. << Of course! I made him promise. He says it won't be long. >> Oh, the returned sadness is felt. The brown droops physically, head bowing a little, wings flattening out. A dragon deflated.

Poor Peloth seems to be having as bad a day as her rider now. The two of them are perfect pictures of sadness and the fact they both are likely only makes it worse. << But you will come back. She will make sure he brings you back. >> Stretching her neck out she headbutts him again. << He has to listen to her. We are graduating soon. We will make people listen to us. You will come back because I want you here and I shall get what I want. >>

A little more cautious scrabbling, and Arekoth is able to stretch out his right limb until - if she doesn't back off, anyway - the tip of a talon can come in contact with the gold hide. << I'll come back because I want to. No one will be able to fly like you, so I'll have to come back. >>

Being upset like she is Peloth is not going to move away. Instead she stops swishing her tail after it rests against one of Arekoth's back legs. << None of them fly as well as I do. None of them hunt as well as I do. I am the best at everything. But it will not be the same without you. >>

<< I'm going to learn new tricks for flying. >> The promise doesn't carry quite as much reassurance as maybe it was meant to. And that fiery brown heaves a heavy, draconic sigh. It might be noticed that, now peeking out from the entrance of the weyr, the brownrider is frowning at the scene. Or it might not. Arekoth and Peloth's bubble of tristesse is probably quite scene-stealing.

He can spy in peace because when she's not sipping occasionally from her flask Miniyal is busy watching her dragon with a worried expression. << You cannot learn new tricks unless you will teach them to me. >> Peloth has a bit of bossiness about her, but she is a queen and likes to remind others of that when she feels it is necessary. Her tail starts to swish again slowly, some order potentially restored in th world. <>

Arekoth keeps his talon-toe right where it is, even as that tail starts moving. <> And there's the feeling of loss, bordering on empty. << Soon. I made him promise. >> H'kon, for his part, has managed to look away. And to Miniyal. The flask is distraction enough that the brownrider abandons any sympathetic frowning, instead springing into action, fast steps bringing him up to Miniyal, a fast hand grabbing that flask with only a little sloshing. And he - and the flask - step away for long enough that he can sniff at it. Checking the contents. Looking all furrow-browed and angry.

The contents of the flask smell alcoholic and fruity. It is, actually, a pear brandy. And losing it annoys Miniyal. Abandoning whatever misery she's been wandering around in all day she turns to glare at H'kon. "Give that back. What do you think you're doing? Give it back. Now." It is, perhaps, somewhat telling that she manages to sound in charge and not petulant when alcohol is involved. But the tone of command concerning the return of the flask is clear. << Oh. Oh, he should not have done that. Make him give it back. >> Pulled out of her own sadness Peloth stretches out again to headbutt the brown. << Please. He must not keep it. >>

"You should not be drinking this." The brownrider's nose has wrinkled, though likely not as a direct result of sniffing that brandy. And then Arekoth is given a glance. The brown has raised his head, in response to Peloth's imploring. That flask is held halfway out. H'kon hasn't found a decision yet. << He won't keep it. He's worried. >>

"The weyrlingmaster has been saying for months it is fine. So, you have no right to take it. I want it back." Miniyal steps closer and reaches for the flask. H'kon is lucky she's not the violent sort at this point or he'd likely be ducking a punch. As it is she just is going to get her drink back. << If I did not want her to have it she would not. >> Peloth still sounds worried. Worried and sad and it's a jumble underneath, but not interfering with her silvery cool voice. << Today. Today she needs it. He has no right to worry. He is leaving. >> A little harsh now, but Peloth is not happy with the man taking her friend away. << He must give it back. You do not understand. >>

H'kon's brow-furrow loses some of its edge, and he looks again to the dragon. And back to Miniyal. Who will be allowed to take hold of the flask, though H'kon isn't yet ready to release it into her full custody. "You... should try to take better care of yourself." Unnatural sounding, at the very best. << He will give it back. >>

Miniyal's eyes narrow as she watches the flask not being released. Her smile is wry and her tone sarcastic as she says, "Gosh, if you wanted to hold my hand you could have just asked." Maybe that will get him to let go. << It was their day. Today. It would have been. Or it is because it was. I am not quite sure. But she is sad. I cannot make her happy so I must be sure no one makes her sadder. Not today. >> Peloth sometimes shares more than her rider might like, but that doesn't stop her. It's for her own good after all. <> Not an apology because she would never apologise for bringing her rider somewhere, but a simple statement of fact.

H'kon tilts his head down just a little, a skeptical glance sent to Miniyal as a response to that comment. "You should take better care of yourself," is repeated softly. And that flask is indeed released. And H'kon shakes his head, and stuffs his hands into his pockets, and goes to lean in the entryway of his weyr. Well then. Arekoth stays a bit more alert, head held high for now. <>

<< No one understands her. Just me. But, she does not need anyone else so that is fine. >> Peloth remains as she is with her tail swishing. Not a care in the world. Not that she'll share with just anyone. Miniyal, once she has the flask back, takes a drink before putting into one of her pockets. "Not that it's any of your damned business, but it's our anniversary. If I'm not entitled to be a little drunk on the day that will remind me as long as I live that I've lost the man I love then what's the point in ever being drunk?" It is a valid question of sorts. Peloth gradually shifts herself to be that much closer to the brown. << Are you sure you must leave? If you do not want to we can keep you here. >>

Arekoth leans in toward that young queen as she shifts, making it fully clear that he doesn't mind in the least. H'kon, from his broody lean, has looked back to Miniyal as she speaks. "Well I am sorry for your loss. I was thinking only of the other one you love." A glance to Peloth. And back to looking out to the sky, or to his feet, or wherever. << He says it will make my leg better. It's very inconvenient. >> Nevermind all the pain. << And it won't be long, or else I just wouldn't go. >>

"Sure. Everyone's sorry but no one understands." Miniyal is quite happy being miserable and oh, so sad no one understands how sad. A look is cast towards Peloth as she sighs. "She understands. Now especially I imagine." Indeed, the poor queen. So sad. So milking the sadness for all it is worth. << Are you sure he is sure? Or does he just want to take you from me. It makes sense he is jealous. I will see you soon however. If you do not come back we will come get you. >>

"No." He doesn't understand that part. At length, he will attempt to explain, "But any rider understands the other bond you have. And it should be the more important." << It's taking me away from you that is harder. He says. >> This is thought out in time with an audible little croon, a sad and eerie note. And Arekoth bumps his muzzle on the gold again.

Peloth doesn't croon back but she shifts once more to press against the brown's side and rest her tail over Arekoth's. << Yes, well, you will be back. That was said. I will be happy to see you and show you all my new tricks. I will have lots. >> She offers comfort by acting like she's not crushed. It's hard for her especially when she's dealing with a rider who is a little drunk and very upset and now mad. "What the- You have /no/ right to say something like that. None. You have no idea what I've been through. And don't you dare stand there and tell me that I don't think what I have is important." Two steps are taken towards the gold on the ledge.

The croon brings a sharp grimace from the brownrider. And it's this same grimace that is turned on Miniyal. "I did not say it to anger you," is said, sharp, curt. And Miniyal is otherwise dismissed, with H'kon's attention turning elsewhere. << And I'll have tricks to teach you, of course. I'll practice them until I see you. And then I'll come back and show you. And then we can do them together. Everyone will be jealous. >> To pick up on a recent theme.

<> Peloth rises up from where she was comfortably settled. Likely having been told that it is time to go by Miniyal. "You should be more careful in what you say then," she informs the brownrider. "We have to go. Good luck." Peloth croons now as she headbutts Arekoth gently. << You will come back. I will see you when you do. We will make everyone jealous together. >>

"You should not dismiss it offhand. What you are doing cannot be comfortable." Arekoth brushes his right toe toward Peloth once again. << We will. >> His final returned headbutt comes just as gentle, and it's grudgingly that he makes some space for the gold to take off. H'kon has closed his eyes, and turned back inside. <>

"Tomorrow is a different day. This one hurts too much to remember is all." Miniyal turns away quickly and before she climbs up to leave she leans her head against Peloth's side. Then, after a final little croon of farewell Peloth launches herself off the ledge. <>

d24, m5, t4, 7th.

2007-09-15T15:06:23Z

<< Something I said? >>
>> She does not hear what you say. <<
<< You do, though. >>

H'kon's Weyr
One would almost think there's been a woman touching this weyr. The Spartan feeling has been toned down throughout with splashes of colour: a tapestry depicting a brown dragon courageously flaming thread hangs opposite the low-sitting bed wide enough for two. On this bed, a heavy blanket dyed a rusty red accents the more exciting parts of the tapestry. A thick orange and brown rug is set in front of the bed, offering a warmer surface for bare feet on High Reaches' cold mornings. At the foot of the bed is a clothes chest upon which, more often than not, half-finished projects of knitting or woodwork will rest. Two braziers grace the weyr, a larger one near the dragon couch, and a smaller at the far wall of the weyr. To one side of the smaller brazier is a basin for washing; to the other side, a wooden rack is set up for the drying and storage of clothes and dragonriding equipment. In the middle of the weyr, a table small enough not to crowd the area sits, complete with two low-backed chairs. Beneath the table is a sturdy box holding the supplies of an amateur craftsman.

Inside the weyr, only the one brazier is burning, more to ward off excess humidity than for a need to warm the little hollow in the rock. As spring goes on, the weather has been getting predictably warmer, but it's not just this meteorological attribute that has contributed to the increased comfort in the weyr. Things are somewhat better between the two male occupants - as is evidenced by their current position. Arekoth is in his usual spot, leg extended toward the brazier, chin resting on his good front foot. H'kon, however, is seated with his back against a wall right near the dragon. one of his short legs extended just until the toe of his boot touches his dragon's hide. The brownrider's chin has come to rest at his chest, and both his eyes, and those of his dragon, are mostly closed. A shared moment of relative peace, long overdue.

Elsewhere in the weyr, Vanya is quietly reading over a few hides. One is, predictably, from her brother; he's been doing very well for himself, and has received patronage from a couple of wealthy Lady Holders. THis has greatly increased his worth to the hall, which means more work, but also more marks. Another is a brief note from her mother, letting her know how things are at Ruatha. The last is from the Hall, and contains a review of her reports for the last half of the turn, plus new discoveries at the hall, and an invitation to a seminar to be held at Fort later in the Spring. She lowers the hide, glancing over at H'kon and Arekoth. A smile touches her lips as she reaches for her cup of tea. It's a comfortable evening all the way around. Once the tea is finished, she slips from the bed -- leaving the hides behind -- and makes her way across the cave to Arekoth's side. A gentle hand strokes the dragon's neck, and she runs the other hand over his extended leg. She says nothing, but pauses to watch H'kon.

Arekoth lets out a slow dragon-sigh when that hand runs across his neck. H'kon seems largely undisturbed by the increase in dragon breath going his way, though, if one were looking carefully, one might see the man's eyebrows lift. Eyes remain lidded, on the part of both man and dragon. A few moments are allowed to pass before, finally, for the first time since his and Arekoth's arrival back home, H'kon will speak something beyond a greeting to Vanya - though his silence until now has hardly been malicious. "I spoke with I'valo, earlier today."

"Really?" Vanya continues to stroke the dragon's neck, leaning slightly against his warm hide. Her head rests on that sturdy neck, as comfortable with the dragon as she is with the rider now. "What did he have to say?" She knows what this is about, and there's a part of her which hopes the leave has been granted. She could use a break herself, and maybe she can harvest some herbs in the tropics. "Will he let you go?"

Another sigh comes from the brown, and this one is half-echoed by his rider, who, having taken in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Bracing himself, gathering his thoughts... "Yes." That curly head receives one nod, and then the chin falls back to the chest. The next words are said with caution, a deep seriousness attached to them: "As per my request, I am now relieved of my duties to the wing. No sooner than it has been cleared with Ista, we will be leaving." If Vanya's paying close attention, she just might catch a bit of sadness that creeps into the man's voice on those final few words. And only now does H'kon bring his head up, eyes open, looking to her for a response.

The response isn't long in coming. Vanya doesn't really say anything, but moves closer and kneels beside H'kon, facing him. The stone floor isn't comfortable on he knees, but that doesn't really matter. Her hands go to his face and she leans forward to lift his head and kiss him. "I love you, H'kon," she whispers, her eyes not moving from his. "I know this is hard for you, but the warmth will do Arekoth good. He will still be fighting Thread as he's supposed to be, but only for another weyr. It's pleasant in Ista, so I hear. An island with lovely warm water in which to swim. It's not High Reaches, but anywhere with you and Arekoth is my home."

H'kon allows his face to be lifted, closes his eyes for the duration of the kiss. They open thereafter though, wide, and a bit more expressive than their norm. Still with that sadness, still somewhat unsettled. "We will not fight, not immediately. The purpose of this is recovery." Murmured, but with enough force that he's clearly laying out the final version of a plan of action. "I mean for us to regain our strength as a fighting pair, for his leg to heal as best it can, and finally for us to return here. -This- is our Weyr." It's said as something not requesting debate, nor confirmation. He considers her a moment longer, and then leans forward to press for a second kiss. "Though I am glad you will be with us for it."

Her hands remain at his cheeks, the thumbs stroking over his stubbled chin. "Yes, someday we'll be back, but there's no hurry, H'kon. I've been invited to a seminar at the Hall, as well, and I'd like to attend. It will give me a chance to check on a few things, and maybe get a few other things straightened out with the powers that be." Her hands slowly ease away from his head, falling into her lap. "Your weyr is where-ever Arekoth does best, H'kon. It may be the warmth will be better for him than the cold here. It doesn't matter what we want, it's what's best for him. It could be the dragonhealers will recommend he remain there. You can't bring him back to the cold just because it's what you want."

And that, it seems, was the wrong thing to say. H'kon, who had been letting himself drift toward Vanya in a lean, slowly changing his posture and position to allow it, takes little time in drawing his head back a ways, turning his face slightly to the side, peering at her a little more from the corners of his eyes, a little less straight on. Words are spoken faster, though his voice stays eerily soft. "You cannot think, with all this," a slight stress on those words two words, "that I would force him somewhere that would be bad for him in anyway." A tender nerve has been touched upon.

Vanya remains calm, but she's bothered. "I didn't mean it like you took it," she says softly. "But your comment was so certain, so firm -- it sounded like you'd come back here no matter what." She rests back on her heels, no longer inclined toward the rider. "I wasn't sure how you meant it." She waits there for a moment, then rocks back on her heels, rising to her feet. "Would you like something to eat? There's cheese and some bread here, or I could go down to the living cavern and bring something back. If Arekoth would summon the elevator dragon for me, that is."

H'kon keeps that sidelong glance for a moment longer, even with the clarification given to him. Shortly after she's rocked back on her heels, the brownrider turns his face down, examining the floor while his lips work silently over possible responses. And when he does look up, the woman is standing, the height disparity aggravated. A quick nod is followed by a shake of his head. "No. No, I am fine." Still a bit shaken by that misunderstanding, but at the very least, not hungry. The following, "If you wanted to get somethi-" is cut off by a slight scraping of talons on stone as the dragon lifts his head and, with his good foot, shifts enough toward H'kon to give the much smaller foot a nudge. Which has the rider gaping a moment longer at the woman before finally managing, "Sorry." And looking at the ground once more.

Vanya watches this interaction between dragon and rider, and smiles. "I'm all right, H'kon. You haven't been eating all that much lately, and I worry about you both, you know. It's just my nature." The voice is warm, and it's obvious she isn't angry. "You internalize your feelings so much I'm afraid you'll end up hurting yourself. I do worry about you two. You're the most important things in the world to me, right now." There's some very deep emotion behind her words. "I don't want ..." Words trail off. She moves to the dragon again, placing her hand on his shoulder and leaning against him. "I don't want anything to happen to either of you. I don't think I could stand to lose you."

"I have not been so hungry, that is all." Any causal relationship between this past month's emotions and this more tangible phenomenon are ignored, apparently. H'kon lifts a hand to smooth over the back of his neck, taking away any final, clinging signs of bristling from before. That hand sets to rubbing idly at his neck, however, for her confessions, and otherwise the man can only manage a few nods. And as H'kon slumps back against the wall, Arekoth gives the slightest tremor of muscle in his shoulders, where Vanya leans, head resting so that one eye, unlidded now, can focus on that compact man to whom he's bonded.

There are times when Vanya sorely feels left out, and this borders on one of those times. She can understand only to a point what it feels like to share life with someone else like H'kon shares with Arekoth. She can try to comfort them both, but cannot succeed like the two can comfort one another. "I ... understand," she murmurs, and though she doesn't want to, she is sad. "Well, I'm not really all that hungry, either," she confesses. Her hand gives Arekoth's neck another gentle stroke, then she shoves off where she leans. "I've another hide to read," she says, voice soft. "It's the one from the dragonhealer at the Hall. I asked if he could send me any info on healing injuries like Arekoth's."

As the healer takes her leave, Arekoth gives yet another of his dragon-sighs. That big head shifts a little to take in the woman's retreat, as well as his rider's continued presence. H'kon turns his head after Vanya to trace her path, waiting until she's back to the hides before glancing to Arekoth. Face twitches in brief mental conversation, eyes half-closing once again, and whatever else it may do, the dialogue prompts a quick snort from the brownrider. Who, with a groan, gets himself to his feet, delivering an oh-so-gentle kick to the dragon's good leg in passing before he follows after the healer. And it's just behind her that he hovers a moment, suffering the slightest indecision before reaching a hand to rest at her shoulder, fingers stretching toward collarbone. And H'kon's head tilts, just slightly to the side.

Vanya doesn't flinch or react in surprise. Instead she gives a soft "mmm" sound which signifies contentment. Her eyes continue to scan the neat writing on the hide, but she is very aware of H'kon's presence. "It says here that we've been doing exactly the right things for him," she comments, tracing a line or two with a fingertip. "Warmth and exercise." A glance is given over her shoulder to the rider, and one page of the hide is set aside. There are drawings of musculature on the page beneath, with a few instructions jotted down. "See? They recommend some of the same salves and ointments I used." She sounds very pleased about this. "And they also recommend a bit of fish as a change in diet. There are minerals in the fish that aren't in herdbeast."

H'kon is not quite so heartened at hearing that the steps they've been taking are right. Sure, they haven't been doing harm then, but it also takes away a possibility of further improvement with a serious change in regime. The woman's shoulder is given the slightest squeeze, and H'kon leans forward to peer at the drawings. And then a blink. "Fish?" Arekoth's turn to snort.

"Apparently," is Vanya's reply. "In specific, some strange variety of packtail I've never heard of, but it thrives in warmer waters. It's very good for dragons, it would seem. Something called a 'stickleback,'" she tells him. "Ever hear of it?" The second hide is set aside and Vanya makes short order of gathering all the hides into a pile and evening the edges. "I'll take care of all this tomorrow between patients. I've a full roster, unfortunately. A lot of riders have sore muscles. Must be the higher winds lately? I don't know."

"Stickleback," H'kon repeats, reflective, considering. His grip on her shoulder loosens until such a time as she's done with the hides, but is then renewed. This time as something more of a caress, with some migration of said the hand until he can trace a thumb at the nape of her neck. Eyes squinting. "Perhaps. We have not much flown." A glance to Arekoth, and then back to Vanya. A moment's more consideration, and, again with a slight squeeze, he gives a subtle nod toward the bed now. "Come." Whatever romance is lacking in the limited words, if she were to turn soon enough, might be caught in the man's look.

The hides are abandoned on the table and Vanya turns to follow H'kon. Sadly, she is not in time to witness that expression, but she is very familiar with his manners now, so it does not matter. There is comfort in knowing he's there, and that they share this something. Dress and chemise are discarded, and Vanya climbs into the bed to find H'kon. There is no difference in their heights, now; they fit quite well together, he and she. Arms hold and comfort, each to the other. Lips touch, bodies press close. There is comfort in the darkness that cannot be found in the light. Words can be whispered in darkness that cannot be spoken in the light.

The darkness is a cover for many things, and H'kon has grown increasingly at ease with expressing those deeper emotions through the physical, when touch is made such an important sense. This night offers proof that his recent preoccupation with the events surrounding his dragon's health have been somewhat eased, and a better focus on the woman he loves has indeed been achieved. Arekoth, unneeded, does the tactful thing and drifts asleep, which means that, when all is done, and much is said (if in only a few words here and there), H'kon, still breathing hard, sweaty, curled lower in the bed with his head resting just off centre on Vanya's abdomen, is feeling very much himself. This closeness, more similar to a regular relationship, outside of the Weyr, offers a comfort and cover of its own. And, once he's caught his breath, once he's satisfied that he's breathed in the moment properly, H'kon is finally willing to address that concern that has made itself the ultimate of the worries he's been grappling with: "You know... This is for him." A kiss is pressed to the woman's skin, as much a comfort for the rider himself as any sort of reassurance for Vanya. "And," let out in a sigh - there have been a lot of those tonight - "he will be so hurt by it."

The perspiration on her skin cools, and Vanya shivers slightly. Her hand drifts to the top of H'kon's head, lightly stroking his sweat-dampened hair. This is comfortable, this togetherness. Much like what Vanya imagines marriage might be, if such were love match. It's the words that disturb her, now. She's not certain of their meaning, and is hesitant to ask, lest H'kon be forced to communicate more than he wishes. Still better to force him to explain and risk misunderstanding. "I ... I'm not certain I understand," she says softly, letting her fingers play about his head. "Is it that he won't be fighting? Or -- or will he miss being here?" There's something she wants to ask, but cannot bring herself to. Some have commented that Arekoth seems overly fond of the weyrling queen; could the same be said of the riders? Is that one reason why H'kon and Arekoth are loath to leave High Reaches? Vanya doesn't want to think it is, but ... they have something in common with one another she never will have with H'kon.

"He already is not fighting," H'kon murmurs. "But this... There will be nothing we know there." A pause, now. A shake of his head, hair and stubble brushing against her skin. "No." Perhaps that's more a concern for the rider. "More... he does not want to go. He will leave the things here he is fond of. He is placated now, at the idea of a short time. But dragons live in the moment, there is only so much he will understand..." Lips press again at the woman's skin, this time more as a reason to break off the flow of words than as a kiss.

"Then we'll have to do everything possible to see it's short term, won't we?" Vanya replies firmly. The hands never stop moving over H'kon's head. "He'll cope with it for a short time, I'm sure." There's only a faint hint of uneasiness in the words; so faint it's likely H'kon won't even catch it unless he's very observant. "I'll have to notify the Hall, too, and see if I can transfer to Ista. If not --" She doesn't finish, either. It's something she doesn't really want to contemplate. She's a free agent, yes, but only to a point.

"Just the way... when there is no anger between us, then around certain things he is fond of - certain others - the sadness of it..." And there's that hint of the sensitive little boy that his mother, surely, has told Vanya about. H'kon pushes it down soon enough, brushing his cheek against her abdomen now, before lifting his head to peer at her in the low light of the weyr. "Your home is with us as long as you wish it to be. But in the end, that decision..." Well, they've been over this before.

Yes, it's her decision, and she knows it. That doesn't make it any easier, now does it? Vanya takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. She would pull the blankets over herself, but that would cover H'kon's head. So she doesn't make that move, not wanting to disturb him. "I suspect the Hall won't object much to me either transferring out of here, or taking a leave of absence," she remarks quietly. "I've not exactly distinguished myself in their eyes." Still, things could have been worse, and there's not much she'd do to change things, at any rate. "I'll ... I want to stay with you, H'kon, and if that means giving up something else, well, you're worth it. Besides, I've been chronicling my work with Arekoth, and I think the dragonhealers would find it very interesting."

H'kon watches her, nods carefully. And, an arm on either side of the woman, he lifts himself up, half-crawling, half-slithering in one of those motions that is almost too sleek to be fully human, until he is level with her. Weight is pushed onto one arm, and the man balances there for a moment, that chunky musculature finding no problem in holding him up. Those pale eyes are wide again in the dim light. "There is little more I can offer you." A sideways twitch of the mouth, too horizontal to identify as either smile or frown. "You know it. You must." And now he'll dip his head to place a soft kiss on the woman's lips. "But I do love you."

And this is what makes her melt. Those moments when he is willing to part with that knowledge, to let her know how he feels. This is why she'll willingly hand over her knot if the Hall demands it, if they will not let her go with him. "I love you, too, H'kon," she whispers, her lips not quite freed of his yet, breath warm on his mouth. "I'll go with you no matter what the Hall says," she promises. "Or, if need be, I'll fulfill my obligations to the Hall and join you and Arekoth at Ista. I can do something useful there, or pay my own way with massage therapy if they balk at your coming with baggage." It's almost a joke, that baggage bit, but it's possible some weyrs might not allow her there with him. She doesn't know. "It'll be nice to have a change of scenery, and maybe a ... I don't know, maybe a new start. Other than you, I didn't do so hot here."

The breathed reply warrants the slightest shift of posture, a quelled shiver or something of the nature. H'kon's second kiss falls more to the corner of Vanya's mouth, and he then eases himself to lie on his side next to her, content to rub his cheek against her shoulder. That very H'kon expression of affection. "Well. We will see what Ista is, then." Eyes are closed - a mental check on the dragon, rather than a physical glance. They stay closed, though, now, even as H'kon works a strong arm in around his lover.

"Yes, we will," Vanya replies, snuggling against her lover, offering him comfort and compassion. Her head rests on the pillow, and one hand reaches out to adjust the covers. With the warmer season, only a light blanket is needed, but the stone hold coolness, which means the warmth of H'kon is welcome. How it will be in the much warmer Ista, only time will tell. Only time will tell a lot of things, but somehow the prospect of facing the future with someone eases the nervousness of such a venture. As long as H'kon and Arekoth are happy, well, that's all that matters to Vanya.

H'kon will speak no more of his own trepidation in this evening. His half-embrace of the woman is reassuring - a tangible show of his affection, and his claim on her. His dragon is dozing, content. The bed is warm, the outer air cool. Events cannot help but conspire to allow at least some part of H'kon to feel at rest, no matter what obstacles he knows he will have to face in the near future.

d24, m5, t4, 7th.

2007-09-12T04:03:50Z

<< Just for a while. >>
>> That is what I said. <<
<< You promise. >>
>> I know. <<
<< Just a while. >>
>> Arekoth. <<
<< Good. >>

The heat off the sands only gets worse as the season progresses. Once a welcome relief from the cold, now the transition from outside to inside feels worse in the growing warmth of the summer. Not so much, however, if you're I'valo. Old, leathery, and so wrinkled he could be a prune, the wingleader is immune to all weather conditions and he's gone up to the front, where it's warmest, to watch his equally tough dragon prowl the sands. Locked in a silent staring contest with Citalth, and with no Sinopa around just now to referee, Srohith stalks his way around the outskirts of the caverns and circles ever closer to the egg mounds his mate is protecting.

H'kon moves slowly once up the stairs, carefully sliding the strap of a bag from his shoulder, the ensuing removal of a light jacket slow, methodical. Arekoth is nowhere to be seen - perhaps on a ledge somewhere, avoiding the more extreme temperatures in favour of a sheltered and predictable spot. A moment is taken for the rider to become accustomed to the relative heat of the room, and for him to take in the general situation of the caverns. I'valo's choice of seat is greeted with a hint of a nod, and, eyes closing over the first few steps, it's that way he heads. He won't sit immediately, of course. First there needs to be a sharp salute, though the greeting of, "Sir," that goes with it is said in a low voice. Don't disturb the eggs. Or the dragons.

I'valo has no low voice to call upon: his is a whispery rasp that's inaudible unless he belts it out with some feeling. "H'kon." He lifts up an equally sharp salute, snapping it off quickly so H'kon's free from holding his hand up. From I'valo, all consideration must be continually re-earned, and there is no automatic offer of a seat: only a pair of hard brown eyes waiting expectantly for the wingsecond to state his purpose.

H'kon stands at attention even after the salute is dropped, still maintaining those habits drilled into young dragonrider minds in weyrlinghood. Only a moment of hesitation before his reason for seeking out the wingleader is addressed. "I must request leave, I am not certain for how long. This climate is not right for my dragon's comfort, or for his healing." The compact brownrider has come prepared - there can be no doubt the words are rehearsed.

I'valo's gaze never blinks off H'kon, even when the dragons beyond him suddenly rise up against each other and croak challenges. Srohith yields first, folding his wings back and retreating to a slightly wider circle, the queen turning in place with wings still outspread as she watches him. "Leave or transfer?" I'valo barks back, cutting straight to what seems to him the point.

H'kon's eyes narrow only a little, but it has the flavour of an inward frown. He, too, won't be thrown off by dragon challenges. "I cannot be certain. I mean for it to be leave." His chin tilts up, just in the slightest. "It will depend largely on advice from dragonhealers. There is little point in wasting resources by being somewhere we cannot fly."

"There is little point in pissing off Ista sending our cripples on 'leave' then sticking them there as a transfer." I'valo's chin immediately lifts, a sign that he has more to say and it is not yet H'kon's turn. In the silence, he evaluates his wingsecond much as Srohith now evaluates his erstwhile mate: searching out defenses. "Unless you want Igen," the bronzerider adds, opening the floor to H'kon again.

H'kon's jaw juts forward just a little, having his brown referred to in such a way. But it's a well-mannered shake of his head that goes to I'valo. "Ista will be fine, sir. I would prefer to come back to High Reaches if possible. It is our Weyr. I do not know how things will turn, and I can find no more certainty than that."

The longer Srohith circles, the more accustomed to him Citalth becomes; her wings gradually lower, and he presses forward, only to retreat when she notices and again spreads her wings. Each time, though, his retreat takes him less far away, and his circle is tightening. "Lot of people looking for a way out," I'valo rasps. He's not exactly beating H'kon around the head with it, but the idea that H'kon might be one of those people certainly isn't an undertone in that statement. Not with that direct stare levelling the implication straight at him. "Injury with extended leave's a good way to see how things turn."

"High Reaches is our Weyr, sir," H'kon repeats, tone kept subdued, a statement of fact rather than a challenge. "And we cannot fulfill our duties to her at this time. And he is not healing as he should." Any emotion behind this last statement shows more as a deepening of the lines at H'kon's mouth, beneath the stubble, than as an outright frown.

This time, when H'kon restates his loyalty to the Reaches, I'valo gives the words the respect they deserve. He pulls himself a little higher, shoulders lifting along with his chin. "I don't have any turn-tails flying in my wing," he says matter-of-factly. His eyebrows raise: this one just requires affirmation.

H'kon goes so far as to shake his head, a subtle turn to the right side, and then back forward. "No sir." Affirmation. And then his own eyebrows are lifted, seeking out a final response on the topic of this medical leave.

Hold a moment longer, while I'valo stares at the brownrider's face. There's no indecision brooding behind his eyes, but this moment to take stock is necessary to carve out an exact memory of the exchange. "Your word's good," he lets out finally, settling back to his seat and dropping the extra height from his already proud shoulders. He's still watching H'kon, but there would be no point adding more words when those three already, for him, gave out the whole of his cooperation. On the sands, Citalth hisses the circling bronze down to a stationary crouch, half-shielded by a rise of sand between them.

H'kon dips his head, gratitude, to his wingleader. "We will leave as soon as it is arranged. I will consider myself relieved of my duties as of now, sir." He can't quite put the upward lift at the end to make it a question, and a good discontent with this situation, albeit the one he'd requested, is easily spotted for a split-second on his face.

"I won't hold it open for you," I'valo admits, without a trace of apology in his sandpaper voice. "You come back, it's to start off as a wingrider again. That depress you?" And likewise, no trace of sympathy. He just wants to know.

"Doing so would be detrimental to the wing," H'kon says, a bit softer. "Better, though, to be a flying wingrider than a grounded wingsecond." No direct answer.

Beyond them, Srohith has decided to make himself comfortable in the spot Citalth has locked him into. Turning towards her, he suddenly digs sand out from under him like a dog, burrowing down for a few feet till he has a short wall and can hunker down behind it. Citalth is so confused that she creels her alarm, going as high as she can on her hindlegs and spreading her wings to their fullest extent, but the bronze makes no further threatening move and only watches her with quick-whirling blue eyes. I'valo has to throw his voice even higher to lift over their exchange. "Months without a wing decays man and dragon. Get in shape first, then worry where you are." He doesn't question the fact that his orders (and this is undoubtedly one) might not have full authority behind them when it's H'kon's private life he's commmanding.

Dragon noise does wondrous things, and H'kon's reply comes out much harsher than surely he'd meant for it, especially when reaching the ears of a superior. "That is my intention, sir. This decision is not taken lightly."

For all the world, it is as though I'valo has no idea his dragon is driving a queen up the wall. His eyes haven't left H'kon once, and even that raised voice was no more than a volume adjustment to the ambiant noise in the room. "It shouldn't be," is his plain assessment.

"Thank you for your time, sir," is called next, and H'kon snaps up another salute. Left unsaid is that he must go attend to a sulking dragon.

Once again, I'valo is prompt in raising his salute. This time, he keeps it up there for a few beats before snapping it down to his side.

d14, m5, t4. 7th.

2007-09-07T14:03:23Z

Linked from Miniyal, because I am a lazy ass who doesn't want to navigate all the way into my as-of-yet-un-shortcut logs folder.

"I suppose it would only have made trouble if you had stuck around." (Miniyal, H'kon, Arekoth, Peloth)

OOC Note:

2007-09-04T14:15:31Z

For those who were even aware that I was travelling the other day: I have arrived back in Wolfville, safe and sound. The plane even arrived in Halifax earlier than anticipated. I have the cracktop, and will be back online in mere moments.

d22, m4, t4, 7th.

2007-08-26T21:03:57Z

Damn. As if this happens after it's been decided that the game will close. And yeah, I know, it's a direct result of my plan to move H'kon, but still. This is the catalyst that might've had him taking a part in a major conservative revolt agains tthe arrival of the instigators. Arekoth's gonna have to be seriously crippled for life. Now, there's no omre excuse of H'kon wanting to leave 'cause of recent political events. Not that I mind the crippled dragon, but damn. As if he could've played a part in the plotting. So, though I know I'm not the first to say it about the whole situation, I would like to express my own frustrations as eloquently and succinctly as possible with: fuck.

<< She doesn't want to go, and neither do I. We can't leave. >>

Hot Springs
This large natural cavern is heated by the same mechanism that warms the hatching sands. Fed by a spring, the waters that fill the center bowl are warm enough to steam and deep enough that a bronze might almost float after following the gentle slope down into the pool. There is room enough there for several dragons, provided they mind their wings.
To the right of the entrance tunnel, a second pool has been hollowed out of the rock. It's much smaller than the first and is intended for use by the human residents of the Weyr. Alcoves over the pool hold extra towels and pouches of 'sand.
Glowbaskets have been raised on poles around the lip of the larger of the two pools. They end three-quarters of the way into the cavern, leaving the rest in perpetual shadow. The rear of the cavern is gloomy, its wall broken by a number of small crevasses.

Late morning finds not very many dragons at all being bathed. Most of them are busy with one thing or another after all. One blue is heading out with his rider, the pair of them dripping with the remains of bath water. That leaves a single gold with the water to herself and she's certainly going to take advantage of it. Miniyal gets a break from the washing as Peloth goes about her splashing. Since the pair are already soaked it doesn't seem to matter overly much. When one large wing comes splashing down and sends a wave towards where the goldrider stands she laughs and brushes wet strands of hair from her eyes. "Brat," is all that is vocalized and it's a fond word.

Indeed, most dragons do have busy schedules. Arekoth's, for his part, has a bath pencilled in at this time in the morning, the result of some activity or other that has left the brown's legs and belly rather muddy. The brown still isn't moving that well, and tends more toward the three-legged-dragon hop-walk for the sake of speed, only on occasion attempting a more normal stride - which never really turns out that normal. Arekoth, however, is in relatively good spirits (you can tell by the fact that H'kon keeps rolling his eyes and looking vexed), and this, of course, only improves when, as he sets toward the pool, he sees splashing. And still gets better when he sees from whom it's coming. << Oh good! >>

<< There you are! >> Peloth stops her splashing and straightens up. At almost a turn old she's lost a lot of that awkward presence she carried through weyrlinghood although she's not quite as regal as she might think. << The others left. Too busy to entertain me. >> Not facing the entrance Miniyal is unaware of who it is that has come in. However, the scrutiny with which Peloth gives those newcomers causes her to turn around. And stare briefly without saying anything.

Arekoth's hopping gets a bit more bump as he hurries now, wasting no time in getting into the water - though, of course, Miniyal is given space enough so he won't bowl her over. If not admitting it consciously, the brown does know he hasn't got the same control of limbs that he did before. <> Being hermitted in his weyr or the infirmary has him overflowing with suave, clearly. H'kon, for his part, has to undress, and doesn't get right into the water. He does, however, offer a quick nod of his head to Miniyal, a quick, "Good morning," wish. And Arekoth is head-bumping the gold's shoulder.

"Wingsecond," Miniyal returns as a greeting. Her own clothes have been neatly folded to the side so only the ones she wishes to get wet do so. Her usual shorts and sleeveless top that probably, knowing Peloth's bathing habits, never get truly dry. Since there is someone to play with she's not so interested now in having those last spots cleaned. When head-bumped she does the same back. << That is what I try to tell them. However, they sometimes insist they are. But, you are here now! You are not around so much anymore. It is a shame. >> She does not flirt, it's not really in her to do so, but she speaks with sincerity and there's a touch of something sad in her tone.

<> and of course, there's a hint of the accusing on that, << gets all twitterpated about my leg, even when it's doing fine. >> Nevermind that the brown is holding the limb in closer to his chest now that he's in the water. His wading is more graceful; buoyancy. It's not long before H'kon has stripped down to shorts, and, with a quick flick of his fingers to scratch at his chest, the stocky little brownrider is headed for the pool as well, with further pleasantries: "You are both well?"

Peloth is quite pleased to have one of her favorite admirers visiting with her. She snakes her tail under the water to slap against his before splashing backwards away from him. << You do not have to listen to him all the time. I still have tricks I need to learn. >> Not that Peloth would ever go against Miniyal's wishes, but it's perfectly fine for other dragons to go against their riders if it means more fun for the gold. "We're fine thank you. Is his leg any better? Peloth has been quite concerned." When she remembers. Or is reminded.

Arekoth balances himself with a bit more care than he might usually give before turning to give Peloth a tail-thump to the leg in return. << Yeah, but you should see him when I don't. He gets so pouty... >> If dragons could 'tsk'... Then Arekoth is moving forward to brush his (good) shoulder at the gold. << And that's good. I have tricks I still need to teach you. And I can fly just fine still. >> H'kon's introduction to the water is slow, allowing his body to get used to the temperature. "It is better than it was at first." It's not an enthusiastic endorsement. There's a slight nod, then. "It is good of her to... care."

"She likes him," Miniyal answers with a shrug and no concern at all in her tone. Doesn't seem to bother her that it could cause potential trouble down the line. "She says he is one of the best fliers she has seen. When not busy that is all she does is watch others if she is not in the air herself. If it weren't for feeding and baths I'm not sure she'd come down." Cautious of the hurt leg Peloth is not as playful as she might normally be. When she comes forward it is just to give his good shoulder another head bump. << Hurry up and get better. Then he will not care if we spend time together. >>

<< I'm almost better already, >> Arekoth boasts. Reality, make way for the ego. << We could fly together already. You could show me what you've practiced, even if I can't do some of the harder ones yet. >> A moment is then taken so that he can duck his head under water, shaking it when resurfacing to clear excess water droplets. The praise for his dragon, even if coming from Peloth by proxy, is enough to have H'kon smiling. "He does fly well." He's even willing to admit, "So does she."

Weyrling and dragon both watch the brown for a moment. When Miniyal looks away it is to glance at H'kon and nod. "Thank you. She practices. I wish she'd learn she just cannot maneuver like the greens. She's going to wind up hurt." Shaking her head she gives the non-listening gold a fond look. "Ah, well." Peloth preens a bit at the compliment and splashes a bit of water towards Arekoth. <> Not a request so much as a requirement. She wishes to fly with him tomorrow so he had better be ready.

"Better then to teach her how to manoeuvre as a gold. Familiarise her with her limitations and skills." He glances quickly to the young queen. At whom Arekoth is now blowing bubbles, nose dipped beneath the surface of the water. << I look forward to seeing it. I'm sure you've only gotten better. And you will see that I can fly much better than I can walk. Ground stuff doesn't matter so much. It's in the air that's important anyway. >> This isn't didactic - it's said as though he expects Peloth to know it already.

"Oh, she learns that as well. She just thinks the rules can be changed if she works at it. It keeps her out of trouble." Well, mostly. Miniyal, again, doesn't seem overly concerned with it. Not much to do with her gold really seems to concern her. At least outwardly. "Anyway, enough people are quite happy to inform the both of us of our limitations. If she wants to stretch her wings and try something else I'm not going to stop her unless I need to." Peloth watches the bubble blowing and lifts one leg to claw at those bubbles carefully. <> Of course, she has legs, but that is beside the point.

<< Exactly. >> A breath, and Arekoth starts blowing bubbles faster, a tacit challenge to see if Peloth can keep popping them. His wings can't help but give the slightest stretch, a belated addition to the conversation. H'kon nods a little to Miniyal. "Then I hope she will learn which rules can and cannot be bent." His attention is on his own dragon, now.

Up to the challenge the gold even gives a warble of a challenge to the bubbles before she starts clawing at them again. She cannot, of course, get them all, but she is going to get as many as she can. "Oh, not without getting in trouble, wingsecond. But, that's not a huge deal. I mean, trouble is relative and I imagine we're all in trouble at the moment." Miniyal watches H'kon watch Arekoth and there's the faintest of smiles that appears before she smooths it away into a more neutral expression. "I imagine everyone has trouble at first convincing their dragons to follow the rules."

H'kon's expression goes a little darker and there's a soft, and downright pensive, "Indeed," to the talk of trouble. Arekoth picks right up on it, and, even while sending forth another bubble assault, a mournful mental nudge is sent to Peloth. << He wants to leave. >> The stresses on that, one would hope, would make it obvious that the dragon isn't meaning leaving the baths for the bowl. Miniyal's second comment does have a bit of a snort, maybe amused, coming from that rider. "I would imagine."

More bubbles escape as Peloth picks up on what is being said. << But I do not want you to leave. >> Poor Arekoth gets hit with enough sadness it draws Miniyal's attention to where the two dragons are. <> See? Simple. << Tell him I will not allow you to leave and so he must forget such a thing. >> Miniyal turns back to the other rider. "Where do you wish to go to?"

Arekoth lifts his head from the water, muzzle dripping, and turns to glance back to the riders. << Just because he wants to does /not/ mean we will. This is our home. >> Peloth gets a soggy head-bump. He's pulling out all stops in reassuring her, clearly. << My leg's fine. >> Another glance at the rider. << And besides, you won't let me leave. >> H'kon looks less than impressed. Loud-minded dragon. "Nothing is decided yet."

<< Exactly. We will make him listen to us. If you wish to stay then you should stay. Why would anywhere else be good? >> Peloth has decided it is decided and so she returns the soggy head-bump with a less than soggy one of her own and a warble of pleasure. Miniyal look at the dragons, shaking her head. "She does not mean to be that way-Well, she does. Why do you want to leave, wingsecond? Have you discussed it with your wingleader? Or the Weyrleader?" Despite whatever conversation she is having with the gold the weyrling weyrwoman has all her attention on the brownrider now.

<< Because things here aren't the way the thinks they should be. But I would hate to leave when there's so many new tricks to teach you, still. >> And it's back to bubbles. "Hm." A glance is spared to the weyrling, and H'kon is quick to cross his arms over his chest, sloshing some water in the process. "I have not yet decided," is repeated with a careful stress to the words. It's only after he's had a moment to consider that he's willing to add, "The cold has not helped his leg." It's not entirely a lie.

"I would think, wingsecond, that as soon as one considered transferring and therefore leaving the Weyr with one less rider that it would be something important enough to discuss. Even if it is not yet decided." Miniyal pauses a moment to tap a finger against her chin. "Well, that is my opinion at least. Not that it is worth much." Shoulders shrug as she looks back at the dragons. << He does not try to change things. That is what she says. She says he is running away. She says if he is only good at running away I should not worry because we are better off without him. However, him being gone means you being gone and I will not stand for that. >> Under the water, in imitation of her rider, Peloth brings one leg down in something like a stomp.

"There is little point in speaking with them before I know if it is necessary," H'kon argues right back, words coming a bit more quickly; defensive. "My duties have not been affected, and we will not leave the Weyr undefended. And it is getting warmer." Arekoth simply snorts, and there's a break in the bubbling. << We do not run. >> The suggestion is offensive enough to bring a certain harshness to the reply. And the brown shifts a little in the water, stretching his leg out a ways before drawing it back in, close.

"That's the biggest load I've seen since I got to stop shoveling, wingsecond." Miniyal lets the dragons work out their own problems so she can focus on the other person present. "If you are /thinking/ of leaving then you should discuss it. There might be other options. Unless you want to leave. If you're just looking for an excuse to run away, by all means, take it and run. High Reaches has no use for those who will not stand up something and instead turn tail." Peloth, this time, is the one who says, << We are leaving. She is very mad. She is afraid of saying the wrong thing. >> Despite the harshness she still shuffles closer and nudges his shoulder with her head. << We will fly tomorrow. You said so. I will see you then. >>

"I do not want to leave my home, but there are things that /must/ be done, weyrling. Any rider should know that the well-being of their dragon is first in all things." Words are all but spat out, though voice stays quite quiet. Miniyal gets a glare for the suggestion. Arekoth's little fit is much quicker to pass than his rider's, and he returns the nudge, the atmosphere of reunion recaptured. << Yes, you will. >>

"Then don't leave. Explore other options of helping him out, wingsecond." Miniyal begins to wade up out of the pool and a moment later, after a final nudge, Peloth follows after her. "It's your decision. Run away or fight to change things. At least have the decency to not lay the blame on Arekoth." She doesn't bother to change, but she does take up her other clothes and head out. Peloth follows along, right close to her rider, although before stepping into the bowl she looks back at Arekoth and sends him a final little burst of affection.

d19, m4, t4, 7th.

2007-08-26T09:50:54Z

<< My leg is fine. >>
>> No, it is not. <<
<< Well it's not worth all this. >>

H'kon's Weyr
One would almost think there's been a woman touching this weyr. The Spartan feeling has been toned down throughout with splashes of colour: a tapestry depicting a brown dragon courageously flaming thread hangs opposite the low-sitting bed wide enough for two. On this bed, a heavy blanket dyed a rusty red accents the more exciting parts of the tapestry. A thick orange and brown rug is set in front of the bed, offering a warmer surface for bare feet on High Reaches' cold mornings. At the foot of the bed is a clothes chest upon which, more often than not, half-finished projects of knitting or woodwork will rest. Two braziers grace the weyr, a larger one near the dragon couch, and a smaller at the far wall of the weyr. To one side of the smaller brazier is a basin for washing; to the other side, a wooden rack is set up for the drying and storage of clothes and dragonriding equipment. In the middle of the weyr, a table small enough not to crowd the area sits, complete with two low-backed chairs. Beneath the table is a sturdy box holding the supplies of an amateur craftsman.

Despite having had a bath, as still-damp hair will attest, H'kon and Arekoth still bear the smells of firestone and ash when they return to the weyr. The brown takes a long time to settle, this first Fall back flying clearly not having been good to that injured leg of his. H'kon moves in carefully after his dragon, lips pressed into a grim line, both for the keening that was surely heard throughout the weyr following the return of the fighting wings, and the condition of his own lifemate. The brownrider himself isn't looking completely comfortable, his right arm properly through the sleeve of his riding jacket, while the jacket is simply draped over his left shoulder. The jacket itself boasts a hole eaten along the shoulder seam, and down into the left sleeve. Once Arekoth has laid himself down, H'kon moves to the table, promptly removing that jacket and digging for his collection of leather scraps to find a suitable patch. Very much in his own head, H'kon.

There is the sound of dragon wings outside the weyr; the blue politely inquires of Arekoth for permission to land and drop off a very tired passenger. When permission is granted, Vanya slowly descends from the blue, the young rider -- too young to be in a wing quite yet -- carefully handing down two baskets to the Healer. Vanya has had a bath as well, but it would appear by the state of her dress she was snagged for Infirmary duty. She isn't moving fast, and she looks rather tired. The rider departs, and Vanya moves into the wyer proper, the baskets in both hands. When she sees H'kon -- in particular the jacket he's looking to mend -- she comes to a stop. "I didn't know you were one of those injured," she says, voice quiet, a hint of weariness to it. "Why didn't you come find me? I was in the Infirmary..." She doesn't mean it to sound like an accusation, but it could be seen that way. "Are you all right?" She then looks to Arekoth, giving him a visual inspection. "And you, are you doing all right, Arekoth?" Guess she figures H'kon will answer for him.

H'kon blinks up toward the woman as she enters, hands pausing in their motions, each holding a different chunk of leather. "It is not serious," he dismisses, settling on the leather in his left hand, and giving it a quick toss to the table. If this motion does anything to aggravate that 'score, which has some fluids starting to seep through the man's tunic, he gives no sign. "There were others who had worse," is ammended, and he sits. Right hand goes to adjust the jacket on the table, but he doesn't set to fixing just yet, surely anticipating that Vanya will want to check him over first. The dragon, for his part, lifts his head and gives it a roll, an attempt at showing off neck muscles, and his general vigor and virility. "It was a difficult Fall. We did well enough."

He knows her well enough. Vanya moves forward after smiling at Arekoth and remarking on his apparent good health, setting the baskets down on the opposite end of the table. From one comes the distinct aroma of food -- stew and fresh bread, maybe some cheese, mainly. From the other is the distinct clink of bottles, probably her medical supplies. Moving to his side, she's looking down at the tunic sleeve. "If you take that off, I'll just have a look-see," she says. It's polite enough, a request -- but there's an iron healer's will behind it. "It wasn't as bad as many I've experienced," she comments, her hand reaching out to stroke his good shoulder. "I heard the dragons .. was it someone you knew?"

H'kon wriggles his right arm free of that tunic, but is a bit more careful in removing the cloth from his left. "This will need washing," he grumbles, eyeing the stain on the shoulder. The score itself is superficial - the jacket seems to have taken the brunt of the Thread, and apparently Arekoth was able to skip between before any major muscle could be eaten away. "A former wingmate," is given next, this in a voice close to a whisper. "A spot over from the position we usually took in that formation." The brownrider shakes his head, glances to his dragon, and shifts his torso a little so that the shoulder will be at a better angle for Vanya's inspection. "It was not as bad, no. Still, there was a death." The last word is partially spat. "Injuries... Bad winds," he finishes. "But no. Not as bad as others."

Vanya inspects the wound, nodding more or less to herself. "Well, I've got a bit of numbweed that'll take the sting out of it, and I can bandage it up for you. It'll heal in a day or so, since it's mostly superficial. No muscle damage," she informs him gently enough. "There's food in the basket. I don't know about you, but I'm starving." She turns away, moving to her basket, pulling out supplies she needs. She also yawns widely; there are weary lines on her face. "I'm sorry about your former wingmate." Left unsaid is, "I'm glad it wasn't you." In minutes, Vanya's cleaned the wound, and applied numbweed; it's bandaged, then. "There. That should take care of things. I'm going to eat. Want some?" The other basket is unloaded; covered bowls of stew, fresh bread, cheese, fruit and klah.

"This is why I did not find you in the infirmary," H'kon offers, the slightest tone of apology in his voice. An apology that just might have to do as much with not showing his face as reassurance after the dragons' keening, as with not having that scoring attended to. He holds his arm out with a surprising patience as she bandages it, nodding slightly. "I could eat a little now. I am certain it would be good for me to do so..." Of course, by now, it should be no surprise that H'kon takes any casualty in a Fall pretty hard, let alone if it's someone he once knew. Appetities tend not to make themselves overly known in such times. "If you wish to sleep in your own room tonight, Arekoth and I could take you. I am not certain that I will not wake you," he adds, all the while sending an unenthusiastic glance toward that food being pulled out.

Food is set out on the table, the stew still steaming as she removes the lids. Utensils are fetched, and there's even a bit of butter for the bread. Vanya sets everything up with cool efficiency, though her movements are slower than normal. "I'm glad there was moonlight at least to see the thread by," she murmurs, finally sitting down. "I've no need or desire to sleep alone," she remarks between a few bites of stew. "You won't wake me, I dont't hink. Once my head hits the pillow, I'll be out. Trust me." There's a half-hearted attempt at a smile, but it fades fast enough. "How'd it go with the new wing?"

H'kon takes up a spon, and tiwrls it slowly between his fingertips. In response to hearing that she'll stay with him, the brownrider reaches a free hand to offer a quick squeeze to her arm; thanks, affection. "One of the new riders was injured. Fairly badly. But we have been drilling intensely. It seems to have helped." A chunk of some sort of root is scooped up, and H'kon takes a moment to watch the steam rise from it. "The wing seems able to adapat well. It is... well, that is good. It will be useful." This carries a bit more sense of 'things left unsaid' than H'kon's usualy. A quick blow to clear excess steam, and the spoon is brought to his mouth, chewed with a careful attention. The man lifts pale eyes to the healer as he stirs at his stew.

Vanya smiles again at the squeeze to her arm, but her concentration seems to be on eating at the moment. She eats a bit more, then pauses to break off a piece of bread, smearing some butter on it. "Practice makes perfect," she says, sounding more like this is repetition than true belief. "Being able to adapt is good. From what I gather, Thread isn't always predictable, so being able to adapt should help matters." She's not sounding very certain about the last, like maybe she's venturing into unfamiliar territory here. "I know not every injury is identical, even if it's in the exact same place on two different people. Everyone's different." She goes back to eating now, dipping the bread into the stew. It's not long before the bowl is nearly empty, and she's sopping the last of the stew up with bread. "Want some cheese?" she asks, picking up a knife to carve a piece off the chuck she brought up with er.

"There seems to be very little predictable these days," H'kon murmurs a bit darkly. He's rescued a bit of meat from drowning with his spoon, but dawdles in lifting it to his mouth. Instead he looks over toward his lifemate. Arekoth still doesn't have the appearance of being perfectly comfortable, though the dragon's eyes are closed. The offer of cheese receives a quick shake of his head, the still-full bowl of stew eyed next. Vanya's appetite clearly outdoes H'kon's. "Vanya... Would you consider something for me?"

Vanya looks up long enough to see H'kon shake his head, then glances down at the knife as it cuts through the cheese. When there is a slice ready, she lifts it to her lips, chewing thoughtfully. When he comments about predictatbility, she glances over at him. "You mean ... all the new arrivals, don't you?" she asks simply. "They aren't causing any trouble that I can tell, and the extra dragons should be somewhat of a help. Although Citalth's clutching was a relief, too." It's when he asks her to consider something that she pauses, then nods. "I guess so. What?"

The mention of the 'new arrivals' draws a bit of a grimace, and H'kon manages a gruff nod, though it's coupled with a dismissive, "Just everything, I suppose." That meat chunk on his spoon is finally eaten, chewed carefully, and buying him time to gather his thoughts. And finally, the blunt approach is taken. "Arekoth and I may need to request a transfer." His gaze settles all too noticeably on the dragon's twisted leg. Still looking there, the man continues, voice taking on a dull, plodding characteristic, surely some sort of self defense mechanism, "Somewhere with weather not as harsh. Consider, if this does need to happen, if you would come with us." And now, neck muscles tensing, he turns his head back to face her. His words have picked up some speed. "I do not need your answer now. I will not be angry if you cannot. And I know that if things work out so that I lose you, then it is my own fault." A hasty mouthful of stew follows. At least open discussions work to encourage food intake.

Vanya continues to study H'kon for a long time, then simply nods. "It would depend, of course, on what the Hall had to say, but I'm certainly willing to consider it," she replies, no particular emotion in her voice. "It would also depend upon where you wanted to go, too, I guess -- and if the Conclave will allow transfers from here now." She takes another bite of cheese, chewing thoughtfully. "Did you have someplace in mind?" she queries, now a little more alert than before. "Someplace warmer. There's Ista, of course. It's nice and warm. Igen, too, is warmer than here." She's mentioning possibilities. "Even Fort's a bit warmer than here, though not much. It's still in the mountains."

"Not Igen," H'kon notes with a shake of his head. "I would rather not. It does not seem... stable." Far away politics, apparently, are somewhat safer. "I had considered Ista. Fort, as well. It may be less humid... Not Telgar." He shrugs those broad shoulders of his, pokes a bit more at his stew, now growing cold. "I am not certain if we will. But the colder days here... and his leg is not healing as it has in the past." Arkeoth is clearly not asleep; a snort comes from the couch, and the brown stretches out his forelegs, another display of strength and agility, surely - though the left certainly doesn't extend as much as it did prior to his re-injuring it.

Vanya hears that snort and turns to regard the brown, her brow knitting slightly. "No, it's not," she says, and she should know. "I don't care how it hurts his pride, it's almost like starting over." A sigh. "Warmer temperatures in winter would certainly help matters." On this there's no disagreement. "And, Ista's warm. There's ocean there, too, which would be good for him." She's thinking, obviously. "Of course, in Fort you've got the dragonhealers right there. They might be able to help him more than I can."

Another snort comes from the couch, followed up by a series of dragon-grumbles as Arekoth turns his head away from those two who doubt him. "Ista is more humid," H'kon adds. "I do not know what warmer humidity would do for him, but in the cold here, it makes things worse." The spoon is let fall into the bowl with a dulled clink, and, both hands free, H'kon pushes them through his hair, fingers catching here and there at those curls. "I do not know. There is so much to consider in this... If it is even worth asking..."

Vanya is silent for a long time. "I can write to the Hall," she finally ventures. "If presented correctly to the dragonhealers, it's possible the Conclave will relent and allow the transfer for Arekoth's sake," she adds. "I --" There's a pause. "If you go to another weyr, H'kon, I would, yes, consider requesting a post there. I don't know if it's possible, since I don't have a great standing with the Hall, but it ... I could inquire of it." She looks over at him and there is something in her eyes which speaks of sincerity. "If you go to Fort, I could even be reassigned to the Hall, although we'd not be together all the time." There's a longer pause, then. "If they won't allow me to transfer, I could always ... I mean, I don't want to, but I could ... give back ... my knot...." She lets her voice trail off into silence at that.

H'kon lets his left arm fall back down to his side, where it's more comfortable for that raw skin, but the right stays held up, hand hooked at the back of his neck, fingers prodding idly in that nervous little dance of theirs. There's no doubt that he listens carefully, though the man finds nothing to put forward during her pauses. All interest in the food seems to have been lost for the time being. "If you do not want to give back your knot," he murmurs finally, quiet, "then do not. Though if it comes to that, and that is the course of action you take..." The hesitation here is a gathering of courage, not unlike a man preparing to throw himself at a door to break it down. And the throwing of himself comes as a half-mumbled, "I love you, and I will care for you as best I can." And now he's looking at that folded right elbow of his. "If it comes to that."

Vanya regards H'kon for a long moment, then, "Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?" Her lips do curve slightly upwards. "I can have a private practice, although it's not as lucrative as being posted." A little wry, those words; she's discussed taht with him before. "But let's wait and see what it said by those in authority. It may be easier than we thought, and it may be we won't have to worry about anything." She reaches a hand to him, letting it rest on his shoulder. "I will write to the Hall, and see what options are open to me, and you discuss your thoughts with whomever you need. Together we will find what is best for us."

H'kon takes his hand from his neck, so that he can stretch it along the arm at his shoulder. His thumb is left free to trace idle designs on her arm. "I would not want to have to put him first at the /expense/ of you... We will hope it does not come to that." And, though his arm stays at hers, he looks away, shifting a little bit, shaking his head. "This is so..." A deep breath, let out as a sighed, "exposed." Let it never be said that such honest talk about such important matters are an easy thing for H'kon.

Vanya smiles. "H'kon, if I go that route, it will be my choice, not because anyone forced me to do anything," she assures him. "Arekoth is important to me. I care a lot for him, even though I'm not his lifemate. Making certain he's comfortable is important to me, too. I want to help him." She pats his shoulder again, but is forced to stifle a yawn moments later. "I'm sorry. I think I'm up way past my bedtime." There's a soft chuckle then, and she lets her hand fall to her own lap a moment. "Let me clear this up and you can work on your jacket. I think I'm heading to bed soon."

H'kon's fingers flick after her arm as it drops, but he lets his own fall to his side. There's a quick nod for the woman, and he looks to that table next. "My jacket can probably wait until tomorrow," is decided after a moment's consideration. "I will come to bed with you." There's no hint of suggestiveness in his tone - and Arekoth is still too busy pouting to put it into the brownrider's mind. So for now, he will help the woman clear the table, and spend his time curled up with her. Just in case things don't go their way later on.

d13, m4, t4, 7th.

2007-08-26T09:45:25Z

H'kon's Weyr
One would almost think there's been a woman touching this weyr. The Spartan feeling has been toned down throughout with splashes of colour: a tapestry depicting a brown dragon courageously flaming thread hangs opposite the low-sitting bed wide enough for two. On this bed, a heavy blanket dyed a rusty red accents the more exciting parts of the tapestry. A thick orange and brown rug is set in front of the bed, offering a warmer surface for bare feet on High Reaches' cold mornings. At the foot of the bed is a clothes chest upon which, more often than not, half-finished projects of knitting or woodwork will rest. Two braziers grace the weyr, a larger one near the dragon couch, and a smaller at the far wall of the weyr. To one side of the smaller brazier is a basin for washing; to the other side, a wooden rack is set up for the drying and storage of clothes and dragonriding equipment. In the middle of the weyr, a table small enough not to crowd the area sits, complete with two low-backed chairs. Beneath the table is a sturdy box holding the supplies of an amateur craftsman.

The past few weeks have been flavoured largely by Arekoth's aggravation of his injured leg. The brown, of course, has put on that brave and charming face he manages to express so well, even without putting words to it, but by now even he is beginning to show signs of frustration. H'kon's own attempts at patience have taken a downward turn alongside his dragon's, and the man has proven quite preoccupied. The current political feeling in the Weyr surely hasn't helped the situation, and the brownrider has stayed quieter, even around Vanya, more withdrawn, and far less talkative, apart from the occasional and brief scattering of lighter moods.
Tonight, so far, hasn't seemed much different; H'kon, having recently taken it upon himself to spread a numbing salve over his dragon's leg, leans against a wall near Arekoth's couch. The brazier has been lit, and the dragon has slipped into a careful doze with the initial relief, whatever conversation he'd been having with his rider apparently ended, or at least on hiatus. The man's jaw is jutted forward, his brow holding what is now an even-more-familiar furrow, his eyes unfocused, though his head is tilted in the general direction of his lifemate's limb. There's stillness from this side of the weyr, brooding - until, as if in a shiver, H'kon shifts away from the wall, turns his head to look into the weyr proper, and gives a rather strong call of, "Vanya." More a summon than a request.

Vanya, for her part, is equally concerned for Arekoth's injury, and has spent her time reading what she can find which might be even remotely helpful to the dragon. She has written letters to the dragonhealers, asking what can be done to alleviate the pain, if not heal the injured leg, and is now busy mixing herbs and oils in a large, stone pestle, making what she hopes will be a soothing ointment which one healer said might help. It's not quite a noxious salve, but it's by no means pleasant smelling as some she has. What she's doing now is trying to see if she can somehow add some wintergreen to the concoction in order to make it a little more acceptable for man and beast. She works steadily, adding a pinch of this, a drop of that, using the mortar to crush leaves and stems into a pulpy mass. Wintergreen oil will be added to the mix, then she will make a poultice. There are wide swaths of clean, white cloth folded neatly beside her; those will be wrapped around the leg when the mixture is ready. She doesn't, at first, glance up when her name is called. Her mind is occupied with her work. After a moment, though, H'kon's voice penetrates, and she stops long enough to turn around. "Yes? -- ah, he's sleeping, is he? Well, this won't be ready for a while yet, so I won't disturb him."

H'kon's mouth dips toward a frown when there's not an immediate answer. This expression has settled itself by the time it seems apparent that the healer has no intention of coming to him. "No-" is started, and as quickly finished with a shake of his head. When one's patience is spent on one issue, other, smaller ones seem heavier. The man sways, as if to take a step toward her, but is quick to shift his weight back, an unwillingness to leave his dragon's side better expressed in the physical here than otherwise. Of course. Pale eyes settle again on that brown, then close a moment; a mental check. The dragon stirs, tail twitching, wings settling, but doesn't seem to wake. H'kon, in time, does manage one step away from Arekoth. His chin is nodded toward that concoction as he queries, "Can it wait?"

"As soon as I mix in the oil and setting agent, it'll have to sit for a while," Vanya explains, beginning the rather tedious task of drizzling oil into the pulpy-mass in just the right amount while continuing to stir. "Only be a couple of minutes more, I promise," she assures him. She is not immune to the worry, but Arekoth is not her lifemate. Her tone of voice and demeanor is patience personified, refusing to be riled by the irritation -- however slight -- in H'kon's timbre. True to her word, it is only a few more minutes before she is covering the mixture with a cloth, picking it up and taking it to the ledge where the air is slightly cooler. It is not quite the same with this salve as it is making numbweed, though that is one of the ingredients. (Likely the one that makes it smell bad.) Once that's done, she wipes her hands on a towel, then makes her way toward where the rider stands. "I'm sorry. I really just wanted to get that done." The apology is followed by a gentle of one hand to H'kon's shoulder, and a gentle squeeze. "Are you doing all right? Would you like some klah?" She has taken to bringing a pitcher of klah back with her of an evening, mainly because she knows H'kon isn't as fond of tea as herself. There is a kettle on the smaller brazier, the scent of warming klah much nicer than the salve.

H'kon rests his weight back on his heels, then, and waits for the healer to finish. Sign of further impatience, perhaps, or simply again a physical demonstration of his concern, that one step he'd managed is taken back, and he shifts to lean his shoulders and upper back against the stone wall, ignoring the cold that cannot help but be there in the spring. When Vanya does come to him, the hand certainly isn't avoided. It does receive a quick look from the corner of his eye - and then he's looking to her directly, shaking his head. "No klah," is said, a bit softer than his last words had come, but still bearing something of an edge. Eyes flick toward the dragon, but don't quite make it to him before H'kon has focused his attention back on the woman. And finally, as if the result of some momentous decision, he reaches a hand across his chest to take hers at his shoulder, dropping it from that shoulder, yes, but continuing to hold it as well. Hesitation, then, uncertainty expressed more by the alternating squeezing fingers against her hand than anything else, and finally he settles on, "I apologise. If I've not been... properly affectionate. Recently."

Vanya doesn't move away, though her eyes do glance down at Arekoth a moment. Curse of being a healer; the patient always comes before personal matters. The words do catch her a little off guard; it's not like she expected H'kon to put her before the dragon. No, she understands full well who will be his first concern, and that's all right with her. "H'kon ..." Her own voice is several notches softer than before. There's hesitation in her, as well. "No need to apologize," she says, tone gentle, understanding. "He comes first, and that's how it should be. I know you've been worried, and I'm not upset. I'm just glad I can help a little, maybe offer a little ... distraction, now and then." She smiles, turning her hand so that it is pressing against his, palm to palm. "It was sweet of you, though." And then she's leaning forward to bridge the gap and press her lips to his cheek.

The one thing a healer must learn is patience; it is a hard lesson for some, and Vanya was one of those when she was younger. Wounds and injuries do not always heal quickly, and thus patience becomes a watch-word. Still, there were moments when Vanya bit her tongue bloody and held back her own irritation in the recent pass. She is no paragon of virtue in that respect. "There were times, yes, but I do understand why you've been upset, H'kon," she admits, allowing her smile to waver slightly. "You're taciturn at the best of times, but when you're worried, it gets ... a little worse." A little? Why so modest? A worried, concerned H'kon is not a pleasant thing to live with or even be around for long periods of time. Still, when that worry involves a lifemate ...? It can be accepted, if not appreciated. And, he did show the same concern for her more than once. "I hope I'm at least a pleasant distraction?" It's said almost coyly, perhaps even teasing. "I think since Arekoth's resting, we should at least relax a little? I can rub your shoulders, if you'd like?"

"Not upset with you," H'kon feels it necessary to clarify. His fingers continue to twitch at Vanya's. The man's mood hasn't lifted to such an extent as to have him receptive to any gentle teasing, and there's a stern shake of his head. "You are not a distraction," comes almost as repetition of the original sentiment, though it's said with seriousness enough to stand on its own. The offer of a shoulder rub receives a dull nod, and, with a parting flick of digits, he releases her hand, heading for a chair, already setting at the removal of his tunic. H'kon knows the drill by now.

"No, lie down on the bed, on your stomach," Vanya suggests, moving toward there with a brief pause to pick up one of her baskets from the floor; the one with her salves and lotions. "It's easier for me to reach your lower back that way," she explains, turning to look at him. "Your muscles are so tense I can feel them from here," she tells him, her voice a little more serious now. "You're going to end up with a migraine if you're not careful, and that will do Arekoth no good. He'll be worried about you, and that won't help him heal. A positive mindset can be as important as other treatment." Once a healer, always a healer. She smiles, though, to soften what might be close to a lecture, and smooths the bed cover where she wants him to lie. "I can also get better leverage from this angle." There's a brief pause, then, "Take off your shirt and pants -- if you're not afraid I'll take advantage of you." Yes, there's still something she can laugh about.

H'kon has already accomplished the removal of the shirt, and, with only the slightest twitch of pleasure displayed on his face at having been corrected, then reprimanded (or so it seems), he lumbers over to the bed. A hand goes to brush at the cover in silent mimicry of Vanya's. For the way he looks at her when she suggests further clothing removal, however, one might think they hadn't been sharing a bed for well over a turn. He courageously fights back a scowl, blinks back toward Arekoth, and then, indeed, does as he's told, stripping down before settling himself on the bed, stomach-side down. No words throughout all this, and it's a trend that will continue, surely, through the initial stages of the massage - with, perhaps, the exception of grunted answers, if Vanya has any questions for him regarding the treatment.

As for that displeasure, Vanya pays it no mind. Indeed, there have been times of late that's the only thing she has seen displayed on his face, so how is this news? She takes a deep breath, forcing a calm patience over herself. When H'kon does turn his back, she closes her eyes, expression unguarded for a moment. It is as if she is a parent dealing with a recalcitrant child now. But, by the time he looks back at her, and climbs naked on the bed, she is under control once more. "That's better," she says, removing two bottles from her basket, and pouring a few drops of both into the palm of one hand. Then she rubs her hands together; the scent of mint and lavender fills the air as she begins to work. Her fingers are strong, sure on those tight muscles, refusing to give them even the barest chance to resist her will. It is like working on barely pliable rock, but she has not met the back yet to withstand her full assault. H'kon /will/ relax, if she has anything to say about it. He body has no choice; it will be relaxed in spite of itself.

Lavender or not, it can never be said that massage is an entirely gentle and soothing experience when one confronts muscles such as H'kon's, that have undergone the tension and worry he's been putting them through. The brwnrider's breath will occasionally be taken in a fashion a bit sharper than the norm when one of Vanya's fingers encounters one of those magical spots of knots. There is no complaint, though, and as she continues, the atmosphere of his silence surely changes. With his lifemate having settled, for the time, into a bit of a deeper slumber, and his lover tending to him, H'kon does indeed shift into a different attitude. And if, for some reason, perhaps distraction or a lack of obvious clues, Vanya doesn't notice this at first, well, when H'kon turns his head to the side - eyes closed, mouth certain not to be obscured - to give the well-considered, if perhaps non sequitur, declaration of, "I love you," then that should prove evidence enough. Of course, muscles tense thereafter, as if readying him to flee, as he awaits (or maybe dreads) a response.

There is but a momentary change in the steady rhythm of the massage after those three words are uttered. Not hesitation, exactly, but a certain difference in the kneading of fingers and hands on those abused muscles. She does not speak for a long moment, perhaps taken aback by the declaration, perhaps afraid it was her own imagination. She knows there must be a response, but what? Should Vanya tell him she knows already, rather has suspected it since the night he visited with his father? Or should she simply repeat his own words back to him. It is truth, after all. She does love him, though it was long coming and hard fought. It took seeing E'sere once more for her to realize it, and it took being very sick to understand he returned her feelings. But to hear it? To have him actually /tell/ her?! She must respond correctly. Finally, there is no other choice. "I love you, too, H'kon." Simple words, but there is no doubt of her sincerity, and no doubt she has felt the change in his body, no matter how subtle. "It ... scares me, but not so much I'd want it any other way."

No doubt that having it said back is comforting to him, but the slight relaxation of muscles brought on by it lasts only until H'kon can twist so as to almost be on his side, supporting his weight on one elbow, while the opposite arm is sent out to reach onc emore for Vanya's hand. H'kon is still very much reeling, possibly more from his own declaration than her reply to it. He manages to look at the woman for a split second, but then has his eyes closed again, face turned down just a little. A nod is managed. Jaw tenses and relaxes as he swallows. And all the while, his fingers have set to kneading at her hand. Finally, he murmurs her name, an indulgence for himself or for the woman, speaking it just for the sake of hearing it.

There isn't a woman alive who won't melt when her name is said in that special tone reserved for just her. Vanya is no exception. When H'kon turns to his side and reaches for her hand, she stands stock still, bent slightly over in the same position she was in to massage his back. Her eyes search his face, but she remains as silent as he is, finding words choke in her throat, die on her lips before they're spoken. She swallows, her hand scented with the lotion, skin soft and pliant from it. It cannot be a comfortable position to hold for long, but she does ... until she finally sinks to the edge of the bed, letting her head move forward until it rests on his shoulder. Her hand tightens on his own, and there's a soft sigh of contentment that slips from her.

H'kon still can only manage the occasional glance to the woman's face when he's left feeling as open as this. But, at the same time, the feel of the moment is enough to warrant those looks, and when he does turn his face directly to hers, it will be found perhaps surprisingly expressive. That brow, that mouth, apparently, can show things other than the more surly emotions. When she leans her head to his shoulder, H'kon blinks hard, then lets his eyes drift closed, even as he slowly eases them both to be lying fully on the bed. Once that other arm is no longer charged with supporting his weight, those fingertips are free to trace over her chin, mouth, cheeks, a way of seeing her without having to bare himself further. Slow, easy steps.

Vanya's eyes are also closed, and there is complete relaxation of her body against his. She is content to lie, thus, sharing no more than simple touches with the man she's come to love. That she shares him with a dragon, and will share him with other riders ... well, that's a given, and she can accept it as part of being with a dragonrider. She will worry over him, and over his brown, when they rise to fight Thread. That is also a given, and not likely to change as time passes. But these moments ... yes, those will ease that need to worry, and when he is in her arms, she will love him. When he's sick, she will care for him. She'll hear his troubles, and offer what she can as solace. It will not be an easy relationship, because he doesn't talk, and she needs to hear things from him. But it will be all the stronger for the efforts both will make toward a common goal. And if he occasionally tells her he loves her, well, that will be enough.

d22, m3, t4, 7th.

2007-08-13T05:36:41Z

<< You should be nicer. >>
>> I do not want tea. <<
<< But if you're nice, he might let us go home. >>

Infirmary
The infirmary is divided into two sections. The larger of these is given over to injured dragons and is joined to the bowl by an immense tunnel. No less than six stone couches fill this area, with stations between each for medical supplies and personnel. The other side of the infirmary is for human patients and is furnished with double rows of cots. A large alcove near the exit to the living cavern houses the healers' area, where they store their supplies and can retreat for a moment of quiet before wading into the battle between life and death again.

Whichever healer it was that was on duty earlier has since gone, and left H'kon and his 'resting' dragon with firm instructions not to leave the infirmary, and to keep the injured limb in question (that is, Arekoth's left foreleg) as elevated as possible. Which is difficult, even when a bench has been brought, padded with some cushions, and Arekoth has been instructed to stay lying down. H'kon therefore is pacing enough for both of them, while the brown is idly blowing at tassles on one of the cushions, bored.

Off in one corner, another infirmary denizen seems bored. Or is it exhausted? Neiran yawns, stifling the gesture with one longfingered hand. His eyes water up, much to his chagrin, and he dabs at the corners of his eyes with the pad of his ring finger. This seems to remove him from his reverie; the Journeyman looks over his shoulder, and finds the timepiece there at the healer's area. He rises heavily and vacates the chair, tucking it into the desk after he's left it. Dextrous fingers do up the few undone buttons of his cassock, then check the state of his hair. Finding everything well, he washes his hands, steals a sip of water from a pitcher and a small cup, takes up a clipboard, and begins striding up the infirmary aisle. Neiran glances but once at whatever's written on the hide there, then seems intent on approaching H'kon and Arekoth, expressionless.

H'kon finishes one part of his circuit, and turns on his heel to wear a mark of his presence into the floor in the opposite direction. Wash, rinse, repeat. The whole process goes over again, with only the briefest attention sent to Neiran as he gets up. More attention a few paces later, though, when it seems the healer is on his way toward them. Arekoth snorts something at the tassles. H'kon pauses, and links his hands behind his back.

"Good day." Neiran offers that perfunctory greeting along with the rustling of the chart's hides, coming to a stop near the pair. After that moment of well-practiced medical professionalism, his lethargic air returns to melt primness away. "I, ah...I am not yet on duty, but I wondered if you would not disapprove of conversation. Regarding your brown, if possible." The healer looks towards Arekoth, and offers him a dutiful nod of respect. His dark eyes return to the rider, dark circles in the pale skin below his lower lid.

Arekoth turns his head enough to send a whuff of dragon breath at Neiran, and then goes back to paying with his tassles. His enthusiasm for healers has slipped recently. Go figure. H'kon, for his part, offers a sharp, downward nod in return for the healer's greeting. The second nod of the type is accompanied by, "No. As... you will." There's an edge to his voice, audible impatience. The muscles on his arms can be seen to be twitching, fingers tapping against each other behind his back.

Neiran blinks rapidly at that puff of air. He seems unsure as to how to interpret that, so only checks that his hair is still neat, and looks at the rider once more. The impatience is more comprehensible, and it gives Neiran pause, a hesitation as though reconsidering. After looking over the brownrider with eyes half-lidded, he murmurs, "I was curious if I might not gain some insight from speaking to you, rider...you have been coping with...muscular difficulties in your lifemate for some time, unless I am mistaken? Considering the frequency of muscular injuries among dragonkind, the chapter in the manual I am compiling is unsatisfactory." The chart comes to hang by his hip as he lowers his arms, and raises one arched brow at the brownrider, his question silently reiterated in that gesture: do you think your experiences have given you knowledge to contribute?

H'kon scowls. A man who's spent his past few hours largely in the infirmary, constantly with a sore lifemate in the back of his mind, can't easily be in a good mood. Poor Neiran. "I do not believe this is a matter of muscle," is replied quickly. Rather than twitch, arm muscles are tensed for a moment as hands grasp each other. Hard. "It is deeper than that. The..." Pause. Frown. "Something like ropes." It was explained to him mechanically, and mechanical equivalents seem to be the best he can do. Feet shift, stance widening just a little.

The Journeyman opens his mouth, lips and tongue pausing in the middle of forming a 't' noise. Then he takes in H'kon's stance, the terse responses register, and his mouth closes. Neiran's head cants to one side, dark eyes cast from head to toe on the man before him, scrutinizing. "You...has no one offered you a refreshment? Any recent consultation? You appear mildly displeased. The word is tendon," he adds, after a moment's pause. "Or perhaps ligament."

The secondary offering gets a nod: ligament. Muscles twitch again, and he's back ththe idle beats of fingers against fingers. "It is the same injury as before. He has aggravated it. Done it again." A glance to his dragon which is meant to be disapproving, but can't help showing a bit of worry as well, a few creases at his eyes, a definite downward pull at the corners of his mouth. Arekoth has put the tassel-playing on hold.

The Journeyman looks between rider and dragon, analyzing both of them as individuals and as a pair, by some esoteric formula of social guesswork. It leaves Neiran staring for a while, but eventually he nods, slowly. "I see. That is not unexpected. I am pleased to hear that it is not an entirely new injury." He looks to the dragon's foreleg, surreptitiously assessing the job of healing that's been given it. It seems to concern him less than the rider's disposition, however, for he looks at the blue-eyed rider again. "Would you like some tea?" In defiance of a request that sounds rather lame to his ears - especially after his purposeful stride here in the first place - Neiran raises his chin and thins his lips. Rather than conveying a self-confident air, it must simply look like he's challenging the rider to turn down infirmary hospitality.

Hardly a challenge. H'kon has been turning down tea for turns. "No." Arekoth's head turns, and there's a grudging, "No, thank you," offered as correction. He points a nod at the dragon's raised-up leg, next. "What else do we do for it? When we return to our weyr, what do we need? When do we return?" Mouth closes with a click of teeth, biting back further questioning. Let the healer answer.

The healer with the dark circles under his eyes isn't in a mood to enforce hospitality. H'kon's refusal - the polite version - earns a silent nod of acceptance, an unspoken 'as you wish.' The questions are not unwelcome, responded to after a glance at the chart. "You may find that soaking it in salt water is a comfort to Arekoth. If pain persists, topical numbweed may be applied. Keep it elevated when Arekoth is resting in your weyr. You will return anywhere from a day to near a sevenday; it will depend on Arekoth. I would prescribe some tea, or...mulled wine, or other suitable beverage of comfort for yourself, in the meantime." The Journeyman paused after the word tea, remembering it was refused; thinking of something else one might like to imbibe is almost a challenge, so the old standby of wine, that substance that seems to please so many others, fills the role for lack of anything else. Still, the Journeyman's lips purse at having essentially just recommended drinking.

H'kon snorts at the suggestion. "I will be fine without, I am certain." See how well he's doing already? Hands are unclasped, and grab idly at the tunic hanging out over the bottoms of his riding leathers. "Numbweed. I will see that we have some. Saltwater." Another nod. "Not too warm, correct?" But he won't wait too long for an answer. Insteadh e'll walk up alongside his dragon, and set into his own visual inspection. Without looking back to Neiran, a dismissive, "Thank you, healer, for your time," is given.

d22, m3, t4, 7th.

2007-08-13T04:09:25Z

Southern Bowl
The bowl floor is a broad expanse of gravel and dust, packed flat over decades of dragonweight landing on it. Kept free of vegetation, the only color variation across the vast hollow of the bowl are the dragons, in good weather often found sunning on low ledges or sprawled along the floor itself. The well-worn, charcoal-grey walls of the bowl are nearly vertical, far too steep for even the most adventurous climber to attempt. The rim of the bowl, marked by a rainbow of perching dragons at all times of the day, is topped with massive stone spires that stretch upwards into the blue vault of the sky. There are seven in all, great black fingers of stone that seem, from where you stand, to touch the clouds.
Here the lake dominates the bowl floor, wind-scattered waves lapping at the gravel shore. A few scrawny shrubs to the southeast mark the fenced-in enclosure of the feeding grounds, bordered on its southwestern edge by the lake itself. Following the wall here will lead to the entrance to the weyrling complex and, past that, the stairs that lead to the guest weyr. On the other side of the lake is a vast, yawning tunnel curving upwards slightly, connecting to the long road leading away from High Reaches Weyr. Adjoining the exit is the high arch of the infirmary entrance.
It's a soggy spring day, overcast and prone to drizzles. The sky is a bumpy canvas of grey and white, hiding the sun and ensuring that temperatures range towards cool rather than warm.

Arekoth is already in the sky, flying low in the bowl in lazy circles, attention tuned in to the weyrling area, expecting to see that favourite gold of his emerging at any moment. The air is damp, and the winds are heavy enough to require a bit of careful navigation, but it obviously isn't enough to dissuade the brown. He'll even let out an impatient rumble as he dips in closer to the lake. Come on.

Peloth takes her time in emerging, not that she's not happy to fly with the brown, but to make her point. He waits on her and not the other way around. If her rider doesn't seem overly concerned with rank that is her problem, but Peloth makes quite sure all the other dragons know who is the boss around here. As she is the best ever she is clearly the boss. So, while she is eager she appears after a few moments and once she's cleared the wall just enough she launches herself into the air to swoop over the lake and pass by the impatient brown.

Ahah! Just as Arekoth was dipping talons to make little ripples in the lake, there's that gold, and it's with a slight spray of water that the brown veers upward, this time bugling a welcome, and, with a few speed-gaining flaps, making to to swoop in close to the younger dragon. << You're here! >> There's something almost triumphant to that, never mind the waiting game he's had to play. He moves upward in a tihgt spiral. << We're going high today, right? >>

There's a soft answering bugle. Of course she is here. Peloth never passes up a chance to fly. <> Lest the brown's ego get too large. << We will go high. Try to keep up. >> And with that she catches an updraft and gains altitude. She won't stop as long as she's able to flap her wings and keep finding the right currents to soar on.

<< It's good that you're not hungry, >> Arekoth intones, making well sure to dance to either side of the gold as he does so. Any slight fallings back are surely a tease before he gains once more. << If you've eaten recently, you'll fly better. >> A gust of wind brings a few more water droplets to make his hide shine. He must be aware of this, moving toward a lighter area of the sky. Glistening works better with light.

She flies up straight to gain altitude before she takes part in the dance. Peloth falls back just enough to go under him and come up on his left before she catches an updraft once more and takes the lead with a swish of her tail. <> Maybe she means the both of them. Or maybe she means her and her rider. Either way, she doesn't let something simple like talking interfere with something more complicated like flying. <>

Arekoth revels in the two-way dance, whipping himself about in the winds as best he can, snapping forward, falling back, and occasionaly letting out some sort of vocalisation for the general joy of the whole thing. <> is quipped back. <> Thankfully, there's an updraft for him to catch, and give some improvement to his altitude. Side-to-side comes at a price. << There are ways to fall with a special style. >>

<< You may show your tricks to me. >> Peloth, ever generous. Leveling out she swoops a large circle around the brown before diving down and twisting to come straight back up with a few hard beats of her wings. If she admires the way he looks she's given no indication as such. The way he looks is secondary. << You do fly well. Not as well as me, but there are not many who can keep up. Most of them are dull to fly with. >> Like those pesky greens who can do way more tricks than her. Damn their smaller size!

<< So do you. >> He moves into a lazy circle, to be sure and keep track of that little manoeuvre of the gold's. << And you aren't at all dull to fly with, either. Now, watch! >> A bit more time put into the circling to be sure he has her attention, and then the brown pushes up a bit more, climinb at a steep angle for as long as he can manage, then adjusting his wings to work more as stabilisers than as sources of motion. Body is held stiff, and he makes himself to be nearly straight up and down. And loses momentum. And starts sliding backward, down, tail-first. It doesn't last long before he's righted himself and set to a glide, of course. << Be sure your wings are strong for that, or else they'll snap off. >>

Lazy circles of her own begin as Arekoth shows off his trick. Peloth keeps her eyes on him and it's a good thing no one else is about because she might have flown right into someone else's air space. << Show me again. >> It's a demand couched in a request and she clearly expects to be obeyed as she gains just a bit of altitude so she might watch from a higher vantage point. << My wings are plenty strong. >> Just a bit of firmness there under the usual cool tone of her voice.

<< You need your wings to keep yourself straight, because you have to hold your tail still, >> the brown instructs, even as he starts his climb for a bit more altitude. << Then you just fall. And then you have to stop falling, and twist forward so you can catch the air again. >> Wings are set to rudder-mode once more, and the brown keeps his body quite stiff and straight for the backward slide. Slightest tilt of wings brings him belly-down, and then it's all about catching himself. As per the instructions. << Hardest is to not fall onto your back, not unless you mean to loop out. But don't do that yet. >> That last is a command. You'd think he were a bronze or something.

<< Loop out? >> There is a thoughtful quality to her voice that others have come to fear. As if Peloth is not quite able to do /anything/ that anyone points out. However, for whatever reason and quite possible there was a little assistance from her rider in keeping her out of too much trouble she gains a bit more altitude and then mimics the brown. <> In her mind, at least. But, she behaves for a change and while she loses a bit more height than he did she comes out of the fall and lets out a triumphant bugle. Clearly she meant to fall that far. Besides, they are up high. What does it matter.

Arekoth adds his bugle to Peloth, dropping some of his own altitude until they're on the same level, or thereabouts. << Now this one - it can make your head spin. >> There may be a pun intended there, because next, after he's once again gone higher (surely a tacit invite for Peloth to follow), he's arching around, and using momentum of head and limbs to carry him in a backwards loop. Again, falling with style. A moment to level, then wings are tucked and he turns around on himself a few times. A bit of a corkscrew before evening out fully. << You really need to throw yourself back for that one, or else you won't make it over. >> And maybe it's the over-developed sense of elation, or maybe it's the loud bugles through the bowl, or maybe it's just a learned behaviour not to trust Arekoth alone for too long - but just as the dragon is executing this flourish, there's a scowly brownrider stomping out into the bowl.

If he's going higher than Peloth is not going to be left behind. She rises up right next to him with just inches between his wing and hers. Playing chicken with the brown to see if he would have moved. Once more she watches him execute the trick and this time she doesn't ask for it to be repeated. Instead, having convinced her own rider it's more fun to just let her play there's nothing stopping her from following him. It's not bad for a first attempt, but it's nowhere near as good as his. This is shaken off with a twitch of her tail. << That is fun. >> For all she tries to remain calm there is definitely a bubble of pure elation in her tone at learning something new and fun and not just new and what she should do. Her circle takes her farther away from Arekoth and when she can turn she heads straight for him until close once more and then she arcs up just enough to pass over his back without touching him. Down below, Miniyal doesn't bother trying to watch. She just leans against the wall of the bowl with the look of someone completely not paying attention to anything.

Only moments after the gold has skimmed him, Arekoth tucks into another downward corkscrew, then is quick to loop and chase after her. << It is fun! That's the point of flying. That, and fighting, of course. >> How can Threadfall possibly be far from a dragon's mind, especially when he has, in a way, been promoted, and has a rider worrying about it so consistently? << But fighting's fun too. >> And for now, Arekoth is content with another close manoeuvre with that gold, coming up fast behind her, trying to match her pace from just above. In the bowl, H'kon doesn't bother looking for Miniyal. Not yet. For now, he's busy squinting up through the somewhat hazy sky, arms crossed hard over his chest. And what he sees of Arekoth's newfound game, he certainly doesn't appreciate. Frowny-face.

<< There are few things I am told I am allowed to do that are fun. >> Petulance? Not much. A wee shade, perhaps, from the not so very grown up queen. << This is fun. That is why I allow you to fly with me. >> Peloth is so nice. She loops around and loses a little altitude in the process. Wings beat to regain what height was lost as she lets out another bugle. << Fighting. It is not the same for me. But flying is the same. So, we shall fly together. >> Finding the brown again she dives down for him, pulling up before even getting close. On the ground it's a good thing H'kon is not looking for Miniyal because the only way he's going to get her attention will be by shouting or maybe shaking her. Why pay attention to the dull world when she can share more fun experiences with her dragon? Even though she can barely make out the spots in the sky that make up Peloth and Arekoth her face tilts upwards towards them.

Arekoth counters with, << This is why I'm willing to teach you my tricks. >> A few playful swoops at the gold, and then it's up for the altitude again. Preparing for another one of these tricks. << This one is fun too. Just let go. >> And he's up, again going as close to straight up as he can manage. This time, instead of looping backward, or sliding back on his tail, Arekoth gives a sharp tail-whip out to one side, and leans to the other, and so veers to the left. And lets himself tumble a good ways before he's rights himself. << It's harder to keep track of things when you're flipping sideways. But you really get to feel the wind. >> On the ground, H'kon growls something. It's non-verbal, and surely meant for the dragon. And /now/ he'll look for that goldrider. And stomp over there. Even if she doesn't see him.

At least she is a good student. Peloth stops circling wide and watches as as the brown shows off his next trick. << It is never hard for me to keep track of things. >> More boasting, but she's in good company for that. Waiting until she is sure he is done Peloth again sets herself up to mimic what the brown just showed her. She's good with her tail and she's good in the air and if she hadn't got a little twisted up in her mind on where she was she would have done better. Instead she tumbles a little farther than she meant to, getting herself righted fine, but not without some having to work at it. << That was fun. >> See? She's fine. She meant to do that. Like a cat that skids across the floor and goes head first into a cupboard. Down in the bowl Miniyal has to give her head a little shake as Peloth rights herself in the air. But she still doesn't notice the stomping frowny face on his way towards her.

H'kon pauses for long enough to check on the gold's tumbling. And then he's mad. "Bring her down." It's ordered to Miniyal, even as a sharp, downward jab of his finger is given. Eyes are on the sky for that, though, and it's likely a gesture meant for the brown. In the air, Arekoth has followed quickly after Peloth as she tumbles, but once all is well, he sends a wave of approval her way. << That's one of my favourites. That and the first one. >> And then there's a snort from the brown, though it might not be heard for the gust of wet wind that's come up. << He's worried something will happen to you. I'd never let anything happen to you. >> Circling...

Up in the air Peloth acts as if nothing bad happened and a little trouble righting from a proper tumble is no big deal. <> She doesn't, at first, pretend to hear what else is said by the brown. But, he gets the equivalent of a mental sigh that is more affection than annoyance. << He is dull. I do not like him. Neither does she. Nothing will happen to me. I would not leave her. >> And since she /would/ not clearly she believes she /could/ not, even by some misfortunate accident. "Sir, they're just playing. Leave us be." Miniyal doesn't take her eyes off the sky. There's still nothing down here she wants to see. "Lighten up. No one's doing anything wrong. And, you're not the boss of me." Now her eyes flicker over to the brownrider, but just long enough to take in his expression. Then it's back to focusing on Peloth and what goes on overhead. "All things considered, they deserve their fun."

"Playing dangerously," H'kon notes with a frown. In the air, Arekoth has allowed his circling to slowly - slowly! - bring him closer to the bowl. << We can practice it together. You're safer with me. And he's not always dull. He just worries too much. He's never got to fly with you. >> It's not as outright defensive as it might have been, and the brown does indeed try to make up for some of his mud-sticker's ways by turning hard for a quick swoop in toward Peloth, accompanied by a playful little warble of sorts. H'kon has few other arguments, it would seem, opening his mouth, closing it. "I will not have her hurt," is finally decided.

With a shake of her head Miniyal focuses for the first time on H'kon. "She won't get hurt, sir. She's a great flier. You worry too much. You're worse than an old man." Verdict given she resumes Peloth watching as the gold slowly becomes more visible as she makes her way towards the ground. "You're just scared." Said under her breath, but clearly meant for the wingsecond to hear. Peloth, for her part, bugles once and dives down even though it means coming closer to the ground faster. She likes the rush of wind and it's not like she lands. Instead she sweeps back up and comes under the brown where she crosses his downward trajectory back and forth.

Miniyal's words are likely being backed up in the form of a mental conversation, and H'kon has managed to take on quite the squint for it. "One of us ought to be scared for your dragon," is noted quite dryly. He does bristle, however, just enough that he takes a step away from the weyrling rider. Arekoth has followed Peloth's dive, and weaves in all too easily into the trajectory-crossing and dancing. Another dip will find him brushing the top of the lake - surely a show of rebellion for that scowling brownrider.

"Why should I be scared for her, sir? She's doing fine. She's great up there. I'm not going to stifle her fun just because /some/ people have no clue as to the meaning of the word." Miniyal casts a sidewise glance towards the other rider that is not quite mocking, but certainly not respectful. Peloth happily allows the downward spirals to be as slow as the brown will let her make them. She chases him across the water before veering around him and going back up again. << It was fun. >> With a little height gained she drops down to do a nosedive landing on the bank of the lake. At the same time she imbues her next sentence with enough warm affection to alter her normally cool voice. << Thank you for showing me. >>

H'kon has no good answer for that - or none that doesn't hint at a general tate of paranoia brought on by recent events - and so keeps his mouth closed, and shrugs. Arekoth, for his part, allows a final little buzz toward the young queen after she's landed, and then moves to whip around, dropping fast for a landing as near the gold as is safe. And indeed, it's not the gold's proximity that prompts the bellow upon touchdown, but rather the general muddy nature of the bank of the lake. Mud-chunks fly, wings are stuck right out, and the brown is quickly on three legs, with all four feet properly caked. And H'kon has just gone pale, lost in the split-second of hesitation that accompanies such things.

H'kon has no good answer for that - or none that doesn't hint at a general tate of paranoia brought on by recent events - and so keeps his mouth closed, and shrugs. Arekoth, for his part, allows a final little buzz toward the young queen after she's landed. << It really was my pleasure, you know. We'll do it again. When things are calmer. >> And he moves to whip around, dropping fast for a landing as near the gold as is safe. And indeed, it's not the gold's proximity that prompts the bellow upon touchdown, but rather the general muddy nature of the bank of the lake. Mud-chunks fly, wings are stuck right out, and the brown is quickly on three legs, with all four feet properly caked. And H'kon has just gone pale, lost in the split-second of hesitation that accompanies such things.

And it just goes to show it's the worriers who wind up with problems. Miniyal is watching Peloth with an affectionate smile that fades with some sort of situational awareness that clues her in maybe something is not right. "Sir? Are you all right?" Dragging her gaze from the somewhat muddy gold who probably just mentioned desiring a bath she focuses on the wingsecond. Besides, Peloth is not watching Arekoth so much as moving towards him to come to a stop near where he stands. << What has happened? >> And she edges a little closer to try to give him a little nudge of worried concern with her head.

H'kon doesn't answer Miniyal, but rather goes and gets himself all muddy too, moving toward that big dragon, who can't help but instinctively turn a shoulder to receive Peloth's nudge. Hide the hurt leg. The front leg that's still on the ground - that is to say, the right one - gives a little hop. << Ow. >> It's said calmly enough, almost joking. Pity there's that ripple of pain that can't be ignored, and can't help but be transmitted. And soon there's a tiny, boring brownrider pushing himself in between the dragons.

Since she's not going to be any help Miniyal stands back. She does watch, but there's no offer to do anything knowing how Arekoth's rider feels about her and such. For her part, Peloth seems offended to be pushed out of the way. Tail twitches and wings shake once before she graciously, mostly, retreats. Besides, it doesn't keep from her from sending more concerned affection as she settles by where her rider is. << Your bad leg? I am sorry. We were having such fun too. >> Settling down her eyes whirl faster as she watches her playmate with continued mental concern and support for him.

<< It'll be fine. >> Arekoth even straightens his neck a bit to shoot Peloth a glance, bravado all over, before he's dipping his head back in to look at that leg. Which H'kon has taken a light hold of - as if a human's gentle touch could hurt a dragon. "Straighten it," is murmured out loud. << I'm tough, >> is insisted. Even as the attempted straightening brings a rustle of wings. Displeasure.

<< That is why flying is better. There are not the problems of landing. >> She allows a hint of amusement in her tone now as if trying to share a joke. When his wings rustle she stands like she might move back over to him, but Peloth remains by Miniyal. Instead of physical comfort she has to settle for sharing what she can with him in his mind. And the being quite used to doing such things with her rider she finds it easy to do so with him. Poor hurt brown. Miniyal, from her spot away from the goings on, just continues to watch. Knowing better than to talk at this juncture.

A second attempt at straightening brings a back-hop from the brown. H'kon is quick to release the dragon's foot. But he stays good and close. << Flying is definitely better, >> Arekoth replies, if in a belated fashion. And it's at this point that he peers over to Peloth, and notes, in near-direct translation, << He will speak with yours. >> There's Miniyal's invite. The brown gives another half-hearted hop to adjust his balance, shifts his wings again. H'kon... scowls. Surprise.

Well, on cue, Miniyal gathers up the skirt she wears so only her boots get muddy as she walks closer towards the lake. "Sir?" is offered once she is close enough. Peloth follows along and finds a spot not in anyone's way where she can swish her tail to let it thump lightly against one of the brown's good legs. <> In case he did not interpret the tail swish thump properly.

Arekoth certainly doesn't seem to mind the thump, tilting his head to the gold again. Leave the bipeds to talk. << It's fine. I got to fly with you. My wings are still fine. My tail is still fine. We'll do it again. >> His head is tossed. If dragons could shrug... H'kon, for his part, turns that scowling face of his to Miniyal as she approaches. "Go check if there is a dragonhealer on duty." It's almost a request.

"Of course," Miniyal answers and turns to make her way across the bowl. No sir or salute, but she doesn't even seem to be trying these days for the most part. Peloth watches her for a short while before she refocuses on the brown. After all, she can keep in touch with her rider without looking at her. Peloth moves closer and presses lightly against the brown. In case he wants to lean on her or something. Her head bends to study H'kon a moment as if daring him to try to push past her again.

Arekoth is more than willing to lean back, though he doesn't do so too much. It's important to keep a sense of balance on those three good legs, after all. H'kon has got brave and has put his hands back onto the leg. Nope, no point in nudging past Peloth right now. He probably doesn't even notice the gold's inspection of him. << You should tell her thank you. He won't think to. >>

<< She knows. And she never expects thank yous even though I tell her she should. It is her due, after all. >> Peloth, of the ego is more than willing to share it with her rider. Not that Miniyal has been accused often of having none herself. She is still gone waiting to fetch a dragonhealer, likely in no rush to get back to disapproving company not that she dawdles. Peloth remains where she is and doesn't concern herself with H'kon now that he's not trying to nudge her out of the way or anything else rude. She just continues to provide quiet comfort. << She is coming back. >>

H'kon has given up with trying to get that leg straightened, and instead is running his fingers along the skin carefully. As if he's got knowledge enough to tell what' shappened by feel through dragon hide. << After all, >> Arekoth agrees. That brown head swivels to try and see the entrance that Miniyal will be using. The hurt leg is given a testing flex again, and then there's another quick shot of discomfort, expressed this time as a snort. << This is stupid. >>

It will be a few minutes before Miniyal reappears with one of the dragonhealers in tow. It's not hard to see where the problem is and so that is where they will head. When they get closer Peloth will turn her gaze on the new person a moment before she resumes watching everyone and not just someone. All while continuing to provide a place to lean for the brown. << You are hurt. Let them take care of you so we can fly again. >> It's an order couched in a gentle request. Not that he has to listen to her orders, but she does like giving them.

<< Not /that/ hurt. >> Even if he's still got that leg suspended in mid-air. That dragonhealer goes about his inspection, with H'kon grudgingly moving out of the way. And hovering over the healer's shoulder as best he can, though the dragonhealer is, of course, the taller of the two. At one point, the brownrider even looks to Miniyal, and gives her a little nod. Something of a thankyou, or at least, not outright disapproval.

The nod is received with one of her own. Sometimes Miniyal knows when it is best not to talk. Peloth remains where she is while the dragonhealer looks at things although she does keep one slowly whirling eye on him. << Hurt. It will be fine, but we must humor them. It is hard work, but we have to. >> There. See? He has to humor them for his rider's sake. Not because he is overly hurt.

Arekoth releases an audible sigh as a response to Peloth, and, for a moment, leans a bit more heavily against the gold, though surely not enough to upset her balance. The dragonhealer keeps inspecting. H'kon keeps frowning. And soon enough it's communicated that a hobble to the infirmary might prove best. Arekoth takes that moment to nudge Peloth with his head, though it's an awkward thing to do, what with most nudgable spots being leaned against. <>

<< It is hard, but sometimes we must. I am sorry. As soon as you are able we will fly again. >> She straightens up and the gold gives a little nudge with her head before moving away from the brown. << Perhaps I will show you one of my tricks next time. >> Since the fun is over, despite lunch nearly being over, Miniyal and Peloth both head for the hot springs. The gold simply cannot be seen with mud on her.

(circa) d15, m3, t4, 7th.

2007-08-12T06:20:45Z

Disclaimer: Because I suddenly wanted to write, and not to proof-read, there may be mistakes.

The bed was too big, and he hadn't lit both the braziers. There was no way to warm it, but he couldn't get up. He hadn't slept really in two days, and tonight he had made sleep his goal.
H'kon rolled over onto his stomach, stretched out his legs. They didn't find other legs, and they didn't find the edge of a small straw mattress. Should have kept that mattress for when she was on circuit. He squinted toward the brazier, where the coals were now barely glowing. They must have been giving off some heat; Arekoth slept sound, leg stretched out as far as it would go, but not huddled too close to the thing. Comfortable.
Taking a breath, H'kon gave a violent push of an elbow to the mattress, and found himself back on his side. He set to bunching up the covers around him. He kicked the heavy blanket from his mother until its weight was aligned along his back.
Should have told her before she left. Faranth. Perhaps she was capable, as she surely had proved over and over, going out again and again, always returning. Eventually. She was still a woman, and more than ever, his woman to protect. And he and Arekoth were training and drilling and keeping the wing well-tuned, and focusing on their loyalty to leaders who wouldn't decide. And not sleeping.
No point in trying to think about the weyrleaders. Miniyal was wrong. Politics were fuzzy and grey and unwelcoming, and he couldn't come to understand why they would hesitate. There was no use in a brownrider trying to learn the minds of riders on bronzes and golds. Wingsecond's duty is to the wing's safety in Threadfall. No leaders were responsible for flinging the stuff from the sky, and so it was no concern.
He gave another shot to the mattress, found himself on his other side, his arm curled around a bunch of blanket. Not sleeping. He craned his neck to look to Arekoth again. After five turns - six turns? how old was he now? - he knew when the brown was rousing. H'kon tried to make his thoughts quiet. At least one of them should sleep. He focused on breathing. In, deep. Out, slow. Hints of dragon consciousness drifted back down into the warmth of the smoldering brazier. He took note of the blanket under his arm, and shifted onto his back, with all limbs straight and pointing down.
If she were here, he would have woken her by now. Perhaps asked her to play that gittern for him. While he drank the tea she would surely make, if she were to get up. No point in getting up to make it for himself. Herbal remedies had never worked for this. They would do no good if he was the one preparing them for himself. They must be changed by her handing the cup to him.
The first day had not been so bad. There was a sense of homecoming, of familiarity to the night, seeping in from the ledge, around the dragon, past the guard of the glows, enveloping him. He had meant the timber for other things; frames for Naelli's bracelets, although he had already given her a turnday gift (it was well passed the time for a second gift for the same purpose anyway now), a second stand for hanging dresses since the one for riding gear was so crowded now, perhaps even a smaller version of that original massaging tool they had meant to use as a model. But the night brought an idea, and two nights brought a finished product: a stand for that gittern. Padding it had even allowed a chance for leatherwork, which he did less of now. Only time for his own needs, it seemed. Wingsecond meant no repairs for the entire wing. As did a woman.
Now you just miss her.
Scorch it. Go back to sleep, Koth.
Go to sleep, Hal.
H'kon whipped over onto his back, and sat up. He glared at the glowing eyes for a moment.
I cannot sleep.
Well if you don't sleep, you're going to be too tired to go find her tomorrow.
We have things to do tomorrow. He pulled a bit of blanket up to cover his chest. The hair there was pointless. It did nothing to keep him warmer.
Well we can always do it when we're supposed to be sleeping.
Wherry's ass.
H'kon pushed his shoulders hard into the mattress again, let the back of his head beat at the pillow a few times.
Besides, then you can tell her, and stop worrying about it.
I am not worrying.
So you just keep thinking it 'cause you love me so much?
Go play in Thread.
They were both awake now. H'kon heard the dragon shift, drawing his leg in a bit closer to his body, raising his head. Glowing eyes were a comfort, despite his resentment for the dragon's intrusion. Or his guilt for having woke the beast up.
See? You do love me!
She is not what keeps me awake.
He could feel Arekoth digging.
Things that far away don't affect us.
Yes they do. And they are beyond our control. And those who can control them are doing nothing. And we are closer.
Maybe we should go there tomorrow instead?
No, Arekoth.
Or tonight. We can save tomorrow for her.
We are not going anywhere tonight, Koth.
Good. Then we should sleep.
The dragon yawned, and it made H'kon yawn in answer. Arekoth probably meant to push the yawn onto him. H'kon turned his head from side to side, nestling into the pillow. He forced himself to focus on the dragon's will to drift back asleep.
Arekoth must have had it all planned out. He pushed in, invaded H'kon's mind like he had at their impression, and H'kon put up no resistance. He was carried off.

d6, m3, t4, 7th.

2007-08-09T14:30:23Z

H'kon's Weyr
One would almost think there's been a woman touching this weyr. The Spartan feeling has been toned down throughout with splashes of colour: a tapestry depicting a brown dragon courageously flaming thread hangs opposite the low-sitting bed wide enough for two. On this bed, a heavy blanket dyed a rusty red accents the more exciting parts of the tapestry. A thick orange and brown rug is set in front of the bed, offering a warmer surface for bare feet on High Reaches' cold mornings. At the foot of the bed is a clothes chest upon which, more often than not, half-finished projects of knitting or woodwork will rest. Two braziers grace the weyr, a larger one near the dragon couch, and a smaller at the far wall of the weyr. To one side of the smaller brazier is a basin for washing; to the other side, a wooden rack is set up for the drying and storage of clothes and dragonriding equipment. In the middle of the weyr, a table small enough not to crowd the area sits, complete with two low-backed chairs. Beneath the table is a sturdy box holding the supplies of an amateur craftsman.

The hour is long past the time when most people in the weyr are a-bed. It is no different here, save a glowbasket sits in the midst of medical supplies gathered on the table, and there is sign of recent activity of a packing nature. The sole occupant of the weyr, however, lies sound asleep where she apparently dozed off while in the middle of reading a recent missive from someone, possibly her brother at Weavercraft Hall in Southern Boll. Vanya is dressed warmly against the chill of early spring, and both braziers are lighted, though they have burned down to softly glowing embers. There are full containers of blackrock sitting a safe distance from those two braziers, and what looks like a cloth-covered bread basket and a half-round of cheese on a shelf. Newly come to the weyr are two mugs, two plates and two bowls, also on the shelf, as if someone planned ahead to the possibility of eating in the weyr at some point. The girl herself appears to be sleeping soundly, wrapped half in the blanket and stretched across the bed.

Despite the clouds covering the light of the moons, Arekoth finds no difficulty in navigating his way to his ledge as he and H'kon appear from between above the bowl. Once his straps are removed, the dragon is quick to crawl into his couch, doing his best to keep his talons from making too much of a clatter on the stone. H'kon removes his boots at the entrance, and is able to pad in thick socks to the wooden rack to hang up the dragon's straps. A pointed look from the brown then has him going to add some fuel to the brazier nearest the couch, and once it's blazing nicely, the dragon, with a stretch, settles himself for sleep. H'kon does not follow suit; no, rest is hardly the first thing on his mind, despite the Fall tomorrow that he's been so concerned with over the past few sevendays. The man shrugs out of his jacket, leaving it over the back of the chair, and in the glow of the brazier looks thoughtfully to the implements in the process of being packed. A moment later, he's moving to the bed. But he doesn't settle on it, nor does he move to touch the woman sleeping there. Instead, looking perhaps a bit lost, the brownrider lowers himself to a kneel on that new (to the weyr) rug, resting his hands on his thighs and focusing in on Vanya in the low light.

Despite their attempts to be quiet, Vanya is a healer, and healers are used to going from a dead sleep to full waking in a matter of moments. Still, once her senses are alerted to their presence, she sees no reason to rouse herself from a comfortable position. From between slitted eyelids, she watches H'kon re-kindle the large brazier and Arekoth settle in for the night. The rest of H'kon's activity is lost when he comes close to the bed, for her eyes fully close, and she does her best to compose her features into feigned sleep. There is merely the faintest twitch of her nose as it picks up the faint scent of leather and dragon and the barest hint of ocean. She knows he visited Tillek, but that is all. For anything else, she must wait to see if he will wake her, or choose to let her sleep.

H'kon goes on watching Vanya for what, to him, seems like an eternity. There's no sense of panic in the observation, no sense of urgency. It's a quiet regard that, in the moment, H'kon feels he has all the time in the world for. His face stays serious, brow knit just enough that the inner tips of his eyebrows are more defined in the brazier's flickering by the muscles beneath them. After at least five minutes of this, thumb and forefinger twitch together a few times, as if to clear the tips of the digits of any sort of debris that may have been picked up from the stay at Tillek. Then, slowly, carefully, the man clearly believing his lover to still be asleep, he reaches to brush a few stands of hair from her face, the gentle touch a juxtaposition of the roughness to be found on those hands. The caress is repeated, and H'kon pushes himself up a bit higher, though stays kneeling, squinting in at Vanya's face.

The touch, light as it is, comes as a surprise, and Vanya barely stops herself from jumping. She is more aware now of H'kon's closeness, and decides enough time has elapsed. When there is a second touch to follow, her eyelids flutter, and eventually open, fixing on H'kon's face as the brazier flickers. A soft smile touches her lips and she slowly stretches, realizing she's probably been asleep for at least a couple of hours. One hand comes out and reaches for H'kon's cheek, fingertips running slightly over the stubble on his chin. "I fell asleep," she remarks; rather unnecessary, that comment, since he's obviously seen that, but it's one of those inane remarks people make upon waking. "When did you get back?" is asked as she reverses her hand and runs the backs of her fingers over that same cheek.

H'kon's fingertips are twitched away those eyes open, the man at least as startled by that as Vanya was by his touch. His hand hovers, uncertain, only a centimetre or two from her face. Those pale eyes are wide, and he releases a quick, "I did not mean to wake you," before regaining some composure. Perhaps that composure can be partially blamed on the hand brushing at his beard. "I... am not certain," is admitted, tone softening some. Those hovering fingers bend closed and he peers toward the brazier, to check its rate of burning as a sort of time stamp. Fingers are uncurled again, and he offers, "Not long."

Vanya smiles fondly at H'kon, eyes lifting toward the dragon for a moment before settling back on the rider's face. "I heard you come in, so you didn't really wake me," she confesses. "It's the hazard of being a healer. You learn to catch sleep when you can, and wake at the slightest noise." She finishes stretching, then rolls onto her side, propping her chin on one hand while the other still hovers near H'kon's cheek. "I didn't mean to fall asleep in the first place," she adds. "There's some bread and cheese, if you're hungry, though I'm sure your mother stuffed you while you were home. Kalli strikes me as the type who never believes her children eat enough." There's a soft chuckle to follow that. "How is everyone? Well, I hope?"

H'kon sets to shaking his head as Vanya gets into the talk of food and family. The other hand is held up in a request for silence, its counterpart, meanwhile, no longer hovering, but falling to rest on Vanya's nearest arm. "No. Thank you. I... do not want to eat now." The shaking of his head slows. "And I did not see anyone but my father. Though I am certain if they were not well, he would have," and now he tilts his head until his cheek brushes that hand of hers, "said."

"I'm sure he would've, yes," Vanya agrees, letting her hand stroke his face a few moments before she finally moves to sit up. Once she is, she yawns and stretches, arching her back slightly. "I hope you don't mind me turning your table into a staging area. Since it's getting warmer weather, I really need to start my circuit. I'm sure the cotholds are in need of refills for the herbs, if nothing else." She lowers her arms, then leans forward to press a soft kiss to that stubbled cheek. "L'ran was kind enough to bring me and all my things up here. He told me there's 'Fall tomorrow morning. You should get to bed soon. Let me just clear this stuff away." She turns and begins picking up her hides and letters, clearing the bed off.

As is his usual, H'kon gives a bit of a frown at the mention of the circuit. "I suppose they will," is grudgingly agreed. He lets his hand slip down her arm, until he can clasp her fingers briefly. They're released as she gets up, of course, and H'kon rises from his kneel on the rug, instead sitting on the bed, and setting to untucking his tunic. "I... will try to sleep. Soon," is promised. Teeth sink into his lower lip, leaving an impression when they're moved so that he can speak an almost nervous, "What were you reading?"

"A very long, very detailed letter from my brother," Vanya says, chuckling. "I love hearing from him, but he has a tendency to describe each and every new outfit he designs. He and two other Senior Journeymen were chosen to design gowns a Lord Holder's daughter. She's getting married this summer, and apparently she must have a complete new wardrobe." There's another chuckle, and she holds up one sheet of hide. "She is also, according to my brother, approximately the size of a reed with a sadly sallow complexion that no color looks good on." Upon the hide is a charicature of exaggerated height and build. "He spent half his letter bemoaning the fact she has little in the way of feminine allure he is supposed to emphasize." She laughs, turning to set the letter aside. When she turns back, she moves around, making certain the smaller brazier is sufficiently burning before turning her back to H'kon. "Would you unlace me, please?" It's become a nightly ritual, this unlacing of outer garments, one preparatory to bed.

Truth be known, H'kon is only half-listening, preoccupied with something else, though icy eyes stay fixed on the woman as she moves. His thought of undressing himself never seems to have moved much beyond the untucking of tunic, and soon, hands are clasped before him, elbows resting on knees. His expession goes from thoughtful to warm as she approaches him once more, however, and H'kon gets to his feet as his fingers seek out the laces at Vanya's back. The unlacing is only half accomplished, however, when the man pauses, letting his hands slide to the woman's waist, and then wrapping his arms around her, a comfortable move, albeit not one of the more common ones. H'kon tilts his head, and lets his forehead come to rest just at the top of her back.

This is unusual for H'kon, though Vanya has come to recognize he says more with actions than with words. It is a comfortable feeling, having those strong arms around her. Despite their difference in height, she feels no awkwardness at the position. His warmth fills her, makes her feel protected, wanted, even needed. Her hands go to rest atop his own, pressing them slightly to her stomach, touching his roughened skin with slow, gentle fingers. "H'kon ..." The name itself is a caress, the hard-edged syllables softened by her tone of voice. There is affection, even love in the saying of his name. When his forehead comes to rest on her back, she lets her eyes close as she savors the sensation of being surrounded by those strong arms. "Oh, H'kon ..."

H'kon adjusts his arms around her when her hands join his, muscles rippling as much in a sort of strange caressing motion as in a bracing one. The first use of his name has his eyes closing tighter, and the second finds his chin pulling in a bit closer to his chest, so that his curly hair is easily brushing at Vanya's neck in the motion. When he speaks, he can't quite keep his tone steady, and so makes it quieter in that first attempt of, "Vanya, I-" And it goes no farther than that before he's taken in a breath, pressed his head a bit more firmly up against her. Drawing strength, gathering emotions, and yet on the next attempt at, "Vanya," his voice cracks. Another quick breath. Another ripple of muscle up against her body.

As for Vanya, she has no idea what it is H'kon is trying to say, only that it must be important for him if he is having this much difficulty getting it out. She can feel the subtle differences in his posture, the slight shifting, the increased pressure of his arms around her. She moistens her lips, in one moment opening her mouth to tell him it's all right, the next afraid to speak for fear of shattering this moment between them. His hair brushing her neck sends shivers down her entire body; pleasant sensations that make her feel even more warm and protected. In the end, she doesn't speak, but merely stands there, enjoying the nearness of him. Her eyes open and find Arekoth on his couch, the dragon's eyes closed in slumber. Still, she has a feeling the brown is all too aware of what's happening in his weyr.

The third, "Vanya," that comes is a bit calmer. Just a name. The name is safe, and it's a sound that has come to feel natural on his lips. Fingers press lightly in at her stomach, the urge to clecnh his hands well controlled. Again he prepares to speak, this time to bring out that sentiment he's been trying to express, but once his mouth is opened, his throat seems to forget how to produce sound. Finally, H'kon simply mouths the next three words, a syllable each, lips quite possibly brushing at fabric or skin as he turns his head a bit to the side. And the man brings his face to rest against the woman, cheek and mouth both able to press against her for the angle he's taken. On the couch, Arekoth's tail twitches, but the dragon still seems quite enveloped in sleep.

And H'kon has been with the healer long enough to know his lack of skill in verbal communication is a source of frustration to her. Therefore, a wince is given, still where she can't see it. Despite the time that's passed before she speaks, H'kon is still very much dealing with his recent failure, and the talk of sleep seems hardly to be heard. The embrace is maintained, and he settles for a secondary admission: a soft, "I /am/ trying," reassuring in its own way, despite proving all too conscious of the recently demonstrated inability. Arms snug around the woman once more, and when he settles his head against her again, it's with the simple intent of basking in the closeness. At least a moment longer.

Vanya still makes no move to break the embrace or move away. "I know, H'kon, and it means more to me than you might think possible." Her voice is soft, understanding, gently conveying what she feels. She moistens her lips, letting her eyes fall closed once more. "Don't force it," she advises. "When it feels right, it'll come easier." A pause. "At least that's what I've been told by people who supposedly know what they're talking about." Her hand pats the back of his, still making no attempt to move away from him.

H'kon lets out a sigh, pointed down toward the laces that still haven't been properly loosened. "But it /does/ feel right," makes for an appropriate vehicle for some of his own frustration with himself, perked up again by further contemplation. "You-" and then a pause. It's clear that the end sentence put on wasn't meant to go with the original introduction, as H'kon finishes, "are right. There is a Fall tomorrow. We should rest." It's still reluctantly that H'kon releases the woman, and finishes the unlacing. A hand pressing at her hip invites her to turn and face him, however, and even in the understated glow of the brazier, the man's face will appear softer than its usual, his eyes widened as they attempt to convey what his words cannot.

When the unlacing is finished, Vanya turns, and her arms seem to naturally lift and wrap around H'kon's neck. Yes, she's taller than him, but this doesn't seem to bother her in the slightest. "That's nice to hear," she says, smiling at him, eyes dancing in the flickering of the brazier. "It feels right for me, too, H'kon," Vanya assures him, and then leans forward to brush her lips over his own. The expression on her face seems to say far more than the words could, however; perhaps she's learning the ways of silent communication H'kon prefers. "Yes, we should rest," she agrees, and reluctantly releases him to slip the gown from her shoulders, let it fall to the floor. The chemise beneath it is also allowed to slide off her body. With a soft smile, she steps to the side, turning down the blanket and slipping quickly into the bed. "I'll warm up the sheets for you..." If that's not an invitation, nothing is.

d9, m3, t4, 7th

2007-08-06T20:47:30Z

Living Cavern
Large enough to hold the majority of the Weyr's human population, this cavern can become loud enough to deafen thanks to the acoustics caused by its size. The ceiling is so far overhead that it's cast into shadow, a darkness that is broken only by the spark and glitter of a lucky beam of light striking the minerals found in the rock walls. Below, most of the floor is covered with an assortment of long tables and benches. There are some smaller tables, surrounded by chairs, but privacy appears to be a rare thing in this bustling cavern. Large hearths line the west wall, with fires burning day and night to warm the food and drink that keep the Weyr's inhabitants fueled. The serving tables are near the hearth, opposite the dais that holds the single table reserved for the Weyr leadership and honored guests.

Breakfast is over with and lunch is not yet arrived so the living cavern is quiet. Well, quieter than it might be during a meal time. With the rain pouring outside in typical spring fashion there's a lot of people doing what they can indoors today. Near the fire is the usual collection of old aunties sipping their klah fortified with something stronger as they knit and chatter loudly about how things were different in their day. Near the kitchen a table is filled with kitchen workers taking a break between meals. Other than that everyone is relatively quiet. Especially Miniyal whose seated alone at a table near the entrance, no one likes sitting there because of the damp draft, with a stack of hides. One leg is propped up on a chair opposite the one she sits on and the boot rests on the floor by it. She seems to have found a sure fire way to get out of physical training today judging by the bandage on her ankle. So, she sits in here sipping klah, chewing on pastries, and doing hidework.

Quiet living caverns are H'kon's favourite kind, and so it's not too much of a surprise that he's here. What might be a surprise is that the brownrider is standing near those old aunties at the fire. He seems mostly overcome by the chattering, but after a moment of cautious conversation navigation, a few balls of wool exchange hands - red and brown swapped for a dull yellow and dark green - and the wingsecond takes his leave, working one-handed at opening a bag slung over his shoulder as he goes. Nearing the exit, however, he has to stop to stow his knitting supplies. And this is inevitably what makes him aware of Miniyal, the oddity sitting near the drafts. The general situation is sized up, and he murmurs, "Duties for the weyrlingmaster," in something akin to approval. If he's right about the hidework, anyway.

The pen stops moving and Miniyal lifts her head to find H'kon. She gives a little nod of her head and then gestures towards where her foot is propped up. "Slipped. Sprained my ankle so couldn't do anything else while everyone else does PT. Can't work in the office because he has meetings and couldn't walk to records." Way more information than he probably wanted or needed to know. Reaching for her mug she looks over to where the aunties are. "Trolling for a new girlfriend, sir?" she teases before taking a drink.

"I am sorry to hear you are hurt," H'kon notes in very much the same tone he'd used to get the old women by the hearths to be quiet long enough for the trade to be arranged. That bit of an edge gets to stay in his voice, courtesy of Miniyal's tease. "I am making a blanket." It's said with enough indignation that H'kon probably misses any element of the ridiculous in the statement. The remaining ball of wool is carefully tucked into the bag, which he closes up defensively with a tug of the drawstring. Hmph.

"See, I keep thinking you're going to develop a sense of humor." Miniyal shakes her head and reaches for a half-eaten pastry. "Want one? I promise not to tease you about anything else. Well, probably not." And, just to prove she's a liar she chews and swallows what she's bitten off before she mentions casually, "I heard Peloth was going to ask Arekoth to show her some new tricks today. Have a seat. I'm nearly done anyway. A child could do this. A child, but apparently not our weyrlingmaster."

"Well you clearly do not know me." Eyes go a bit wider for a moment, and then H'kon is back to looking like his old, stick-in-the-mud self. The pastry that Miniyal eats is eyed dubiously, and the brownrider gives his head a shake, all the while lifting one arm to prod idly at the shoulder of the other. "I am certain your weyrlingmaster is very capable. Perhaps it is just a way to keep you focused on the appropriate material." The bag is then adjusted over his shoulder, and he otherwise ignores talk of Peloth and Arekoth.

Licking her fingers off before wiping them on her pants leg Miniyal takes up her pen once more to return to her work. "No, he sucks at it, sir. It was a mess." Shaking her head she peers into her cup and lets out a little sigh. "Damn. Out." Down goes the pen again and she carefully pulls her foot down off the chair it was resting on. "So, are you going to ask for a transfer? Or is the promotion going to have you sticking around?" Carefully standing up she winces slightly before picking up her cup.

H'kon watches the woman through narrowed ees, still full of distrust, it would seem, even after such a long acquaintance. Filled with annoyances and arguing. "What reason have I been given to ask for a transfer?" is questioned snappily, the suggestion clearly not taken in any sort of flattering light. And at her wince, H'kon gives a firm order of, "Sit down, weyrling," all the while making a snatch for that cup.

With such a polite and caring attitude how can she do anything but sit back down. Miniyal hands over her cup and sits back down, foot going back up on the chair. "We can talk when you come back, sir. Nothing in it, sir. Thank you very much." She's so gracious, isn't she? And probably hardly engineered this whole thing in the first place. "Oh, you could just bring back a pitcher. That would be very kind of you. Thank you." While he fetches she takes up her pen to do some more work.

H'kon bristles just a little bit, letting his pack fall to a chair, and taking a firmer hold on that cup. "I will bring you a cup of klah with nothing added." And then he's pivoting on his heel, and marching off to do the fetching with as much of his dignity as he has left. Time enough is taken to find a pitcher at a reasonable temperature, though the pickings are slim - what he does, he does well. And then it's back to the table, walking ab it more carefully so as not to slosh the drink, and depositing the cup in front of Miniyal.

Miniyal's been busy while he was gone and the stack of completed work is several hides thicker than it was before. "Thank you, sir." How polite she is being. Well, every now and again. "So, please, sit down. We'll talk. Unless you're in a hurry? I mean, you can surely sit and humor me for a short while. I haven't even got to congratulate you." Setting her pen down she takes up her cup for a sip.

H'kon gives some serious thought to the proposal, but in the end, moves his bag so that he can sit in the place it had only recently occupied. "A short while," is repeated, almost cautionary. "There are things I must accomplish before evening." But presumably nothing scheduled The bag is put on the ground, leaning up against one of his boots, and he looks pointedly to the goldrider. And to those hides. And says nothing. No conversation-starter, is H'kon.

"Wonderful. I was getting tired of hidework and this will be a nice break for me." Miniyal moves her pen and settles her cup right in front of her. She adjusts it this way and that and then leaves it be, wrapping both her hands around it for warmth. "I was just wondering, sir. You've always seemed the staid and traditional sort of man. High Reaches is rather not in favor with anyone at this point because we didn't rain fire down on Five Mines. It seemed like it wasn't the sort of environment you'd be happy in is all."

H'kon pushes himself back up against he back of his chair. "It... Arekoth was hatched here. We are not so disloyal as to run at inaction. Our... lives are here." And he's set to drumming his fingertips rhythmically along the edge of the table. A deep frown follows, he peers out toward the bowl, and then peers back to the goldrider. "That is not much in the way of congratulations." Attempted subject change.

Lifting up her cup for a sip when Miniyal sets it back down she reaches for a pastry and takes a bite so she can chew as she listens to him talk. "No, I suppose it's not. Congratulations on your promotion, sir. I'm sure you will do an admirable job. I was just curious how you felt about things. I mean, wingsecond. That's an important spot to be in and if you were feeling disloyal to High Reaches it was something I should know about. Future leader and all." Her nose wrinkles up and she grins wryly before taking another bite. "You could do a lot of good here, see? Or you could cause trouble even without trying. It's important to know where things stand."

H'kon nods his head to that, still drumming at that table, a discernable pattern forming as fingers moving, working from the outside to the inside of his hands, always with a return tap from the index finger between each motion. "I am please you are taking your future position more seriously," is added, almost with a bit of pride. As if he'd had something to do with it, maybe.

"Oh, I'm planning a take over of the Weyr, you know, sir. I'm going to rule with an iron fist and all that." Miniyal grins wryly as she speaks before taking another bite, finishing off the pastry. Again she licks her fingers and wipes them off on her pants leg. "That or I've decided to do more than I need to. I /am/ just going to be a junior weyrwoman after all. For the rest of my life. No sense getting carried away and all. However, I won't be stuck forever where I am now. Even if it seems like it. So, what do you think of what's going on?"

H'kon has, at this stage of their interraction, learned not to take Miniyal all too seriously with most of what she says. Or at least, not to do so openly. The brownrider simply nods, and increases the speed of his finger-drumming. "I think the weyrleaders must have good cause for their hesitation," he offers back after a moment of consideration. "And my focus should be on keeping the wing organised during a Fall." 'And nothing much beyond that' remains unsaid.

Once she's set her cup down again Miniyal shakes her head and smiles faintly. "I'm afraid, sir, that you can't do that anymore. You're a wingsecond. If something happened to I'valo you'd be the one to take over until someone else were picked. That means you /have/ to start doing more than just 'yes, sir or no, sir' now." Folding her hands between the cup and herself she twists her ring around on her finger. "So, if you want to maintain your rank or even move above it you have to change the way you think. And do things. Otherwise you're better off going back to being a wingrider so no one depends on you more than anyone else." Harsh, perhaps, but her tone remains calm and quiet.

H'kon narrows his eyes just a little bit at the goldrider. "There is surely good reason for the hesitation." And then he's clammed up in true H'kon fashion. Those fingers have stopped their drumming on the table, in favour of clamping down on the edge. A glance goes to the goldrider's hides, to the cup she's got before her, and finally up to Miniyal herself. Nevermind rank, H'kon looks for all the world like he's waiting to be dismissed.

"Think about what I've said, wingsecond. If you're not willing to make some changes then you might consider speaking to your wingleader or the weyrleader about where you stand here." Miniyal takes up her cup and has a drink from it before setting it back down. Reaching for her pen she pulls it and a hide in front of her. Reading it for a moment she looks up again and blinks at H'kon before smiling ever so briefly. "Don't let me keep you. Thank you very much for the klah, sir. I'm sure I'll see you around."

H'kon grinds his chair across the floor, then stands. The bag is secured roughly from the ground, and Miniyal gets a sharp nod. "I hope your ankle heals quickly," is pushd out from between barely-opened lips. And he wastes no further time in taking his leave.

d2, m3, t4, 7th.

2007-08-04T06:17:20Z

<>

Hot Springs
This large natural cavern is heated by the same mechanism that warms the hatching sands. Fed by a spring, the waters that fill the center bowl are warm enough to steam and deep enough that a bronze might almost float after following the gentle slope down into the pool. There is room enough there for several dragons, provided they mind their wings.
To the right of the entrance tunnel, a second pool has been hollowed out of the rock. It's much smaller than the first and is intended for use by the human residents of the Weyr. Alcoves over the pool hold extra towels and pouches of 'sand.
Glowbaskets have been raised on poles around the lip of the larger of the two pools. They end three-quarters of the way into the cavern, leaving the rest in perpetual shadow. The rear of the cavern is gloomy, its wall broken by a number of small crevasses.

A late evening's exercises are winding their way toward a close. H'kon has spent the past few minutes giving his hair a final scrub, taking advantage of Arekoth and Vanya's time together to put his attention into a bit of a cleansing ritual. The fiery brown, for his part, is half-standing, half-floating near the middle of the pool, wings extended and held up by their own buoyancy. His left leg is also off the floor, completing a final few stretches before being obediently held out for the healer's inspection. Throughout this, the dragon has been making conversation a best he can, rumbling this, crooning that, and occasionally sending coy little splashes of water toward the healer. Well, little for a dragon. Vanya's probably pretty soaked by this point.

One expects to be soaked when working with a dragon, especially one with Arekoth's flirtatious, playful nature. She wipes water from her face with one hand, then swims out to where the dragon waits. It's well over her head there, but she's a decent swimmer, and by using Arekoth's good leg as a balance beam, she can inspect the injured one. As always, her touch is gentle, hands stroking and pressing here and there to test the suppleness of the muscles. She keeps up a running discussion with Arekoth, trusting he understands what she says without the need of his rider to translate. With a final stroke, she pronounces him done for the evening, and free to relax in the water, swim or do whatever he wishes. For her part, she flips onto her back, grinning at the brown as she swims toward the rim of the hot springs where H'kon scrubs. When the water is shallow enough, she stands, then moves to where he is. "The leg looks really good," she says, evidently pleased. "He's made a lot of progress in a turn. I don't think it'll ever quite heal, but it has improved."

Arekoth dips his head to offer a gentle (oh, so gentle!) nudge to Vanya. A sign of affection learned from a certain gold weyrling who will go unnamed. A series of wriggles has him moving backward, until he's at the deepest point of the pool. And there he contents himself to float, twirling slowly with the help of a tail-turned-rudder. H'kon is just in the final processes of rinsing his head as Vanya arrives. The brownrider gives said head a shake to clear some drops, and it won't be long before the hair is dry enough to regain some of its curliness, while still being damp enough that the curls will be defined. For a brief moment, H'kon will be pretty. The brownrider glances up, a quick smile offered up, only to be pushed away as business is addressed. "That is... good to hear." A glance is spared to his floating lifemate. "He is still stiff, when it is cold, bt not as much as he was."

"I'm afraid there's not much I can do for that, unless we build a fire in the weyr and heat water to soak cloths in," Vanya says, eyes watching the brown as he floats. "It would help ease the stiffness, but short of having a hearth, we're not going to be able to do that. If there's time before morning drills, I'd suggest a quick trip down here to soak, but --" She gives a shrug to her shoulder. "Perhaps a second brazier." She relaxes a little, resting an arm on the edge of the pool, smiling at H'kon now, studying him. "I like your hair," she says, bridging the short distance between them to brush an errant curl back into place. "I know women who'd envy you those curls." There's a gentle teasing quality to her voice. "My cousin would love to have curly hair. Hers is straight as a board, and she spent hours curling it around hot irons."

"No, I would not expect anything... I just meant there has been progress in that as well." H'kon glances over toward the brown again, with a rare - although a little less rare since he and Vanya have been spending more time together, growing closer - expression, not outright affection, but certainly outward appreciation. Attention is drawn back quickly enough by the compliment, and it has an uncertain facial quirk, as if an attempted smile, in response. "I..." looking down to the surface of the water, "am not sure where it is from. Neither of my parents have- though I suppose you have seen them now, and know for yourself." Here he manages a full smile for the healer. "I am glad you like it, though." He manoeuvres himself a bit closer to her with the assistance of the edge of the pool, though whatever this had originally been meant to precede is put on hold as a prior mention comes to mind. "And if you would like another brazier in the weyr, you need only ask." Half-teasing.

"Well, it'll soon be spring, so maybe things will be all right with the one," Vanya ventures, reaching out to place a hand on H'kon's shoulder, brushing water droplets off with a flick of her fingers. "I can always bring one of those from my room up there, since we seem to be spending more time up there than these days." In fact, it's been a full seven-days since she slept in her own bed. "I only go there to change clothes these days. It seems almost a waste of credits to rent it." There's another lift of her shoulder, and a bit of a smile. She's quiet for a moment, then, "I'm not hinting for you to ask me to move up to your weyr, H'kon. Things are just fine the way they are. Me having a room gives us a chance to have our own space when we need it."

H'kon is quiet and contemplative throughout this litle mini-speech, apart from tilting his head to let his cheek brush her hand when she flicks water from his shoulder. He doesn't quite manage a coherent enough though to put into words before Vanya's reassuring him. The dragonrider just gives a nod, eyes still a bit clouded with the last few considerations. "Yes, well... you... you might still bring a few sets of clothes up." Pause. "It might be easier in the mornings, with that." Another pause, this time a more obvious hesitation rather than a simple break for thought or breath, as the teeth sinking into his lower lip might testify. "I had thought also, next I have some time, I might see about a rug of some sort..."

"That's certainly doable," Vanya agrees regarding the clothing. "It would save time, and that way maybe you and Arekoth can --" And then the rest of his speech sinks in. "A ... rug?" she echoes, head tilting to one side as she regards H'kon for a long moment. She doesn't know what to say for a moment; he seemed so resistant to the suggestion before. "If you wish," she says, adding, "Not that I'm going to discourage you. A rug is much nicer on the feet than cold stone." She gives a grin, then glances over at Arekoth. "Are you sure? I mean, first a tapestry, then a rug -- people will start thinking you're getting domesticated."

H'kon shrugs, and keeps focused on the surface of the water for the time being. Until a bit of a smirk alights on his face. "The tapestry was not my doing." More seriously: ""It seems... well, I would want you to be comfortable to say as... as often as you will." He hazards a glance to the woman's face, which winds up holding far longer than it was meant to. "People may think what they wish. It is only the three of us who see it, and even so, I... It does not matter." The last is said as if it's an epiphany. And he's still watching her, expression somewhat softened, though his gaze remains intense.

Vanya is quiet a few moment, and then she nods. "I think a rug for the floor would be very nice," she says, and it's a firm vote now. "There were several small ones in stores last time I looked, and maybe a large one. If no one's grabbed them by now, it's likely they're still there." She smiles widely. "I'd be happy to help you fetch them, if you'd like. If I'm going to enjoy the benefits, I might as well help with the work, too." To her that sounds an equitable deal. "I'll bring up a few of my clothes, too, next time. It will save time, if nothing else." She glances back toward Arekoth, watching as the dragon blows bubbles with his nose. "It doesn't matter what anyone thinks, H'kon. As long as the three of us are happy, it's no one else's business."

Still with the same proximity he'd gained before getting sidetracked, it doesn't take much for H'kon to push most of his weight onto his forearm, leaving his hand free to cover Vanya's on the side of the pool. This, of course, has his body quite closer to the healer's as well. "But it is... more than time." The words fall somewhere between reassurance and inquiry. Those glacial eyes are still pinned on Vanya, despite her looking over toward the brown frolicking, as he's wont to do, in the water. His free arm has been reached for her now, though any further action is put on hold. Maybe waiting for some sort of response to his almost-question.

Perhaps it is instinct that tells her H'kon has turned his eyes on her. Whatever it is, Vanya seems to know he's watching her, and a delicate color of pink touches her cheeks at his inquiry. "Yes ... yes, it's more than ... time," she replies, voice barely above a whisper. Another couple of moments are spent in silent contemplation of Arekoth, and then she turns to face the rider. "It's been about more than time for ... a while, now, I think. I just didn't know it until recently." As cryptic as his own words, that statement, and it's entirely possible they're talking at cross purposes again. But she doesn't think so, and regards him for a long time before turning her attention back to Arekoth. "He doesn't mind?"

Somewhat relieved to hear it confirmed, somewhat afraid to know it, and altogether lost, H'kon simply... looks back to her, eyes not quite darting. His tongue comes to moisten his lips, dry now for some reason. And he only manages to start pushing out her name, a stuttered, "Van- Vany-" as she's speaking as well. The decision is made quickly to to follow this more familiar topic, and H'kon turns to look at Arekoth, body changing position so that he's no longer leaning into her in the same manner. Throat is cleared, and there's a nod. "He is fine." A dragon who, for all intents and purposes, seems to be chasing his tail certainly doesn't come off as perturbed. "The whole... he is in part to blame for this, even if he was unsure of it, he would have no right."

"Quite honestly, H'kon, if he didn't feel good about it, I'd --" Vanya stops, then turns to H'kon. "I'd be very sad," she says. "I wouldn't feel right being with you if it was something Arekoth didn't want." She's being very honest here, and it's not easy. "I know a lot of dragonriders don't want to get involved with non-riders because we can't understand what it's like, or get jealous, or something like that. I ... I want you to know I understand to the best of my ability, and I'll never be upset when you put him first."

Despite being the one who was all ready to pick out curtains just a moment before, this talk has become a bit intense, and H'kon is starting to show signs of it. A foot has set to churning out little pools of water, which certainly aren't required to keep him afloat, what with the arm anchoring him to the side of the pool. He does listen to the woman, does nod his head. Tongue moistens lips once again. "He does not mind," is finally repeated. The brownrider isn't happy with that as a response, it's obvious by a facial flinch right after it's said, and it isn't long before H'kon is looking apologetic, gaze turned back down to the water, but for the occasional dart up toward Vanya, face reddening just a little under that beard.

If Vanya has learned anything about H'kon in the past turn it's that actions mean more than words. With a soft smile, her hand moves to his cheek, the backs of her fingers stroking the skin just above where that beard begins. "Good," is all she says, letting her fingers move so that she cups his cheek now, gentle and loving. "We will take things as they come, one day at a time," she promises. "I will be pleased with a rug for my feet," she adds, going back to a somewhat safer subject. "And since I will likely not be spending many nights in my room, why don't I bring the smaller of the two braziers up to your weyr? I'm sure it'll make things nice and warm for all three of us."

The eye nearest the touch of her fingers is closed, the other, only half so, and H'kon wills his foot to stop its motions. Once the stillness is somewhat more internalised than forced, H'kon gives the faintest nod, not pulling away from the woman's hand just yet. "Yes. We can move them before we go up. Arekoth will have time to dry before he flies..." Practicality is always a good stable reality to which one can cling. "Perhaps you could bring the gittern as well," not kept in his weyr for fear of freezing the instrument into a warped state. "It would be good tonight, to feel more still." Surely a result of th emusic that he's confessed to her in the recent past.

"I could do that, yes," Vanya says, smoothing her hand over his cheek once more, then letting it drop to his shoulder. "It probably needs tuning, since I haven't played it in a while. The strings expand and contract in the weather." Perhaps confirming what H'kon suspected regarding the instrument. "If we're going to be taking things up to your weyr, perhaps I should take some of my herbal teas. It would be nice to have a cup now and then -- and I've been experimenting with some new recipes. One is for inducing sleep. Perhaps that might aid you when you have one of those wakeful nights." And then she is letting loose of the pool edge, swimming slightly away to stretch her legs a bit. Her hair is pinned atop her head to keep it from being wet. "Whenever you are ready, we can get out..."

"Perhaps... it is worth an attempt." Agreeing o the teas. Someone really is being domesticated. H'kno watches the woman as she swims, a wordless nodd acknowledging the decision-making power that's been offered up to him. Soon enough, attention is turned to Arekoth, who has been watching his rider the past few moments. 'You first' is mouthed in time with a closing of his eyes, and for once the brown does as he's told. Apart from rumbling something that is surely a smart-ass comment on his way past. Then H'kon, too, is hauling himself from the water, in no real hurry, not wanting to be the one to force an end to Vanya's swimming.

But Vanya seems content enough with leaving the water, and soon follows behind H'kon and Arekoth. A towel is grabbed, wrapped around her torso, and another for the drying process for legs and arms. "It's not terribly late, so there may be some thing left on the serving tables," she ventures. "Maybe we should grab something that will keep well, and suit for breakfast. That way, we need not hurry in the morning if we don't wish to." It's a nice idea, lounging in a warm bed with someone to cuddle with. If she doesn't say this outright, at least the hint is there in her smile. "Drills in the morning? Or do you have the day free?" One leg is lifted, foot braced on the bench to dry it, then she reverses the procedure. "All I have to do is check in with the infirmary, and send off my latest reports to Healer Hall."

As Arekoth extends and twitches his wings and limbs in an attempt to speed the initial drying process, H'kon is working at getting on his trousers, despite the dampness still on his skin, even after having towelled, taht keeps it somewhat sticky. The mention of drills receives a slow nod. "Threadfall in less than a seven. The first, with this wing. It... seemed more prudent to continue the daily meetings," with the wingleader, "and to drill regularly." There's a slight shift in his features, and H'kon looks almost pale for a moment. Then, pants are on, and he's doing a little better. He indulges in a few glances at the drying of those long legs, as surely is no surprise to any of the group present in the baths. And then, barefoot, barechested, H'kon is padding over to Vanya, to disrupt the drying and dressing process by reaching for one of her hands. This is enfolded in both of his, and a moment passes with him looking at the grouped digits. Then another moment with him looking directly to the woman's face. H'kon-speak for what he wasn't quite eloquent enough to express before.

"You'll do fine," Vanya says with all the confidence H'kon seems to lack. "You're intelligent, you're a quick learner and Arekoth is more agile than many dragons. The two of you will find your niche before you know it." Yes, she has that much faith in that pair. A glance to Arekoth as he's drying and she grins. "Besides, I don't think Arekoth will let the two of you take a backseat for too terribly long. He'll want to impress the greens and you can't do that falling behind." She gives a soft laugh, and then H'kon's there, holding her hand, enfolding it in his own. "I have faith in you, H'kon," she says, voice low and soft now. "I believe in you and Arekoth."

H'kon allows a smmile for the encouragement, but, once waiting a space of time that seems right to let the subject turn over, givs his head a shake. Not quite what he was going for. Vanya's hand gets a squeeze, which never quite dissipates, his own hands staying firm, warm around hers. H'kon watches the woman a moment longer, and then is on tiptoes to place a kiss at her cheek. A final little press to her hands, and he's released them, hovering, then moving back to finish putting on his clothes. "We... will start in the living cavern, then." Focusing on the task at hand, and not so much whatever emotions have been hinted at, if not outright stated in any clear way, throughout the evening.

If there's any disappointment in him not saying anything, Vanya doesn't let on. Instead she nods, placing her free hand on his and pressing it against his warm fingers. "That's fine," she says, and blushes when he kisses her. "Just let me get dressed, and I'll be ready," she promises. And then he's finishing his own dressing, and she sets about putting on her stockings, shoes, under-dress and gown. It doesn't take her long, and then she's tossing wet towels into the baskets, and turning to gather her cloak. "I can't say I'm thrilled to head back into the cold," she says, wrapping the heavy wool around herself, "but it'll be nice to have two braziers in the weyr. I'm sure it'll warm up quickly." Leaving the hot springs is no joy, but the living cavern is warm from the hearths, and they are in luck to find a few pastries left from dinner. These are quickly snatched by Vanya, and then it is to her room to gather other things they plan to take with them -- clothes, brazier and gittern.

Both dressed, H'kon comes up alongside Vanya, tugging on his riding jacket. "Well, the cold will be short, and then we will have you warm once more." Arekoth, who has turned to watch the pair, gives a snort, which, following a little snort of his own, H'kon is willing to translate: "He believes the warmth will be also be 'short'." If that needs any explanation, surely the glance the brownrider shows up, an obvious inspection of height disparity, should clear it up. And, following a brief snack in the caverns, the loading of gear onto the dragon, and the flight up into the weyr through the cold winter night, the dragon's prediction about the real source of warmth will, despite the brazier, be proved correct.

d22, m2, t4, 7th.

2007-07-30T14:14:17Z

Yay for Vanya, whose log I've linked to. Mine was disrupted by an unfortunate meeting between my keyboard and the on/off button of my power bar. The IC date may be pending...

<< We'll scorch it out of the sky. The rest of the wing will only need to follow. >>

Bad dreams aren't unusual. Actually wanting comfort after them is. (H'kon, Vanya, (Arekoth))

d5, m2, t4, 7th.

2007-07-29T05:04:23Z

<< Relax. I'm sure your mom doesn't mind seeing her cuddled up with you. >>
>> She's probably thrilled. <<
<< Oh, so that's the problem? >>

A Generic Hold on Pern (Tillek)

Three thick stone walls have been raised to form this broad courtyard; the fourth wall is composed of the cliff's rockface itself. Cold grey, the walls are of the same stone that covers the ground in a checkerboard pattern. The Hold's front gates are large enough to allow two wagons to enter at once, side by side, and are guarded by a pair of towers staffed at all times by well-trained guards. A wide flight of stairs leads to the doors of the Hold proper, sheltering the great hall that lays beyond. Several free-standing buildings populate the courtyard; there is a kennel for the Hold's whers, a shed for the guards and a stone-roofed stables to house the Blood's prized line of runners.

Between unforeseen circumstances, duties, and plain old procrastination, it's not until the second month of the new turn that H'kon has finally set a date with his mother for that much-anticipated meeting of the woman in his life. The weather has been strangely sympathetic to the cause, cold, surely, but lacking in the bone-chilling humid winter winds that can so often characterise Tillek this time of the turn. Some patches of blue even show through clumps of cloud in the sky, and the view of the hold below is relatively clear as Arekoth makes his descent.
H'kon has dressed himself nicely, with that tunic marked with the geometric embroidery at the collar and cuffs, a good pair of trousers packed in one of the saddlebags, though lined riding leather bottoms for the trip. He leans as best he can to view the courtyard as they spiral downward, a gloved hand grasping a bit tighter at one of Vanya's the nearer they come to the bottom. A few people move through the courtyard below, and one even stops to look up and point out the fiery brown to the companion with whom she walks.

For Vanya's part, her stomach is full of flutters, and she's not all that certain about meeting H'kon's family, especially his mother. Nor spending a little time with them. She's dressed warmly herself, in decent riding leathers, and that wonderfully warm coat Tavaly made for her. Only her cheeks are really exposed to the cold air as Arekoth makes his descent, and that cold is nothing compared to Between. No, if anything, Vanya's stomach is almost as bad as the days right after Turn's End, and when H'kon's hand tightens on her own, she is grateful for the reassurance. She's come to accept the fact they are seen as a couple now, and although it's not what she would have imagined for herself a turn or two ago, it's not all that bad. This is a formality, this meeting of his mother, and spending time with his family. Surely it won't be that bad of an experience.

The companion of the pointer has since looked up, shifting a package under her arm, and the pointer is shooed away. H'kon maintains his grip on Vanya's hand, for the time being, but his posture certainly goes a bit stiffer upon recognition. "That is her." The original plan of meeting the mother inside the hold has been smashed by a random errand, it would seem. Arekoth is good enough to give one circle in which no altitude is lost, during which his rider takes a deep and bracing breath. Nervous as well, if doing as little as he can to show it. "Okay," H'kon gives as warning, and then it's a matter of careful landing. And the mother sets her package down, and clasps her hands together, and moves to the dragon's side, eager. H'kon, for his part, is quick with the buckles, and the first off the dragon. So that he can place his body between mother and lover, as well as help Vanya down from the ground as best his height and Arekoth's crouch will allow.

There's more stomach-quivering, but Vanya nods to H'kon's single word of warning. She studies the woman on the ground as much as she can during Arekoth's descent, but not a lot can be told from that height. And so she will be left to wait until they're on the ground before meeting the mother of her lover, and all that entails. When the brown is settled and H'kon dismounted, Vanya takes her time with her own buckles, making certain she's good and ready for the dismount. It wouldn't do for her to fall flat on her face in front of The Mother, and well she knows it. Doubtless, sooner or later, this same ritual will be repeated at Ruatha when she brings H'kon home to meet her own mother. And, so, with careful precision, and as much grace as she can muster, Vanya dismounts Arekoth, trying her best to minimize her height and general awkwardness. A pleasant smile is plastered on her face as she removes goggles and hood of her coat, but she says nothing. No, it'll be for H'kon to break the silence.

Once Vanya is down, H'kon turns to face his mother, inclining his head slightly, and setting to the removal of his gloves. Kalli, for her part, has started to smile, looking her son up and down in that maternal, checking-up way, and then approaching. "H'kon," is greeted, and she bends a bit so that her son - standing shorter than her - can place a quick kiss on her cheek. This is a practised nicety. Next, the woman's beaming face is turned to Vanya, mouth held shut, buttoning down some sort of excitement. Kalli may be taller than her son (not a difficult thing to accomplish), but she's shorter than the healer. Age has brought on a bit more heaviness to the woman's frame, but it's still obvious her younger son didn't get his broadness from her. Brown hair and brown eyes certainly suggest that most of the dragonrider's colouration comes from the mother's side. And that dragonrider is turning back to Vanya now, gesting lightly with a flick of his fingers. "This is my mother, Kalli." And to the mother herself: "This is Vanya."

Vanya has not had much experience with meeting mothers, and so doesn't know quite what the "beaming" face means. She can only hope it's approval, but she's no way of telling. Her pleasant smile remains when H'kon turns to her, and even widens slightly when she's introduced. "Very pleased to meet you, m'am," she says, her voice a little on the shy side, despite any attempt to the contrary. And then ... she's quiet, not knowing what else to say, apparently. A moment, then two stretch into five or six. "I've been looking forward to meeting you." All the niceties she can think of. "H'kon's been busy or we'd have come before this." And then a bite to her lower lip. Perhaps that might not have been the right thing to say. No mother would want to know her son's too busy to visit. A quick glance to H'kon, and a bit of a blush to her cheeks that will hopefully be passed off as wind chill.

After those moments of extended awkwardness, whatever was being held back (likely for her son's comfort level) will no longer be restrained, and Kalli steps past H'kon, reaching to pull the healer into one of those 'just meeting you' sort of hugs, light and short, but still a much more personal contact than hand-shaking or anything of the sort. "Oh, you don't need to call me 'ma'am', Vanya. And don't worry, so long as you're here now, of course it's fine. H'kon told me about your circuit, and I know defending Pern isn't the easiest job, but you're here now." She at least steps back after the greeting, and the brownrider is able to shoot something of an apologetic look to Vanya, blushing quite deeply, and then brow promptly furrowing. Because Kalli has got talking agian. "How lucky you landed now! I was just on my way in. Have to finish supper, you know. Do you cook at all? I'm sure I could use your help, and maybe we can send Hal- H'kon to go get his father..."

Vanya, who is completely taken aback by the hug, simply stammers a response, something along the expected "how nice to be here at last," and the like. "I don't really cook, but I can help chop vegetables and all," she finally manages to get out. "I'm much better at working on people than in a kitchen," is said, as well, and then there's an awkward pause again. "But I'll be happy to help if I can," she is quick to add. "I can at least clean up. They taught us how to do that very well at Healer Hall." Vanya doesn't seem to know what to do with her hands, and suddenly turns to Arekoth, reaching up to unstrap her leather satchel. "I'll just need to change, but that won't take long." A rather helpless glance at H'kon, and she's standing there holding her bag in her hands, not knowing what to do next. "H'kon and Arekoth are very strong thread-fighters. I'm really proud of them both." Inane. Purely inane. Oy. How easy for Vanya to be tonguetied!

H'kon gives a little facial twitch, and does manage to get a quick word in of, "I could perhaps show Vanya to a room so she can change?" But this gallant effort is dismissed. "Come, come, we'll go home quickly so you can get into something more comfortable than all those riding clothes, I can show you where. And anyone can cook, no need to be worried. We aren't doing anything too complicated, you know. We won't be making you clean, of course." She pauses for a breath and a broad grin. "Oh, I'm just so glad you're here." In case that wasn't obvious. And Kalli is grabbing whatever package she'd set down. To her son: "Your father is down at the docks, of course. You can go help him there. The meal's almost done anyway, so make sure you bring him in quickly. I don't want you late because something needed fixing!" The index finger pointed tot he brownrider has all the stern authority of a maternal figure. And then she's got hold of poor Vanya's arm. "Come on, now. You can tell me all about yourself." And finally, "Oh, Arekoth, you /are/ looking well." Which has the brown rustling his wings, pleased. And surely amused as well.

There's a moment of sheer panic on Vanya's face as The Mother takes charge and organizes everyone in a matter of moments. Kalli is nothing like her own mother, who would be gracious enough, no doubt, but would never have exhibited so much exhuberence. "Yes, m'am -- I mean --" But there's no time to say much more, and Vanya's being ushered toward the hold, H'kon and Arekoth left behind. "Oh, I don't mind helping," she's quick to assure Kalli. "I'm used to cleaning up. The infirmary has to be meticulous, so cleaning is second-nature to a healer." She has time for another quick glance toward H'kon and then she's moving inside, helpless victim of H'kon's mother's efficiency. "There's not really a lot to tell about myself," she protests. "I'm a Journeyman Healer, and High Reaches Weyr was my first posting. I've ... I ride a circuit now, but I'm still staying at the weyr." And then there's that pause, and Vanya gets to catch her breath. "Oh, yes, isn't he looking good? His leg is so much improved this winter. I've been working with him, you know..." And then she's being swept away again.

And H'kon is left in the dust, blinking after Vanya, turnign to Arekoth, rolling his eyes, and then heading for the docks. So long as Vanya's talking, Kalli holds her own tongue. But of course, given a chance, there's a whole wealth of replies. "Still. No way to treat a guest. You can help us clean up next time you come, but Naelli and I won't mind. Oh, that scarf you sent her home with when she went to visit last turn? Lovely!" Then there's nodding, as Kalli steers them quite expertly in toward the residential area. "I do hope you're careful on those circuits. Hali did tell me about that - sorry, H'kon. That new name is so strange, and he was so insistent on it after he got Arekoth. But they're always your children, you know? I guess you just see the dragonrider, but I can't help still seeing the little boy too - anyway, he told me you had a circuit. Wonderful that you help all those people." A nod. "Oh, I do remember H'kon," some stress on that name, "mentioning you were working with him. I'm glad it's going well. I'm sure it bothers him, that his dragon is hurt like that. He's always been so protective of the people he cares about..."

H'kon isn't the only one left in the dust. Vanya can barely keep up, but manages to nod and smile in all the right places. It takes her a few minutes to realized they're inside, and passing people in the stone corridors. "H'kon's very proud of Arekoth, yes," she finally manages to say. "And I adore him as well." Dragon or man? Does it matter at this point? "It's how we met, H'kon and I, you know. I noticed Arekoth's leg, and thought I might be able to help him with some exercises and things ... it seems to have worked." And then Kalli is off again, going on about the scarf for Naelli, and the dangers of a circuit. "It's not quite all that dangerous, really," Vanya protests, her cheeks flushing a little as some people stare just a little longer than politely at her. "The cotholds are so isolated, they're glad to have any help, and I really enjoy my work. Of course, the winter snow makes it hard, but H'kon's been a great help with that. He and Arekoth take me where I need to go when they have time, and there're other riders I know who help out, too." And she's just swept along with Kalli, trying to hold her own in the conversation.

Talking about her relationship with H'kon is clearly a good step. Kalli gives a little squeeze to the arm of the healer's she still hasn't released. In all the talking, she manages to smile at all the people she passes, surely knowing them all - and beign known. Some of those stares to Vanya might be sympathy rather than general reception of a stranger. "That's so nice... meeting because of Arekoth. I wasn't sure at first, but I think that dragon's been good for him. Well, now I'm certain." Vanya is awarded a broad smile. "So good he takes care of you, too. You know, when Haeron and I met - that's H'kon's father, Haeron - it was because I was helping mend things. He was an apprentice then, of course, so busy, but he started going out of his way to help me with the things I had to do around the hold... even in the kitchens, sometimes! Of course, that man shouldn't be allowed anywhere near them if it's more than a sandwich being made... Oh, here we are." And indeed, there's a door. Vanya's arm is released so that Kalli can push it open. "You cah change in here. No rush. Once Haeron and H'kon are out by the docks they're bound to find something of interest, have done that since Ha-" a slighter hesitation than before, "kon was old enough, so supper doesn't need to be on the table right away."

Vanya follows along, as caught up in Kalli's stories and talk as possible. Despite her earlier nervousness, the Healer manages to find a suitable posture of listening, and sticks with it. It seems to work, since Kalli is happy to talk, and Vanya's happy to listen. When she finally escapes for the time it takes to change her clothing, Vanya at least manages to catch her breath and settle h er nerves. When the door opens and she emerges, it's calmer and more composed, she is. "I left my things in the room there," she says, moving across to where Kalli stands at a table. "I hope it's all right. I can move them if need be." And there's Naelli, which makes it all the easier for Vanya to smile widely. "It's so good to see you again," she says, her expression very soft and kind where H'kon's sister is concerned. "And you're wearing the scarf, too." A sweep of her hand and Vanya shows her wrist. "Your bracelet's one of my favorites, you know." And then she's turning toward Kalli again. "It's always been tradition in my family to bring a guest gift," she explains, holding out a wrapped package to the woman. "I hope you find it useful." When unwrapped, it appears to be a beautifully carved set of wooden bowls and utensils, perfect for soup, chowder or even salad.

"Oh, no problem at all," Kalli assures the young woman. The mother at least manages to hold back further talking for the time, so that Naelli and Vanya can have their exchange. The daughter is standing alongside her mother, at a cutting board where she carefully slices a few pieces of fruit. Fruit in the winter of Tillek is surely a sign of a special occasion. "Oh. Hello Vanya." And the girl smiles politely and puts her knife down long enough to clasp her hands together. Showing the bracelet just has her smiling all the more, though she resumes her task soon enough. Apparently the will to work is at least somewhat hereditary. Kalli, for her part, is in the process of pointing out a basket of rolls to Vanya when that gift is offered up. "Oh!" And it's unwrapped quickly, the bowl turned over a few times. "Oh, this is simply lovely! Thank you, Vanya. We can even use this tonight, I'm sure. I can't wait to show Haeron!" Distraction, and she's off taking that bowl... somewhere.

Supper is prepared with much chattering, most of it admittedly coming from Kalli, but with Naelli also adding her own stories in here and there, short though they may be. H'kon and Haeron don't get in too terribly late, though the brownrider has managed to get the cuffs of his good tunic dirty before thinking to roll up his sleeves. Once the men have washed and everyone has sat down, a good and simple meal of chowder and H'kon's all-time favourite food, rolls topped with that meaty fish salad and melted cheese, is enjoyed. Despite the difference in their look, Haeron being quite a tall man, with blonde hair, but with the shared pale blue eyes, it would be obvious to anyone that he and H'kon are father and son. As Kalli surely told Vanya over and over throughout the preparation of the meal, the two act and communicate in very much the same way, and more often than not H'kon has mirrored his father's habits. Sitting them beside each other didn't help. Finally, Kalli has set to serving the dessert - a small fruit pie, just enough to give each person a taste of sweet without being too filling. The first plate is passed down the table to Vanya, of course. Haeron is pleased to reach a long arm in front of his son to deliver the thing, fork included in the shipment. "I have been in the craft over forty turns now," he answers with a careful nod. "I do less on the boats now, and more repairs."

Vanya has been fairly quiet during the meal, allowing Kalli to hold court over her dinner table. She's the perfect guest, now; quiet, observant, complimentary and, perhaps best of all, a good listener. She even manages not to tell "healer stories" which have been known to lessen the appetites of those at the table with her. All in all, she's more relaxed than when she first arrived, and even manages to give genuine smiles between stealing glances at H'kon and his father. Her dessert is taken with a soft "thank you, sir," and her attention is on the man himself. "Even so, I'd imagine your accumulated knowledge is invaluable," Vanya replies to this after tasting the dessert and nodding to Kalli. "Quite like many of the older Healers who are less firm of hand have become instructors. Although the physical ability has lessened, the knowledge has not. I'd think your repair work would be of equal value, as well." She's trying very hard not to sound patronizing or insulting, but she's rather out of her league here. "I know very little of sea-craft, sir. I apologize if I sound ... well, silly."

Naelli is the next to receive a piece of that pie, followed by H'kon, Haeron, and then, finally, Kalli serves herself. The fisherman gives a quick nod, eyes turning down to focus on the setup of his plate before him. He and his son slice the first bit with the same careful attention, but Haeron waits a moment before putting this in his mouth. "It is hard not to come to know the tools you work with. I still enjoy my time on the boats, of course. That /is/ why I joined the craft, originally." He gives a quick smile, and then, once again, Kalli has taken over. "Better to have him off them, though, and coming home each night. And of course you don't sound silly, dear." Somewhere throughout the meal, Vanya has graduated to 'dear' status. "You were raised differently. I'm sure we couldn't keep up with what you know about healing." H'kon, chewing, turns quickly to peer to the healer, and offers her the most subtle inclination of his head. Approval, probably, though he doesn't hold he pose long. "It is good," is offered to his mother. And she's all smiles once again.

"It's more than good, it's delicious," Vanya says, quite sincerely. "I've always been a little in awe of those who can cook. When I was first at Healer Hall, I was assigned kitchen duty, and ... well, suffice to say, as a cook I'm a better healer." This is said somewhat embarrassed. "I never developed the knack for kitchen work, and it soon became obvious to everyone that I'd be better off doing something else." A soft chuckle is followed by another bite of dessert, which is then followed by a sip of her drink and a glance to H'kon's father. "I'm sure your knowledge is of vast assistance to the men who man the boats, sir," she says, again sincerely. "H'kon's told me a bit about going out to sea, but I've never actually been on a boat before. I've watched them sailing off when I visited before, and talked to a few of the sailors, but I can't imagine what it must be like on the sea itself." She glances at H'kon and smiles a little shyly. "Perhaps someday I'll have the opportunity, although I might embarrass myself and be seasick or something." Another soft chuckle. The "dear" hasn't gone unnoticed by Vanya, either, and there's a touch of color to her cheeks. "I'm far more familiar with mountains than I am the seashore. I was born in Ruatha and spent most of my life at Fort. Both are very mountainous areas."

Kalli glows under the praise. "I still say everyone can cook. Next time you come, we'll do more of the cooking together, not just the last-minute business. The three of us," she adds, glancing over to Naelli. But the latter has just been absorbed into some sort of silent conversation across the table with her brother, the pair of them offering little smiles. Talk of being on boats rouses H'kon, however, and he nods. "Perhaps," turning to his father, "sometime." Haeron picks up on that soon enough, giving a curt nod of his own. "In the spring." A plan has been set. Both men go back to their pie. Both pieces are kept symmetrical throughout the eating, through careful use of their forks. "Nothing embarrassing about not having sea legs, especially if you're from Ruatha," Kalli assures. "Even I don't always like to be on the boats, all that heaving on choppy waters..." She shakes her head, even gives a little shudder. "Mountains... you must have grown up very differently than our family. And you must feel right at home at that Weyr. We've been, once or twice..."

"Oh, well, home was nothing quite like the weyr," Vanya is quick to say. "In fact, other than the mountains, High Reaches and Ruatha have very little in common. It's quite a different lifestyle at the weyr..." And then she trails into silence a moment. "I should like that, I think, cooking. Learning a new skill is never amiss. My father was always eager to learn new things, although his chief interest was healing and herbs. I take after him a bit, in that I'm not only a healter, but I know quite a bit about herbs, as well. If you ever need a recipe for cough syrup or things like that, please just let me know. I've several recipes for that." And then she's quiet. "Although I'm sure the hold's Master healer is more skilled than I at such things. I just know the ones my father developed, you see." And then the last of the pie is gone, and Vanya can no longer hide behind eating. "I'd like that, sir," she responds to the "plan" for spring. "Warm weather would be more to my liking, I'll be the first to admit that." She grins. "I freeze every winter."

"Lovely of you to offer," Kalli says rather sweetly. Then she's quiet, if only to set to eating that pie. H'kon finishes his about the same time as Vanya, and seizes the opportunity to lean over toward her, while craning his head up a bit, and noting, "Perhaps we should be heading back soon?" in a tone just above a whisper. "We would go at a time when the seas will be calm, of course," Haeron notes. "Not in the summer. But spring should do well." His own pie is finished. And then, fear, Kalli's mouth is no longer full. "I've always worried about that Weyr in the winter. There's no way to heat a place like that. You know, though, we've just got some new blankets, I'd love to give you one of the heavier ones. I'm sure it would help keep you that much warmer. Very well-made, too."

Vanya's eyes dart to H'kon. No way she's going to make too many comments about this subject. Other than the obligatory, "Indeed. It's hard to keep a weyr warm, though braziers help keep the rooms warm enough." She glances down at her empty plate, setting the fork across it at just the perfect angle. And then she's looking up at Haeron. "Of course, sir," she replies, nodding. "There're storms during the summer, aren't there? Bad ones, I mean. I know it can get very stormy up in the mountains. I got caught a few times when out on circuit. The trails get very treacherous, but fortunately there're caves and little niches in the rocks where a person can take shelter." Another glance at H'kon, and she gives him an answering nod, albeit very shallow. Just enough to indicate she's heard and will go along with that.

Kalli gives a firm ond. "Settled, then. I'll be sure to get that for you before you leave." H'kon has at least made it home this time without being stuffed into a sweater. He'll let the talk of blankets pass, simply nodding, and surely making a mental note for packing plans. The brownrider does frown at the mention of mountain storms, and sets his fork carefull on his plate. Haeron, whether picking up on the conversation between H'kon and Vanya, or simply his son's actions, reaches for it, nodding to his daughter with the invite, "Naelli, let's clear the table?" Which leaves the couple in the presence of the mother, without defense. And Kalli of course seizes the opportunity. "So you never did tell me how long you two have been together." Which really could be asked of either of them.

Vanya glances at Kalli with a blush on her face. "Oh, well, it's ... been almost ... well, over a turn since we first met," she replies, stammering just a bit. "We worked together on Arekoth's leg for a long time, and then ... just ... got closer," she explains, eyes darting to H'kon with a "help me!" expression. "It's been ... yes, a little over a turn now since we met." No mention of how long they've been "together," just how long they've known one another. "H'kon's been a wonderful friend and ... it's nice to have someone to talk to, or ... maybe I should say talk at, since I'm more of a talker than he is." A soft laugh follows that. "But, he puts up with me chattering away, and it's ... nice." Oh, she's babbling now. Means Vanya's nervous. How do you tell a man's mother you've been lovers with him for that long and he never brought you home to meet the folks before now.

H'kon just shootsa a look after his father and Naelli in an attempt to gauge the time that will pass before their return. And then catches that 'help me' look, and nods. "We have known each other for over a turn now. It is... hard to define." Which is enough to have Kalli giving a soft 'tsk'. "That weyr life..." But before she can think of more, H'kon shakes his head. "Not like that." And that's said with enough authority that it isn't questioned. And he's prodding at a crumb on the table. Kalli is only flustered for a moment, though. "Well I am glad that you finally came here." H'kon keeps prodding the crumb.

"It's been a delight to meet you all," Vanya says, remembering all those hard-learned etiquette lessons at home. "Of course, I'd already met Naelli last turn when she came to see the eggs," is quickly added, the smile warm and gracious. "It's been so nice getting to spend some time with you all." She glances at H'kon, watching him prod the crumb. "H'kon's told me a bit about life here at Tillek, too -- especially about the seafood. I wasn't too certain about it after the Turn's End party." A pause. "Oh, not that I was afraid to eat anything you served, m'am!" she rushes to say. "It's just that I really love shrimp, and I made such a pig of myself at the party, and then I was so sick." She shakes her head. "H'kon took such good care of me, and he promised me I'd have great seafood at your table." Rambling again. Tsk.

"Oh, and we'll do it again," Kalli states, more as a statement of fact than a promise. The same way she's been referring to future visits all evening. Again, there's a glow under the praise for cooking. "Oh, the food here is always well-prepared. The problem is when those who don't know it start making it." And then there's a proud smile, and a downright loving look pinned on her son. "He's always been good like that, when it's someone close to him. When Naelli used to get sick, we couldn't move Hali at all." Smiling, smiling. "Of course, he's always loved her so much..." The mother's rambles are cut short with the brownrider jerking his head up, reaching a hand under the table to brush Vanya's knee, and all the while noting to Kalli, "We should probably be going soon. It is late."

And Vanya's expression when it turns on H'kon is ... loving. There's no mistaking that. "Yes, he's ... I don't remember a lot of it, but every time I woke up, he was there." And a hand slips into H'kon's under the table. "I ... I'm just very glad he was there." And there's no shame, no embarrassment at letting warmth into her voice. "You have a good son, Kalli," she says, voice now soft. "I'm very glad I met him." A quick squeeze of her hand to his and then it slips away to tuck a strand of hair back behind her ear. "Yes, I suppose we should go soon, but I feel guilty not helping to clean up or ... or something. Dinner was delicious and I do look forward to future visits," Vanya says, glancing toward where Haeron and Naelli disappeared. "I wish I could return the favor, but I've only a small room at the weyr. Still, I'm certain you know you're welcome to visit any time. The weyr is always open for families ..." And then, Vanya falls silent, glancing once more to H'kon. "It's been a wonderful visit. Thank you so much, all of you."

"Oh, it's fine. You just come back here again and we'll let you clean up then. And make sure you do go say goodbye to Haeron and Naelli, too, before you leave. She might want to go see Arekoth..." And Kalli's gone quiet, having glanced over to her son, who has turned his face downward to hide some sort of a self-conscious, but warm, smile. There are things sons can't hide from their mothers, it seems. Under the table, Vanya's hand is given a firm squeeze in return. Of course, as soon as he realises he's being watched, there's a blush, and he glances toward the exit of the little 'dining room'. "If you all wish to walk with us to him... I am sure he would be pleased." A quick look over to Vanya, a nod. "Did you need to change before we go?" And Kalli's already standing up, grabbing a few final dishes as she goes to the kitchen, with a note of, "We'll definitely come see Arekoth, then."

"Yes, I'd better get changed," Vanya murmurs, rising and smoothing down her skirts. "If you'll both excuse me, I won't be but a moment," she says, moving quickly to that same small room where she changed out of her riding things before. Once inside, Vanya closes the door behind herself, leaning against it for a moment. There's a warm glow inside her that hasn't been there in a very long time; something comfortable, something whole. Not since ... no, she won't think about who first put that warmth inside her. That is over and done, and this is something new, something ... different. As she dresses, Vanya doesn't think a lot about anything other than just that, and how much she's enjoyed herself this evening. When she emerges from the room, she's wearing riding clothes, save for the coat, gloves and goggles, and carrying her satchel. Her eyes go first to H'kon, and then anyone else in the room. "I'm ready, H'kon." Voice soft, warm.

H'kon spends this time helping clear the table, and fetching his own riding gear from wherever it had been put aside. Kalli is just surfacing with that heavy blanket she'd promised them, and this is given to the brownrider. Naelli has sidled up alongside him, and they're conversing quietly when Vanya arrives. And the brownrider looks up, offering her a quick smile, and turning to his family. A nod from H'kon to Haeron. "We will... go to the bowl then?" This is the rider's suggestion. Haeron takes the lead instinctively, making sure to have long steps bring him up next to Vanya. "Kairek hopes to be here the next time. He is quite busy." The beginning of the small talk and pleasantries that will lead them out to the dragon.

Vanya looks up at H'kon's father, a good few inches taller than herself. "I'm sorry to have missed him," she says, nodding, feeling young and foolish for some reason. She keeps pace with the older man, pausing only to don her coat when it comes time to leave the inner hold for the courtyard where Arekoth waits. "I look forward to meeting him next time," she assures the father of her lover. "I understand about being busy. Riding a circuit and filling in part time at the infirmary takes up a lot of my time, too. If he's here next time, I'll be able to thank him for the beautiful sheet music he gave H'kon for me. It's been a pleasure to play his Sea Symphony. It's lovely. You must be very proud of both your sons," she says. And they they're outside, and she's pulling up the hood of her coat, and putting those gloves on.

In that understated way that the men of the family - at least, the two men of the family who are present - have, Haeron tilts his head, and gives an affirmative, "I am." Once alll are wearing coats and outside, Arekoth turns his attention from whatever it was he was examining, and takes a faintly limping stride over toward them to close the distance. Naelli had slid her hand into her brother's somewhere along the walk, but upon seeing the brown, is off and hurrying away. While Arekoth croons and she giggles, Kalli has the chance to kiss her son's cheek, and squeeze his arm with a final note of, "It was good to see you." And then she's off to Vanya, pushing past her husband to hug that healer again. "And it was wonderful seeing you." Softer, "I'm pleased he's met you too, you know." Motherly approval. Haeron will simply wait his turn, and accord Vanya a nod and smile. But surely Kalli's had time to explain to Vanya how small gestures mean more to these men than to most. If the healer hasn't already figured that for herself, through her time spent with the son.

Small gestures, yes. Vanya has come to understand after all this time that small things like a brush of a hand, a quirk of a lip, the tile of an eyebrow mean a great deal to H'kon. And she's come to understand that he may not be overly affectionate in public, but he more than makes up for it in private, when it is the two of them, or the three of them when Arekoth is present. She may be taller than he, but he is the protective one. She hugs Kalli back with more enthusiasm than when she first arrived. "It was wonderful meeting you, as well, Kalli," Vanya says, accepting the hug and returning it. "I'll come back as soon as I can. Perhaps we can all go on a picnic or something when the weather is warmer." Plans. Perhaps they'll come to fruition, perhaps not, but it is good to hear them. And then, Vanya's stepping away, looking up at H'kon's father once more, nodding and smiling at the older man.

H'kon exchanges a quick look with his father, and Haeron even goes so far as to rest one of his hands on his son's shoulder. Then the brownrider is off to say his goodbyes to his sister, and to pack extra cargo into Arekoth's saddlebags. Kalli, meanwhile, will give Vanya a head-to-toe look, and nod to happily to those plans. "Yes, yes, of course. And if you ever need anything at all, you come see us, understand?" And then Naelli has joined her parents, smiling almost shyly to Vanya and waving a, "Bye, Vanya."

"I promise," Vanya says, almost reluctantly turning away to joing H'kon. Naelli is given a warm smile, as well, and a soft, "Bye, Naelli," as Vanya hands over her leather satchel. She busies herself with adjusting her goggles, giving the family a moment of privacy for good-byes. Arekoth is given a soft pat on his shoulder with a gloved hand. It's not long before she's climbing up onto the brown's back, and buckling herself into place. A cheery wave of her hand and calls of "good night, take care" accompany H'kon's settling into place, as well. The night is cold, but somehow it doesn't seem to matter. Vanya's warm inside. With no shame, she wraps her arms around H'kon's middle, her head resting on his shoulder in what seems to be a natural way now. When they get back to High Reaches, she will go to his weyr tonight. They will smile and laugh, and the heavy blanket will keep them warm. Along with the two braziers, and the tapestry on the wall, it will be a good night. There will be no bad dreams tonight.

d2, m2, t4, 7th.

2007-07-21T18:26:19Z

d28, m1, t4, 7th.

2007-07-19T04:06:58Z

Both H'kon and Arekoth are naked. In a hold, this would run the risk of being at least partially scandalous. Here, however, especially in the dragon baths, it's a regular occurrence. The brownrider has taken advantage of the relatively deserted baths so late at night, and is on his back, paddling around the edge of the pool. Arekoth is more to the middle of it, where he's carefully flexing his left leg. H'kon will look over on occasion if the brown gets distracted, but all in all, the atmosphere is pretty chill. Though the water is warm.

A lone figure wrapped tightly in a thick robe moves through the dragon springs, the slight figure already prying the robe off before it becomes aware of the dragon and rider already there. Akos pauses, his robe half way off his shoulders, his pale hair shining in the dim light, but he ultimately sheds it completely and moves to the edge of the nearest pool, trying his hardest not to make any noise so that he won't attract attention. Though he can't remember if H'kon has ever seen him naked, anyway, the thought causes him grief, as he always suffers when it comes to exposing some aspect of his body. He steps, one foot after the other, with delicate care, letting the heat wind up his body while lifting his hands to pin his hair up in something of a topknot on his head. Since he's let it grow out, he's really let it grow out, and it's starting to get down near his shoulders, requiring him to pin it if he wants to see better.

H'kon has closed his eyes, having memorised the shape of the pool by now. And muscle memory, for H'kon, is good memory. It's the dragon half of the pair that spots that cautious albino on the edge of the pool. And it's Arekoth's lack of foot-working that has H'kon flipping up to a water-treading position and looking to his lifemate. And then to the focal point of the dragon's gaze. In other words, the brownrider's attention is shifted to Akos in due time, and he peers. "For a moment you looked like a girl."

Akos's shoulders freeze at H'kon's voice, prickling before they relax and he looks over his shoulder to smile wanly at H'kon, responding with a light, "So I'm told." To say that Akos is visible would be an understatement: he is never quite so luminous as when he is totally naked. Every plane of his body reflects light, making him stand out like an icicle in the middle of a fire. Even the heat only brings a faint rosy flush to his skin. Notably, despite his less than active lifestyle, he isn't particularly flabby. He's toned, but soft, definitely enhancing that feminine quality, unfortunately. He exhales gently and turns his pale blue eyes from H'kon to the water, shifting further into it, but slowly.

H'kon, for his part, looks all the more chunky and rock-like, the harsh angles of the man's musculature lacking any sort of material overtop to soften them up. Arekoth rumbles something before setting back to his physio, and H'kon moves onto his back once more - the resumed activity surely a comment on his relative comfort around Akos. "I mean only it was surprising," the brownrider notes, maintaining a float, "that there was another person like you. It seemed."

Well, that certainly helps, though Akos laughs quietly before he says, "I'm sure there is, somewhere." There is a mild pang in that tone, but it leaves quickly as he turns to fold his arms on the edge of the pool, watching his friend float in abstract comfort. At length, he says, with some mirth, "It would be strange if I were a woman. I doubt you'd be as willing to talk to me."

H'kon gives a sharp snort at this, an amused expression turned not to Akos, but to his dragon instead. Arekoth has tilted his head to one side, and manages to look almost skeptical. "Do I speak to you now?" H'kon is willing to share with Akos, serving as dragon-translator, the general tone of his voice changing noticeably enough.

Akos blinks twice at the question, tucking his chin somewhat and lowering his eyelashes as though he finds this a somewhat painful question to be asked, "...yes? We're friends, aren't we?" His instability as far as his emotional weight shows yet again, but rather than show off such a sulky demeanor, he turns his back to H'kon and gets some soapsand to start scrubbing his arms with.

"No, I- Yes." And H'kon is up and treading water again with al ittle frown. "He does not tend to think I speak enough at all to anyone." A pause as the rider looks to the dragon. The small brown is paying very close attention to his exercises now. "If you /were/ a woman, I imagine he would push more to have me speak to you."

Akos rests his head on the edge of the pool and looks over at Arekoth and H'kon, smiling slightly as he says, "People talk as much as they feel they can, right...?" He laughs at this last comment, though, as he squishes a big, natural sort of sponge over the back of his neck, making him nice and glossy. Marbleboy! Ahem. Scrubbing under his arms, he inquires, "Why?"

"No." This comes with far more certainty, and H'kon feels no need to explain his response to the observation. This new route of conversation is more comfortable, and the brownrider is swimming again, though this time it's an idle paddle on his front. Not perfect form, so that his head stays above the water, but he certainly isn't struggling. Like a good fisherman's boy. "Because that is how he is. Because I am a man." H'kon gives a sharp sniff at some water. It's like a shrug, but not. Really.

Akos cants his head to the side at that thought only to shrug slightly, unpinning his hair so that he can start washing it, "I'm a man but I don't feel inclined to talk to women. Not more than anybody else, anyway." He slicks his hair back with soap, shakes it out for his own amusement, then actually rubs it like he's supposed to.

"No, that is why he pushes me toward them, I believe. But Arekoth is like that to the greens, so it comes as no surprise." H'kon, in an incredibly talkative mood, ducks his head under the water. Perhaps to give those underused vocal chords a rest after all the exercise they've been getting. The dragon has taken to watching the hair washing going on over there.

Akos doesn't seem to realize that his hair washing is of particular interest, contemplating this concept absentmindedly only to finally glance in Arekoth's direction, smiling up at him as he says, "I'm sort of glad, then. I like men more. I'd feel bad if I had a dragon and we argued over it." He seems to appreciate the talkative mood, for whatever it might be, turning his head further to see H'kon whenever the man resurfaces.

H'kon does resurface, peering over to Akos, only to duck under again. The next time he's back above water, the brownrider is coughing and spluttering in the way befitting of a man who's just got water up his nose. "Arguing is about all he and I do, I think.," is finally offered, with no particular emotion to it. A more thought-out, "I suppose it has served me well enough. His... encouragement."

Akos's eyebrows go up when H'kon splutters like that, turning to look back at him with some extent of concern, "Are you all right?" He listens to the rest, however, and props his chin on top of his slim hand, inquiring, with abstract, delicate curiosity, "You mean like with Vanya?" He bites his middle finger's knuckle thoughtfully, leaving small, reddened indentations before he exhales and closes one eye, "Maybe it would be nice to have a dragon, then." Hm.

H'kon flicks his fingers to dismiss the concern over his coughing, but does rub at his nose for a moment. "Yes," is given to the mention of Vanya. And nothing much more. The brownrider now swims the short distance to his lifemate, reaching for a shoulder to brace himself, and setting to a rather intense visual inspection of that twisted left foreleg.

Akos watches the man and dragon with interest, if not prying further into his friend's otherwise enigmatic love life. Indeed, after a while of watching the pair, he turns away from them once more, calmly and quietly cleaning himself with almost obsessive compulsive thoroughness, from the nape of his neck to the spaces between his fingers and the bottoms of his feet. He even makes sure to get the backs of his knees, though he tries to stay as submerged as possible while he does these things.

That inspection carries on, and Arekoth twitches his foot one way or another as is required. And then H'kon is giving his lifemate a no, and peering over to the bathing albino. "Well we are done." It's said almost expectantly, but surely meant as a way of excusing himself.

Akos blinks at the announcement, apparently lost in his own thoughts as the eyes he turns to H'kon are hazy and unfocused. The blinking clears them, however, and he responds with a simple, "Oh." He turns his head back around, though, and offers up a fairly amiable, "Good night, then."

"Yes," is responded. "You as well." And then that sturdy rider and his firey dragon are off, H'kon going for his clothes, Arekoth fanning his wings to ensure they dry off well enough that he doesn't freeze when he meets the winter weather awaiting them in the bowl.

Akos seems fairly wrapped up in cleaning himself off and, so, doesn't really respond to the reply save for a small nod of positive acceptance of the nicety. He examines his hands with scrutiny before he moves to swim out into the water, submerging himself completely until he resembles something more of a silvery kind of fish than an actual person. Glub.

d6, m1, t4, 7th.

2007-07-11T04:42:28Z

<< Wow, you could be a healer. >>
>> Not for most. <<

Vanya's Room
There isn't which will disguise the fact this room is a small cavern. Stone walls were smoothed by hand, or some long-forgotten machine by those who first built the weyr. The door is solid wood, the fixtures utilitarian. All the basic furnishins are all there -- table, chairs, wall shelves -- and the stone floor is covered by several large, thick rugs. Simple elegance, with only a couple of wall-hangings to add a touch of color to the room. One tapestry serves to cover an opening in the wall which leads into a small alcove where a bed occupies most of the space. Two down-filled pillows, and a warm, woven blanket in dark green lie atop that bed. A carved, wooden chest at the foot stores clothes, and other personal items. A glow basket hangs from the wall over the bed, another sits on the table, glows replenished whenever needed by those unseen people who perform this task.
Shelves above the table hold ink, writing instruments, sand and a stack of prepared hides. Rare paper documents are carefully arranged on another shelf, held down by a polished stone paperweight. Another shelf holds vials and bottles of lotion, astringent, and other herbs and oils. To one side of this main room is an odd contraption that looks as if it might be an adjustable bed Vanya uses when she works with her patients. A black cloak hangs on a peg by the door, as does a gittern, the instrument carefully wrapped in a protective bag. A couple of small baskets, a leather satchel and two pairs of boots sit on the floor beneath the pegs.

A hurried bath was a sheer necessity after the morning's drills, but when he has to move, the brownrider can. Hkon, hair still damp, doesn't quite jog down the hall, but isn't going at a walking pace either. He doesn't even have to open the door. A healer apprentice, with whom he'd arranged a check-in on Vanya, is just on his way out, and holds the door for the dragonman. His usual gruffness toward healers is set aside, and H'kon allows a quick nod of gratitude to the boy before making his way in. He's been up to his weyr as well it seems, and wears a fresh shirt, and a pair of thick trousers, rather than smelly leathers. He's set a chair up beside the bed, and it's here that he goes, easing down carefully, almost soundless. No news from the apprentice should be taken as good news, but still the man gives Vanya a careful inspection, and leans over to press his lips to her forehead. Both a greeting kiss and a temperature check. "I am sorry it took longer," is murmured to the woman. "I was smelling... bad."

The healer in question has finished his duty, leaving Vanya to the brownrider. As for the girl herself, she is weak, but alive, her face pale, save for two reddish spots on her cheeks which indicate the remnants of a fever. There are a few beads of sweat on her forehead. She lies very still, the faintest odor of a "sick room" lingering in her room despite the removal of bed pans, basins, and dirty linens. Hers was a fairly serious case of food poisoning, and it is, perhaps, to her credit she recognized tell-tale signs early on. It was her insisting she was all right and could help others which probably laid her low; even while fevered and sick, she fretted about other people who might be ill. Sleep was fitful, the dreams nonsensical. She talked of things H'kon might have found bothersome, and talked to her father as if he stood beside her. The latter seemed to come when she was deeply taken by the illness, but it was a signal the worst was over. Three days later and she is resting peacefully, at least. At the sound of a familiar voice, her eyes flutter, and open slowly. There is at least recognition.

The opening of eyes is enough to have H'kon smiling to her, and none of that awkward face-stretching, but a good and actual smile. Sincere. He brings a hand to wipe at some beads of sweat on her forehead with his thumb, before thinking to reach for a cooler cloth, which is, of course, among the supplies near the bedside. "Hello." And then it's to reaching for her hand. Any stranges words coming from her have been put to the back of his mind, and for now, the man is supportive and unquestioningg. "The drills were good... Arekoth is flying well, and his leg does not cause too much trouble today. We do not have to fly Fall for a good few days yet, so I will still be able to be here with you..."

Vanya remains quiet, her pallor obvious in the soft glow of the lights. There is an herbal concoction steeping on the table, the medicinal aroma not altogether unpleasant. "I ...I'm glad," she manages, voice a whisper. Her throat is raw from the vomiting, and when she moves there is a wincing expression; her torso is sore from the unnatural regurgitation. "You should ... rest," she tells him, perhaps instinctively knowing he's been there for the duration. "Can't ... have been ... comfortable ... chair." The effort of speaking seems almost to exhaust her. Her eyes close once more, remaining so for a few minutes. "Thirsty ..." Her lips are dry, and she swallows, her body having lost a great deal of fluid over the past few days. Of course, keeping anything on her stomach has been ... difficult at best. But the healers are confident she'll pull through, or at least don't seem as worried about her as some of the others. "Th... thank you for ... being here." And her eyes open, moving to rest on his smile. Perhaps the grimace she has is supposed to be a smile in return.

H'kon gives that hand he's holding a gentle squeeze, bringing his other hand, for a moment, to cover it. "I am fine. You know I've little need for outright comfort." It's said in an attempt at cheer, but that sentiment comes unnaturally to the brownrider. He'll have to settle for a more gentle encouragement. "Water? And then that..." a glance to the herbal thing. "Tea?" Both hands release hers, and H'kon is on his feet, moving to that table, and filling a glass of room-temperature water from a pitcher. "I think they have mixed a little salt in here. They said it would be better." His tone is one that doesn't risk questioning professional medical advice. "You should not be able to taste it." And it's brought to Vanya. "Do you need help sitting up?" A strong arm is held in the ready to scoop under her shoulders. As for the thanks, he dips his head. "I am not sure what else I would do."

She will, indeed, need help, as evidenced by her feeble attempts to rise. A nod after two efforts expend more energy than she really can spare. "P-please ..." Voice still whispery and a little ragged. "So ... weak," she explains, perhaps needlessly. Once she's helped to sit up, she drinks what is offered her without question, and if there's salt in the water she's given, she makes no comment. Nearly half the glass is swallowed at once, and she gags slightly, though it stays down. A nod indicates she's had enough, and when she's lowered to the bed once more, her eyes close again. "Never been so ... s-sick in my life," she tells him. "Did they ... find out ... what it was...?"

H'kon not only lifts her, but slides himself in behind her so she can rest up against both his arm and his chest. The gag sound brings a quick concerned frown. It's a stretch for the short-limbed brownrider, but he does manage to set the glass back aside withou tmoving, and so has both arms at the ready to ease the woman back to her bed. Before that happens, though, a kiss is pushed to the top of her head. No temperature check there. "Yes. They say i twas the shrimp. Mayb esome shellfish. In from Tillek," is added a bit darkly. "I would imagine it was prepared by someone unaccustomed to its preparation. The women at Tillek know how to do it well. I am not sure how long it's been since there's been this problem there."

The nod is faint, and Vanya simply rests back against the rider, taking comfort in his nearness, possibly. She doesn't speak, allowing her eyelids to flutter closed. It's warm in the room, both braziers burning brightly. Her skin is warm, feverish as her body fights off the last of the poison. Her stomach has long ago emptied itself of the poisonous food, but nothing has replaced it, save water. What little she's managed to keep down is mostly medicinal in nature. "G-good. They know it's not ... deliberate." This offers some comfort, and she seems to relax quite a bit. She makes no effort to move whatsoever.

"If ever you feel like eating shrimp again, I will take you to Tillek, and we will try something well-prepared." And thereafter, H'kon stops talking about food, remembering, perhaps, the times his stomach was a bit upset. And that can be nothing compared to this bout of food poisoning. "You should probably drink some of that tea, whenever you are ready." Then the pause, and he contents himself to let his fingers stroke at Vanya's shoulder. "Even if we do not go for food, Tillek might be a nice change of scenery... We could get you well-bundled, fly straight, spend a day or two..."

There's silence for a moment or two, then, "I don't know if I'd be good company," come in a hoarse whisper. "Not at my ... best." As for that tea. "Horrible stuff." Vanya makes a face, moving slightly against that warm body behind her own. She seems to be pouting, very much like a little girl facing taking bad-tasting medicine. She moves her arms and actually folds them across her chest. Stubborn? Oh, just a bit. "Should be helping take care of others," is mumbled.

There's silence for a moment or two, then, "I don't know if I'd be good company," come in a hoarse whisper. "Not at my ... best." As for that tea. "Horrible stuff." Vanya makes a face, moving slightly against that warm body behind her own. She seems to be pouting, very much like a little girl facing taking bad-tasting medicine. She moves her arms and actually folds them across her chest. Stubborn? Oh, just a bit. "Should be helping take care of others," is mumbled. As for the trip to Tillek and the idea of food ... well, that doesn't get very much mention other than what she's already said.

H'kon gives his head a soft shake, and her shoulder a quick squeeze. "The point of going would not be for you to entertain me, Vanya. The sea air may do you good. And time away from duties as well." He stretches again, and secures that medicinal concoction. "You cannot even sit up under your own power, Vanya. Now drink this." There's a bit more authority to that tone. H'kon has been learning from those healers he's been watching, it would seem.

It doesn't hurt that Vanya knows what he's asking her to drink is nothing more than what she would do if the situation were reversed. The tea is vile, but it does help, and she managed to get a few swallows down before she has a bit of a gagging reflex. Knowing the brew will do more good inside her than in a basin, she waves it away with a weak hand. "Not ... no more ..." she says, turning her head away. "In a bit ... more." There's more silence, and then. "If you ... all right. Tillek ... sounds nice." She pauses, then struggles to add, "T-too bad it's ... cold. At least I can ... watch from a window..."

H'kon is satisfied enough to have had her take that much, and promise to drink more. A stretch puts the tea back on that table. "Perhaps even by the end of the visit, you will be well enough that we can walk along the beach, when the wind is right. My mother is very good at finding very... bulky sweaters." There's some humour to that, and were it now for their awkward positioning, she'd almost surely see the bit of a smirk on H'kon's face. As is, she'd have to turn her head quite a ways. Quickly, H'kon brings an arm to wrap around the front of her, gentle, and not long-lived, for fear of crowding her.

There's another feeble nod, and it's likely H'kon can feel her begin to relax even more. "Maybe ..." It's a whisper, still, and this time one that even sounds promising. "So ... tired," she murmurs, bringing one of her own hands up to rest on that arm across her chest. "Hurts to take a deep breath." Likely from all the retching she's done. There's also a sleepy quality to her voice; likely that tea has some kind of herb that will force her to rest. At any rate, this time the eyes close and remain so. "Don't ... want to meet ... mother when ... sick," she mutters, just a little petulantly. And then there's silence.

"Sleep, then," H'kon invites as soon as he's heard that she's tired. "I can wait until you are awake to make you drink more of that tea." The brownrider settles back himself, preparing to stay in that same position, as Vanya is clearly dropping off. "And I promise you, I will not let you meet my mother when you are defenseless." The brownrider surely stays awake longer than Vanya, almost unconsciously monitoring her breathing, but in time he dozes as well. A few nights spent awake on a chair can be taxing to anyone, no matter what they may say in protest.

d28, m13, t3, 7th.

2007-07-08T15:30:54Z

<>

Living Cavern
Large enough to hold the majority of the Weyr's human population, this cavern can become loud enough to deafen thanks to the acoustics caused by its size. The ceiling is so far overhead that it's cast into shadow, a darkness that is broken only by the spark and glitter of a lucky beam of light striking the minerals found in the rock walls. Below, most of the floor is covered with an assortment of long tables and benches. There are some smaller tables, surrounded by chairs, but privacy appears to be a rare thing in this bustling cavern. Large hearths line the west wall, with fires burning day and night to warm the food and drink that keep the Weyr's inhabitants fueled. The serving tables are near the hearth, opposite the dais that holds the single table reserved for the Weyr leadership and honored guests.

The Weyr is in a festive mood. The end of the turn is here and there is plenty that people are happy to see swept under the rug. There is wine flowing like wine at a party and plenty of food to enjoy. The tables are heavy with pastries of the sweet and savory variety as well as seafood brought in from Tillek today for the special occasion. Harpers play on the dais and the usual area has been cleared out for dancing of which there is plenty going on. All in all it is playing up to be a glorious night. Masks conceal the identities of everyone and it makes for all sorts of rowdy behavior. Although so far it's not rowdy enough that the guards on duty seem worried. But there are guards on duty. After all, last turn's end there was a brawl.

CloakedBrown slows his steps as he and the GreenDragon on his arm near the edge of the official area of festivities. "Anyway," is said in a slight mumble, the man behind the brown dragon's head clearly uncomfortable with the chinstrap of his outfit, and still well aware of it, "he thinks we have chosen a wonderful theme. You have chosen. And he is not certain of whose looks better." The dragon's head tilts upward as the man's head does the same, and for a moment the wearer is off-balance as he tries to scan the area for an appropriate spot.

And the one before that those guards had to kill somebody. Maybe they should be more worried, given their luck. One couple that's unlike to cause any of those worries, however, the brass clad Pregnant Tent and her attendant Man in Black enter a little bit late, both swathed in heavy jackets despite the fact that it's only windy out tonight, not snowing, and that the lack of redness in their cheeks suggests they didn't even have to go far to get here from the bowl. Man in Black takes both jackets, leaving them at the door on one of those iffy but serviceable tables set aside for that purpose, and quickly returns to the Tent's side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and giving them a rub to make absolutely certain they are still warm. "Where you want to go," he asks her, his eyes scanning the room from behind the mask.

Winter has found herself a table although certainly not one she sits alone at. It would be impossible to be seated alone and so she sits surrounded by people in colors that make her look paler still. Before her is a glass that is filled with a deep red wine. Accompanying this is the requisite plate of treats. She has not picked over them just yet and instead she shares the occasional bit of conversation with one of her tablemates. Nothing she says can be heard beyond the person she speaks to as her voice is nothing but the whisper of a whisper as quiet as falling snow.

A soft, almost musical laugh erupts from the GreenDragon, and her head tilts slightly to one side. "Well, we all know how some browns feel about greens," she says softly, her taloned hand lightly squeezing the arm upon which it rests. "Anyway, I think the costumes are wonderful. I love your cloak. So much warmer than my flimsy wings," she says, her features completely hidden behind the veil, "but I'm sure I can find some way of staying warm." The lovely Green seems to be in a particularly good mood, and turns to glance around the room. Eyes fall on other costumed folk, and nods are given to those who look her way. "Shall we get something to eat? The veil parts so I can partake, thankfully."

CloakedBrown's non-Green'd arm is reached out so that he might give the edge of his cloak a careful tug, causing it to billow quite nicely. "I believe I like it as well. Unfortuante that it is slit. That will not serve as well after this event." That same hand that tugged the clock comes up to prod at the chin-strap. A nod again threatens to disrupt the man's balance. "Yes. Food." And so, the Brown is leading his green carefully toward the tables, making sure not to smack into anyone with his dragon snout.

Pale eyes skip over the cavern from behind a dark brown mask, but dart back up to the Man in Black as he sidles up to her once again. The Pregnant Tent leans into him, as much as to avoid being jostled by all the new arrivals as to respond to his warming touch. A finger is held up for him to see. "Food," she mutters to him, always a priority lately. Another finger follows the first. "Then a good place to sit and watch. Looks even more elaborate than the first one," she comments while curling her arm gently around his, signal enough for him to lead the way while she lugs her heavy belly along beside him.

Fashionably late is the young man in all white. He lingers at the threshold of the infirmary's tunnel for a few moments, executing a few last self-conscious checks of costume; mask, buttons, shoes, hair. All seems to be in order. As such, after a cursory scan of the disguised denizens of the living caverns, he enters the fete but sticks to the wall, circumnavigating its outer limits with a voyeur's dark eye for the goings-on in the central thick of things.

GreenDragon seems perfectly at ease in her costume, but, then, there's no hint on how her head-dress is held so securely in place. That veil hanging beneath the dragon's head hides everything from sight. With another slight nod, she follows her Brown toward the food tables, apparently able to see through the veil well enough to negotiate the room. There is a faint rustle of material that sounds a bit like dragon wings when they settle. "The music sounds wonderful, but I don't know how well we can dance in these costumes." She pauses. "Then again, mine's pretty sturdy -- or so I'm told. I don't think I want to try any toss-dances in it, though." Once at the food table, she releases the Brown's arm, reaching for a plate. If anything is bothering her, it's the leather gloves and talons. "These may have to go, though...."

The current song playing ends in a flourish. The crowd on the dance floor applause and some of them cheer and call out their approval to the harpers. Said harpers take a bow and launch into a new song. The last was a dance and this one is something meant to be listened to. Something to encourage people to listen as they eat.

"I do not believe that mine will fall apart - but the feel of it is... strange." That chinstrap is prodded again, and the CloakedBrown moves carefully as he, too, secures a plate. "If you need, I have pockets. I could take your gloves." And the hand with twisted fabric wrapped around its wrist is held out. "We could do something slow," is mused when the applause erupts, "so long as we minded the placement of our... heads." Now, turning his full torso rather than his neck, the Brown scans the area once more, trying to take note of any possible jostling spots around the food tables that ought to be avoided.

Winter's laugh is more seen than heard even by those at the table with her. But she does laugh as she takes up the glass before her for a small sip. Once the glass is set back down pale fingers seek out one of the small pastries on her plate. It may be frosted, but even her food is lacking in color. The wine seems to just be along to join the red of her lips. She leans forward causing a man across from her to lean forward as well. Whispers are exchanged, but she leans back a moment later and shakes her head.

The Man in Black listens and nods, taking the hand of his Pregnant Tent and crossing in front of her. He'll run interference with the crowd: damned if any of these masked crazies are going to get anywhere near her, with him walking in front and bulling them out of the way if they don't move on their own. Yet it's not the food table he goes to, although their path does take them near it - down a momentarily empty swath of floorspace between the table and the sitting area. These two arrived somewhat late, and the best seats are taken, but the Man in Black finds an acceptable bench, with a decent view of the dancing and an excellent view of the room at large for all one's people-watching needs. "You sit," he tells the woman with him, drawing her forward, "tell me what you want. Can get it for you."

Short dark hair has been ruffled wild and streaked with red and orange for the night's festivities. It stands up and away a pale face partially obscured by a red scarf with eyeholes that serves as a mask. Stopping at her cheekbones, the scarf cannot conceal a pert little nose or slender lips that have been painted black.

The gown follows the color pattern of a candle and falls in a collection of irregularly cut layers to further suggest the sense of being aflame. Predominantly oranges and yellows, with generous amounts of red and hints of purple and blue, the upper portion is made of many free-flowing layers of translucent, gauzy material that appear opaque where they spill over her upper torso. But, motion draws up different shades from one moment to the next. A red belt cinches along the woman's narrow waist, and its buckle is the dark blue-black of a flame's center. The long, angled skirts fall down sleek legs, and the ankle-length hem is ragged and ashy grey for the final few inches. High heeled shoes are the same dark grey with sparkling sequins of deep red that suggest smoldering embers.

The almost Painfully White fellow doesn't care for dancing, it seems. He skirts far from those that dare to sway to a song that's clearly meant only to be listened to. Food is, however, a reasonable attraction, and without sparing much interest for those celebrants around him, he makes a quick path to the buffet table. There, he picks through bits and bites, favoring greeny things and tidbits from the sea. He makes good use of one of the little plates, and equips himself with a napkin besides, of course. Not wishing to be obtrusive, he steps out of the way, back against a wall, holding his plate aloft to pick at bits here and there while entertained by the crowds swirling past.

Near the food table a couple of people jostle playfully. A few others grumble in the line, but everyone seems to be in a good mood thus far and so once order is restored there is joking about the situation. Of course, it did happen at the food tables and not the one with the wine.

Pregnant Tent slides heavily down to the seat that the Man in Black selects for her, expelling a sigh when she finally settles. He'll get no protests from her, just a grunted, "Okay," while she arranges her skirts with little twitches and smoothing motions of her hands. "Mmm," she hums while she thinks, raising her eyes to find his again only after she's decided. "A couple of those tiny meat pies? And anything sweet. Cupcakes. Just don't steal all of the frosting off of them before you get back." She sends him off with that slight tease and a stonger tilt of her smile, then lets him go unwatched as she turns her attention down the length of the table behind her, catching sight of a pale, pale woman among more brightly colored celebrators not too far down. Then it's back to watching the people surrounding the dance floor.

CloakedBrown takes those gloves from the GreenDragon, tucking them carefully inside his cloak, where presumably resides a pocket of some sort. Then, after a moment or two of waiting, it's to helping himself to food - right in behind that white creature. "This," he notes, with a careful movement meant to get the Green's attention, "is part of my favourite food." Even the Brown's in a good, and quasi-talkative mood, as he helps himself to some sort of cracker-topping type of salad, consisting mostly of cooked meaty fish and a creamy dressing. Two slices of bread are taken as well. For sandwich-making.

From the doorway, a figure swatched in reds and oranges appears, and trailing beside her is a large, broad man with red hair. He's not dressed up as much on anything, though he has donned a simple mask to comply wit the evening. His flashier companion whistles low. "Lookit all'v em. Y'wanna gets drinks an' I kin peek around?" It's hard to tell if the man obeys her words or just responds to some inner calling. Either way, the woman in red slips a few paces away to listen in on a conversation that seems to consist of the one trying to guess the identity of the other.

Squeezing the shoulder of the Pregnant Tent, the Man in Black sets off to obey her directives without a word. The meat pies are easy enough to get at, as most of the other party-goers have chosen to go for more rare (and more fancy) fare, but the sweets are something of a battle. He piles the plate high with them anyway - cupcakes, as well as various frosty pastries and spicy cakes to keep the Tent occupied. That accomplished, he heads over to fill his own flate, crossing close to the Painfully White figure picking greeny things onto a little plate. He waits quietly for the figure to finish with the serving tongs, his own regular sized plate held at the ready.

Green is busy piling her own plate full of various foods. She's never been particular about what she eats, and so a little of everything goes on her plate. Beside seafood and shellfish, she chooses some vegetables, some of the same salad-like stuff her Brown escort chose, bread, and a couple of small cakes. "It all looks so good, and I deliberately didn't eat much today so I could stuff myself tonight. We didn't get a lot of seafood where I grew up, so it's quite a treat." A couple of skewers rest on top of all the other food, and she chuckles. "I think, with all the fish, I'll have white wine. You find us a table, she suggests, holding out her plate to CloakedBrown. "I'll fetch us drinks, napkins and the like. Someplace near the hearth would be nice. This dress isn't all that warm."

CloakedBrown adds a few vegetables to his plate, and the occasional bit of seafood, and then is free to take the Green's food. Head dips more downward than nods, for fear of disturbing that headdress. "Near the hearth." A slow, turning glance shows that it's crowded, but never doubt the tenacity of a Brown carrying out a Green's request. "If you need my cloak at any point tonight, you will tell me," is suggested more than asked. And then, he's picking his way around Black and White types, and avoiding dancers or people who are generally moving as best he can on his way to the desired seats.

Winter brushes a bit of confectioner's sugar from the fingers of her gloves. Once this task is done she rises to her feet and abandons her plate after selecting a final puff pastry. This and her glass of wine accompany her as she leaves the table and sets off for, nowhere in particular. She seems content to mingle and exchange a few barely heard whispered words to those she deigns to speak to. Cold and aloof seem to be the order for the night with only a few breaks so her scarlet lips might curve upwards into a taunting smile.

The 'white creature' takes to surreptitiously watching the green and brown dragons make their meals. A more charismatic creature would sweep in and make some remark about draconic dietary habits, but he hangs back, simply quizzical. Surely those outfits aren't more cumbersome than they're worth? Granted, they are concealing. He realizes then that he's still got the tongs, and that someone is waiting for them. "My apologies," the Painfully White-clad fellow murmurs, turning to offer the tongs towards the Man In Black, handle first. He hesitates, undoubtedly with a flash of recognition in the eyes behind the mask. That costume...familiar. The white-masked one inclines his head towards his darker associate. "I hope the evening has found you well, and that the Turn to follow will be fruitful for you."

Man in Black is focused on getting food, and for that reason doesn't notice the dragons bopping about. His eyes simply trace up, when he's spoken to, from the platter of greens. At the moment, it looks as though the two - opposites in costume - will have very similar plates, for the black masked man has also passed the seafood table at some point, but the green things get heaped onto the plate set up for the Pregnant Tent in what will later be passed off silently as a suggestion. He's less observant than the white fellow, however, and the costume doesn't evoke any hint of recognition from him; but the voice gets it right away, and he blinks. "Hey," he says, giving his chin a jerk towards the other man. His greeting's out of line with the white creature's well wishes, but those are tended to next. "It's fine, yeah. Sitting over there with-" but he's not supposed to give that away, however, obvious, so he catches himself with a quick wriggle of his lips. "Sitting over there, you're looking for a place." The invitation's offered, but it's in no way binding, for the black-clad man just turns his attention back to the tables as he goes on to fill his plate with fruit and an odd forkful of noodles before he'll bring the Pregnant Tent her plate.

Making a slow turn around the room, the woman meant to look like fire takes in each costume with dark eyes hidden behind her simple mask. If her escort is bringin drinks, he's pausing for a bit of food himself, picking up and swallowing down one of the skewered shrimp. She pauses by where a pair of men, one black and one white, stand near a couple others near the food. "Evenin'," she offers. "Like watching right n' wrong. Clever."

The white one swallows the bite of food in his mouth - one of those appealing shellfish things that seem so popular tonight - and dabs the corners of said mouth with a napkin before responding. "Thank you," he says to the man in black, accepting the invitation without affirmation or denial of it. Vague, but purposefully or unintentionally so? Fire's captured his attention now. She's given a stiff half-bow. "Good evening..." His eyes trail from her dress, to look between himself and the man in black. "This was not coordinated intentionally," he tells her. Just so one one gets the wrong idea, you see. Realizing that was a little too starchy, perhaps, he attempts to smooth it over with a murmur: "Though I thank you for noting an interesting, if unintentional, metaphor. I wonder if your analysis is correct, or if shades are deceiving." Behind the shadow of the mask's eyeholes, the man's dark eyes slide to the man in black to see his reaction to that.

CloakedBrown is, alas, quite unable to find a spot near the hearth. The next best area is a spot with a view, a certain bench near where a rather large Tent is seated. The man sits quite cautiously, the movements precise, and makes sure to give that tent plenty of room. Maybe he'd seen the black man with her. "Evening," is given in a gruff, and still somewhat mumbled, voice. The Green's plate is set beside him, saving her seat while freeing his hand to start organising his sandwich.

"Oh, I couldn't, sweetie," Green replies, lifting one shoulder as she hands over her plate. "I'm afraid it wouldn't work too well over these, and besides, it looks really good on you." It cannot be seen, but she's smiling behind that veil. Turning away and trusting Brown to find them a good seat, she waits her turn for the wine. She nods to both the ManInBlack and the PainfullyWhiteFellow, then concentrates on making her way to the drinks table. She manages to snag two large glasses of white wine, and accepts a compliment from the man behind the table. Of course, she declines the rather obvious invitation he issues; even if she /is/ a GreenDragon, she is /very/ choosy.

"Oh, I couldn't, sweetie," Green replies, lifting one shoulder as she hands over her plate. "I'm afraid it wouldn't work too well over these, and besides, it looks really good on you." It cannot be seen, but she's smiling behind that veil. Turning away and trusting Brown to find them a good seat, she waits her turn for the wine. She nods to both the ManInBlack and the PainfullyWhiteFellow, then concentrates on making her way to the drinks table. She manages to snag two large glasses of white wine, and accepts a compliment from the man behind the table. Of course, she declines the rather obvious invitation he issues; even if she /is/ a GreenDragon, she is /very/ choosy. With wine in hand, she turns around, and finally spots Brown over near the PregnantTent. Being careful not to spill the drinks, she heads toward the BrownDragon and the group near him.

The Pregnant Tent remains as one might guess she would, keeping her heavy self as comfortable as possible on that bench. This involves several shifts at odd intervals, a hand often bracing her belly as if she could rearrange it to a more favorable conformation too. The flicker of a frown that graces her brow during one such shift disappears when someone settles near her. She looks up with a smile for the newcomer, merely blinking her surprise when she finds a fake dragon head attached. "Evening," she returns his greeting with a friendly manner, nodding. "Quite elaborate," she comments, returning her gaze up to the man's disguise as an indication of what she refers to.

Metaphors are yet another thing about which the Man in Black cares less than his food. The fire red woman's comment does not parse for him, and for her trouble she gets a simple blink. At least his unintentional coordinate gets the idea and can keep the conversation lively. The Man in Black has a few more tidbits to add to the mix of plates, but while he's doing so he must have an ear tuned to the talk around him, because he doesn't miss his cue when the white knight looks at him. At least, he doesn't miss his cue to answer; he /does/ miss it where sensitivity's concerned. "They're just clothes," he informs the metaphorical ones plainly. "Getting back." And that is his farewell, for he turns back to the crowd. If he thought he was getting away from costume issues for the night, though, he's disappointed quickly, for his (and his Tent's) table has been invaded by the dragons that only he was oblivious enough not to note earlier. "What the fuck," he says sharply, and makes no secret of his immediate dislike for the dragons' heads. He's glaring at them narrowly behind his mask while his hand guides its own way down to put the Tent's plate in front of her.

The food tables are replenished with speed. Those who have to work in their plain outfits with a black or white mask carry out empty platters and bring in full ones to take their place. It moves with a clockwork precision. There is always something new for those who keep an eye on such things, but the staples are always there as well.

"It is a bit bulky," the Brown replies to the Tent, a frown finding its way to the exposed bit of face. "The rest is quite functional." And he's got the hang of moving with that cloak quite easily, it seems, even if the dragon head is a pain. "Well, mine is," is noted with what might almost be a smile as the Green joins him. And then there's swearing. And, surely if the back of the CloakedBrown's neck were exposed, hair would be seen to rise. Bristle. And he turns, ever so slightly, to make himself that much bigger in front of the one he's escorting. Protective. For now, no verbal response is thought up. He'll just scowl from within the getup.

"And masks," the fiery woman notes. "Black n' white? C'mon, gotta be blind t'think they don' match nice, even on accident." But the one portion of the monochromed pair drifts away and the red woman shrugs to drift off in the other dirction. Perhaps it's not an accident, then, that she ends up near the other all-white figure in the room. She has to lean forward a bit to note the pattern of snowflakes, and then she laughs. "Lookout. Melt'cha," she teases whoever-it-is.

PainfullyWhite is left no opportunity to probe his black-clad ex-conversation partner about whether or not he might have touched a nerve, let alone the opportunity to make amends. The lips below the white mask merely purse, dark eyes tracking his departure. He seems ambivalent towards the fiery one's departure, though he's kind enough to nod farewell to her absence. Left on his own once more, and quite contendedly so, it would seem, he takes his remaining hors d'oeuvres and seeks out an out-of-the-way seat somewhat near the harpers, to sit and listen while digesting.

Another dance tune is struck up and the dance floor is once more crowded. The wine has been flowing quite freely by now and plenty of people started before arriving. It creates a lively time of it for those who choose to dance.

Winter has just taken a sip from her glass when she is spoken to. Her head turns so she might take in the person 'threatening' her. "I doubt that would be possible," is her soft reply. She makes no effort to ensure they carry far enough to be heard. Instead she lets them float out into the crowd of noise to be picked up or not. "A heart of ice and snow. No chance of being melt even by someone as heated as you are."

"Y'think?" the red woman asks of her white-clad victi....companion. "I dunno 'bout that. Seen snow melt pretty fast, conditions weren't right. Seen ice turn t'water n a person's hand. En't s'hard. Like th'dress, though. Real pretty."

Once Green has found Brown, she maneuvers the glasses onto the table. And then she's maneuvering herself onto the bench beside her escort, the dragonhead managing to remain steady enough on her own head. "Evening," she offers to the Tent, a slight inclination of that head. "It's not so bad. Fits rather well, actually," is her only comment to the costume issue. The veil parts slightly, and a face can be seen in the shadows. The features aren't easily made out, despite this, but it does make eating and drinking simpler. The wine is on its way to her lips when the swearing begins. There is no reaction from the Green, although she does look away, perhaps to see if there is another place available to sit. Instead of responding, she sets her wine down and picks up a skewer of shrimp, pulling them off, one by one, and then making short work of them. "Such a nice welcome," is finally said, voice soft, but not so soft it cannot be heard over the music.

"A few drops in the right spot and the fire is history," Winter retorts with a slow smile. "I've seen plenty of that happen in all my many turns. After all, I keep the Weyr under wraps for most of every turn." Lifting her glass she takes a drink from it and then shakes her head. "It is a lovely debate to have. But I believe I see your companion seeking you." One hand gestures towards where the red-headed man Fire arrived with stands. "I should hate to keep you separate. Have a lovely night, dear. Do stay warm." Before she turns to leave she runs her free hand over her dress. "Nothing wrong with pretty. Even when you are made of ice." Her whisper vanishes with that and she leaves Fire. After leaving her glass on a nearby table she leaves everyone and seeks the bowl where she might blend in with the cold outside.

Near the food tables one couple have a quiet argument. She wants to leave and he wants to stay. Her gestures turn more and more wild before she finally turns and stalks off. Not towards the outside or the kitchen, but to the infirmary. Perhaps she imbibed too much.

"Stayin warm," the red woman murmurms, "ain't a problem." But since it's noted that her escort is looking for her, she allows Winter to slip away. "It's burnin' shit down when I didn't mean t'..." with a small drug the red dress joins the red-haired man who opts to sit down at one of the tables, rather than head out on the dance floor.

On the dance floor one man must be complained to when his partner is hauled off the floor by him. He has to leave and he seems unwilling to let her remain. He escorts her to a table in the corner where he sits down.

Muttered responses to the Man in Black's less than customary greeting are ignored, if heard at all, and the arrival of the plate draws the Pregnant Tent's eyes to his masked face. "Thanks, dear," she says to him, and the ploy to pull his attention to the knowing smile she has waiting for him continues as she snags his wrist and drags him down with it, placing his hand behind her back if he comes along. Then it's back to the dragon pair, much more cordial than her partner. "Wherever did you find the time to get all of that done?" she asks, letting mild surprise show past her mask that anyone would have such free time.

There's a moment of silence as the Green finishes her shellfish, and picks up something else from the plate. "My brother's a weaver," is murmured softly. "He and ... a friend of his ... love to make masks and costumes. He said this one was ... a mistake." A soft chuckle. "They made it for a lady but it was too small for her." A beat. "Oddly enough, it was exactly my size, and since I happened to mention the masked party in my last letter to him ..." A shoulder shrugs. "Your costume is lovely. That's a beautiful color, and the material is lovely." She cannot help but notice the woman's condition. "When are you due, if I may ask?"

Man in Black's upper lip curls up, but his lady knows him all too well, and that wrist-snag comes just in time. It has the dual effect of making him face the Tent, rather than the dragons, and of focusing his attention on the plate still held in his other hand, as he shifts his weight quickly to make sure none of it spills. When it does go down, it goes down on purpose, with a solid thunk as he drops it without a hint of grace - or even the attempt - and follows shortly after. He hasn't forgotten about the dragons' presence, as he digs into his food with a certain vengeful wrath, but he doesn't say a word more about the costumes. Leave the talking to the tent.

CloakedBrown offers, "It wasn't our doing. No such time," and otherwise is content to go along with the green's explanation. No nodding, though, not with that head on his shoulders. He, too, dives into his food, and leaves talking to the women. But his eating isn't so wrathful, especially once he's finally got that sandwich assembled. The Brown sets to eating it with a certain caution, biting off symmetrical bits to make different shapes as he goes.

"A mistake?" the Pregnant Tent repeats, laughing lightly and clearly amused by the story the woman beneath the Green Dragon shares, the corners of her smile sliding effortlessly higher. Her shoulder leans into the Man in Black beside her while she converses with the other two, a faint sound of discomfort sighing out before she answers the Green's question. "Soon, if I have any say in it." Which of course she doesn't. She lifts her hand and lets her fingers hover over the plate brought for her, blinking curiously at the greens that weren't on the menu she gave him before silently moving on to grab a tiny meat pie that was. "Less than a month now," she explains more seriously, though she doesn't seem to take any specific interest in discussing that topic, turning quickly to take a careful bite.

The Man in Black looks over at his Pregnant Tent when she leans into him, his vengeful eating put on pause for just a moment. Finally a whuffed breath pops out of him, and with a sound that's midway between a grumble and a growl, he lets her stay. His food suffers less for her presence, his actions noticeably checked while he accounts for her trusting weight against him, and eventually his mood seems to cool to a dull simmer. He lifts a narrowed glance to the Brown Dragon across from him, but finding him immersed in the sandwich eating experience, lets it go after another brief, inconsequential tug of his lip. His eating is almost tame now, but the plate itself is a warzone of shrimp tails and cracked oysters, evidence of furies past.

CloakedBrown's sandwich eating stays well-planned until the very last bite. And once that's eaten, he's licking his fingers, and peering over toward the Green beside him. And then holding very still, surely listening to something as the band starts up a new song. Nevermind if he's interrupting a conversation or not, it's here at, reaching to brush the Green's hand with his fingertips, he suggests, "We could dance the next slow song," rather quietly. Privately, almost. Pity he can't lean over to help with that.

Green seems intent on her food, though. Too look at her, it would seem almost as if she's determined to eat as much of the seafood and shellfish as she can. "Oh, well, maybe a bit later? I'm famished, and this is SO good," she begs off, a succulent shrimp halfway to her mouth. To the tent, she sort of nods. "Oh, yes, most /convenient/ mistakes, too." It might not be seen, but her tone implies a rolling of eyes. "He's quite talented, and has a wonderful fashion sense. He's determined to see I dress well." A short laugh. "Me? Clothes are clothes. As long as they're clean, fit reasonably well and are durable, that's good enough for me. I have the fashion sense of ..." She stops, trying to think of something. "...something not fashionable."

A figure in browns and silvery-grays slip in, but it would seem just to sneak out a plate of the goodies slaved over by the kitchen crew. A glance around is given, a faint smile offered, but nothing of words, as she slips back out as silently as she entered.

The Pregnant Tent nods for the Green Dragon's conversation, though she seems to be paying more attention to the costumes of those passing the table than the conversation about clothes. "Mmhmm, me too," she agrees, though, sending a smile toward them both before she takes another bite of her food. "You know, you two should get your dance," she urges, turning to Reyce to note, "My mother wanted me to find her at some point. Unless you want to stay and eat, dear," she adds considerately, patting his forearm lightly.

The Pregnant Tent got away with calling him 'dear' the first time - the Man in Black was a bit distracted, growling at dragons - but this time he shoots her a warning look that turns wary when it meets and she's patting his forearm. "'M finished." Toning down the level of the saccharine, he pins her patting hand down beneath his palm, holding it a second so it will look like something more affectionate than 'stop that, it's weird.' On its retreat, hopefully leaving a still hand in its place, that hand gives the Tent's plate a nudge, making it wobble slightly on the table and quietly drawing attention to itself and the still uneaten food (such as those greens) left on it.

CloakedBrown sits back on his chair, and sets to prodding at some of the vegetables on his plate, arranging them in little geometric shapes. The tent's encouragement, though, has him looking over to that Green (carefully). And then slowly scanning the room. "At least, if you do wish to eat, there seems to be some space by the hearths now... Are you cold?" This is all spoken in that same, soft tone.

Never let it be said that Green cannot take a hint. "A little chilly, yes, but not overly so," she replies, glancing up from beneath the headdress. "However, I wouldn't mind sitting closer to the hearth. You know me, I freeze from the first sign of autumn until summer." She laughs softly, dropping her food back on her plate. "We'll leave you good folks to enjoy the party, then," she says, carefully rising. "Thank you for sharing your table with us." Gracious, yes. "And you take care," she adds to the Tent. "They had enough of a scare with the Weyrwoman." It's friendly admonishment, and said with a pleasant enough tone. "If you get uncomfortable, I can make you a tea which will ease back pains." As if the Tent knows exactly who she is. "Good even', then." And she's moving away, toward the warm hearth.

CloakedBrown gets up after his Green, nodding, unthinking, to the couple. A frown as the head moves slightly, not quite so custom-built for his general head movements, it seems. A muffled curse comes with the adjustment, and he tries a more dragon-head-friendly, "Have a good evening," before moving to catch up with the woman in the green costume. He'll even go so far as to reach a hand for the small of her back, guiding her with a degree of chivalry toward the vacant seats he'd spotted in that warmer area of the caverns.

The Pregnant Tent is friendly to the very end, smiling warmly at the pair as they prepare to leave, and nodding a silent thanks for the woman's offers. "Stay warm," she offers cheerfully, sending them off with a hand raised in a single wave. Then she turns back to the man in black and the plate he nudged a moment earlier. "I think I know what we're dressing as for the next masked ball, dear," she says, though this time the affectionate term takes on a decidedly impish, teasing tone. Perhaps as an attempt to placate him after that jibe, she selects a green daintily between two fingers and slips it into her mouth, chewing around her broad smile.

The Man in Black lacks such social graces, and his erstwhile tablemates are allowed to leave without a word or even glance from him. His eyes slide over to look at the Tent when she teases him, letting her feel the weight of his disapproval for a slim second before he bothers to move. "Don't think you do," he tells her gruffly, shoving his plate forward into the space just vacated by the Brown Dragon, on the one hand getting it out of the way and on the other hand subtly suggesting, to any other potential company, that the spot may be saved already. In fetching the plates, though, he forgot to get anything to drink, and it's a bother just now when there's nothing to occupy his hands - except eating one of the Tent's cupcakes, which he does without a word.

The seats are considerable closer to the hearth, which does seem to please GreenDragon. She sets plate and goblet down, then seats herself. She's almost managed to clear that plate, too. "I'm sorry," she apologizes to CloakedBrown, looking over at him. Therefore he, at least gets a look at her shadowy features. "I was really hungry, and those shrimp were delicious. You're used to seafood, but at Ruatha it's not all that common. It was a real treat for us kids, and I've always loved it." To prove that statement, Green helps herself to a piece of fried fish and some whitish sauce on a garlic-flavored cracker. This time she doesn't bother with a napkin, but licks her fingers. "I promise we'll dance, I just want to finish eating first."

CloakedBrown adjusts his cloak to fall mostly to his side as he sits down, in anticipation of that extra heat from those hearths. The dragon's head looks a bit more out of place without that cloak covering his shoulders. An older memory prompts him to prod once again at that chin strap. "As you wish," is allowed, the wine that surely was brought with them lifted up to his lips. "If things had not been so busy, I would have made a sort of sandwich for you... the ingredients were there. But it requires use of the kitchens. It must be fresh." Torso turns slowly, and the brown sets to watching those dancers already out on the floor.

Licking her fingers once more, GreenDragon pauses to smile across at her companion. "The shrimp had a very unusual flavor. I'm not certain what kind of spices they used on them, but they were good," she remarks, picking up, at last, one of the sweeter concoctions the kitchens created. She licks icing off the side, grinning. "Oh, this is good. Try one," she suggests, offering him the second of that particular dessert. "A sandwich, eh? Well, I liked the fish on crackers. That sauce is very tasty."

The Pregnant Tent blinks at him from behind her mask at the sound of the gruffness in her voice, but she slides her plate an inch back toward him when he takes that cupcake, permission to take more. She just stares at him though, head tilting to the side, smile persistent while she waits for him to look back at her. Eventually she grabs another bit of greens and pops it in her mouth, telling him after it's gone, "Don't pout at me." And if he still doesn't look at her, he has a sharp poke to the side coming his way.

"I did not try the shrimp," the Brown notes, peering as that last one is eaten by his Green. "I have always preferred proper fish to the shellfish. It is not a dislike, just..." And he shrugs. This, at least, doesn't disturb that dragon mask too much. The offered dessert is reached for with something of a sigh, and sniffed before it's bitten. "Very sweet," is decided.

There's a slight nod from the Green, since she's busily eating her own dessert and doesn't talk with her mouth full. Finally, after a couple pieces of fruit, it would seem the bottomless pit is replete. Something seems to amuse her, then, as she sits back a little, sipping her wine. "You know, when Rappa offered me the costume, I didn't think the appetite of a dragon came with it." There's a twinkle in her eyes that can be felt more than seen. "Just let me digest this a bit, and we'll dance something slow. Then I'm all for heading back to your weyr. Suddenly I've a hankering to look at a certain tapestry..." Oh, yes, there's a smirk on those hidden lips.

The plate makes a small noise when it moves towards him, and that gets the Man in Black's attention for a second. The woman who's moving it does not, though, because he would rather focus on his mask - he's been wearing it for a long time, it's cheap, and when he lifts it to rub a finger along his skin, there's a visible red line where it's been pressing in. Of course, he might have expected that, since it happened after he took of his mask at the last ball, too. "'M not," he tells her, but he's still distracted fiddling with his mask, and so indeed he doesn't look at her. The poke gets his attention back, as he twists away from the Pregnant Tent with a quick "Ow." A frown follows it, but hey, it's a look. He leaves his mask alone to put his palm over the spot she poked.

The flushing of cheeks can just barely be seen under the mask the CloakedBrown wears. "Of course." He sits back in his chair, enough to nudge the dragon head forward a little. "He still does not stop gloating," is added with a bit of a sniff. The mask gets a push with an index finger, the chin strap is adjusted once again. "Something slow. Should we leave our heads here, or wear them onto the floor?"

"I'd have to have help getting out of mine," the Green replies, twirling the stem of her wineglass between her fingers. "I had to get a couple of the laundry girls to help me get into it properly. So, maybe I'd better leave it on. If it's too cumbersome, well, I'll just offer you a rain-check and we can head on out." Another sip of her wine, and she grins at a couple dressed as fish. "So, he's still gloating, hm?"

CloakedBrown sits forward again, and the dragon head settles back around his shoulders, as it's supposed to be. "I am certain we can deal with these heads if need be. If you would like to dance... even briefly, and then we will head out to the bowl." And now, the rider rolls his eyes (not that it can really be seen), and turns himself toward the exit of the caverns. "And he can gloat us all the way back to the weyr. You, at least, do not have to listen."

"You're supposed to pay attention to me," the Tent tells him in her defense, waiting for him with that same smile. "I'm very pregnant and very erratic," and her hand slips up to the spot she poked seconds earlier, finding his hand already there and soothing that instead of the actual hurt. "These mood swings come over me, and I just don't know what I'm doing," she excuses herself, only half jokingly. She grabs the hand hers covers instead and drags it to her, wrapping her fingers around it. "Come on," she implores, "my mother really does want me to find her. Come walk me around." She slips the rest of the meatpie into her mouth with her other hand, though the requested sweets remain untouched on the plate.

GreenDragon chuckles again and then takes a breath. "Give me a couple more minutes, please?" There's just a hint of uncertainty in her voice, now. A hand moves to her stomach and rests there for a couple of moments. A visible shiver plays over her body, and she sits back a little in her chair. The wine is finished, and the empty glass set on the table. "I think the wine's gone to my head a bit. Teach me to drink on an empty stomach, I guess." Empty? Stomach? Hers? After she gorged herself on shrimp and seafood? It's more likely she ate too much too fast.

CloakedBrown brings his hands out before him, and sets to tapping his fingertips together in a steady and symmetrical pattern. "Take whatever time you wish. I am not rushed." Even if people are dropping off, the band's still playing, there are still dancers... He winds up inspecting the Green though, and does have to query, "Are you all right?"

The Masked Man's hand is pulled away, giving up on its efforts to soothe his poked side and letting the Tent do as she pleases with it. "Should have - found you then." The pause comes with a silent little belch, whiffed out at the corner of his lips so it won't interfere with his words for more than an instant. In the next instant he's getting up, bringing his hand back into play as he draws it up to her shoulder, ensuring with a light pressure that she's going to stay put and eat her meatpie till he helps her up. He even gives her time to chew before he'll take her arm to guide and support her off the bench.

"Oh, sure, I'm fine," is the quick response, a hand lifting to wave away concern. "I drank on an empty stomach, and gorged myself on seafood. It's just going to take a few minutes to settle, is all." She certainly sounds all right, but her hand goes back to her stomach, and stays there. "Besides, I'm a healer. If anyone should know when they're all right, it's me." A weak chuckle. And then there's silence. A slight pressure of her hand. "Actually, some fresh air ... sounds good. Might clear my head a bit. I don't want to get out on the dance floor and pass out or anything."

CloakedBrown frowns a concerned frown at the mention of passing out, and is on his feet quite immediately. "We will go get some air, then." He waits for the GreenDragon to stand, and then escorts her out, limiting his touch to a brush of fingertips against her back. As the leave the shelter of the caverns, he even undoes that cloak, ready to drape it over the woman in case she has need of it.

Descs

2d, 1m, t4, 7th.

2007-07-06T02:05:23Z

<< You found a kid?>>
>> Yes. <<
<< That's great. You should keep him. >>
>> No. <<

No matter how busy she is the head nanny at the Weyr always finds time to stop in and visit her charges. Some nannies upon reaching a level where they do not /have/ to deal with children do not. But, Wistella is not most nannies. She enjoys visiting with the children who are her responsibility. It is also a way to keep an eye on those who work under her. While she is known as one of the biggest gossips at High Reaches she does not use it in a professional capacity. So, she pops in at any time of day she finds a spare hour or two to see how things are going. Right now she's seated in a rocker holding a little girl who is probably about five turns old. The little girl is crying, down to tears and snuffles, but she has the look of someone who just gone done having a fit.

H'kon is not the type to actually enter the nursery unless he has to. Usually, the toys he's taken upon himself to fix find are nabbed from a box near the entrance, without his having to walk into the battlefield proper. Today, however, the brownrider makes an exception. And by the look of him - and the cargo he's carrying - he isn't here to fix toys. Wearing a scowl deeper than his usual, H'kon has a boy who looks to be about four held under one arm, as one might hold a rolled up blanket, rather than child. The boy has a scowl to match H'kon's (though, thankfully, otherwise looks nothing like the man who hauls him), surely a result of being caught from wherever it was he was making a break for. Brownrider recognises head nanny, and he stomps right on up to that rocker, his charge bouncing with each step, and occasionally pushing against the man's side in what have become half-hearted attempts to escape - done more for the sake of doing them, than for the possibility of actual success. "I believe this belongs here."

Wistella looks up from the petting and cooing of the no longer crying girl. "Oh, Naden. Did you get out again?" A rhetorical question since it appears he did just that. She places the girl on her feet and withdraws from her pocket a small bag from which she pulls out a piece of red hard candy. This goes to the girl who gets her hair ruffled before being sent off with a, "Go on now, Velma." Once the girl is gone the head nanny rises to her feet. "Thank you so much for returning him. He seems to be all in one piece so must not have been gone long.There is no move, it might be noted, to take the kid from the rider.

H'kon glances down to his charge, scowl meets scowl, and then the rider's attention is back to Wistella, expression turning expectant after a few moments are waited out. Naden's next attempt at freedom comes with a little child-grunt, and this is enough for H'kon to heft the boy enough to jostle him well enough that he's, instead, clinging to the rider briefly for fear of falling. "He does this often?"

"Oh, he's always trying to get out. To go see his mother in the stables. He's got a thing for the runners out there. Takes after his mother. I had her in here too." Wistella grins at Naden and still doesn't try to take him. "Poor little guy. He can get out no matter how many people are watching him. He just sneaks on out. He was alone though? Sometimes he sneaks out with his sister." She pauses and turns her head to look about the nursery. "Ah, no. There's Floren. She's just two turns older than him. Such a sweet girl."

H'kon spares a sour glance toward the sister of the brat. "Perhaps if all the people you have here cannot watch him, you should look to finding better people for the job." Another annoyed heft is given to the boy, who promptly squirms so that his stomach isn't pushed up against the brownrider's thick arm, and he can breath a bit better. Wistella will now have both H'kon and Naden looking expectantly to her.

Wistella smiles, showing off deep dimples as her green eyes sparkle. "Well, rider H'kon," is it ever good when they know your name? No. "If you think you can do better you are welcome to come down here some day and spend some time seeing how the other half earn their keep." Naden is winked at and she wiggles long plump fingers at him in greeting. "Shame on you, Naden." Surely she does not sound amused. That would be wrong.

H'kon scowls at this. "My job is not to watch these," heft, "children." Now, H'kon turns so that the side of him bearing the kid is nearer to Wistella. "Here," is added, and the boy gets another heft. This one finds his shoulder hitting H'kon's ribs, and they grunt in unison. Aww.

"I do believe he possesses feet." Wistella points this out with a grin and a gesture towards the bottom end of Naden. "You can set him down on them if you like." Because she is not going to take him and she makes this clear by putting her hands on her hips. "And, I am aware that it is not your job to watch the /children/. They are not things. However, if you are going to make accusations about us not doing our job perhaps you might like to learn how hard that job is to do."

"A difficult job is no excuse to do it improperly." And Naden is set down. Well, dropped down. The boy stumbles a bit, but a hand to H'kon's leg keeps him balanced. H'kon ignores him as best he can, and Naden is off to play with his sister. Or maybe to organise an escape on a larger scale. "And no. They are not things." This, strangely doesn't sound repentent, but almost disappointed. Maybe because things are predictable and controllable.

Wistella draws herself up, hands still on her hips. "Now see here. You better not come in here and imply that there was some impropriety going on with what happened. You don't know the story. You got no right to come in here and make these accusations." She watches Naden run off with a fond smile on her face. "He's a good little scamp. He doesn't make any trouble. And here you are saying all these things."

H'kon takes a breath, lets it out. "He might well make trouble. He was on his way to the bowl. I would assume the cold would keep him out now, but if the weather is warmer, if a dragon doesn't see him? He could get hurt." Exactly to whom that 'he' is referring is up for grabs. "And this happens frequently, you have said so. I would suggest only that you find a way to keep him and his like under control."

"We have a way to keep them under control. But sometimes they get out anyway. It's a known quantity." Wistella seems generally unconcerned about the occasional escape of a child. She smiles an engaging smile. "We've always got fine men and women who will see a scamp and bring him or her back. It's not a problem. They don't get into the bowl. Likely Naden was lurking waiting for someone to see him and bring him back. He gets tired after running around and all. And, you did. Thank you so much! Would you like a candy?"

H'kon draws himself up to his full and unimpressive height, and tugs at the base of his tunic. "I would not like a candy," is pointed out quite quickly and darkly. Nevermind that the word 'candy' has got a few kidlets looking wistfully toward Wistella. "If that is all you intend to do, then, I will go."

The little bag in her pocket which was on its way out is slipped back in. "Very well then. Thank you so much for returning him to us, rider." Wistella notices those wistful glances, but the candy is returned anyway. It is a treat, after all, and not something to just be handed you.

One day, H'kon may understand the social intricacies of candy from the nannies. For now, the brownrider gives Wistella a nod, shoots a careful look to Naden, where he's whispering things to his sister, and with a nod, turns and stalks on out of the nursery. The place surely looks brighter once he's gone.

Wistella watches the brownrider leave with a cheerful smile. Once he is gone she remarks in general, "What a nice man. You kids be sure and say hello to him if you see him, yes?" Eager voices chorus agreement and are given candy as a result. For the next seven H'kon will be greeted by a chorus of hellos whenever he might be in the same room as children.

Quizzes...

2007-06-25T19:17:30Z

You have a very keen intellect, are interested in the facts and thetruth, but you don't have the antiauthoritarian streak of The Oracle orPrometheus. You are most like Hermes. You are dependable to a fault,and you can develop feirce institutional loyalties. You can seemoutwardly cold, and very calculating, and any display of emotion isextremely taxing for you. You are, above all else, dutiful, punctual,and reliable.

More rebellious types will see you as a toadie and a stiff,but they're unreliable iconoclasts anyway. You are very pragmatic, andyou aren't easily distracted from the task at hand. You can be countedon to do your job without being hampered by personal interests. You areextremely traditional, and are most likely to use "We've always done itthis way" and "Those are the rules" as justifications for hanging on tothe status quo. Most of the other personality types will have adifficult time relating to you, but will work something out. Prometheusand The Oracle freaking hate your uncritical position regardingestablished rules and procedures, and they'll let you know it. You'llget along well with Atlas and Apollo if they're your boss. You'llprobably get along with Icarus, too.

Famous people like you: Judge Judy, Andrew Johnson, Herbert Hoover, Harry Truman, George H.W. Bush, Ronald Reagan
Stay clear of: The Oracle, Prometheus, Dionysus, Pan, Orpheus, Aphrodite
Similar Personality Types: Atlas, Icarus, Apollo, Nemesis

You prefer your romance and love to be traditional rather than daringor out-of-the-ordinary, you would rather be pursued than do thepursuing and, when it comes to physical love, you concentrate more onenjoying the experience rather than worrying about your performance.

This places you in the Lover Style of: The Classic Lover.

The Classic Lover is a wonderful Lover Style, and is theclosest it comes to the classic images of the princess in the tower, orthe romantic and chivalrous knight, or the hero/heroine from a Disneyfilm. The Classic Lover is a treasure to find, though it can bedifficult to do so because they sometimes tend to be shy and/ordifficult to successfully court.

In terms of physical love, the Classic Lover again can be shy,and often needs more in terms of emotional security to feel comfortablethan some of the other Types. Given the right setting, and the rightlover, the Classic Lover can be a delight in bed.

Best Compatibility can probably be found with: The Romantic Lover (most of all) or the Devoted Lover, or the Liberated Lover.

d26, m12, t3, 7th.

2007-06-25T19:03:23Z