[Log] The Couch
Who: I'daur, Leova
When: Day 16, Month 3, Turn 16
Where: Leova and Vrianth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
What: I'daur drops by to visit his couch.
Sunset Across the Lake Ledge
Broad and flat, this large ledge could likely hold a bronze dragon and a visitor comfortably, if with little room to spare. Slanting slightly downward so that any rain may spill over the unsheltered outcropping, the bumpy ledge has smooth grooves that travel like wagon wheel tracks from where the weyr entrance begins to the very edge, paths worn smooth by turns of wind and running water. Dug into the rock next to the opening of the sheltered sanctuary and where the ledge begins to dwindle before disappearing into the wall entirely, a small cavern has been dug so that someone could carefully climb in and sit comfortably for a while. The view from the ledge reveals just why a cozy hidey-hole might be valuable, with its location almost directly behind the lake, this weyr's true treasure lies in its perfect sunset watching spot.
Sunset, check. Lake, check. It's even nice and clear, though cold for oiling, which is probably why the bucket's sitting unused now and the top of its contents is congealed. No visitors for Vrianth at the moment, unlike earlier: instead she's lounging, playing a catch-my-tailtip catch-my-hand game with her Leova, and it's probably no surprise that the green is winning.
Zunaeth, for once, takes the initiative in reaching out, tendrils of warmth feeling toward Vrianth rather than letting her come looking for him. << We're gonna stop by, >> says the bronze, just about the time that his awkward-flying form becomes discernible, gliding across the bowl toward the ledge.
Being a strong believer in positive reinforcement, Vrianth agrees even before she gets around to words, delighted sparks touching the tendrils' tips like a handshake that could tug but doesn't. Barely. << You found it! >> Of course, this distraction means Leova gets to grab her tail, right above its tip where it's just wrist-thick, and give a good tug. Poor Vrianth. At least there's plenty of room to land.
Zunaeth lands heavily, thumping down on the ledge as he tells Vrianth dryly, << Of course we did. >> He settles down, draping his wings out, the left over the edge so that he doesn't have to curl it in, as he does the right after a moment. I'daur is already unbuckling himself to get down. "Thought," he says, "'d drop by, see how you was settling in."
Leova then gives Vrianth a pat and lets her tail go, the offended extremity now swishing this way and that as she gets up and prowls toward her visitors. Swish swish swish. Leova looks after her, laughs, and gets up from the stone where she'd been sitting. "You showed up at a good time, she was winning far too much." But she's indulgent despite her words. And just to set it out there, "Getting there. Liking the furniture, anyway."
One corner of I'daur's mouth twitches upward, however stern he tries to look. "Heard you found some comfortable pieces," he agrees, nodding once, glancing back at Zunaeth while the dragon rumbles with his own bemusement. "Thought I might put my feet up a little bit, while I caught up with you." And he smirks for that choice of words.
"Did that," Leova agrees, and has the minimal grace to slide her glance off and away for a moment, something that at least approaches sheepish. "Come on and see." She steps back towards the hangings that shield the weyr, with an offhand glance at Vrianth, who passes along to Zunaeth that it's warm in there, that there's room, but there's sunset out here! and stars later! and what might be most convincing, that he wouldn't have to move.
So Zunaeth stays where he is, spread out on the ledge with Vrianth; it's I'daur that shuffles after Leova, ducking through the hangings and pausing on the other side to let his eyes adjust to the lower light. And then there's that couch, so comfortably placed up by the dragon's couch. I'daur drawls, "Whaddya know. Used to have one like that myself."
"Did you now. Think I may even remember it, if I think real hard. Now that you remind me." Leova wanders over to the used-to-be-blue couch, gives its back a possessive pat. "Sometimes it's nice to have something that's good and broken in, don't you think?" Meanwhile, Vrianth is radiating a great deal of pleasure and pride and what a good idea of Zunaeth's it was, wasn't it. The taking part.
I'daur snorts. "Story of my life," he tells Leova then, shuffling over to the couch. Without further ado, he flops down on it, stretching his legs out, rubbing the left idly, habitually. "S'nice. Picked a good one, feels like. So how's the wing?"
"All right so far. Drills. Niena in there too, that's a piece of all right." Leova hesitates, looking the other rider over, then promptly abandons him to disappear behind the inner hangings. She isn't gone long: just long enough to gather one of the glowbaskets and a few other things. He gets the nice blanket tossed to him, soft wool and Tillek-made and up to that Hold's caliber, before she settles sideways on the other end with the scratchy one. "There. Thought about a hot brick, too, but it's not as cold as all that."
Out on the ledge, Vrianth has had enough of reexamining her territory and settles down near to Zunaeth. It's the windward side she's claimed, too, though she's relatively small enough that it doesn't make as much of a difference to be in her lee unless the angle's just right. And she yawns, though her eyes are bright and glowing.
I'daur reaches a hand up to catch the blanket automatically, half-dropping it into his lap as he unfolds it. "Didn't have to," he tells her, frowning slightly though he does spread it out anyway. "Niena, right. In Snowstrike, with B'yan. He got you himself?" A slightly curious look is cast her way.
"Want to bring back those old barracks memories," Leova claims, even though the soft blanket never had seen the light of day once it made it out of its care package, as though being exposed to weyrling air might make it keep the smell forever. Stretching out her legs towards the couch's center, draping the scratchy blanket over them before she leans back on its armrest, "Did. Mean anything?"
"Just wondering," says I'daur with a shrug. He tosses the end of the blanket down over his own legs while Leova gets comfortable. The couch is certainly that. "S'in my first class here. Don't see 'em like I used to. Ingrates." Not that he really sounds too concerned. "You like them barracks memories?"
"Can always pass on a message," Leova says, not that dragons aren't capable of doing that exact same thing when they're in a mood. "Back when he was your weyrling, did he speak straight, or was he all roundabout then too?" And she could answer the rest right away, but instead she just leans back, crossed arms holding up her head as she looks up at the ceiling. "Yeah. Yeah, I mostly do. Not to the point of moving back in, mind."
"Mostly?" I'daur's mouth twists at that, wry. Of B'yan, though: "Oh, can't spit nothin' out," he drawls. "Thinks he's something special. Mysterious." Shrug. "You want straight shooters, go see Shanlee. A'son, maybe--that boy couldn't lie his way out of a sack, don't think. Not that he's here to do it now, either, but."
Leova aims for a light poke with her boot toe. "You got any Turn of your own, where you want to remember absolutely everything?" She gives it some silence before she lets her laugh out, and even then it's just a little low, quiet. "Can see that. Don't know A'son except what Milani and them say about him. But Shanlee? Straight talk? Either she's changed, or she's just different with you than me." By her tone, could easily be either. Both.
"Nope," I'daur answers the former question. He shrugs, and reaches for a pocket for a flask. Figures he won't go long without it. "Not much for wallowing in memories. Maybe," and he slides to the subject of Shanlee abruptly, "B'yan, N'thei, they're infectin' her, too. Dunno. Used to be straight with me. Don't talk like we used to, though, either."
"Too bad it didn't work the other way around," Leova muses, amber eyes narrowing in thought. "Who knows, though. If you did talk, maybe she would be. Not everything's got to change so much. You see the way she marked up her hand?"
"She's formidable," drawls I'daur, "but them two's something else. Hand?" He cocks a glance sideways at Leova, taking a drink and then offering it to her absently.
"Something like," and Leova makes it a sentence that encourages continuing as she leans forward down the length of her legs to take the flask. She does sniff first, to see whether it's his usual stuff, before drinking right away. "Got quite the cut on her palm, lucky she didn't get a tendon or something. Real thin, tidy almost. Healing all right."
"Huh," is all I'daur says of that cut, nodding once to Leova. Then, "B'yan, figure he does all right with the wing. Don't hear nothing about /his/ second managing things, anyway. Though Faranth knows might not be a bad thing, for /some/ people."
Leova has to laugh at that, low and with a decided smirk to it even when she's quiet again. Which she is when she finally drinks, slowly, making it last. "Been interesting, them switching up maneuvers all the time like that, instead of going with the basics. Knew about it beforehand but not the same as doing it." A glance over, "You heard Sh'dor got Icicle?"
I'daur nods to that, slowly. "S'different, wings. Wingleaders. Not me," he answers, waiting while she gets her drink, then holding his hand back out for the flask. "Not Zunaeth. --Heard something about that." He manages to say it with a straight face, though he glances around the room rather than at her for it.
Leova mutters something under her breath as she delivers the goods, not exactly polite, but not completely unamused. "Yeah, yeah. He's over the moons."
"Bet he is," agrees I'daur, and his mouth twitches that time, upward at the corner. He hides it behind his hand as he rubs at his cheek. "Oughta do all right there, him and what's his name. Idriloth." Pause. "You mad?"
Out on the ledge, Vrianth has been remarkably quiet and even peaceful until now, just resting in Zunaeth's flame-thoughts to the extent he lets her and powering them by low-level electric current of her own. But now she croons. Because her name is not going to get forgotten, unless it's on purpose. Her rider snorts, forgets to tell I'daur it's not about him, and just winds up with a, "No-o. No. Snowstrike's good." She nods firmly.
"Is it?" says I'daur, tilting his head slightly. But he takes Leova at her word, apparently, and just nods. "All right then. Good."
Leova crosses her arms, which really helps with the portrayal of how good it all is. "Real good." She's quiet a moment, looking that way.
I'daur shoots a sideways look at Leova then, a brow raised when she crosses her arms. He's quiet, too, while he watches her in turn for several seconds, reaches to take another drink.
Leova exhales slowly, nice and controlled, and slumps down some so her head's on the armrest instead of her shoulders. And then she's quiet for a while longer, maybe long enough to take a drink or two more. Eventually, though, "So you wouldn't want a wingleader."
I'daur pauses again, releasing a low breath before he answers. "'D take one," he finally says, frowning. "Could get one these days."
"But would you want one." Leova shifts enough to get an elbow back behind her: easier.
"Didn't do real well by the last one," I'daur admits. "Probably wouldn't now, either. Too old 'n' stubborn."
"Melata's stubborn," Leova murmurs, tongue in cheek, no mention made of age.
"Old." I'daur'll say it. "S'a wingleader already, too. Don't have to put up with no shit."
"Nope," Leova says comfortably. "Just kids like us." She nearly pulls off the straight face, too.
I'daur snorts. "Got that already, don't I," he answers, shaking his head slightly, wryly.
Leova slides a smile his way. "What? Don't you want L'vae as your wingsecond?"
I'daur just eyes Leova then. "Faranth, him or Persie?" he drawls. "Couldn't pick. 'Ll stick with what I got, anyway."
"More like," but then Leova stops. Whistles a little. Tunefully.
I'daur's eyes narrow then, and he shoots an expectant, waiting look at Leova when she stops and starts whistling instead.
This time, Leova doesn't cave so soon. No, she simply whistles a little more, moving on to the chorus now, head turned towards the open weyr just so she can give him a sidelong glance back.
I'daur can wait, in no hurry. He just stretches out a little more on the couch, scooting down and adjusting the drape of the blanket in the meantime. Not even sneaking those sideways looks at Leova, as she does him, though there's still that expectant air.
Yet another glance. After which Leova leans down and breaks out the flagon she'd brought earlier with the blankets, unstoppering it to a faint fizz and the smell of hops. She drinks, smacks her lips, even.
"Wouldn't of shared mine," I'daur will offer a dry opinion to that, when she brings out her own drink, "known you had some lyin' around. Don't expect it again."
"Never do expect it," Leova says mildly. Though she does lean over to show him, make it within easy reach: "Small beer. Least it's not wine, hm?"
"Well, good," says I'daur, and reaches to take the flagon, since she so handily puts it there. He takes a drink, a small one, before moving to pass it back to its owner. "Least it's not," he agrees. "Beer's better'n nothing, anyway."
She sets it on the floor between them, and actually sits up the way people normally sit on couches, except with an extra helping of slouch. "What's your favorite? Saying, if you could drink anything at all."
I'daur shrugs. "'Ll stick with my whiskey," he answers. "S'done right by me, these turns. Not much picky past that--drink any kind. Why, gonna get a housewarmin' present?" Nevermind he's the one that should probably be giving /her/ one of those.
"Didn't realize your house needed warming," and that would be Leova employing the old chestnut with just a little more humor than it would normally deserve. Though she does add, "Sounds as though you wouldn't like what we got from the Weyr, then. Peach brandy. Probably too fruity."
I'daur just eyes Leova, eyes narrowed slightly if not unkindly for that former jab. To her latter question, however, he just agrees, "Probably not. Sort of thing I'd trade in for a real drink. S'girly drinks."
"Don't have any umbrellas anyway," Leova agrees in her turn. "Just as well." She tilts her head back to examine the ceiling, as though what she mentions next could be found up there. "Girly drinks. Manly drinks. In between drinks."
"Umbrellas, them's for Ista," agrees I'daur. He's silent for several moments then, before he finally says, "Well. Should probably be getting home before Zunaeth sets up too much out there."
"Getting late, is it," Leova says unhurriedly. "Well. He's good company, if you need to go looking for a comfortable couch again sometime. Or," and here she glances sideways all over again, "You knew he invited us by?"
"Mighta mentioned it," agrees I'daur. "Might as well someday, everybody else just turns up." He sounds purposefully grumpy about it, as though he has to work himself up to that. He does move to push the blanket off, piling it on the couch as he gets to his feet with a grunt.
"You don't say," and it's convenient that Leova's bending down to set the flagon aside, where it won't risk getting knocked into, but then again she's still not-quite-smiling as she stands. Taking the glowbasket with her for the walk to the ledge, "Nicer to have an invitation, I think. Makes a person feel welcome, 'stead of just not minding."
"Come by then, you want," says I'daur, which is about as close to invitations as he probably gets. He's already reaching to pocket his flask again and then walk toward the door. "S'worth seeing the lookout, leastways."
Leova trails slightly behind, the better to play host and not just to hide the mischief in her smile, though at the weyr's mouth she reaches over his shoulder to move the hangings aside. And by then it's mostly out of her voice, too. "Mm. Another night. Like you say, it's getting late." Mostly.
"Mm," I'daur agrees, while Zunaeth rouses himself from beside Vrianth. "Another night. You take care of that couch now," he tells the girl, too solemn as he turns to mount up on the dragon.
"Will do." Vrianth meets her more than halfway, curving around behind her to tilt green eyes at those departing and wrap her tail around Leova's knees. "Should maybe hook it to the wall, or something. Wouldn't want anybody stealing it."
"Mmhmm." I'daur just eyes Leova, shakes his head, and gets aboard. And shortly, Zunaeth is winging his way off the ledge, toward their own.
At least Leova has the decency to wait until they're out of easy earshot before whispering to her Vrianth, who all of a sudden looks remarkably smug. But then again, that might have to do with how her rider's picking up the oil bucket and taking it back to where it's nice and warm inside.