[M'try] The bruised apples are probably some kind of M'try-Isobel metaphor.
RL Date: 1/13/10
IC Date: 9/??/21 --Back-dated to some time prior to 10/1.
Fort Hold Orchards
Fruit trees in tidy rows follow the river's curves as far as the eye can see. Abundant crops of plum, pear, and redfruit trees are joined by other crops, all of which fill the air with seasonal delights that tease the senses. Depending on the season, some trees may have already been harvested, while others bear branches laden with ripening fruits.
Glossy leaves and careful pruning make these orchards a sight to behold, and if one is not careful, it is easy to get lost in the identical rows, but for the whisper of the river nearby. Thick grasses grow beneath the trees, soon to be cut and stored for the beasthold's winter feed.
Continuing past the orchards will lead to the river and the lake, or one can take one of the just-visible roads leading throughout the hold.
Last time Isobel and M'try had a chance to talk, she mentioned how much she enjoys taking walks in the orchard at least once a sevenday. Next week she wouldn't be able to go on her usual day, because At're would be visiting her, but she was going to go after lunch on the day after. So all M'try had to do was keep track of At're's movements between then and now. Simple, right? Anyway, Isobel is out for a walk in the orchard, exactly as promised. She has a basket with her to pick up fallen apples.
Lucky for them, M'try's a smart kid and can do basic math coupled to the calendar. What's more, he's got a ledge that makes it really easy to track the comings and goings at the Weyr, so it wasn't all that hard to put all the numbers together. Right on time, or at least close to it, Mohraith makes his appearance, ruddy-brick-brown easily spotted against the dull clouds overhead, enjoying the dapple of his shadow on the trees beneath him. Down, down, landing with renewed enjoyment for how his wings kick loose a few branches, more than just a few leaves, he gives a nice, loud bugle to announce his presence, gets a punch in the neckridges for that; "The notion of 'keeping a low profile' really is lost on you, isn't it?" And M'try, wearing his nice, clean, all-but-new coat, a little heavy for only the light chill but probably nice at altitude, hops down. "Isobel?"
Whatever kind of entrance Isobel was expecting, that... wasn't it. She looks torn between laughing and being horrified. Finally she settles for the former, and scurries forward to meet him, the basket swinging from her arm. "M'try," she says, and smiles warmly at him. "He wouldn't be Mohraith if he weren't..." louder than a jet engine? "...exuberant. How are you? I hoped you would be able to come."
Mohraith seems to approve of Isobel for that, crooning brassily while he goes stomping off between rows, squishing fallen apples underfoot. "Tactful," M'try comments with a snicker for her 'exuberant.' There's a frowning, nervous-seeming look around on his part after that, a peer through the nearest trees, and only then does he hold his hands out to her, smiling easily now. "I'd like to say that wild runners couldn't have dragged me away today, but it was really more a matter of arranging a free afternoon. I wanted to see you again, before..." Yanno.
"Yes," Isobel says as she puts her hands in his. She knows. "I wanted to see you, too. I know it's - not - what we wanted, but I hope... that is," she fumbles for words, but pushes through the difficulty, "when things calm down. After the wedding. I should be able to visit the weyr from time to time, and... and..." Yanno.
M'try gives the collected hands a brief squeeze with his own, then drops one of them, keeps the other, and turns down one of the rows of trees as well. Not the same one that Mohraith traversed, with all the squished apples. "And and," he repeats with a trace of humor there, one side of his mouth pulled up, though the other side seems to be struggling with the finding-things-funny aspect. "We can figure out 'and and' after things-calm-down, as you say. For now, it's a fine thing for the bride to be picking apples a scant few days before her nuptials. Shouldn't you be having your nails painted or your hair braided or something along those lines?"
"Soon enough. I don't think /those/ apples will be much good - he's not going to uproot the trees, I hope?" Isobel does allow herself to express that momentary doubt. She follows it up with a second question, in the same casual tone. "You'll still be speaking to me, then, after things-calm-down?"
Following a brief glaze of his eyes, during which he's presumably checking on the likelihood of uprooting trees, M'try looks back down at Isobel with an easy enough smile and answers, "It's a possibility, but I've asked him not to." Which doesn't mean Mohraith /won't/, but he hasn't done it yet! Though he's enjoying thumping them with his tail while he boulders around. Taking his cue from her, keeping the same tone for his latter answer as his first, that half-flippant, half-serious voice; "It's a possibility, are you asking me to?"
"Yes," Isobel says simply, moving to all-serious. "I was hoping you would. But I knew you might not want to." Mohraith's tree-thumping distracts her and she looks at him and sighs, but doesn't complain.
"I have a feeling that I may have said this an awful lot lately," M'try begins slowly, his eyebrows pulling together to make a narrow dent just above his nose. "But I'm not sure what I want at this point, Isobel, and I don't think that you really do, either. At the very least, what you want today may have nothing to do with what you want after that particular knot gets tied. --He thinks he's helping." As apples come raining down, rolling off his bulk and landing at Mohraith's feet.
"But I do know what I want. Oh, can't you get him to stop?" Isobel asks desperately. "I really don't want to explain why a dragon has destroyed the orchard. And someone will come..." She puts a hand to her head. "I know what I want. I thought you - I thought. Never mind. I should go, before someone comes."
M'try, with a slight frown, with a false sense of affront, "Be fair. He hasn't destroyed anything." Technically. The next swipe of Mohraith's tail might actually have been accidental, though the way he turns to look at his work certainly seems proud of what he's accomplished. She-should-go meets with a sigh, with his free hand reaching as if to retrieve hers from her head. "I'm sorry, Isobel. Yes, I will still want to see you, but you're getting /married/. It's not like having a tooth pulled or taking a long walk." That is to say, "It changes everything."
"The /apples/," Isobel says, gritting her teeth, though she doesn't attempt to claim her hands back from his. "They'll bruise and rot! They're probably not even fully ripe. Would you let him trample a wheatfield? This isn't any different! M'try. I would have given up /everything/ to stay with you. I tried. Why did you even ask me if you didn't know what you wanted?"
Under the best of circumstances, M'try's ability to contain Mohraith is slim. But considering there's an added layer of emotional strain... "Yes, they'll bruise and rot. And? There won't be enough perfect apples for whom? The wedding party? No one." The flicker of a wing in the distance does a fine job dislodging a few more. "Will miss a few dozen apples." Apparently, sarcastic and frustrated are closely linked.
Isobel takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes and presses her lips together. Then she takes a few more deep breaths. She does not burst into tears. She does not start shouting at M'try. After she takes a few minutes to collect herself, she opens her eyes again and Looks at M'try, with what patience she has left. It's clearly limited. She doesn't say anything, but waits to see if he'll answer her other question. Or any of the unspoken ones that she's not voicing.
Thankfully, Mohraith does stop his collection at this point. That he does so with a bewildered croon, still loud, probably speaks to the fact that this was not done by request but of his own volition. When it's obvious that Isobel's waiting, when it's clear that his dragon's done being destructive, M'try answers that Look with a sigh, with apology for being frustrated in the narrow of serious green eyes. "What I want, Isobel, and what I can have aren't the same thing. We've covered that, and there's no point rehashing it. My concern is that, in a few days, everything is different for you. What you want right now isn't necessarily what you'll want then. I just... don't want you to feel like you're obligated to a promise made to me before you took actual /vows/."
"Oh," Isobel says simply. "I see." There's a long pause. Finally, she takes a deep breath, and says, "Thank you very much, Mohraith." As irritated as she was - is? - her tone toward the brown is kind and affectionate. Then she says, to M'try, "That - is that the truth? If it is, it certainly makes sense. Things might change, after. I might hurt you. You don't want that. /I/ don't want that either, M'try. But I just. Is that the truth? Or is there something else? Despite how I may seem, I'm not a fragile flower and I would... I would prefer that you be honest with me, about this. Now. So, is that really what you - because I'm afraid, too. Of him, but most of all I'm afraid you won't care for me anymore after I - and I don't have a /choice/, if I did, I wouldn't be doing this. So. Is that the truth? Please."
"Don't--" But M'try's too late. She's gone and acknowledged him, and Mohraith responds by shoving his nose against the nearest trunk. Fortunately, he's already shaken loose all the apples from that, so it doesn't hurt anything, just kind of his way of saying you're-welcome, in the most bass-ackward way possible. After that wash of guilt-by-association passes and, releasing both her hands, he's raked them through his hair in a feverish gesture of stress; "It's the truth. I'm not generally a bald-faced liar." His are all lies of omission, see. "I will still love you, Isobel, there's no way around that. It's got nothing to do with fidelity, just honor and loyalty and duty." It's that last one, duty, that has him send her a meaningful frown. Isn't she big on doing her duty?
"I suppose I've always thought of love as encompassing those things. Honor and loyalty and duty," Isobel says, managing just enough detachment that it doesn't come out like an accusation. "But maybe you've meant something else by it. It's - good to be on the same page. Of course I understand your concern." She looks down and sighs. "Maybe we should just talk afterwards. I... do love you, though, M'try. And I will. Afterwards. Even if you hate me." The ground is boring. She looks up at the tree limbs over M'try's head. "My mother gave me a little book. It has pictures in it. I know what I'm supposed to do." And then there was her little practical lesson courtesy of a certain brownrider. "But it won't change how I feel about you and it won't change my /choice/..." she reaches out for his hand, to seize it firmly if she can, "to throw my lot in with you. It can't be openly the way I wanted because the weyrleader is an ass and Cirse is - nevermind, the point is, this is my choice. Ask me afterwards," she says with solid conviction. "I will tell you the same thing."
For a second, it's enough for M'try to get hung up on, "Pic... tures..." It takes time for his eyes to return to normal size instead of saucer-sized, for him to react to the holding of hands, all of which makes it so he needn't confront the accusation she's not actually making. Distracted; "Why is the Weyrleader an ass?" No, don't answer, the shake of his head afterward quickly dismisses the question. "I won't hate you, I'll never hate you. But I will ask you afterwards." Quietly and with apology still, like at least he realizes he's being stupid about accepting promises like they're still written in pencil.
"Pictures, yes. I made the mistake of opening it in the middle after she gave it to me and... yes." Is Isobel trying to shock M'try? Make him laugh? Maybe. "I'll tell you the same," she repeats. "When you asked me to stay - I know it's not your fault, M'try. It's T'rev's. But just because he can't manage to match words to actions, it doesn't mean I have the same problem." She holds on tightly to his hand. "It will be hard." So to speak. "I think we can do it, though. Not just - not just - you know. But loyalty. Honor. Even duty, after a fashion."
With no more than one hand scrubbing at the back of his hair, just above his neck, M'try looks at the ground for a second while he /ignores/, so so so ignores what might be in those pictures. Or whose signature might be on them. "I wish you wouldn't blame the Weyrleader, Isobel, I really do," is what he decides is more important. Shaking his head, leaning over his tightly held hand to put his lips to her knuckles for a second, he agrees with a quiet, "We'll see. We'll see what happens."
The look Isobel gives M'try then is like one you might give a small child who has disappointed you. "We'll see, yes," she echoes with a sigh, and moves to extract her hand. "Thank you for coming. Both of you." Her gaze flicks to Mohraith, who's easier to look at right now. "I'll give you a scritch, if you think you can contain yourself and not knock any more apples down," she says to the dragon, teasing.
The look with which M'try answers Isobel is one for that same child who thinks he's outstripped his tutor, knows something the teacher doesn't. "He can't," with a helpless shrug even while Mohraith bounds over to make up the distance between them, shouldering aside some branches, very nearly tripping himself on a branch that snags on one talon. "I'll look for a letter. When you get settled again." Now if only that jacket could keep out the emotional shivers.
"You'll hurt yourself!" Isobel chides Mohraith - and that's even worse than damaged apples! She reaches out with both hands to offer the promised scritches. "Do be careful. I care for you, too, you know. And you'll look after that ridiculous fellow that you call a rider, won't you? I'll visit you if I can." It sounds almost like she's not sure if she will see them again. She's not looking at M'try. Maybe Mohraith can see that she's hurt, despite her light tone.
It doesn't take a big, clumsy dragon to see that she's hurt. While Mohraith rumbles pleasantly, a loud-sounding grumble, that ridiculous fellow that he calls a rider stands a little off to one side, nudging a fallen apple with his toe, looking guilty. "I'm sorry, Isobel. When it's all said and done, if you're right, if you really are willing to look outside your marriage, I will still be waiting for you." M'try reaches to smooth but does not actually touch her hair, his hand moving right on to the brown's straps. "You'll look lovely in red, I'm sure." Sounds like so-long.
Isobel glances over at M'try, ever so briefly, when he says he'll be waiting, but quickly turns her attention back to Mohraith. "I will," she says calmly. "You won't want to miss it." Scritch, scritch. "Goodbye," she says more softly, and reaches out to wrap her arms around Mohraith's head and hug him, if he'll let her.
Mohraith'll let her! He's good with hugs. With a gentle nudge to dislodge Isobel afterward, seeing as he's just been made ready for the trip home, he manages to escape this whole encounter seemingly unfettered. M'try... well, he doesn't strictly say he's not coming to the wedding, but-- again-- lies of omission work pretty well for him. Probably it's the rider's thoughtfulness, not the dragon's, that has them move off some distance down the orchard before there's all the flapping to get airborne and ditch off Weyr-wards.
Isobel goes, walking down the row without looking at M'try again. It's not until she hears the wingbeats that she turns around to watch them go until the brown is finally out of sight, leaning heavily against a much-abused apple tree for support.
IC Date: 9/??/21 --Back-dated to some time prior to 10/1.
Fort Hold Orchards
Fruit trees in tidy rows follow the river's curves as far as the eye can see. Abundant crops of plum, pear, and redfruit trees are joined by other crops, all of which fill the air with seasonal delights that tease the senses. Depending on the season, some trees may have already been harvested, while others bear branches laden with ripening fruits.
Glossy leaves and careful pruning make these orchards a sight to behold, and if one is not careful, it is easy to get lost in the identical rows, but for the whisper of the river nearby. Thick grasses grow beneath the trees, soon to be cut and stored for the beasthold's winter feed.
Continuing past the orchards will lead to the river and the lake, or one can take one of the just-visible roads leading throughout the hold.
Last time Isobel and M'try had a chance to talk, she mentioned how much she enjoys taking walks in the orchard at least once a sevenday. Next week she wouldn't be able to go on her usual day, because At're would be visiting her, but she was going to go after lunch on the day after. So all M'try had to do was keep track of At're's movements between then and now. Simple, right? Anyway, Isobel is out for a walk in the orchard, exactly as promised. She has a basket with her to pick up fallen apples.
Lucky for them, M'try's a smart kid and can do basic math coupled to the calendar. What's more, he's got a ledge that makes it really easy to track the comings and goings at the Weyr, so it wasn't all that hard to put all the numbers together. Right on time, or at least close to it, Mohraith makes his appearance, ruddy-brick-brown easily spotted against the dull clouds overhead, enjoying the dapple of his shadow on the trees beneath him. Down, down, landing with renewed enjoyment for how his wings kick loose a few branches, more than just a few leaves, he gives a nice, loud bugle to announce his presence, gets a punch in the neckridges for that; "The notion of 'keeping a low profile' really is lost on you, isn't it?" And M'try, wearing his nice, clean, all-but-new coat, a little heavy for only the light chill but probably nice at altitude, hops down. "Isobel?"
Whatever kind of entrance Isobel was expecting, that... wasn't it. She looks torn between laughing and being horrified. Finally she settles for the former, and scurries forward to meet him, the basket swinging from her arm. "M'try," she says, and smiles warmly at him. "He wouldn't be Mohraith if he weren't..." louder than a jet engine? "...exuberant. How are you? I hoped you would be able to come."
Mohraith seems to approve of Isobel for that, crooning brassily while he goes stomping off between rows, squishing fallen apples underfoot. "Tactful," M'try comments with a snicker for her 'exuberant.' There's a frowning, nervous-seeming look around on his part after that, a peer through the nearest trees, and only then does he hold his hands out to her, smiling easily now. "I'd like to say that wild runners couldn't have dragged me away today, but it was really more a matter of arranging a free afternoon. I wanted to see you again, before..." Yanno.
"Yes," Isobel says as she puts her hands in his. She knows. "I wanted to see you, too. I know it's - not - what we wanted, but I hope... that is," she fumbles for words, but pushes through the difficulty, "when things calm down. After the wedding. I should be able to visit the weyr from time to time, and... and..." Yanno.
M'try gives the collected hands a brief squeeze with his own, then drops one of them, keeps the other, and turns down one of the rows of trees as well. Not the same one that Mohraith traversed, with all the squished apples. "And and," he repeats with a trace of humor there, one side of his mouth pulled up, though the other side seems to be struggling with the finding-things-funny aspect. "We can figure out 'and and' after things-calm-down, as you say. For now, it's a fine thing for the bride to be picking apples a scant few days before her nuptials. Shouldn't you be having your nails painted or your hair braided or something along those lines?"
"Soon enough. I don't think /those/ apples will be much good - he's not going to uproot the trees, I hope?" Isobel does allow herself to express that momentary doubt. She follows it up with a second question, in the same casual tone. "You'll still be speaking to me, then, after things-calm-down?"
Following a brief glaze of his eyes, during which he's presumably checking on the likelihood of uprooting trees, M'try looks back down at Isobel with an easy enough smile and answers, "It's a possibility, but I've asked him not to." Which doesn't mean Mohraith /won't/, but he hasn't done it yet! Though he's enjoying thumping them with his tail while he boulders around. Taking his cue from her, keeping the same tone for his latter answer as his first, that half-flippant, half-serious voice; "It's a possibility, are you asking me to?"
"Yes," Isobel says simply, moving to all-serious. "I was hoping you would. But I knew you might not want to." Mohraith's tree-thumping distracts her and she looks at him and sighs, but doesn't complain.
"I have a feeling that I may have said this an awful lot lately," M'try begins slowly, his eyebrows pulling together to make a narrow dent just above his nose. "But I'm not sure what I want at this point, Isobel, and I don't think that you really do, either. At the very least, what you want today may have nothing to do with what you want after that particular knot gets tied. --He thinks he's helping." As apples come raining down, rolling off his bulk and landing at Mohraith's feet.
"But I do know what I want. Oh, can't you get him to stop?" Isobel asks desperately. "I really don't want to explain why a dragon has destroyed the orchard. And someone will come..." She puts a hand to her head. "I know what I want. I thought you - I thought. Never mind. I should go, before someone comes."
M'try, with a slight frown, with a false sense of affront, "Be fair. He hasn't destroyed anything." Technically. The next swipe of Mohraith's tail might actually have been accidental, though the way he turns to look at his work certainly seems proud of what he's accomplished. She-should-go meets with a sigh, with his free hand reaching as if to retrieve hers from her head. "I'm sorry, Isobel. Yes, I will still want to see you, but you're getting /married/. It's not like having a tooth pulled or taking a long walk." That is to say, "It changes everything."
"The /apples/," Isobel says, gritting her teeth, though she doesn't attempt to claim her hands back from his. "They'll bruise and rot! They're probably not even fully ripe. Would you let him trample a wheatfield? This isn't any different! M'try. I would have given up /everything/ to stay with you. I tried. Why did you even ask me if you didn't know what you wanted?"
Under the best of circumstances, M'try's ability to contain Mohraith is slim. But considering there's an added layer of emotional strain... "Yes, they'll bruise and rot. And? There won't be enough perfect apples for whom? The wedding party? No one." The flicker of a wing in the distance does a fine job dislodging a few more. "Will miss a few dozen apples." Apparently, sarcastic and frustrated are closely linked.
Isobel takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes and presses her lips together. Then she takes a few more deep breaths. She does not burst into tears. She does not start shouting at M'try. After she takes a few minutes to collect herself, she opens her eyes again and Looks at M'try, with what patience she has left. It's clearly limited. She doesn't say anything, but waits to see if he'll answer her other question. Or any of the unspoken ones that she's not voicing.
Thankfully, Mohraith does stop his collection at this point. That he does so with a bewildered croon, still loud, probably speaks to the fact that this was not done by request but of his own volition. When it's obvious that Isobel's waiting, when it's clear that his dragon's done being destructive, M'try answers that Look with a sigh, with apology for being frustrated in the narrow of serious green eyes. "What I want, Isobel, and what I can have aren't the same thing. We've covered that, and there's no point rehashing it. My concern is that, in a few days, everything is different for you. What you want right now isn't necessarily what you'll want then. I just... don't want you to feel like you're obligated to a promise made to me before you took actual /vows/."
"Oh," Isobel says simply. "I see." There's a long pause. Finally, she takes a deep breath, and says, "Thank you very much, Mohraith." As irritated as she was - is? - her tone toward the brown is kind and affectionate. Then she says, to M'try, "That - is that the truth? If it is, it certainly makes sense. Things might change, after. I might hurt you. You don't want that. /I/ don't want that either, M'try. But I just. Is that the truth? Or is there something else? Despite how I may seem, I'm not a fragile flower and I would... I would prefer that you be honest with me, about this. Now. So, is that really what you - because I'm afraid, too. Of him, but most of all I'm afraid you won't care for me anymore after I - and I don't have a /choice/, if I did, I wouldn't be doing this. So. Is that the truth? Please."
"Don't--" But M'try's too late. She's gone and acknowledged him, and Mohraith responds by shoving his nose against the nearest trunk. Fortunately, he's already shaken loose all the apples from that, so it doesn't hurt anything, just kind of his way of saying you're-welcome, in the most bass-ackward way possible. After that wash of guilt-by-association passes and, releasing both her hands, he's raked them through his hair in a feverish gesture of stress; "It's the truth. I'm not generally a bald-faced liar." His are all lies of omission, see. "I will still love you, Isobel, there's no way around that. It's got nothing to do with fidelity, just honor and loyalty and duty." It's that last one, duty, that has him send her a meaningful frown. Isn't she big on doing her duty?
"I suppose I've always thought of love as encompassing those things. Honor and loyalty and duty," Isobel says, managing just enough detachment that it doesn't come out like an accusation. "But maybe you've meant something else by it. It's - good to be on the same page. Of course I understand your concern." She looks down and sighs. "Maybe we should just talk afterwards. I... do love you, though, M'try. And I will. Afterwards. Even if you hate me." The ground is boring. She looks up at the tree limbs over M'try's head. "My mother gave me a little book. It has pictures in it. I know what I'm supposed to do." And then there was her little practical lesson courtesy of a certain brownrider. "But it won't change how I feel about you and it won't change my /choice/..." she reaches out for his hand, to seize it firmly if she can, "to throw my lot in with you. It can't be openly the way I wanted because the weyrleader is an ass and Cirse is - nevermind, the point is, this is my choice. Ask me afterwards," she says with solid conviction. "I will tell you the same thing."
For a second, it's enough for M'try to get hung up on, "Pic... tures..." It takes time for his eyes to return to normal size instead of saucer-sized, for him to react to the holding of hands, all of which makes it so he needn't confront the accusation she's not actually making. Distracted; "Why is the Weyrleader an ass?" No, don't answer, the shake of his head afterward quickly dismisses the question. "I won't hate you, I'll never hate you. But I will ask you afterwards." Quietly and with apology still, like at least he realizes he's being stupid about accepting promises like they're still written in pencil.
"Pictures, yes. I made the mistake of opening it in the middle after she gave it to me and... yes." Is Isobel trying to shock M'try? Make him laugh? Maybe. "I'll tell you the same," she repeats. "When you asked me to stay - I know it's not your fault, M'try. It's T'rev's. But just because he can't manage to match words to actions, it doesn't mean I have the same problem." She holds on tightly to his hand. "It will be hard." So to speak. "I think we can do it, though. Not just - not just - you know. But loyalty. Honor. Even duty, after a fashion."
With no more than one hand scrubbing at the back of his hair, just above his neck, M'try looks at the ground for a second while he /ignores/, so so so ignores what might be in those pictures. Or whose signature might be on them. "I wish you wouldn't blame the Weyrleader, Isobel, I really do," is what he decides is more important. Shaking his head, leaning over his tightly held hand to put his lips to her knuckles for a second, he agrees with a quiet, "We'll see. We'll see what happens."
The look Isobel gives M'try then is like one you might give a small child who has disappointed you. "We'll see, yes," she echoes with a sigh, and moves to extract her hand. "Thank you for coming. Both of you." Her gaze flicks to Mohraith, who's easier to look at right now. "I'll give you a scritch, if you think you can contain yourself and not knock any more apples down," she says to the dragon, teasing.
The look with which M'try answers Isobel is one for that same child who thinks he's outstripped his tutor, knows something the teacher doesn't. "He can't," with a helpless shrug even while Mohraith bounds over to make up the distance between them, shouldering aside some branches, very nearly tripping himself on a branch that snags on one talon. "I'll look for a letter. When you get settled again." Now if only that jacket could keep out the emotional shivers.
"You'll hurt yourself!" Isobel chides Mohraith - and that's even worse than damaged apples! She reaches out with both hands to offer the promised scritches. "Do be careful. I care for you, too, you know. And you'll look after that ridiculous fellow that you call a rider, won't you? I'll visit you if I can." It sounds almost like she's not sure if she will see them again. She's not looking at M'try. Maybe Mohraith can see that she's hurt, despite her light tone.
It doesn't take a big, clumsy dragon to see that she's hurt. While Mohraith rumbles pleasantly, a loud-sounding grumble, that ridiculous fellow that he calls a rider stands a little off to one side, nudging a fallen apple with his toe, looking guilty. "I'm sorry, Isobel. When it's all said and done, if you're right, if you really are willing to look outside your marriage, I will still be waiting for you." M'try reaches to smooth but does not actually touch her hair, his hand moving right on to the brown's straps. "You'll look lovely in red, I'm sure." Sounds like so-long.
Isobel glances over at M'try, ever so briefly, when he says he'll be waiting, but quickly turns her attention back to Mohraith. "I will," she says calmly. "You won't want to miss it." Scritch, scritch. "Goodbye," she says more softly, and reaches out to wrap her arms around Mohraith's head and hug him, if he'll let her.
Mohraith'll let her! He's good with hugs. With a gentle nudge to dislodge Isobel afterward, seeing as he's just been made ready for the trip home, he manages to escape this whole encounter seemingly unfettered. M'try... well, he doesn't strictly say he's not coming to the wedding, but-- again-- lies of omission work pretty well for him. Probably it's the rider's thoughtfulness, not the dragon's, that has them move off some distance down the orchard before there's all the flapping to get airborne and ditch off Weyr-wards.
Isobel goes, walking down the row without looking at M'try again. It's not until she hears the wingbeats that she turns around to watch them go until the brown is finally out of sight, leaning heavily against a much-abused apple tree for support.