(no subject)
Although the party has settled now that the brawl and after-effects have been cleaned up and taken care of. Gone, but not forgotten, though there are now more distractions. The Harpers have taken to playing appropriate dancing music for those interested, though a number of individuals are still clustered in groups for socializing and spreading gossip and talking about the recent brawl. Sashaying her way through the crowd of party-goers, Sinopa finds her way to where R'vain is. Lest she be interrupting something - be it a conversation, internal thoughts, or just daydreaming - she reaches out to gently brush the man's elbow for his attention.
She interrupts nothing, apparently. Vanya's kind offer of water and food denied, R'vain took a trek through the lower caverns. It was enough to walk off his fury with J'cor, and now the Weyrlingmaster's come back up here to be-- basically-- a wallflower. A dark-gazing, surly sort of wallflower-- but he cheers somewhat, artificially, when that brush at his elbow breaks him from his unhappy reverie, and the grin he turns toward the Weyrwoman with is a bit short of carnivorous thrill. "Hey," he offers, only. No formal address, nor any familiar one, and the tone could almost be taken for apologetic. The scrunch of his brows and duck of his head, the sudden shoulder-shrug thereafter, double that impression.
It's with a cheerful smile that Sinopa returns R'vain's glance. "Something wrong?" she queries, though she doesn't wait for an answer before she adds, "I was thinking that a break might be nice. If you're still up to it?" A statement turned into a question as she waits for the answers to her questions, patiently and smiling. As if R'vain could turn her request down.
"I'd love to." It comes after a full halt stop, one with no breath in it, one with no grin. Only after the words come does R'vain get his grin back, and this one's as predatory as his mouth can be, as only his mouth can be. He unleans from the wall and puts his arm out for her. "Ruvoth'll take us, y'want t'go still where I had in mind-- ?" The question, the alternatives, are left unspoken; hers to proclaim, or ignore.
After a blink at the bronzerider's question the weyrwoman looks down at her dress, then looks back up at R'vain and shakes her head lightly. "I'm not exactly ready to be traveling out of the weyr," she points out. Changing to prepare for a trip would involve time and effort, and defeat the purpose of a 'break' and turn it into an official leaving and outing. "I thought we might hole up in an office," presumably her shared office or his weyrlingmaster office, "And have ourselves some refreshments and a discussion." There's some hesitancy in this suggestion, as she waits to hear if the Weyrlingmaster approves of the modified plan.
Well, that was an invitation. Even if it wasn't-- there go his eyes. His gaze chases hers, then lingers even after she's looked back up, taking the scenic route over her gown and her figure. "Point," R'vain lets out in a gutteral syllable, little better than a short grunt. His eyes find her face again in time, and he puts his unwrapped paw out, palm up, like to take her hand-- a new offering, more intimate and casual than the arm had been. "My office ain't any kind've thoroughfare. Can't say I got much in th'way of refreshments there th'moment, though. I could pick some up on our way, y'like."
Indeed, that was an invitation. Sinopa's smile brightens at the acceptance of her proposal and she places her hand in the bronzerider's. "I'm sure no one will mind if we take some of the Ball's offerings with us. Just as I'm sure there will be other times for us to visit your secret location." Another chance for the bronzerider to woo, impress, or even just have a private conversation with the weyrwoman, then, is offered. "Lead the way?"
"As always," rumbles R'vain, grinning too much, paw closing about her fingers with a gentleness his form and breadth defy, "I'm sure y'right."
The Ball, of course, has no complaints about a few things going missing. There's no wine left out, as the headwoman, feeling particular about the whole mess of the brawls, had it taken in-- and from R'vain not a single word of complaint about that situation. He collects juice, cider, klah-- whatever the Weyrwoman might prefer, though water's noted to be present already in his office-- and bits to nibble on, cheese and meat and crackers and some sort of little dessert. She'll have to help carry with one hand so that they can each have one other hand free-- if she wants to keep hold of that hand he gave her, and it's clearly his intent that she do so.
So in some time they arrive at his office. A little fumbling for the door-- he apparently locks it, on occasions like this-- and then he's welcoming her inside. "Make y'self home," comes the predictable rumble, rich with a little laughter lingering from something humorous she said somewhere in the gathering-and-carrying process. "Let me get these down on th'desk and I'll get out th'coals and brazier, so we can have a lil' warmth?"
There's no complaint, or comment, from Sinopa on the lack of wine. If the evening's conversation goes better with cider, then so be it. The wintery weather, and chillier atmosphere of the parts of the weyr which are not currently occupied due to the Ball certainly lend themselves to hot drinks rather than wines. Sinopa places the items she helped to carry back on the weyrlingmaster's desk and then takes a seat, wrapping the lacy decorative shawl around her shoulders against the cold. It's not much, but perhaps better than nothing. "The brazier sounds wonderful," she remarks, scooting her chair closer to the weyrlingmaster's desk and crossing her legs. Comfortable, now. "You didn't look as though you were enjoying the ball much," she points out while the bronzerider works. Idle conversation until the Weyrlingmaster wants to get to the actual point of their meeting.
"It'll just take me a moment." Several moments, really. R'vain is busy for some time getting the brazier out of the closet, getting the charcoal into the brazier, and finding somewhere in his desk a flint kit to get the whole thing lit. But he talks while he works, waiting to get the coals glowing before carrying it over to the edge of the desk where it will provide Sinopa the most of its heat. "I got robbed of my chance t'dance with you," he points out while at the business of warming the little room. There's a bit of a grin for this complaint. "Th'whole thing, and th'Weyrleader an' his assertions. Faster if he'd been called. Why wasn't he there, then, all along?" A low growl rattles around in the back of the red man's throat. "Anyway. Kind've spoiled th'mood. Sorry t'snap at y'there at th'end." Coals ready, brazier finished, he straightens and looks at her directly, grin a bit sheepish, if wolves could be sheep. "Hope y'forgive me."
Sinopa turns her head to watch the Weyrlingmaster's movements about the room as he sets up the brazier to provide warmth for the duration of their meeting. Regardless of whether it's going to be a long or short discussion, warmth is always welcome. "Of course I forgive you," Sinopa replies. "J'cor is just frustrated with the Reaches, that's all, and so whenever anything goes wrong he just looks for the nearest person to blame it all on." Bold words to say against the currrent Weyrleader, but then she is in the company of one who disagrees with the Weyrleader and his actions. Shared sentiments are all that she is voicing. "Any day now Citalth will rise and provide us with a capable leader."
"He'd've done better back home," rumbles R'vain, which is a charitable statement-- and meant to be so. The tone the Weyrlingmaster takes is, in fact, almost sympathetic. "Ain't his fault. Th'frustration. Th'blamin', well, s'different. Ought t'be able t'do better..." Finally the last part of her words sinks in and he pauses, stepping away from the brazier and rounding the back of the desk like he might sit down there, on 'his' side of it. Except for the pause. With a paw lain over the back of his chair he looks long at Sinopa from across the desk, and in a little time puts out a broad, toothy grin. "Let's hope so, Weyrwoman. Y'got a pick in mind?" And this offered, he goes on around the desk the rest of the way and pulls back a chair right next to hers, one of the ones his guests sit in-- and sits in it, himself.
"He'd've done better back home," rumbles R'vain, which is a charitable statement-- and meant to be so. The tone the Weyrlingmaster takes is, in fact, almost sympathetic. "Ain't his fault. Th'frustration. Th'blamin', well, s'different. Ought t'be able t'do better..." Finally the last part of her words sinks in and he pauses, stepping away from the brazier and rounding the back of the desk like he might sit down there, on 'his' side of it. Except for the pause. With a paw lain over the back of his chair he looks long at Sinopa from across the desk, and in a little time puts out a broad, toothy grin. "Let's hope so, Weyrwoman. Y'got a pick in mind?" And this offered, he goes on around the desk the rest of the way and pulls back a chair right next to hers, one of the ones his guests sit in-- and sits in it, himself.
Sinopa nudges her chair to the side so that she doesn't have to turn her head quite so much to look at R'vain. It's easier and more comfortable that way. "/A/ pick?" she queries. "I'm not sure I have a single one, though I've got my favorites." A coy smile follows this statement, to which she adds, "You're among them." More information on the others is not offered, though. "How about you? Is there one bronzerider favored above the others that you're aware of?" Teasingly she adds, "That you'd recommend, even?"
"No." A frank answer, plainly put. "If it was Tialith, I'd have a thought t'my own chances, and D'ven's. With Citalth our queen-- " R'vain has to pause to grin for this. A carnivorous grin, hungry but happy, the pleased hound's lazy showing of contented teeth. "-- s'up in th'air, if you'll excuse th'pun. But with Citalth our queen I ain't got much place t'talk plans f'contingencies as I might've thought to. Y'got your choice, or hers anyway. Y'got no need f'me, save as y'Weyrlingmaster, if Ruvoth fails." And yet-- he keeps on grinning. He leans forward, putting his elbows onto wide-spread knees, paws lazing between. "Still, I guess I could letcha know what I'd figured."
"As I said, there are favorites." There is no confirmation of any of the Weyrlingmaster's speculations about how the flight might end. Girls must have their secrets, after all. "I wouldn't say there's no place for you. You make a most excellent Weyrlingmaster, though I believe the decision to change that lays in the hands of the upcoming Weyrleader, whoever that may be. Though perhaps he can be persuaded to keep you in the position." Assuming that is, of course, what R'vain desires. Leaning back, Sinopa laces her fingers together and then holds them around her knee. "I wouldn't mind hearing your plans at all." Even if there's no contigencies to make for another queen, sometimes plans are good to hear.
And R'vain makes no further efforts at questioning her favorites. He does reach over and pick up one of the cups of hot cider, though, something to hold in his hands between his knees, to stare his grinning stare into while he replies, and explains. "P'raps," of persuading Weyrleaders, an unhelpful remark. "What I'd figured on was that y'and I might have a trade of tactics. If Tialith went up, hey, I'd give m'self fifty of a hundred on that. You'd be th'junior again, but a junior's got place. I've seen 'em have more place if th'Weyrleader chooses. You saw Diya. You know what I mean." His shoulders jerk in a poor shrug, the motion going into his hands and sending the liquid in the cup wobbling. "If it's you, and some other bronzerider, then I'd plan on stayin' where I am-- but you'd know I'd be yours t'use, you needed somethin'. I don't mind bein' th'Weyrwoman's fetch-and-carry. Sometimes a servant gets a chance t'speak, too."
Sinopa is all careful listening and devote attention as she listens to R'vain. Her head nods slightly at the mention of Diya. Once the Weyrlingmaster has had his chance to voice his proposal, Sinopa is silent. Her gaze drifts away from the bronzerider to refocus on a spot on the wall as she considers. "I'm sure all leaders need their supporters," she finally says, head turning to look back at R'vain as she smiles gently. "One can never really have enough loyal followers." Poor choice of wording, though it's perhaps the most suitable of terms. "You said you have nothing to trade, though I think you're wrong. Tialith is gone, but I'm sure that you still have your loyalty to offer, no?" After a pause for swallowing and wetting her lips the weyrwoman amends the Weyrlingmaster's proposal, "Support and loyalty for a weyrwoman's favor?" Which could indeed give the Weyrlingmaster a greater voice in the weyr's politics.
R'vain looks at her for some time after that, his head up, his paws around that cup. In a little while he reaches over and surrenders the cider to the desk it came from, then in an abrupt but fairly smooth movement slips down out of his chair onto a knee before her. Strange. The other knee up, he leans his arms into it, and from this perspective gazes up at her, grin wide, teeth showing. Her hound, then, completely unsubtle. "As you like it, then, Weyrwoman. Whether Ruvoth flies her or not-- what I can do, the support I can give." His tongue moves over his teeth, but he manages not to make that obnoxious sound in withdrawing it. "All yours."
Strange, though the gesture might be cute were it from someone more attractive and appealing than the red haired monstrosity that is the Weyrlingmaster. However, this isn't about attraction, but power and deals. Sinopa smiles and adds in her part of the deal, reaching a hand out for the Weyrlingmaster to take. "I appreciate your loyalty and will always have an ear for the concerns of my new friend."