[Log] Ruhroh Shaggy.
Who: R'vain and R'en.
What: Trouble.
Where: Weyrleader's weyr.
When: Maybe a day or two after Jen's visit with Roa.
Weyrleader's Weyr(#72RJh)
Rank allows slightly more comfortable furnishings than can be found elsewhere in the Weyr. The walls have been washed in warm medium hues of brown and beige and red; very little in the way of ornaments obscure their surfaces, though an odd piece of smoky burgundy art glass has been hung up above the mantel over the hearth. Area rugs in organic hues matched to the walls divide the room into sections. There is the seating area, suitable for conversation and informal meetings, with its couches and low central table. There is the working area, occupied by a desk and shelves for hidework. Last but not least is the off-alcove that serves as the Weyrleader's bedroom, dominated by a large bed with a trunk at its foot, a double wardrobe, and storage for riding gear and such. There are no plumbed baths in weyrs this high, but the staff provides hot water for a small tub when required.
A door leads out of the sitting area into the passageway out to the office and a curtained archway leads to the couch and ledge. The ledge is some distance above the bowl and accessible only from the air.
Contents:
R'vain
Ruvoth
Obvious Exits:
Northern Sky (NS) Out (O)
As a matter of course, R'vain and Roa try to have lunch in the living cavern so they can hear and be heard on matters significant to the Weyr's riders and folk in a somewhat more casual setting than office visits. But on occasion one or the other of the Weyrleaders fails to make, or stay at, the lunch hour. Today that occasion's R'vain's; he's retreated from the thousand questions about a dead man's honor to the safety of his weyr with a sandwich and a pitcher of water. Even after the lunch 'crush' period is quite over he remains there, curled on the sofa before the fire, the half-eaten sandwich balanced on one upraised knee. In his hands he has a hide, which ostensibly he's reading, though his gaze is really focused some distance beyond it, maybe on the glass art hung above the mantel; the pitcher of water, half-empty, sits on the floor beside him.
Lunch hour isn't for lunch for R'en. He uses it to visit instead of eat, with Riann or with Vej or with any of the men who still like him enough to want to talk to him. This lunch hour will be spent on the Weyrleader, and as is his way he doesn't do much to announce himself other then pause briefly at the weyr's door and call, "Hey," before continuing on through and in. There is no difference in this greeting, nothing notable in his stide save for its being purposeful.
"Hey," lets out R'vain in reply. Maybe it's not his first lunch visit from this weyrling. It's certainly not out of character for the guard-turned-rider to just barge in, anyway, so the Weyrleader reacts with relatively casual comfort-- he puts down the hide on the floor beside the pitcher, then grabs up his sandwich off his knee so he can kick his feet over onto the floor also, and start to his full height. "C'mon in, don't be all shy there by the door."
Shy? The word makes R'en's face do an odd twitchy thing. Soon he's well into the room and stopping near to that couch. "S'pose Roa spoke t'you, you two seem t'have a close talky sort o'relationship." There's a quality just there, in his voice, that implies he's implying; his hands hang loose at his sides, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows.
The Weyrleader stretches a little, arching his back with his hands in the small of it, then draws them around to lie loosely curled on his hips. Ruddy brows sink into a deep furrow. "About G'thon? Sort of. I heard when Min'yal was havin' her say. I ain't sure 'close talky' is--" His shoulders roll, dismissive, but one eye twitches narrow, suddenly suspicious. "You ain't been listening t'th'guys in two-cee, have you? They're just talkin' out their asses; it's Ashwin's."
"Ashwin's? Uh, wha-" Oh. It isn't always so obvious when the full realization of something hits him, like it is now. R'en closes his eyes and turns his head to the side with a little jerk. "It ain't that. Ain't G'thon either." When he's looking at R'vain again, and he is, he makes to correct. "I meant about Tavaly. About you'n her sendin' her there. About me havin' t'find out from people not you." His face remains impassive, blank.
R'vain's narrowed eye unnarrows, and through a simple, even stare he considers the weyrling, the former captain of his guard, Tavaly's brother. There's no sense about him that he's choosing words carefully; just a demeanor of inspection, like he could read R'en's mind by looking through a window in his forehead. When he does speak, it's only to say this: "And not from her, either." Absolute certainty, there, soft and low.
The only answer R'en gives is silence, and that's enough. That isn't to say he doesn't speak again. "Talked t'Roa. She told me some things." 'Some things' somehow doesn't sound so good. His mouth tightens. "My sister, my little sister, comes t'you t'ask if she can go t'the one place on Pern you shouldn't be sendin' /anyone/ to'n you just pack 'er up'n send 'er. /Then/ you figure on not tellin' me'n probably hope nothin' bad happens t'her. That sound about right? Anything you wanna /change/?"
Another silence, another long moment of reading unknowable things on the inside of another man's forehead. "Ruvoth's been in contact with Immath," R'vain adds, in due time: his first amendment to R'en's summary. The second amendment he actually rumbles with something like inflection, heavy on the third word: "An' I think it was you first said we should send someone. 'Course, y'weren't th'same man, then."
"Oh I remember. What I don't seem t'be able t'remember is me sayin' please send any one o'my family, even better do that'n don't say anything t'me." There's the twitch in his jaw, sign of clenching. R'en continues on in a flat voice. "You're right. 'M not the same."
"I don't remember you mentioning that she's a little kid under your care, either," R'vain rolls out, a thundercloud thinking aloud. "Think she might resent th'implication you're makin'."
"She'd be sayin' similar things if I took myself off t'somewhere unsafe. Might be you ain't that familiar with bein' worried for someone else's safety. I'd tell 'er myself how very worried I am 'cept she doesn't seem t'/be/ here." And R'en isn't done there. "And for the record, /I/ resent your handicap when it comes t'dealin' with the whole /not tellin' me/ thing."
"Recorded," R'vain replies, and lowers his chin, his gaze sliding upward to compensate. It makes his eyes a little darker, with his ruddy brows drawn so low, and the emerald of that glare barely shines. "Tell 'er, then. Good practice f'Sehkrath."
But that doesn't seem to help matters. Unsatisfied, R'en grins suddenly. It's a completely different manifestation of the same sentiment his jaw muscles suggest when they tighten up. All in all, it isn't a /good/ grin. "You should say somethin'. 'M not above acceptin' sorries."
"A'right." The Weyrleader moves. He uncurls a fist from his hip and lifts up his hand to run a few fingers through the scruffy red of his hair, and puts on a grin far more game and lightweight than R'en's; it might 'play' as bright and friendly, too, if it weren't for the dark still in his eyes. "I'll say somethin'. She has my faith." His tongue goes up over his teeth and comes back down with that loud, wet *tschk.* He's careful, so that he can mean it, when he says it: "I'm sorry you didn't hear it from me."
/That/ is different. /That/ makes a shift in the way R'en's looking at him, something changes in the atmosphere and for a moment it looks like he might be willing to settle with those words. His grin is gone, as is the tension in his jaw, and he's able to look at the other man with something akin to, if not respect, then at least a grudging acceptance. There's a beat of silence in which he steadies out his thinking and then, without warning, his hand - it became a fist at some point - swings for the Weyrleader's jaw.
R'vain's hand's just coming back down toward his hip as R'en's fist comes up toward his face. But he doesn't fake a shield or reach for a grip on the weyrling's arm; he just turns his head a little, making the plane of his jaw an even line for the blow to land on. It sends his head the rest of the way over on its turn, and the Weyrleader's eyes squint closed for a split second before he starts, immediately, recovery. The wounded hand comes up to shield the place just hit; his eyes reopen and corner narrowly upon the former guard captain; his right paw swings out. No fist, here. Just a reaching, grasping hand aimed to take R'en by the ear.
No. There's nothing in R'en's face that's willing to stay for his most immediate punishment. While R'vain's recovering he's flexing his fingers out, welcoming that usual sting in the knuckles. When /his/ hand comes out for him he ducks his head to the side and dodges, also smacking the invading thing away in the process. Run he does not, though.
The Weyrleader draws back his hand toward his chest, where it's half-prepared to serve as shield. His nostrils flare, and the dark displeasure in his eyes is gone; his brows have lifted into their usual positions, and his mouth is uncharacteristically grim. His breath is deep and quick, but otherwise R'vain is dangerously calm-- and he waits.
So they'll stare at each other, tense and bristling, like dogs. A long moment passes like this since neither of them seem able to break. There are no words to be said, not after that; somewhere, maybe in the barracks, a young bronze dragon hangs his head. Finally something snaps and R'en moves, turns, to leave without looking back.
Which means R'vain reaches for him again, this time aiming that grasp for the back of the weyrling's shirt. "Oh, no y'don't," he rumbles in a low growl, offsetting himself with a step forward to add length to his reach.
It works, grabbing him, as far as stopping him is concerned. After that, though, R'en is turning, jerking his arm to get rid of that grip on his shirt if he can and then turning some more to lash out with whichever hand, to shove. Since there was so little time between these actions he probably didn't exactly pick a direction.
Getting rid of the grip is easy. R'vain's too calm; he gets what he wants, and unhands the weyrling as soon as he has it. In this case, what he wanted was R'en not walking away. Of course, being shoved isn't probably on the menu of what he /does/ want. He stumbles backward, kicking over his water pitcher with a swift-moving heel, and only the meeting of his calf against the edge of the couch keeps him from going straight down on his ass. He bends his knees, regaining footing, becoming spring-loaded. But does not pounce; he raises his hands, one forward, one back, loose-curled, and waits again.
/That/ was most definitely an automatic response, muscle memory long-learned, but if R'en is surprised at all he doesn't show it. His hand is up still too, ready to fend off any further grabby attempts. When he realizes R'vain isn't advancing he folds three of his fingers down so he's almost pointing. Warnings sometimes come in such forms.
The point is regarded, and then R'vain looks up into R'en's face again with one eye narrowing, his mouth quirking up in one corner. Buh. "Watch where y'going with that," he rumbles, maybe good-natured.
Which normally might have at least gotten something from him. But apparently this isn't so easily brushed over. Instead of saying anything back, instead of making a rude gesture of some kind, R'en just shakes his head and turns again. This time while he leaves his hand is in his hair.
"I said-- " Again with the lurching forward, though R'vain's more careful about his steps this time, keeping them closer so he's not as likely to be caught unbalanced. And he even gives warning before reaching for the shirt-collar again. "Oh-no-you-don't."
"For fuck's sake, get the fuck off o'me!" That's possibly the first outburst in quite some time and if R'en didn't look surprised at himself for his shoving the Weyrleader then he certainly looks surprised at himself now. He's turned again, this time minus a lashing out of his arm, and stares hard at the man before him. "You wanna hit me or somethin', /do/ it. You got a lecture you can save it 'less you intend t'tie me down 'cause there's nothin' you gotta say that I wanna hear right now."
"What I want t'do," R'vain growls, leaning back, drawing back his hands into those loose, mother-hen curls on his hips again, "and what I do ain't always able t'match up." His nostrils flare and his eyes flash wide, pale and green and furied, but aside from various twitches around his mouth and shoulders he holds his pose. "I need t'know what you're doing now."
There's a mirror to his stillness in R'en's own stance, all forcibly held in check and twitching. If only he could move his mouth, he might smirk or something, because R'vain needs to know what he's doing now. There's no trace of amusement on him when he says, "Oh'm sure I'll tell you."
"Ain't sure you--" But something snaps and R'vain's eyes squint hard. Then he drops his hands off of his hips and turns around. "Eh. You'll figure it out f'yourself. Get." In a moment more he's crouching to upright the pitcher, tugging down a throw from the couch to mop up the spill, putting R'en on ignore.
So he gets to turn around. Figures. It's all on R'en's face and if it wasn't for the fact he wants to spare himself more he'd probably say something. What he does is turn, too, and finally make it out without grabbing or pulling. His presence might be like a heavy thing that lifts when it's gone.
What: Trouble.
Where: Weyrleader's weyr.
When: Maybe a day or two after Jen's visit with Roa.
Weyrleader's Weyr(#72RJh)
Rank allows slightly more comfortable furnishings than can be found elsewhere in the Weyr. The walls have been washed in warm medium hues of brown and beige and red; very little in the way of ornaments obscure their surfaces, though an odd piece of smoky burgundy art glass has been hung up above the mantel over the hearth. Area rugs in organic hues matched to the walls divide the room into sections. There is the seating area, suitable for conversation and informal meetings, with its couches and low central table. There is the working area, occupied by a desk and shelves for hidework. Last but not least is the off-alcove that serves as the Weyrleader's bedroom, dominated by a large bed with a trunk at its foot, a double wardrobe, and storage for riding gear and such. There are no plumbed baths in weyrs this high, but the staff provides hot water for a small tub when required.
A door leads out of the sitting area into the passageway out to the office and a curtained archway leads to the couch and ledge. The ledge is some distance above the bowl and accessible only from the air.
Contents:
R'vain
Ruvoth
Obvious Exits:
Northern Sky (NS) Out (O)
As a matter of course, R'vain and Roa try to have lunch in the living cavern so they can hear and be heard on matters significant to the Weyr's riders and folk in a somewhat more casual setting than office visits. But on occasion one or the other of the Weyrleaders fails to make, or stay at, the lunch hour. Today that occasion's R'vain's; he's retreated from the thousand questions about a dead man's honor to the safety of his weyr with a sandwich and a pitcher of water. Even after the lunch 'crush' period is quite over he remains there, curled on the sofa before the fire, the half-eaten sandwich balanced on one upraised knee. In his hands he has a hide, which ostensibly he's reading, though his gaze is really focused some distance beyond it, maybe on the glass art hung above the mantel; the pitcher of water, half-empty, sits on the floor beside him.
Lunch hour isn't for lunch for R'en. He uses it to visit instead of eat, with Riann or with Vej or with any of the men who still like him enough to want to talk to him. This lunch hour will be spent on the Weyrleader, and as is his way he doesn't do much to announce himself other then pause briefly at the weyr's door and call, "Hey," before continuing on through and in. There is no difference in this greeting, nothing notable in his stide save for its being purposeful.
"Hey," lets out R'vain in reply. Maybe it's not his first lunch visit from this weyrling. It's certainly not out of character for the guard-turned-rider to just barge in, anyway, so the Weyrleader reacts with relatively casual comfort-- he puts down the hide on the floor beside the pitcher, then grabs up his sandwich off his knee so he can kick his feet over onto the floor also, and start to his full height. "C'mon in, don't be all shy there by the door."
Shy? The word makes R'en's face do an odd twitchy thing. Soon he's well into the room and stopping near to that couch. "S'pose Roa spoke t'you, you two seem t'have a close talky sort o'relationship." There's a quality just there, in his voice, that implies he's implying; his hands hang loose at his sides, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows.
The Weyrleader stretches a little, arching his back with his hands in the small of it, then draws them around to lie loosely curled on his hips. Ruddy brows sink into a deep furrow. "About G'thon? Sort of. I heard when Min'yal was havin' her say. I ain't sure 'close talky' is--" His shoulders roll, dismissive, but one eye twitches narrow, suddenly suspicious. "You ain't been listening t'th'guys in two-cee, have you? They're just talkin' out their asses; it's Ashwin's."
"Ashwin's? Uh, wha-" Oh. It isn't always so obvious when the full realization of something hits him, like it is now. R'en closes his eyes and turns his head to the side with a little jerk. "It ain't that. Ain't G'thon either." When he's looking at R'vain again, and he is, he makes to correct. "I meant about Tavaly. About you'n her sendin' her there. About me havin' t'find out from people not you." His face remains impassive, blank.
R'vain's narrowed eye unnarrows, and through a simple, even stare he considers the weyrling, the former captain of his guard, Tavaly's brother. There's no sense about him that he's choosing words carefully; just a demeanor of inspection, like he could read R'en's mind by looking through a window in his forehead. When he does speak, it's only to say this: "And not from her, either." Absolute certainty, there, soft and low.
The only answer R'en gives is silence, and that's enough. That isn't to say he doesn't speak again. "Talked t'Roa. She told me some things." 'Some things' somehow doesn't sound so good. His mouth tightens. "My sister, my little sister, comes t'you t'ask if she can go t'the one place on Pern you shouldn't be sendin' /anyone/ to'n you just pack 'er up'n send 'er. /Then/ you figure on not tellin' me'n probably hope nothin' bad happens t'her. That sound about right? Anything you wanna /change/?"
Another silence, another long moment of reading unknowable things on the inside of another man's forehead. "Ruvoth's been in contact with Immath," R'vain adds, in due time: his first amendment to R'en's summary. The second amendment he actually rumbles with something like inflection, heavy on the third word: "An' I think it was you first said we should send someone. 'Course, y'weren't th'same man, then."
"Oh I remember. What I don't seem t'be able t'remember is me sayin' please send any one o'my family, even better do that'n don't say anything t'me." There's the twitch in his jaw, sign of clenching. R'en continues on in a flat voice. "You're right. 'M not the same."
"I don't remember you mentioning that she's a little kid under your care, either," R'vain rolls out, a thundercloud thinking aloud. "Think she might resent th'implication you're makin'."
"She'd be sayin' similar things if I took myself off t'somewhere unsafe. Might be you ain't that familiar with bein' worried for someone else's safety. I'd tell 'er myself how very worried I am 'cept she doesn't seem t'/be/ here." And R'en isn't done there. "And for the record, /I/ resent your handicap when it comes t'dealin' with the whole /not tellin' me/ thing."
"Recorded," R'vain replies, and lowers his chin, his gaze sliding upward to compensate. It makes his eyes a little darker, with his ruddy brows drawn so low, and the emerald of that glare barely shines. "Tell 'er, then. Good practice f'Sehkrath."
But that doesn't seem to help matters. Unsatisfied, R'en grins suddenly. It's a completely different manifestation of the same sentiment his jaw muscles suggest when they tighten up. All in all, it isn't a /good/ grin. "You should say somethin'. 'M not above acceptin' sorries."
"A'right." The Weyrleader moves. He uncurls a fist from his hip and lifts up his hand to run a few fingers through the scruffy red of his hair, and puts on a grin far more game and lightweight than R'en's; it might 'play' as bright and friendly, too, if it weren't for the dark still in his eyes. "I'll say somethin'. She has my faith." His tongue goes up over his teeth and comes back down with that loud, wet *tschk.* He's careful, so that he can mean it, when he says it: "I'm sorry you didn't hear it from me."
/That/ is different. /That/ makes a shift in the way R'en's looking at him, something changes in the atmosphere and for a moment it looks like he might be willing to settle with those words. His grin is gone, as is the tension in his jaw, and he's able to look at the other man with something akin to, if not respect, then at least a grudging acceptance. There's a beat of silence in which he steadies out his thinking and then, without warning, his hand - it became a fist at some point - swings for the Weyrleader's jaw.
R'vain's hand's just coming back down toward his hip as R'en's fist comes up toward his face. But he doesn't fake a shield or reach for a grip on the weyrling's arm; he just turns his head a little, making the plane of his jaw an even line for the blow to land on. It sends his head the rest of the way over on its turn, and the Weyrleader's eyes squint closed for a split second before he starts, immediately, recovery. The wounded hand comes up to shield the place just hit; his eyes reopen and corner narrowly upon the former guard captain; his right paw swings out. No fist, here. Just a reaching, grasping hand aimed to take R'en by the ear.
No. There's nothing in R'en's face that's willing to stay for his most immediate punishment. While R'vain's recovering he's flexing his fingers out, welcoming that usual sting in the knuckles. When /his/ hand comes out for him he ducks his head to the side and dodges, also smacking the invading thing away in the process. Run he does not, though.
The Weyrleader draws back his hand toward his chest, where it's half-prepared to serve as shield. His nostrils flare, and the dark displeasure in his eyes is gone; his brows have lifted into their usual positions, and his mouth is uncharacteristically grim. His breath is deep and quick, but otherwise R'vain is dangerously calm-- and he waits.
So they'll stare at each other, tense and bristling, like dogs. A long moment passes like this since neither of them seem able to break. There are no words to be said, not after that; somewhere, maybe in the barracks, a young bronze dragon hangs his head. Finally something snaps and R'en moves, turns, to leave without looking back.
Which means R'vain reaches for him again, this time aiming that grasp for the back of the weyrling's shirt. "Oh, no y'don't," he rumbles in a low growl, offsetting himself with a step forward to add length to his reach.
It works, grabbing him, as far as stopping him is concerned. After that, though, R'en is turning, jerking his arm to get rid of that grip on his shirt if he can and then turning some more to lash out with whichever hand, to shove. Since there was so little time between these actions he probably didn't exactly pick a direction.
Getting rid of the grip is easy. R'vain's too calm; he gets what he wants, and unhands the weyrling as soon as he has it. In this case, what he wanted was R'en not walking away. Of course, being shoved isn't probably on the menu of what he /does/ want. He stumbles backward, kicking over his water pitcher with a swift-moving heel, and only the meeting of his calf against the edge of the couch keeps him from going straight down on his ass. He bends his knees, regaining footing, becoming spring-loaded. But does not pounce; he raises his hands, one forward, one back, loose-curled, and waits again.
/That/ was most definitely an automatic response, muscle memory long-learned, but if R'en is surprised at all he doesn't show it. His hand is up still too, ready to fend off any further grabby attempts. When he realizes R'vain isn't advancing he folds three of his fingers down so he's almost pointing. Warnings sometimes come in such forms.
The point is regarded, and then R'vain looks up into R'en's face again with one eye narrowing, his mouth quirking up in one corner. Buh. "Watch where y'going with that," he rumbles, maybe good-natured.
Which normally might have at least gotten something from him. But apparently this isn't so easily brushed over. Instead of saying anything back, instead of making a rude gesture of some kind, R'en just shakes his head and turns again. This time while he leaves his hand is in his hair.
"I said-- " Again with the lurching forward, though R'vain's more careful about his steps this time, keeping them closer so he's not as likely to be caught unbalanced. And he even gives warning before reaching for the shirt-collar again. "Oh-no-you-don't."
"For fuck's sake, get the fuck off o'me!" That's possibly the first outburst in quite some time and if R'en didn't look surprised at himself for his shoving the Weyrleader then he certainly looks surprised at himself now. He's turned again, this time minus a lashing out of his arm, and stares hard at the man before him. "You wanna hit me or somethin', /do/ it. You got a lecture you can save it 'less you intend t'tie me down 'cause there's nothin' you gotta say that I wanna hear right now."
"What I want t'do," R'vain growls, leaning back, drawing back his hands into those loose, mother-hen curls on his hips again, "and what I do ain't always able t'match up." His nostrils flare and his eyes flash wide, pale and green and furied, but aside from various twitches around his mouth and shoulders he holds his pose. "I need t'know what you're doing now."
There's a mirror to his stillness in R'en's own stance, all forcibly held in check and twitching. If only he could move his mouth, he might smirk or something, because R'vain needs to know what he's doing now. There's no trace of amusement on him when he says, "Oh'm sure I'll tell you."
"Ain't sure you--" But something snaps and R'vain's eyes squint hard. Then he drops his hands off of his hips and turns around. "Eh. You'll figure it out f'yourself. Get." In a moment more he's crouching to upright the pitcher, tugging down a throw from the couch to mop up the spill, putting R'en on ignore.
So he gets to turn around. Figures. It's all on R'en's face and if it wasn't for the fact he wants to spare himself more he'd probably say something. What he does is turn, too, and finally make it out without grabbing or pulling. His presence might be like a heavy thing that lifts when it's gone.