[Log] You Didn't Ask

[brazenbronzer]

Who: A'zan, Griere, Tiriana
When: Day 21, Month 10, Turn 14
Where: Living Cavern, Telgar Weyr
What: Tiriana makes the acquaintance of someone who brags a good deal less than she does.

Living Cavern, Telgar Weyr
     This huge cavern is sufficiently roomy to hold a large portion of the Weyr's population without feeling cramped. There's always a bustle of activity here. Fragrant dishes are constantly in prepartion for mealtimes: currently for the evening meal. Drudges are always present, either cleaning under Pierron's watchful eye, or helping fetch and carry. A myriad of glowbaskets and many ever-lit hearths make the cavern warm and inviting despite its size. The scents of cooking meats, baking breads and pastries, and the pungent aroma of spices hang mouthwateringly in the air. It is little wonder that those seeking to relax nearly always find their way here to do it.
     A short tunnel jaunts northward out to the bowl and the merry sounds of cooking, chores, and laughter echo from the kitchen at the southeast end of the cavern near the easterly passage to the rest of the lower caverns. Within the lower caverns is an entrance to the infirmary weyr to care for injured dragons and riders.

Contents:
A'zan
Pierron
Telgar Serving Tables

Obvious exits:
Inner Caverns Kitchen Bowl

Though early for dinner, there are some getting an early meal, Tiriana among them. Just now, she's finishing loading up a plate for herself, after which she heads for a table that's still more or less empty at this hour. The girl is still a little grimy from the day's work, but at least her hands are clean as she starts picking at her food, nose wrinkling for all she picked it out herself less than five minutes ago.

Perhaps the early hour and the relatively quiet cavern has drawn A'zan, or maybe it is just that he is hungry like anyone else might be after sweeps. He shrugs out of his riding jacket, slinging it casually over a shoulder with one finger in the collar as he slips through the tables and chairs. Hunger becomes less of an apparent motivator then, as he bypasses the plates in favor of a wineglass. For all that the shape of a flask is pretty apparent in the pocket of the jacket he swings along behind him, he fills the glass with a dry red and then turns to survey the room. The nearest tables are too close to full for his taste, and so he ambles over to the first emptyish one he can spot, tosses his jacket over a chair back with casual ease. And then he spots that telltale nose wrinkle and his eyes slip upward to the arch of the cavern's stone ceiling. Unfortunate coincidence.

Griere walks in from the bowl.
Griere has arrived.

The sound of someone joining her brings Tiriana's gaze up from the food she suddenly finds so unappetizing. Of course, the company seems to do very little for her, either: her mouth curls into an unenthusiastic twist as she sees A'zan. "Come to interrupt my dinner?" she asks. "Because I was enjoying myself. I think there's seats over... everywhere else."

It is early evening and so the living cavern is indeed sparsely populated. The table Tiriana sits at is empty otherwise though, and near enough to the meal tables that A'zan just happened to select it (for Griere). His hand drops to his already situated jacket and he shakes his head. "It wasn't my plan, no. However, seeing that lovely little twist to your lips does tempt me to linger, just for you." He takes a swig of his wine in attempt to douse his own irritation at finding her at his chosen table. Smother it in wine and stay to annoy Tiriana. Good plan.

A slight, black-clad woman steps into from the bowl with her chin quivering against what she considers abominable cold. Her hands are curled into fists at her sides and with effort she lowers her shoulders from around her ears, the cool air on her neck making her shake such that her springy curls shiver. With the first pass of her glance, every single person in the room gets a look as if this autumnal chill is all. their. fault.

"Lovely, huh?" Tiriana notes, her mouth curving into a smirkier expresion as she studies A'zan. Finally, leaning back, she gestures flippantly toward a chair. "Fine, have at. I don't really care." As if to emphasize that latter fact, she lifts her chin and scans the room slowly, eyes passing over Griere in the process but failing to recognize the woman as anything more than just another disgruntled resident. Eventually, Tiriana turns back to A'zan, lacking anything else more worthy of holding her interest. "So. Lovely, yeah?" she repeats then. "Is that you trying to be charming, to me? You want something, don't you."

A'zan kicks the chair in front of him out a bit, drops lightly down into it all while swirling his wine about. "It was sarcasm. Light sarcasm apparently lost entirely on you. The frequent pout is attractive enough but whatever /that/ was... not nearly as much." He shakes his head, follows her scan to that shivering girl at the entrance where it pauses. Not recognizable, but clearly a visitor all freezing in the generally mild temperature of the day. "What would I possibly want from /you/, Tiriana?" He asks, his tone distracted.

After her initial irritation passes, Griere's expression cools, tension fading around her eyes and mouth. Her chin inches higher and she gives her hair a curt toss and with the settling of her curls she readies herself to do more than just stand and shiver. Placid and idle, her gaze wanders over face after unfamiliar face along her way to the serving table, cool gray-blue eyes taking their time over Tiriana and A'zan, whomever they may be.

Either because he mentions it or because of what he actually says, Tiriana pouts. "Sarcasm, right," she answers, with a fierce stab at her barely-touched food. "That your excuse now?" Her snort probably isn't terribly attractive, either, but she starts eating, that activity pulling her attention from A'zan until the latter question. Despite her focus on it, it goes unanswered when she sees him looking away; she looks toward Griere, too, tracking the woman's passage over the room. "Friend of yours?" she asks, eyes cutting back to the bronzerider.

One dark brow slowly inches upward at Tiriana's determination to be surly. A'zan lets out a slow sigh, takes a languid sip of wine, then just shakes his head. "Was it an excuse? You just didn't notice my sarcasm, and then it's my fault. Typical." All of this with pale eyes just barely settled on the girl across from him. At her last they dart back to Griere, and up goes that brow again. "No. Not yet anyway." His lips quirk into a faint grin, corners tipping as he lifts his wineglass in a mock toast to the icy woman when her eyes land on him.

The mock toast lifts a single slender brow as Griere passes, her features otherwise unchanged from their bored expression. It's a challenge, a simple, silent, 'oh really?'. Then she moves on,finding herself at the serving table and locating a mug of hot cider, her back to A'zan and Tiriana.

"It is all your fault," Tiriana agrees with that much, with a broadening grin since A'zan figures that out so quickly. Then, that grin turns into a laugh at Griere's reaction to his toast, and smug, she turns back to her meal, actually eating in earnest for a few bites. "Doesn't look like, period," she mocks. "Seems pretty... discerning. You know, a woman with /taste/." A hand waves toward the Istan without looking.

A'zan blinks at Griere's reaction for a moment, but then his smirk just deepens and he takes a long sip. Really. Tiriana's response brings him to roll his eyes again and he just shakes his head. "You can tell that from one glance? It's all you'll get if she does have taste. She'll steer clear of our table entirely and all we'll see is her slender back."

The slender back is indeed all that A'zan gets. And then a flash of profile as Griere glances to the side to reach for a spoon, stirring whatever she's added to her mug. And then, when she's all done, she turns back to face the room, both hands wrapped around her steaming drink to absorb its heat. At length she lifts her gaze to scan the cavern again, more purposefully this time, taking note of empty seats and the people around them.

"Which would be how I'd know she has class," and Tiriana points her loaded fork at A'zan to emphasize that fact. "But then, maybe she can still have class if she comes over here--/if/ she sits with me, not you." Pause. Her lips purse, and she takes her bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Not that I really want her to; I don't like other girls, as a rule. They're annoying, especially snotty-looking ones that think they're too good for the rest of us." Though Tiriana's curiosity seems to be keeping Griere out of that category for the moment, as the girl, with little heed for manners, stares at Griere herself, expectant.

"Right, silly me." A'zan's patience is boundless it seems, his words bland as the curveless line of his mouth as he flicks a finger at that loaded fork. There's space enough that it doesn't even come close, but it's the gesture. His eyes cut away from her to that proudly angled profile, brows arching. "You think she's snotty-looking, or are you referring to other nameless females?" His gaze is boldly assessing, and should hers of ice meet his it doesn't waver. "No knot but she's obviously visiting or we'd know her." And with that he lifts his voice much as he lifted that wineglass. "Telgar's duties," he offers with a droll twist of his lips.

Griere has the mug against her lips when the two pairs of nearly-staring eyes draw her roaming gaze in their direction. She looks back with calm, unflappable assessment, first for Tiriana, then for A'zan, though whatever she gleans makes no show on her face. At the bronzerider's greeting, she lifts her chin so that her mouth is just above the mug's steam and free to speak. "Ista's duties," she returns.

Tiriana raises a brow. "You know every girl in the Weyr, or just the snooty ones? In general, although I could name you a few off-hand if you want. Edlyn, and she's starting to get there," she decides with a waggle of a finger in Griere's direction. Her fork pulled away from him, she digs it into food again, twirling it through mashed tubers in lazy fashion. "Ista," she repeats after Griere when she finally speaks. "What're you doing /here/? Too hot for you down there now or something?"

A'zan flips dismissive fingers, just lifting the tips from where they grasp his wineglass. "I know all of the ones who could afford those leathers, let's just say that." The words the woman in question finally deigns to bestow on him brings his eyebrows up. He waits for Tiriana's snipey comment to pass, then offers a languid, "Telgar's duties to Ista and her queens more specifically then, miss. I see you've already availed yourself of our hospitality but if you can stand one annoying companion," he tips his head toward Tiriana, offers a slow smile. "You're welcome to join us. I guarantee you you don't want to sit near that brownrider over there. He bathes rather infrequently."

Those gray-blue eyes flick over Tiriana again before the weyrwoman answers. "Hardly. I've brought my mother to visit her sister. Why she couldn't come while there was still some remnant of warmth... Mothers." Delivered with dry indifference, that single word should be explanation enough. She lets A'zan's greetings breeze by her, duties and hospitality. It has her drawing patience in with a breath and forcing a thin smile to her lips. It's not until the pointer about the brownrider that she seems to perk up, her eyes widening a bit as she looks in his direction with an sharpness in her eyes. "Thank you." And with this information, she moves to take a seat with the two Telgari.

Tiriana's brows knit with indignation. "I am not!" she retorts to A'zan. To Griere, earnestly, "I am not annoying. He's just a smug bastard, you know. I'm Tiriana. My uncle's the Weyrsecond." Can't miss the chance to impress a newcomer, after all. "/He's/ just a nobody." Or to demean her companion. "Anyway. Why don't your aunt just get somebody to take her south instead? I mean, old people like the heat--for their joints and all, right? That's what all of the aunties back at Southern say."

A'zan amusement settles firmly on A'zan's mouth and he can't help but interject, "And her father's the Weyrleader of Ierne. You'll hear it at least twice if you plan on finishing that mug. And I am, as she said a nobody." Apparently that will have to suffice for introductions on his part, though he does push out the chair beside him with a measure of grace and gallantry. A small measure on the latter. "Very gracious of you to carry your mother so far north in this less than pleasant climate," he offers lightly as he flicks that grin at Tiriana, ready for her answering tirade. The grin slips as he lifts his wineglass, gaze slipping from Tiriana to Griere's gray-blue eyes.

That brow lifts again for Tiriana's proud claims and announcements, A'zan's interjection as well. "Very nice," Griere replies without any sign of being at all impressed. It's the comments on her mother, or old ladies in general, that catches her attention. "My aunt is a rider, too. I can't make sense of it. My mother wanted to come here, she wanted me to bring her. That was the end of it. You can think me gracious if you like." And she even flashes a smile that is far more convincing that her last on, smooth and practiced to perfection. It's gone in an instant, the facade abandonned as settles like a bird on the edge of her seat and finally takes a sip of her hot cider. "Ierne?" she asks mildly of Tiriana, some paltry attempt at small talk.

"He is," Tiriana spits back, mouth curving into a smirk as A'zan volunteers that bit of information. "And I'd have told her what was what, you know? She wants to go gallivanting across the country, she can get the watchrider to take her. Of course, /my/ mother was a junior at Southern, so I wouldn't have ever had to do that." She fixes both with that smug grin, and pushes her plate back, enticed completely into conversation by the Istan's latter question. "Oh, yeah, Ierne. I grew up there, you know. You ever been? It's great there--loads better than /this/ place."

A'zan drops an elbow lightly to the table, tips his forehead into splayed fingers that rub lightly over his temple. Perhaps an effort to urge some pain away, or else just an efficient shield of his expression after Tiriana's predictable ramblings. After a moment he sneaks his other hand beneath the curve of his hand down to his lips for a sip that leaves the glass woefully nearly empty. "And then a bit of body odor begins to seem attractive. I apologize for selfishly desiring company," this last to Griere as he drops that shielding hand, pale eyes sliding over to her with a grin tugging at his mouth before it fades just as quickly. A final motion tosses back the last of his wine and he gestures with it toward the table. "Can I get either of you anything while I'm up? I've already heard most of the boasts Tiriana can claim a time or six. You'll catch me up on anything new when I return, won't you Tiriana?"

Griere listens to Tiriana go on about what she would and would not do for her mother, and just who her mother was, all with the feigned interest that a nanny wears when a child is telling them stories of nonsense. And yet, when the young woman compares her own home to Telgar, the Istan casts an eye around the cavern, arcing up along the ceiling as well as across its people. And perhaps she might agree on Tiriana's final point, even though she claims, "I've been," without any particular note for how fantastic Ierne might be. She takes another sip of her cider, flicking a glance at A'zan. "No, at no point does body oder become attractive. Plus you can always count on it to worsen and at least with other conditions there's always the hope for improvement." Her eyes follow his gesture toward the serving table as he makes his offer. "Thank you, no. The cider is enough."

"A drink," Tiriana tells A'zan without looking his way, dismissively fluttering a hand his general direction, like she would send a servant away. Griere's false interest doesn't seem to register as quite so false with her, because her grin just grows at the rider's assurance. "You have? Did you meet my daddy? You'd remember him if you had, and not just because he's the Weyrleader." Beat. "Are you talking about me?" Her eyes then narrow, as suspicion dawns on her about just what might, maybe, improve at their table.

A'zan rises, lifting his empty glass as he goes. "Water, klah, wine?" He rattles off the partial list a touch wearily, playing along with Tiriana's little 'serve-me' game as much because arguing with her would take valuable time when he could be refilling his glass as anything. And then the predictable happens. One of his wingmates comes darting through, shrugging into his riding jacket and shoots A'zan a brows-up look. "Drills?" The single pointed word tossed as he hurries by leaves A'zan sighing and running a hand over his face. "Drills. Right. I'm afraid you'll have to get your own drink," he tells Tiriana. "And it was nice to meet you... Istan." That of course to Griere with a quirk of a questioning grin as he strides for the bowl.

A'zan walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.
A'zan has left.

"Hypothetically," Griere reassures Tiriana, though without seeming all that worried about how upset she is or could be. She watches as A'zan stands, speaks with his wingmate, and she flashes him another of those perfect immitation of a smile. "Likewise." She doesn't, however, bother immitate feeling. Instead she turns to Tiriana. "Why aren't you there? Ierne. Wonderful as it is and with your... daddy." She says the word lightly, as if she doesn't actually want to touch her tongue to the sounds.

Tiriana, brows knitting, swings her head around to glower at A'zan as he leaves. "You did that on purpose! Timed it, asking me and all that." Her glare lingers on him for several seconds, until he disappears down the tunnel. And then she looks back to Griere, and just blinks. "Um." She stops again, with a frown for that question. "Well, 'cause I'm here. I mean, he sent me up here--me and my sister--to stay with my uncle R'dur for a while. And then my sister impressed--only a blue, though--and I've just kind of... stayed, I guess. What, that not allowed or something?"

Griere lifts a shoulder. "You just seem not to like it." It's obvious she doesn't care either way. "She impressed just recently or..." She halts, though, expressionless as she lets another gaze pass over Tiriana, up and down without any reaction. "Do you have this conversation often?" Innocent as anything, she takes another sip of her drink.

"Couple turns back," Tiriana waves off that question in favor of bristling over its predecessor. "Of course I like it--it's my home now. Even if it's not as good as Ierne. It's still loads better than /Ista/, though. You can breathe up here without all that damp and we actually have /real/ seasons and we have better things to do than just lay around on the beach all day like bums." She's silent for several seconds before touching the latter subject, however, her eyes studying Griere with growing wariness. "When I meet new people," she finally replies.

Griere 's eyes had drifted off as her real question goes unanswered, but as soon as talk turns to Ista, the weyrwoman's gaze freezes. It follows the return path with slow precision. "Yes," she says, her voice utterly deadpan as she looks at Tiriana through narrowed lashes. "So miserable to have warmth and sunshine and ocean breezes. And really, who likes a beach? Or landscapes that don't turn brown with death?" She glances away again, this time with a vague air of indifference and a quick check for how much is left in her mug. Too much or too little, she frowns. "Your friend made it sound like he'd been fortunate enough to hear multiple recitations."

"It's not a place to /live/," Tiriana scoffs of Ista. "Visit, maybe--vacation. But not to live. Who wants to live where it's all the same all the time. I like the rain and the snow and the cold, but you Istans, you're all just too /fragile/ to take it, I guess." Smug in what she seems to deem a victory, she leans back in her chair, pulling a foot up into her chair and lacing her fingers atop her knee. "He's not my friend, for one. He's just... A'zan. Obnoxious smug bastard. Anyway, if he's heard it before it's just because he needed reminding, you know? You can't let people forget who you are or they think they can just... do whatever they want. You know."

"I'd imagine it's not well suited to you, no," Griere will readily agree, her own haughtiness answering Tiriana's smug demeanor. But then she goes saccharin sweet, a thin, predatory smile spreading across her lips. "Who are you again? Not the daughter of Ierne Weyr if you call Telgar home. What are you reminding him off?"

"I'm--" Tiriana scowls, dropping her leg again as she abandons that redolent posture. "I'm still the Weyrleader's daughter. My momma was still a junior--and anyway, my /uncle/ is still the Weyrsecond. And his weyrmate's an assistant headwoman," is thrown in for good measure with all her other credentials. Her arms fold smugly over her chest, expression a challenge to the woman who questions her. "Just because I live here right now doesn't mean I'm not all that too."

"That's who -they- are. Yes, I know," Griere continues, still too sweet and gentle, like an adult speaking to a child. She sets her mug down, both hands still around it though surely they've sucked all the excess heat from the smooth ceramic. "But who are you?"

"I'm--" Again, Tiriana opens with an aborted declaration, her scowl deepening further, anger flaring when asked questions she can't answer. She settles for, "I'm Tiriana. Who the hell do you think /you/ are questioning me like that--in my home and everything."

"Tiriana," Griere repeats, her smile fixed and now with expertly feigned grace. I'm sorry, I didn't realize it would be a sore subject. You did bring it up in saying that people need to be reminded of you who are. I didn't think asking who you are would be an unreasonable follow up. Do pardon my oversight." It's fluid and simple, a well-trained hostess who can call such skills at will. She drains the last of her lukewarm cider and offers a small, perhaps even fragile, hand. "I'm Griere."

However smooth the Istan's reply might be, Tiriana's feathers are hard to soothe when they've been ruffled. "It's not a sore subject," she replies, sulkily. "Doesn't mean it's not... presumptuous, of you." But she relaxes slowly, untensing and doing her best to look unflustered: something that becomes easily when the name is finally offered. Dubiously, "Like the Weyrwoman? Were you, like, named after her or something? But you're way too old for that."

Griere seems a bit more at ease now that Tiriana is sulking. She's still on the edge of her seat, still sitting primly with her spine straight, but now just a little more tension has ebbed from her features and the hold of her shoulders, perhaps put there when Tiriana first brought up Ista's unfavorable climate. And now, now she just lifts that brow at the girl again, patiently giving her another moment to sort through her assumptions.

Tiriana's posture is distinctly lacking in the poise Griere possesses, for all it's still stiff. But a second later, she actually relaxes again, slouching back in her chair with a laugh and a smirk. "So what, now you're claiming to actually /be/ the Weyrwoman?" she scoffs. "Please. A real Weyrwoman would have said that to start with--not spit it out on the spur of the moment to try to compete with me."

"You didn't ask," Griere points out with a shrug. "Of course, this might mean that I'm terribly remiss in my family visits. It -is- incredibly cold here, though." The sweetness is fading now, its purpose served, and she moves to stand. "If you'll excuse me, I believe my mother and aunt are done with their walk. We're to meet for tea. You can imagine the walk did not appeal." She pushes her chair back in and moves to dispose of her mug.

Tiriana's eyes narrow and her amusement dies, doubt rising in the face of that calmness. She doesn't move while the goldrider gets up, instead watching her with gradually more confused looks. "If you're really the Weyrwoman," she finally wonders, "why would I have to ask?"

Griere comes by the table again on her way past, pausing with her fingers on the back of the neighboring chair. "What is it that tells you I'm not Griere? Am I too short?" She makes no indication that she'll be answering Tiriana's question, if she even recognizes it as a question.

"You didn't say anything," answers Tiriana, running that point into the ground. "And--I don't know. Why would a Weyrwoman haul her mother around when she could make somebody else. Or hang around in the living cavern with residents and people. I mean, /our/ Weyrwoman might be like that, but honestly. Who else would?"

"Why would the Weyrleader's daughter call another Weyr home? Life is full of questions," Griere says loftily, waving her fingers through the air. "Anyway, I came in because I was cold, to 'hang around'," (plainly these are not her words) "with a warm drink. It has been lovely meeting you, Tiriana." And then she's off, lifting a hand in a sort of backward wave, her attention forward on the archway to the bowl.

Tiriana's mouth opens and just as quickly closes. She lets Griere go without further comment, although the sulky expression on her face, the way she slams her chair back under the table when she gets up herself a couple of minutes later, speaks enough.