[Log] Plans for Flying

[brazenbronzer]

Who: An'dren, Tiriana
When: Day 31, Month 10, Turn 16
Where: Bowl, Telgar Weyr
What: An'dren helps Tiriana out with her straps, sort of. Mostly, he distracts her from kicking them.

Central Bowl, Telgar Weyr
     A stony field is the center of this great caldera, the size of which is unmatched at any other Weyr--for the whole complement of all the wings at Telgar could rest comfortably within its towering cliffs. Shaped in a perfect oval, the rock walls seem ideal for keeping the usual chill winds stirring about. The ground is mostly made of pebbles and rocks, some hued the milky shades of old quartz, though there are patches where softer dirt and even trees sprout up from the ground. To the south, the bowl opens onto the living caverns and the Weyrleaders' quarters; the immense entrance to the hatching grounds lies to the northwest. Heading southwest will lead one back out into the rocky mountain ranges around Telgar's protective walls. Dragons may be seen, relaxing or fresh from feeding, to the north, as well as the soft lapping sounds of Telgar's lake touching the sandy shore. The weyrling barracks, always aflutter with activity, are to the direct west. The training grounds and the meadow are both covered with a blanket of pure white snow, though it is trodden down in dragon-wide paths where the dragons move.

Contents:
Riuth

Obvious exits:
Weyrling Barracks Southern Bowl Lake Shore Hatching Cavern Feeding Grounds Runner Pasture Weyr Entrance

It's late. Most weyrlings are already inside, their growing dragons falling asleep, themselves getting ready for the impending curfew. Iovniath and Tiriana aren't going inside, though. The half-grown gold is watching the bowl, making sure the other dragons aren't watching her before she gives her wings a few more practice flaps. Tiriana is out beside her in a tangle of straps, flailing around in them not very effectually. "I know it's too dark to see anything, shut up already. I was just trying to fold it and it just--" With a valiant effort, Tiriana throws the mass of straps away from her all of the foot the awkward bundle will throw.

Riuth is exploring, and with Riuth comes An'dren, hands in his pockets and a helmet tucked under his arm. He's nodding along to whatever the bronze is saying, and he's paying less attention to his surroundings than he probably should be; the flying bundle of straps takes him by surprise, and he draws up short, squinting into the dark. "I realize that," he says a little dryly -- for Riuth, probably -- and then raises his voice to ask, "Hello?" A few steps sideways bring him closer to Tiriana, and he blinks again before saying, "Oh. Hello. Those yours?" 'Those' being the straps, to which his dragon has turned an eye and is examining with faint amusement.

Iovniath, on the lookout for watchers, notices Riuth at once as the bronze heads her way, and she stops her own practicing at once, sliding down into a more regal crouch, forepaws crossed as she swings her head toward the bronze. A low whuff is probably meant to warn Tiriana of the company, but at the moment, Tiriana is busily trying to kick her straps instead, which is mostly just tangling her feet back up in them, which just leads to more graceless foot-shaking and kicking trying to get free. And just when she does, An'dren's words sink in, and she turns about to face him. "What?" is her rough demand, her expression startled.

Dragon> Where Tiriana's coarse, sharp edges, Iovniath's touch is smooth as ice, and cold, too, when she reaches out to the visiting bronze. << Good evening, Riuth; you are far from home, but welcome. What brings you to my Weyr? >> Cool, politely formal, she focuses the clean, bright white of her mind onto him. (Iovniath to Riuth)

Oh, well. Hello. Iovniath, now, gets the bulk of Riuth's attention, and the bronze ambles a pace or two closer before crouching as well, graceful neck arched. An'dren looks sidelong at the dragons, then winces as Tiriana gets tangled in the straps -- a step forward here as if he wants to help, but really, what can he do but watch? And watch he does, until she's finally free and finally noticing him; he holds one hand up in an indication of peace and says, fighting down his grin, "Ista's duties. Just...not something I see often. Straps flying 'round like that."

Dragon> Iovniath senses that Riuth meets that cool formality with something a little more casual, if 'casual' can describe the wash of tens of inquisitive voices. It's not just Riuth in Riuth's head, but a small army of others as well, all of them whispering curiously at the gold for all that she'll find no actual words there. << That I am, >> is the only real thought. << Thank you for your welcome; it's nice to have something warm here, in the cold. I and mine came at someone's invitation, and now we're staying because... >> He trails off, then concludes, with a suggestion of laughter, << Well. Because we can. >>

"Stop laughing," Tiriana orders An'dren first, and Iovniath casts a look her way briefly before she's all attention on Riuth again. But it's enough for Tiriana at any rate, because she takes a deep breath and still glowers but does say, "Yeah, well. They won't... do. Like they're supposed to. So I'm gonna show /them/." Because the straps are obviously capable of learning not to mess with her. "Did you want something, or just come to la--say hi," she amends herself; this time at least, the dark look's aimed at Iovniath.

Dragon> If Iovniath is a little taken aback by the swarm of voices mustered into Riuth's one, it's only visible for a moment in the puff of snow that flies up from her mind, like some heavy object just landed in a bank. << Something warm. My welcome, >> she repeats the bronze then, amusement like ice tinkling. Her welcome itself might be warm, but her mind mimics the northern Weyr's area. << But of course you may, still, Riuth. Do you like our cold? My Tiriana tells me your Ista is very different. >> (Iovniath to Riuth)

"I'm not laughing," Andy protests. "We were just looking around, taking in the sights before we leave again. We could -- " He flaps his hand vaguely in some direction or other, encompassing the part of the bowl that lies that way. " -- Go. If you'd like. If we're bothering you." His gaze draws back down to the straps, and he hesitates, mouth pressing together in consideration. Then, an offer: "What're they supposed to do? I could help you show them."

Dragon> Where the gold is snow, the bronze is heat -- Istan warmth melting into Telgar cold. << It's different, >> Riuth says, and half the voices drop away into a thoughtful silence. << I think I prefer the sun over this, but I like it, I think because of its difference. Ista is nothing like this. >> And here, the impression of heat: embers glowing brightly even in the dead of night. (Riuth to Iovniath)

Tiriana is still glowering at her dragon, a sure sign of some kind of internal war between them. Iovniath looks to be winning, too, the way Tiriana grits her teeth and finally turns back to An'dren. "No, not at all. Go right ahead, stay, make yourself at--home." The last word breaks off as the latter offer sinks in, and Tiriana studies the Istan with crossed arms and a scrutinizing gaze. "They're supposed to--work. Fit her. You're a rider, you know what straps do," she tells him, with a strained attempt at politeness, then a wheedling tone that's ill-suited to her. "Maybe you could help..."

Iovniath> Riuth senses that Iovniath's wintry mind sparkles, perhaps melting a little in Riuth's heat, to form brilliant glints of wet crystal. << The sun is nice, too. My Tiriana tells me Ista is like Southern, where she once lived; I've not been to either yet. >> A beat, and then she flares brighter, a gleaming white glow of mixed gratitude and excitement. << I expect yours is excellent at strap-making; would he really help us? They are really quite cumbersome, and still give us much trouble. >> Ignore the splintering sounds of ice breaking in the background; Iovniath dumps enough snow on that impulse to muffle both the sound and any of the grating irritation it might represent--however freely Tiriana continues to express it.

An'dren looks between gold and rider in that tense silence, tactfully staying unobtrusive until Tiriana turns back to him again. "You're learning to be diplomatic," he notes, himself cheerfully not so. Not enough, anyways, to let that observation go unremarked. "You don't really sound sincere, but since you offered, I guess I /will/ stay." That said, he inches closer still, gaze flitting once more to the straps. He might not think much of her hospitality, but he's willing to help where he can, one hand going out for the harness that's giving her trouble. "Wasn't sure what exactly wasn't doing what it's supposed to," he tells her. "Where's the problem? Or is it just...in general?"

Dragon> Most of the crowd cheers at the mention of sun, loving it not simply for its warmth but for its sense of home. The part of it that doesn't is still silent with thought, the cause of which becomes clear when Riuth notes, surprised, << Mine lived at Southern, too, briefly. We visited once, though I don't remember much of it. >> The gratitude and excitement take him off guard, and he says immediately, in automatic response, << Of course. >> Then: << He's not as good at it as others are, but he's had the benefit of experience, at least. Perhaps that might be of some aid to yours. >> (Riuth to Iovniath)

"Yes," says Tiriana, which probably doesn't do too much to answer An'dren's question. She bends over to pick up the lumpy bundle of straps, though, and push them out toward the Istan with a smirk. "Here, take 'em, fix 'em, I'll pay you. I'm a weyrwoman, I can do that. I think it's gotta be one of those things I can just charge to the Weyr as some kind of... necessary living expense. Or something," decides the girl, quite pleased with herself for this grand new idea. "I have important duties, can't waste time on /this/ stuff." She waves an airy hand towar the straps. Pauses. "Just... you're out of Weyr so there's no reason for you to be talking to anybody here. Not about this," she warns him, just a touch wary herself.

Dragon> << Did yours? >> That has Iovniath's attention, sheets of ice tilting slightly to reflect that light at him in more focused fashion. << Mine has not lived there since she was a child; her mother was a weyrwoman there, too. >> For a brief moment, the image of another gold and another dark-haired woman, like Tiriana and Iovniath but not, finds itself projected onto the crystal surface of her mind. Then, just as quickly, it's gone, replaced with her best echo of Ista's and Southern's greenery and sunniness, just for Riuth; her own form of gratitude. << We do appreciate your help, Riuth. You are very kind to do so. >> (Iovniath to Riuth)

An'dren takes the straps, lets them dangle in his hands. "No pay," he says firmly -- and, just as firmly, adds, "I'm not doing this for you. I'll help, if you have questions, but I'm not going to /do/ it for you. You need to be able to do this yourself." He runs the harness through his fingers, searching for something, anything, that might give him some clue as to what's giving Tiriana the most trouble. "You might be a weyrwoman, but you still..." He stops mid-thought as he finds something, but then he moves on, looking up at the weyrling again. "So. What's the problem?"

"I still /what/?" Tiriana says, still testily as she eyes An'dren, shoulders set stiffly. She glowers at him for a couple moments more before, with a huffy exhale, she steps over and reaches for one section of the straps, turning it over until she finds something to point out. "The holes are either these huge gaping things or the needle doesn't go through, and the stitching is /always/ loose, and it never /fits/. Don't know why I bother until she's just done growing," she notes, with a look at Iovniath. It's all the dragon's fault. Somehow. Iovniath is impervious to such accusative looks, all regal, queenly perching and polite interest in both Riuth and An'dren.

Dragon> Iovniath senses that Riuth is gone for a moment, rifling through his rider's memories. When he returns, he's triumphant, matching that echo of greenery and sunniness with a clearer image pulled from An'dren's mind. << He was a candidate there, >> he says. << Searched to Southern from Ista. And then he came home. >> He straightens up, one whirling eye turning on the straps the bronzerider holds, and the voices seem to crowd close, vying for a better view. << I don't think he's giving yours the help she's hoping for, >> he replies a little wryly, but: << All the same. You're welcome. >>

"You still have to do things for yourself. Like mend your own straps." An'dren leans over to get a good look at where she's pointing, making a fairly thoughtful, if also fairly noncommittal, 'hmm'ing noise beneath his breath. "Those are the same problems I had," he admits. "All of them, and then some. I've never been much good at mending things, just at breaking 'em." He grins, a quick flash of teeth, and then he says, "It's just practice. It's fine if it fits too big, 'cause she'll probably grow into it fast." He takes up another section of the straps in order to examine a hole, tracing around the edge of the gaping circle. His demeanor doesn't change, doesn't become any more serious, but he's teaching now, as far as Andy knows how to teach anyone anything. "What I do for these," he tells Tiriana, "is take hammer and nail to it instead of a needle. Guarantees you'll get a hole, and neater, too."

"This is what I have... minions for," Tiriana says after a moment to settle on a good word for them. "Doing the stuff I don't feel like. What else's the point of being a weyrwoman?" She sounds just a little genuinely confused by that bit, shaking her head as though An'dren's the one that doesn't get it. "And if it fits too small?" she answers, dryly. "It fits when I test it, and then by the time I get it all stitched together, she's too big again, even when I try letting out all the buckles far as I can. Stupid buckles." Sulk, sniff. "Or worse, half of it fits, half doesn't, and when I try to fix the one part, she grows out of the other. I /hate/ this." There's even a childish little footstamp there for good measure.

Iovniath> I bespoke Riuth with << Most people don't. >> Her voice is dry--no snow, just cold that crackles with frost. << But any help is still appreciated. So you traded one warm Weyr for another, and back? >> She continues small talk, although idly; while An'dren and Tiriana haggle over straps, she's focusing some of her attention on them, supervising her quick-tempered rider. << We will fly soon--as soon as we have straps--and soon after that, we will /between/, and visit other places. >>

Andy raises his eyebrows, ill-concealed amusement lifting one side of his mouth. "Always figured it was to do things for your Weyr, not the other way 'round," he says. "Y'know. Keep things smooth, make 'em proud. I imagine there's a lot of things you don't feel like doing." He bends the leather between his hands now, twisting it to feel its strength and its suppleness. "Not bad," he murmurs, a little startled, and then adds, "Well, yeah. That's the point. She grows, and you've got to keep changing things. Fixing 'em to match her." His grin, now, is mostly a smirk. "Like I said. It's practice."

Dragon> The response of the crowd is varying, ranging from sympathetic noises to laughter to scoffs. Riuth's voice might be hard to pick out from this near-symphony, but he's there, saying, << I suppose so, yes. More or less. >> There's no supervision from the bronze; he trusts An'dren to know how to handle himself. << Flying was the most exciting for most of us, I think. It's the best type of freedom -- though /between/, too, is free in its way. You should come visit Ista when you can. We'll be the first to welcome you. >> A promise of sorts, or an enticement. (Riuth to Iovniath)

Tiriana sniffs. "I like the fun stuff," she notes. "Flying, not that they let me do that yet. Fighting Thread, not that I get to do that, either--of course the damn stuff stops just when I Impress. Not--" She gestures at the straps with a sigh. "At this rate, don't even know why I should bother. Just don't worry about it, I'll fix 'em tomorrow." Pique fading into weariness more than anything else, she rubs her face and releases another frustrated breath. Then she finally gets around to asking, "Who /are/ you, anyway?"

Iovniath> Riuth senses that Iovniath is audibly flattered by that offer, no attempts made to hide /that/ feeling beneath banks of snow. With a swish of cool breeze, she answers Riuth with a coy, << We would be pleased to visit you, and yours, there. Perhaps we can fly together soon, when you show me your Weyr. >>

"Everyone likes the fun stuff, but the fun stuff never comes free." There's a wry note to his words, spoken like someone who would know from experience. "It'll be worth it, though," An'dren assures the weyrling, "when you finally get it working right. If nothing else, your dragon'll probably be pleased, and that's always worth something, isn't it? Good luck." Now that he's been told not to worry about it, he lets the straps fall and shifts his helmet from beneath one arm to the other, shaking out the now-tingling hand. "An'dren," he says, and he doesn't sound embarrased at all about having forgotten introductions. "And that's Riuth."

For that maxim, Tiriana gives An'dren a flat look, unamused. "Faranth, you sound like... everybody," she tells him, nose wrinkling. When he puts the straps down, she uses one boot to nudge them over by Iovniath, out of the way; it's a much more gentle motion now than earlier, though, as she settles down. "Tiriana and Iovniath," she tells him then, finally. "So what're you doing /here/, anyway? Did your Weyrleader send you to, like, spy on me or something?" Even Tiriana, with her penchant for conspiracy theories, scoffs at that one, smirking.

Dragon> Iovniath senses that Riuth is pleased by Iovniath's response, and the voices swell until they're a dull roar of cheers. << I'd like that. >> Simple and blunt and sincere.

Iovniath> Riuth senses that Iovniath is pleased, too, a slow snowfall of contented flakes. << And I will look forward to it as well. >>

"So long as that 'everybody' doesn't include my mother." Andy returns the flat look with another grin, then holds a hand out for shaking. Tries to, anyways, except that arm's still numb from holding the helmet tucked down for so long, and he ends up wincing and letting it fall again instead. He settles for: "Well met, Tiriana, Iovniath. And not my Weyrleader, actually. My Weyrwoman." He might even be serious, for all the lack of change in his posture and expression, but something -- perhaps a warning from Riuth -- makes him add, "Someone asked for a ride here, and someone else had asked me to visit earlier. Figured if I did one, I'd be able to do the other, too, so why not?"

"Why, do I know her?" Tiriana is nothing if not literal, giving An'dren another of those funny looks, the what-are-you-talking-about-now look. She does reach out for his hand in turn, a move aborted when he lets his own stiff one drop back. "Really?" She's also gullible, or perhaps just that egocentric. "I met her once, I think. She was fine. It's your Weyrleader that doesn't like me much, ever since I punched him that time at the Reaches." The memory makes her smirk herself, quite proud; Iovniath dips her head in a way that's certainly less so. At least Tiriana agrees, "Yeah, why not."

An'dren's not used to that level of literalness, and he gives Tiriana a funny look of his own, deciding, in the end, not to answer her first question after all. "No," he says for the second one. "It was a, y'know. A joke. She's a little..." Wait. What? "...You punched A'son?" He looks off to the bowl wall then, trying to imagine this Telgari weyrling punching the Istan Weyrleader. When his gaze returns to Tiriana, he seems bemused, and yet there's still quiet laughter in his reply of, "I suppose I can see that more than I can see you punching V'lano, anyways. Why'd you do it?"

"V'lano," Tiriana repeats that name. "He's from here, I think. My uncle R'dur knew him, back then. Never met him myself." She shrugs, unbothered by that bit. She's too busy being proud of herself over that incident. "Oh, yeah. It was... a while back, at least. Four turns or so? I was about fifteen, and he deserved it. Tell him I said hi when you go back, too." Beaming at that, she adds, "His sister searched me. Don't like her much, either." Though hopefully those two things aren't really related.

If anything, An'dren looks amused by Tiriana's pride, for all that he should probably be appalled. "I don't think the things you think deserve punching for are the same things everyone else thinks deserve punching for," he replies -- a bit slowly, as he tries to keep the sentence from tangling up in itself. "But yeah, sure, I can say hi. From a distance, maybe." And speaking of things that should probably be said from a distance, here's another: "Do you like /anyone/ much?"

Tiriana blinks at that, as though the idea's never occurred to her before. "Gay and Giremi sure were pissed about it," she notes slowly. "The Reaches Weyrwoman, too." But she shrugs it off and boasts, "Still, one of my finest moments, I think. Haven't hit anybody since then." With a sniff at that fact, she starts to question, "From a dista--" It's as far as she gets before she's taking a step toward An'dren, glaring. "Since when is that any of /your/ business? I don't even know you. But for your information, yes, I do." Hmph.

An'dren doesn't know Giremi, but Gay? "Yeah, I'd think they would be. You sound a little surprised." His eyebrows come up again when Tiriana continues to be pleased, and he takes a step backwards then, just in case. And it's a good thing, too, it'd seem, as not long afterwards, she's taking a step forward, her expression apparently not promising good things to come. "It's not my business," he concedes. "It was...an observation, maybe. Kind of? You're very..." A word, a word, where's the right word? Not short-tempered, not angry. "Fierce."

Iovniath is flattered by offers to fly; Tiriana is flattered by being referred to as 'fierce'. She actively preens, straightening up a little more, smirking, lifting her chin. It does wonders for defusing her temper again. "I am," she agrees. And a beat later, "Well, yeah. You'd think they'd want to, like, stand up for their Weyr's honor. Wouldn't you? That's what I was doing. Of course, /now/ Gay can't throw me out of the Weyr, she said so herself."

An'dren relaxes as Tiriana preens, though he doesn't take back that step, instead staying just that much further from the goldrider. "Yeah, sure," he agrees readily enough. "But I think they would've done some'in a little less...physical, yeah? I doubt punching people really accomplishes much, ever, unless it's a brawl you're looking for." He blinks, then wonders again, "So why'd you punch him?"

Tiriana shrugs to that. "You can beat people into doing what you want," she points out. "And anyway, brawls aren't bad. Kind of fun, actually." She continues to smirk for a moment, but then An'dren repeats that question, and Tiriana gives him a scowl instead. "I told you, defending our Weyr's honor. Don't even remember what he said now, but he deserved it, of course. Haven't you ever hit anybody?" she demands.

"I suppose I could," Andy replies, "but I've never really wanted to. It's less work to charm 'em, and then they won't go running from me if I ever need anything again, yeah?" He grins when the smirk turns into a scowl, but he's shaking his head, trying -- and mostly failing -- to convey disappointment. "If you can't even remember what he said, I doubt it was bad enough to warrant punching. No wonder Gay and Satiet were annoyed." Then, a shrug. "Yeah, I have. Got punched back, though, so it was always fair. As far as these things can be fair, anyways."

Snorting at that, Tiriana eyes An'dren up and down. "Yeah, you wouldn't be much good in a fight, I bet," she notes, with a knowing nod. "And fair, /please/. It's not about being fair, it's about doing more damage to the other guy than he does to you." She rolls her eyes at him then, despairing of his fighting philosophies. "And boys are supposed to be the ones that know how to fight."

An'dren shrugs. "Wasn't offerin' to go into a fight with you," he points out. "And maybe I do know how to fight, maybe I don't. I'm not quite sure why it matters, or even why we're talking about it." One corner of his mouth is quirked as he says this, but the grin fades when Riuth brings his attention to the sky, which is noticably darker than it was when he'd first come across Tiriana. "Don't you have a curfew?" he wants to know.

"Because you wanted to know about A'son," Tiriana informs An'dren sagely. As for curfew? Tiriana shoots a look up at the sky herself then, brows knitting. "Yeah?" she answers with a shrug, unconcerned. "I'm not scared of X'ndar, either, so." But Iovniath is eyeing the sky, too, and whuffing once. "Should put those up, at least," Tiriana concedes that much, nudging a toe at her tangle of straps.

Tiriana's not scared of X'ndar, so Andy'll be scared in her place. "Right," he says, shifting his hold on the helmet and backing up another step. "I'll leave you to that. Shouldn't have kept you out so long." He casts a glance towards the caverns at the other end, then nods to the weyrling and her gold. "It was nice meeting you, and good luck with those straps. Have a good night, yeah?" Then he's beckoning to Riuth, and the bronze rises out of his crouch and, with a rumble of farewell, obligingly follows An'dren to the south.

An'dren pages to Tiriana: Ditto. :) Will you pose again, or should I just head on home?
"Yeah. Thanks," echoes Tiriana, with a lift of her hand to An'dren as he leaves. Iovniath echoes that with her own more sincere-seeming, << Goodbye, Riuth. We will see you again soon. >> She flickers light off of ice then, for him, and then, while Riuth and An'dren depart one way, she and Tiriana head into the barracks.