A hard morning's break
Who: R'vain, Essdara
Where: Weyrlingmaster's Office
Comment: This is lunch, the first day of R'vain and Dara's new arrangement. Tired, they converse, and R'vain reveals some of his plans for Dara.
Warning: I don't recall anything specific, but it's Dara and R'vain, I'm sure there's something naughty in there.
They have earned a quiet lunchtime. Maybe he's feeling a little soft-hearted after the incredibly early morning, the helping him dress and dress herself, the running the length of the bowl. She had a brief moment's respite while weyrlings did cleaning and feedings; Essdara, then, was required only to attend him while he walked his rounds in their barracks, so that she'd learn from watching how he does, how she'll help him on another day. Breakfast, with weyrlings. It's like they're everywhere, part of everything he does, everything he eats and drinks and breathes. And then the morning's drills themselves: she's learning, starting now, how to march formations on the ground, on two feet, just like all the weyrlings are, while their dragons toy with vtols and young goats at one end of the cavern, learning their first hunting skills. The marching is hard in a way the morning run isn't: you can't stop, or slow down, or even vary your stride. Not without breaking the whole formation. Classroom lessons might have been tiresome after that-- no guest instructor today, just R'vain going on and on about flight formations and the endless variations invented for all kinds of Threadfall and even some other purposes. Calisthenics followed, building up an appetite. R'vain joins in these, as instructor. Today, Essdara joined in as student. Chances are good he was harder on the group, not easier, for her presence.
So lunch is served in his office. After she's brought it, anyway. But when she /has/ brought it, he's waiting, face mopped, hair smoothed, shirt changed. He's pouring ice water. He's grinning at the ice water, as it flows from pitcher to glasses. R'vain is, by expression, well pleased.
And out of place in the morning's routine, almost glaringly so, a bounty of pearls holding a small key. In quiet moments, in those few spots where she has a chance to breath, fingers all too often find it and touch it. Reminding herself of it's presence and the responsibility it brings. Such as, for now, the serving of lunch. While she hasn't had time for a proper cooked lunch, she has assembled ingredients from the caverns into a presentably and tasty balance, and spends a few short minutes plating up for R'vain before seeing to her own. Her movements are a bit stiff now, and weariness is apparent. "I always thought I was fit..." She murmers as she settles into her seat with a wince. "Even watching when I could, I never realised how hard they work."
"Well, t'be fair you /are/ comin' in on it five months in." R'vain casts up that toothy grin, quick-like so he can look back down and get the second glass full but not overflowing. Then he shoves one across the top of the desk for her to take, and draws the first back toward himself. But he doesn't sit. He pauses, a little bent, one paw flat on the wood, looking at her. Then at the chairs on the far side of his desk. Then at their plates. "Pull a chair over here an' sit with me when you got your plate together," he bids in a low voice, then backs up so his own chair shoves aside behind his knees, making room for his request. "Y'want th'afternoon easier? You don't /have/ t'be a weyrling." He descends into the chair, draws his plate off of the desk, eyes glittering and sharp and levelly stuck upon her. She /wanted/ to be. And he knows.
Curious, she does as asked, hauling one of the chairs to the spot next to him, and moves the plates as appropriate. Resettling, she looks over at him sharply. "I've no intention of backing down, R'vain. I may be sore, but I am not broken, nor will I be so. I'll keep up." It's as much challenge as promise, and there is intensity to the way the words play from her tongue, a need to prove herself to him. "If there's anything you prefer for your lunch next week, let me know the day before and I will arrange for it." She says, in a total non-sequitor and topic change.
"I'm already takin' a rest day from you every seven." R'vain shakes his head once, violently, then lets her out of the pin of his glittering stare and starts on lunch. Arranged closer to her, he can stop, put a paw over, reach for her knee or her hand. He does so, in a moment. "I'll eat anything, girl, ain't you noticed? You bring anything you think's good and I'll be pleased you picked it for me. Don't need t'do more'n that." He shakes his head again, bemused rather than impassioned this time. "Stubborn thing. You'll make a fine w-- " Beat. Barely a hitch. "Weyrling, f'me."
"Regardless." Dara says, quietly, "I'll keep up. Unless you were going easy on them so I wouldn't look silly?" And her tone, serious as it is, indicates she would not approve. A roll is taken from her plate and ravenously devoured; appatite isn't an issue with the workload he is setting. "And I had noticed, but I never accept that as a given. There's got to be things you like more than others, and... Cooking's what I do, and I like to make sure it's appreiated." The little stumble would seem to go unnoticed, though there's a fainly raised eyebrow when he is done his sentance. "Now all I need's a little green to call me hers." She retorts.
"No," R'vain says, slowly, as if there's something he's not saying in the denial, and his eyes are wicked enough to confirm that. He eats well, himself, and quickly-- but he always does. As for favorites of food, he only lets her have a little snort. It's that bit at the end that has him looking up from his plate, mouth full, stopped mid-chew. And then he recomposes himself somewhat, chews some more, swallows, and picks up his glass. "No one said she'd have t'be green." Swig.
Essdara nods firmly, the disapproval fading. "Didn't think you were, and I'm glad." Her own eating is, if not fast, at least not painfully slow. Used to grabbing bites between recipes or meals, it doesn't take long for what she has to disappear. R'vain's retort has her laughing in true amusement. "You've spent too much time with Roa, you've got visions of kitchen girls risen to goldrider. That's her story, not mine, and it would be rude of me to try to usurp it." She grins, a twinkle in her eye. "Brown, though, that would be fun just to see the look on people's faces."
R'vain's nose wrinkles. "Don't joke," he says, a bit too sharply, and tends to his food, unwilling to meet her eyes. His brow is furrowed, however, ruddy brows low over his eyes to shade them, mouth bent in neither sneer nor frown. He eats with a vehemence almost violent, and doesn't say anything else.
He may be looking down and being savage, but that isn't making her not look at him, her expression one of curiosity. A roll in her hand, a bite taken from it, she considers him and his reactions. No words are spoken - what can be said to that? But the reality of her thinking is undeniable. Finally, the half eaten roll is put aside. "And what would you have of me next, Sir?" She asks, a mix of distraction and placation.
"I been thinking on this since th'last one, girl." R'vain looks up from his plate, responding as surely to her use of 'sir' as she does to his demand. "S'a'right if you don't get attached. Don't think about it too much. But don't joke. If you stand again it'll be with me behind you. If you stand again there's goin' t'be a queen out there, and when she comes you'll offer her all you got." He lifts his plate, puts it aside from his lap to the desk and turns a bit so he can stare at her now with all the intensity he kept from her before, dark burning. "S'up t'you whether you stand again."
And that stops her. And, uncomfortable, her fingers again find the string of pearls she wears. How quickly that source of comfort has become normal for her! She weighs his words, tests them, listens to his tones while he speaks them, before replying. "When I stand again," she starts, emphasis on the first word. "I will be giving it my all. I will not hide, and I will not avoid. But we don't make that choice. Nor, really, do we know that there will be a gold there to begin with. Right now, that's secondary to there being eggs there at all."
"We do make that choice." He puts the glass aside now too, and pulls closer to her, dragging the chair along with a scrape of wood against the stone floor. "You're a resident of the Weyr. I'm th'Weyrlingmaster. S'your right t'stand and mine t'tell you to." R'vain's mouth twists again, and this time it might really be a grin hiding somewhere amongst leer and sneer. "I know a queen egg if I see one. And I ain't th'only one; th'dragonhealers'll confirm it. I know. You'll stand. And we'll wait 'til then."
Essdara blinks a bit. "I meant." Dara says, slowly, "That we don't make the choice who that gold will Impress, R'vain. Remember, for as many worthy and wonderful goldriders the world has... There is an airheaded puppet who wouldn't be near a green, let alone a gold." Which of those she would be is unsaid. "And I make that choice, and made it. When she died, I made that promise, and you know that. And i will do wht you say. I'll go out there, and if a gold comes from that egg, I will think of every happy thing I can and do my best to attract her. Beyond that, there's nothing I can do on that choice. What chooses me, chooses me."
R'vain tosses a paw out, fingers wriggling, nose wrinkling again. "Ain't goin' t'be her clutch. You promised her you'd stand. Not f'which one, I assume. Wait 'til there's a queen. S'all I ask." The wriggling stops, but the hand remains, a beckoning, open for her to take. "There's a few things I'm tryin' t'make you into that ain't just for my personal appreciation, y'know. I got hopes. I know it ain't my choice, but there's nothin' sayin' I can't fit you out th'best I can for the chance."
She doesn't reply immidiately. Still, an open hand offered like that, it's not something she can refuse just then, and so she slips her own hand into it. "I figured as much." She admits, quietly. "I don't assume to understand why, yet, or what I will do if it happens. But thinking about all this, our arrangement and your interest... There's really only one answer, one place you could want me. And I will do my best, I promise you that. For better or for worse... I am yours, and I will do my best for you."
"Good. I'm glad you got it figured out. Y'should've by now." He nods once, and puts forward his other paw to rub softly at the back of her hand. "And I got contingency plans. If there's not a queen for you, maybe there'll be a green. If not a green, maybe somethin' else entirely." His gaze narrows, drifting from her face to the pearls that clutch her throat, then back up, and R'vain grins a carnivorous grin. "You're goin' t'fit those someday. I know it. Now c'mere," he says, as he's wont to do, and tugs with uncharacteristic gentleness at her hand in his. "Sit my knee and we'll finish lunch. Got a few minutes at least before th'weyrlings come back."
Where: Weyrlingmaster's Office
Comment: This is lunch, the first day of R'vain and Dara's new arrangement. Tired, they converse, and R'vain reveals some of his plans for Dara.
Warning: I don't recall anything specific, but it's Dara and R'vain, I'm sure there's something naughty in there.
They have earned a quiet lunchtime. Maybe he's feeling a little soft-hearted after the incredibly early morning, the helping him dress and dress herself, the running the length of the bowl. She had a brief moment's respite while weyrlings did cleaning and feedings; Essdara, then, was required only to attend him while he walked his rounds in their barracks, so that she'd learn from watching how he does, how she'll help him on another day. Breakfast, with weyrlings. It's like they're everywhere, part of everything he does, everything he eats and drinks and breathes. And then the morning's drills themselves: she's learning, starting now, how to march formations on the ground, on two feet, just like all the weyrlings are, while their dragons toy with vtols and young goats at one end of the cavern, learning their first hunting skills. The marching is hard in a way the morning run isn't: you can't stop, or slow down, or even vary your stride. Not without breaking the whole formation. Classroom lessons might have been tiresome after that-- no guest instructor today, just R'vain going on and on about flight formations and the endless variations invented for all kinds of Threadfall and even some other purposes. Calisthenics followed, building up an appetite. R'vain joins in these, as instructor. Today, Essdara joined in as student. Chances are good he was harder on the group, not easier, for her presence.
So lunch is served in his office. After she's brought it, anyway. But when she /has/ brought it, he's waiting, face mopped, hair smoothed, shirt changed. He's pouring ice water. He's grinning at the ice water, as it flows from pitcher to glasses. R'vain is, by expression, well pleased.
And out of place in the morning's routine, almost glaringly so, a bounty of pearls holding a small key. In quiet moments, in those few spots where she has a chance to breath, fingers all too often find it and touch it. Reminding herself of it's presence and the responsibility it brings. Such as, for now, the serving of lunch. While she hasn't had time for a proper cooked lunch, she has assembled ingredients from the caverns into a presentably and tasty balance, and spends a few short minutes plating up for R'vain before seeing to her own. Her movements are a bit stiff now, and weariness is apparent. "I always thought I was fit..." She murmers as she settles into her seat with a wince. "Even watching when I could, I never realised how hard they work."
"Well, t'be fair you /are/ comin' in on it five months in." R'vain casts up that toothy grin, quick-like so he can look back down and get the second glass full but not overflowing. Then he shoves one across the top of the desk for her to take, and draws the first back toward himself. But he doesn't sit. He pauses, a little bent, one paw flat on the wood, looking at her. Then at the chairs on the far side of his desk. Then at their plates. "Pull a chair over here an' sit with me when you got your plate together," he bids in a low voice, then backs up so his own chair shoves aside behind his knees, making room for his request. "Y'want th'afternoon easier? You don't /have/ t'be a weyrling." He descends into the chair, draws his plate off of the desk, eyes glittering and sharp and levelly stuck upon her. She /wanted/ to be. And he knows.
Curious, she does as asked, hauling one of the chairs to the spot next to him, and moves the plates as appropriate. Resettling, she looks over at him sharply. "I've no intention of backing down, R'vain. I may be sore, but I am not broken, nor will I be so. I'll keep up." It's as much challenge as promise, and there is intensity to the way the words play from her tongue, a need to prove herself to him. "If there's anything you prefer for your lunch next week, let me know the day before and I will arrange for it." She says, in a total non-sequitor and topic change.
"I'm already takin' a rest day from you every seven." R'vain shakes his head once, violently, then lets her out of the pin of his glittering stare and starts on lunch. Arranged closer to her, he can stop, put a paw over, reach for her knee or her hand. He does so, in a moment. "I'll eat anything, girl, ain't you noticed? You bring anything you think's good and I'll be pleased you picked it for me. Don't need t'do more'n that." He shakes his head again, bemused rather than impassioned this time. "Stubborn thing. You'll make a fine w-- " Beat. Barely a hitch. "Weyrling, f'me."
"Regardless." Dara says, quietly, "I'll keep up. Unless you were going easy on them so I wouldn't look silly?" And her tone, serious as it is, indicates she would not approve. A roll is taken from her plate and ravenously devoured; appatite isn't an issue with the workload he is setting. "And I had noticed, but I never accept that as a given. There's got to be things you like more than others, and... Cooking's what I do, and I like to make sure it's appreiated." The little stumble would seem to go unnoticed, though there's a fainly raised eyebrow when he is done his sentance. "Now all I need's a little green to call me hers." She retorts.
"No," R'vain says, slowly, as if there's something he's not saying in the denial, and his eyes are wicked enough to confirm that. He eats well, himself, and quickly-- but he always does. As for favorites of food, he only lets her have a little snort. It's that bit at the end that has him looking up from his plate, mouth full, stopped mid-chew. And then he recomposes himself somewhat, chews some more, swallows, and picks up his glass. "No one said she'd have t'be green." Swig.
Essdara nods firmly, the disapproval fading. "Didn't think you were, and I'm glad." Her own eating is, if not fast, at least not painfully slow. Used to grabbing bites between recipes or meals, it doesn't take long for what she has to disappear. R'vain's retort has her laughing in true amusement. "You've spent too much time with Roa, you've got visions of kitchen girls risen to goldrider. That's her story, not mine, and it would be rude of me to try to usurp it." She grins, a twinkle in her eye. "Brown, though, that would be fun just to see the look on people's faces."
R'vain's nose wrinkles. "Don't joke," he says, a bit too sharply, and tends to his food, unwilling to meet her eyes. His brow is furrowed, however, ruddy brows low over his eyes to shade them, mouth bent in neither sneer nor frown. He eats with a vehemence almost violent, and doesn't say anything else.
He may be looking down and being savage, but that isn't making her not look at him, her expression one of curiosity. A roll in her hand, a bite taken from it, she considers him and his reactions. No words are spoken - what can be said to that? But the reality of her thinking is undeniable. Finally, the half eaten roll is put aside. "And what would you have of me next, Sir?" She asks, a mix of distraction and placation.
"I been thinking on this since th'last one, girl." R'vain looks up from his plate, responding as surely to her use of 'sir' as she does to his demand. "S'a'right if you don't get attached. Don't think about it too much. But don't joke. If you stand again it'll be with me behind you. If you stand again there's goin' t'be a queen out there, and when she comes you'll offer her all you got." He lifts his plate, puts it aside from his lap to the desk and turns a bit so he can stare at her now with all the intensity he kept from her before, dark burning. "S'up t'you whether you stand again."
And that stops her. And, uncomfortable, her fingers again find the string of pearls she wears. How quickly that source of comfort has become normal for her! She weighs his words, tests them, listens to his tones while he speaks them, before replying. "When I stand again," she starts, emphasis on the first word. "I will be giving it my all. I will not hide, and I will not avoid. But we don't make that choice. Nor, really, do we know that there will be a gold there to begin with. Right now, that's secondary to there being eggs there at all."
"We do make that choice." He puts the glass aside now too, and pulls closer to her, dragging the chair along with a scrape of wood against the stone floor. "You're a resident of the Weyr. I'm th'Weyrlingmaster. S'your right t'stand and mine t'tell you to." R'vain's mouth twists again, and this time it might really be a grin hiding somewhere amongst leer and sneer. "I know a queen egg if I see one. And I ain't th'only one; th'dragonhealers'll confirm it. I know. You'll stand. And we'll wait 'til then."
Essdara blinks a bit. "I meant." Dara says, slowly, "That we don't make the choice who that gold will Impress, R'vain. Remember, for as many worthy and wonderful goldriders the world has... There is an airheaded puppet who wouldn't be near a green, let alone a gold." Which of those she would be is unsaid. "And I make that choice, and made it. When she died, I made that promise, and you know that. And i will do wht you say. I'll go out there, and if a gold comes from that egg, I will think of every happy thing I can and do my best to attract her. Beyond that, there's nothing I can do on that choice. What chooses me, chooses me."
R'vain tosses a paw out, fingers wriggling, nose wrinkling again. "Ain't goin' t'be her clutch. You promised her you'd stand. Not f'which one, I assume. Wait 'til there's a queen. S'all I ask." The wriggling stops, but the hand remains, a beckoning, open for her to take. "There's a few things I'm tryin' t'make you into that ain't just for my personal appreciation, y'know. I got hopes. I know it ain't my choice, but there's nothin' sayin' I can't fit you out th'best I can for the chance."
She doesn't reply immidiately. Still, an open hand offered like that, it's not something she can refuse just then, and so she slips her own hand into it. "I figured as much." She admits, quietly. "I don't assume to understand why, yet, or what I will do if it happens. But thinking about all this, our arrangement and your interest... There's really only one answer, one place you could want me. And I will do my best, I promise you that. For better or for worse... I am yours, and I will do my best for you."
"Good. I'm glad you got it figured out. Y'should've by now." He nods once, and puts forward his other paw to rub softly at the back of her hand. "And I got contingency plans. If there's not a queen for you, maybe there'll be a green. If not a green, maybe somethin' else entirely." His gaze narrows, drifting from her face to the pearls that clutch her throat, then back up, and R'vain grins a carnivorous grin. "You're goin' t'fit those someday. I know it. Now c'mere," he says, as he's wont to do, and tugs with uncharacteristic gentleness at her hand in his. "Sit my knee and we'll finish lunch. Got a few minutes at least before th'weyrlings come back."