Objects In Motion
Location: Exile Island
Time: Day 8, Month 2, Turn 2
Players: Diya, J'lor, Lorna, S'val (NPC), Nenuith, Vellath, Treanth (NPC)
Scene: As Yevide's dragon rises at High Reaches, Diya comes to the island to set some of her own plans in motion.
On a Western Island, Deep in the Forest
Once uninhabited, this large island, part of the many that make up the Western Isles, is now home to the Instigators. Their numbers swelled in the past decade by births and exiles picked up from other islands in the nearby chain, the tropical island is now home to nearly one hundred and fifty people, including the 31 dragonpairs exiled after the rebellion.
It's a pleasant island, made moreso by the work of many hands. Stone cliffs on the leeward side make a home for dragons, a large cavern at the base home to the rest in all but the worst rain season. Tropical forest covers most of the island, though there is a small plot of land near the cliffs for cultivated crops and beasts, and the exiles have even added a small dock for the small fishing boats made from the wood of the native trees.
The smoke of fires for cooking, heating water from the freshwater stream that bubbles through the center of the camp, and even the occasional resmithing of old metal traces a hazy line above the island.
In the distance, further than the eye can see, the creamed daffodil hue of a dragon queen winks in from between into the afternoon sky. Instantly, with the lacework wings slammed to her sides, the narrowed frame descends rapidly towards the water before pulling herself up at the last minute to just skim the waves towards a private cove. Just one of the many visits Nenuith has made to the island, but in her arrival a flare of light is sent, preceding the image of her location, on a tight band towards two very specific dragons: expectant that they will heed the intuition of their kind and answer a queen's call. The moment gold hits white sands, the fumble of straps long since untangled in the air, Diya dismounts and lands with a soft thud. While impatience streaks her solid features as they seek the beach for signs of life, a hand lifts absently to sooth the agitation of her dragon.
Perhaps it's unfortunate happenstance that Lorna is out along the reefs, knee-deep in the water with her skirt hitched up around her legs -- or maybe it's happy serendipity. Dragons are not so rare a sight on the beach as to cause too much of a stir, so as the queen flies low over the water, little Lorna merely glances up for a brief moment before stooping again to continue digging at the rocks -- for mussels, perhaps, or urchins. That is, until she suddenly drops her knife and stares upwards again, shielding her eyes against the sun to gawk at the -gold-, bewildered and unabashed, as she disappears drops down into the shielded cove.
A certain blue and his rider had been seated on the beach further down from a certain cove, the rider attempting to carve what will become a fishing spear, the dragon dozing. Or, rather, was dozing, because in a flash Vellath's head lift, eyes whirling more quickly than is normal. In a moment, J'lor mimics the gesture (save for the whirling eyes). Knife is tucked away, half-made spear forgotten, he's climbing up onto Vellath's shoulders with quick, terse motions. J'lor doesn't bother with riding straps and Vellath takes to the air, gliding low to wing in for a landing at the little cove.
From the ocean, rather than the island itself, Treanth's polished walnut hide gleams in the light of the sun, his path more leisurely than that of Vellath, and with soft finesse in his descent, he too heeds the call of the Reachian queen, albeit slowly. "Shells, dragon," a kick aims for the brown's side as the rider attempts to dismount. "When I say hurry, I do mean hurry." It's an age-old struggle for Treanth favors S'val with one eye just a breadth wider than the other in askance.
With those requested gathered, Diya begins to shed her riding attire: first jacket, and then goggles and hat which are discarded promptly into the sands. As yet unnoticed is the copper and gold head that ducks down, and with the comfortable presumption of privacy, the slender weyrwoman makes short steps in order to bridge any gap between her and the bluerider. Though S'val and his brown garner a brief glance, it's J'lor that Diya fixes on. "You have a remarkable daughter." Behind her, Nenuith continues to shuffle, the pale sheen of her hide rippling with irritation that burrows deep into the dragon's body.
The initial confusion and shock of seeing one of the fabled gold dragons flying over her head fades after a few moments, to be replaced with alarm as Vellath zooms off after her. Lorna has the presence of mind to stoop and retrieve her knive out of the rocks, wiping the water from it with a trailing edge of her skirt as she stares toward the inlet where the dragons disappeared. She remains where she is for a few long seconds before she's splashing back through the water to the packed wet sand of the beach, at which point she breaks into a run without further hesitation, fleet-footed even barefoot among the bits of shell and rock. Curiosity, when pitted against obedience, has inevitably won out. It isn't till she reaches the little gathering that she slows, hugging the edge of the jungle. She hangs back for several long moments, lower lip caught between her teeth -- Lorna doesn't eavesdrop. But there's an edge in her eye as she recognizes the queen's rider, something in the way her lips press together that suggests she's quick enough to line up the pieces and approach the truth of the matter. Silently, she moves from tree to tree until she's close enough to hear what's being said, fascinated.
Vellath settles lightly and J'lor slides off quickly, his expression significantly more open than their last meeting. After all, the medicines promised were delivered, and in larger quanitites than the once-leader could have hoped. As S'val arrives a small nod is afforded to the familiar face, but he makes his way towards Diya, easy expression giving way to a grin...until the weyrwoman speaks. Then brows curl upwards, mouth opens and his entire face transforms from pleasure to utter confusion. "...pardon me?"
Vellath croons a greeting to the gold and seems about to settle down, but then snuffles softly. Once. Then again. Snuff...snuffle...the blue head turns just slightly in the hidden Lorna's direction. The dragon's sudden and subtle interest is a thing that J'lor doesn't seem to be aware of at all.
"Straddling both sides of the fence, perhaps-," the angular face cants, her expression dark, "A more apt politician than you could ever be." Diya bends, uncaring of what formalities should take place, nor does it seem maintaining any semblance of composed elegance is foremost in her mind. Deft hands work quickly to fold up her pants, and when that fails, pushes them up past her pale, knobbly knees. As she rights herself, S'val catches up with the grouping, even his easy trot drawing fatigue along the brownrider's forehead. "Hot," is his tenor intrusion, a shaded glance first to J'lor and then Diya. In the end, his casual steps align him by the bluerider; by, not behind, or in front of. "I- that she would know of-. I mean to stay a while, if that's fine with the two of you? Nen-," a slim hand falls backward to the golden hide that's not within reach anymore and the agitation of dragon flares sky bright in the weyrwoman's gaze, "A queen rises at the Reaches."
Lorna's quick gasp is silent, as she catches Vellath's scrutiny and pulls back behind her chosen tree. The only thing worse than the shame of eavesdropping would be to get -caught- at it. Her eyes close with concentration, lips forming the words 'I'm not -here-' a number of times, echoing her thoughts. It's quite some time before she leans a little again, one eye emerging from behind the tree to see if she's still under survey. Diya's final comment catches her ear, and for a moment even Vellath is forgotten as this outside world begins to intrude once more on her perceptions -- and she's fascinated, in spite of herself.
"A polti-....Diya, please. You know my Roa? *How* do you know Roa?" J'lor's characteristic charm cracks a little. One must remember that the images he has of his daughter remain of her at nine turns old. And though, clearly, she must have grown, juxtaposing the two ideas together is unsettling to say the least. But he is trying, and clearing his throat at Diya's pronouncement, his lips curl upwards just a little. "Yes. Queens do that." And the smile becomes a touch rueful. "Or so the legends would say."
Vellath turns slowly, snuffling the air and gradually lowering his head in the direction of the concealed Lorna. A few steps take him there and the head dips, tipping to the side so a single, glowing eye can settle on the girl. It is this blue-green orb that Lorna will see when she peeps.
What draws Vellath's focus to the treeline only captures Nenuith's short attention span for a breath of a second, before the typically stately queen is driven to pace along the beach shore utilizing her expressive tail as a rhythmic guide to count out five beats towards the jungle and where Lorna may be, before turning to pace the other way. Treanth, in entreaty to the queen, rumbles low, the undercurrent of his hum attempting to be soothing and instead only serves to garner him a sharp look from his rider. "Queens rise. It's the way things are." That the brownrider turns his narrowed eyes from the brown to the gold isn't subtle, and then to J'lor with a sharp draw up of his brows, query contained in that single, very level look.
"Yes," Diya kicks her boots off last, sinking her toes into the white sands and for a moment is stopped by the pleasant feeling of warmth and the picturesque quality of the island. "But, queens not of Reaches should not be rising at the Reaches." A beat later, with her eyes fluttering open to regard J'lor, the goldrider's wide mouth twists dryly. "Your Roa. Your daughter. Would you displace your daughter too in the world where things that are, aren't right, and things that aren't, will never come to pass?"
Roa? Lorna would probably have more time to spare for such intriguing name-dropping, her own hazy memories of the girl returning after turns of being forgotten, except that there's that large, draconic eye fixed on her when she looks round again. Caught, frozen like some hapless rabbit in a snake's gaze, Lorna just stares back at Vellath, her own eyes wide. There's nothing quite like that icy rush of panic when you're caught doing something you shouldn't be -- but even so, it takes the girl only a few moments to realize that while Vellath is looking at her, J'lor is -not-. Her eyes flicker toward the bluerider and then back to his lifemate, as if uncertain what the next step is. Eventually, she gives the tiniest shake of her head, a silent plea for Vellath's continued tolerance.
"She has lived there a very long time," the bluerider says softly, his own voice perhaps intentionally kept expressionless. "Do you believe, Diya, that she would look for anything else, now?" Perhaps interested in tucking this topic aside, or perhaps simply peaked to attention by the weyrwoman's other words, he next says, simply, "Tell me what has happened. And do, kindly, keep in mind that I am perhaps ten turns behind on current Pernese affairs."
Another dragon might feel compelled to alert his rider. Spy! In bushes! Velltah, however, seems to have no such compunctions and instead lies down so that his shoulders effectively obscure Lorna from sight. One must wonder if part of J'lor's smooth talking abilities perhaps came from partnering with so contrary a dragon. The shoulder is leaned just a little towards the girl, muscles twitching once beneath blue hide. Scritch.
"Your daughter," here the weyrwoman vacillates, the myriad of emotions in her eyes unable to retain any as its predominant one. "Roa is a rider from Telgar. Of Tialith, one of S'lien's weyrwomen." In this case, possession of weyrwomen doesn't seem to imply harem, though the arch quality of Diya's voice also is of mixed emotions. It's given a moment's thought, this Roa and J'lor and what the bluerider does not know of his daughter, before the Reaches woman continues to make herself more at ease in the humid climates by rolling her sleeves up. "Have a knife?"
Abruptly, a sear of white light flies through the blue's mind, the pacing having done Nenuith good it seems in the gold recollecting her composure. You are not subtle, she notes, dryness reflected in the bell-like clarity of her touch. Is she to be trusted?
Lorna's hand wavers a bit as she reaches it out to lay it against Vellath's shoulder. So blackmailed, she has very little choice but to do as the dragon wishes; and yet her touch is still rather fond, perhaps gratitude coming into play. She inches out from around the tree, as hesitantly and cautiously as some small creature emerging from its burrow, ready to leap back again should Vellath shift. But the blue seems settled, and eventually Lorna creeps closer, one hand moving in slow scritches across his hide while she leans back against him, head tilted so she can see over Vellath's lowered neck and watch the proceedings. There's a flicker of a smile at the weyrwoman's last question, some inner humor causing her to lay her hand on the knife at her own belt, though overall her expression remains troubled, almost ill, not enjoying the prospect of eavesdropping at all.
"S'lien..." J'lor shakes his head slowly. "I don't know that name." His voice sounds...a little lost. He once made it a point to know the face and name of every pair at Telgar, and now the weyrleader is someone he's never even met. He leans back, hand reaching out as if he expects Vellath to be here still. But of course, he is not and the rider stumbles backwards before sinking into the sand, tanned face paling. "...weyrwoman..." is the man's hushed whisper. He doesn't even seem to hear Diya's question about knives.
Vellath appears, at least to notice this distress, and in a single motion he is up and moving towards J'lor, one eye resting on the golden Nenuith as his approach leaves Lorna exposed if she continues to sit. A soft, palacting whuffle is directed towards the queen.
Vellath's thoughts are muted, blinded by the flash of light and doing their best to curl beneath it. She is Lorna, comes the simple answer, small curls of warm earth lifting to tentatively nudge at the brightness. Of course she is trustworthy.
With all the entitled expectancy of turns in her rank, Diya's eye fly up to study J'lor as her request for a knife goes unheard. The dark blue eyes turn then, to S'val, who with a helpless shrug of his shoulders, returns with, "Dragonmen have no need for knives." Or, more specifically, /he/ has little need for a knife. It's with a note of frustration in her exhale that Diya yanks at her sleeves, twice, then thrice with little results. Despite the strength of a dragonrider, there have been distinct differences in her training as opposed to fighting dragons. "An Igen queen has risen at High Reaches. Normally, no cause for concern as they do so often, except-," the alto halts abruptly, her teeth finding her lower lip to ruminate against and worry. "Your daughter has mentioned many things in an obscure fashion that lead me to believe otherwise. Cryptic." - "I know not whether to trust her intentions, unless," the stressed face grows distant, acceptance of responsibility etched in the sad lines, "It is she who does not trust me." Without Vellath to obscure the treeline, the light cant of Nenuith's wedged head, the turn of her neck, cuts across to where movement, however minute, might be. The sinuous snaking of the slender frame reaches a point just a dragon's pace away, and the reflective red-tinged blue of the gold's gaze rests on what glimpses of copper and gold might be available to her.
S'val is to the bluerider's side instantly, steps before Vellath reaches the trio, and with a steadying arm for support, the strong jawline of the once Fortian's face tightens. Quietly, with all the presence of the harper he once was, the brownrider turns to eye his childhood friend. "You mention this now, rather than before, because it is in your best interests to do so," he surmises, velvet brown gaze growing beady with prolonged study. "Your final card to use against us, Diya? What other information do you have on and for those of us here," his free arm extends out, encompassing the entire island, "In exile."
Lorna starts rather abruply, turning and leaning against Vellath's neck for a moment, one hand twitching as if wishing to go to J'lor as he stumbles, breath catching in her throat. But Vellath's own movement causes her to draw back in the sudden fear of discovery, tripping over her own heels in a moment of distinctly uncharacteristic clumsiness, and a small cry escapes her before she lands, hard, on her backside, in plain view now that her draconic shield is gone. The gold's eye is the first to catch hers, and she just stares at the glittery creature so much larger than the ones she's seen in her lifetime's memory. She swallows.
J'lor sits quietly, leaving the political banter to S'val. The brownrider's better at it anyhow, and J'lor lets his own thoughts whirl. At the cry, however, he's up on his feet, the carving blade that was tucked into his belt, now in his hand as he turns sharply. But...there is, sitting, no enemy at all. "Lorna," the puzzlement clear in his voice as he immediately lowers the blade. "What are you..." a small laugh, and a shake of his head. "Today is a day for surprises. Come here." And then, noticing the blade in his hand and perhaps linking it to a nearly-forgotten prior question he turns and, without a though, offers the hilt to the weyrwoman.
To S'val's accusation, Diya has no words, unable to articulate them to this one man. Instead, as lashes drop to cross her cheeks, the bowed head of acceptance of what the brownrider says as true is cut short by the cry from the jungle, and like J'lor, the tall and lanky frame goes tense and suspicious to the point that the knife hilt offered is ignored. She'll suffer in the heat if it means staying alive, thanks. That the noise is Lorna does little to settle the goldrider, and in fact, serves to stress those lines more: regret blanching her cheeks as recognition of the girl surfaces. "She isn't supposed to be here-," unlike the warmth in their prior encounter, 'Dee' watches the young girl flatly. Nenuith continues her slow, curving approach until her nose descends enough to whuff softly into the prone teenager's hair. Closer now, and more inquisitive of this creature before her, the red fades into a rainbow swirl of silent, intelligent inquiry of Lorna.
Lorna's wild eyes dart from J'lor to Diya and back to Nenuith, as if uncertain which is more dangerous at the moment. She's absolutely still, though her frame is tense, poised, ready to hang it all and go fleeing back into the jungle. The potential wrath of the riders is one thing, but the huge immediacy of the gold's scrutiny is quite another. It's quite a long moment before Lorna's mouth works a couple times and she manages, "I-I-I-I have a kn-knife, ma'am. Dee. ...ya." She doesn't really miss all that much. Her own belt knife, rather a necessity when living in a jungle, is drawn and offered up to the goldrider on a quavering palm. Her eyes close as the gold snuffles at her hair, a mix of fear and shame.
Seeing yet another knife offered, J'lor tucks his own back into the sheath hanging from his belt. "Our Lorna is nothing if not resourceful," the bluerider muses as Vellath, perhaps making up for his prior negligence, ducks his head under his rider's arm while he watches Nenuith and the girl. "I don't expect terrorizing the child is going to get you much close to your aims if they are to be friendly with this island." The words might be sharp if they weren't said so lightly.
"We've met," is Diya's cooler words, troubled by Lorna's presence, though with Nenuith's approval - that whuff has got to have meant something - the lanky frame relaxes. "Once before." Two long strides gaps the distance between her and the girl, and though she doesn't quite squat fully to retrieve the knife, she lowers herself enough, knees bent slightly, to spare the blonde girl a more favorable regard. Apology writes in her eyes. "I'm sorry for the deception before. You understand, yes?" But whether she does or not, the weyrwoman is quick to use the slowly retrieved knife to slice the sleeves of her shirt off and settle into the sands. "What would you like to know?" Acceptance of Lorna into the group is quick, as if she's gone beyond J'lor's veiled warning, and now is the time not for idle chitchat but immediate strategy.
Fade Out
Time: Day 8, Month 2, Turn 2
Players: Diya, J'lor, Lorna, S'val (NPC), Nenuith, Vellath, Treanth (NPC)
Scene: As Yevide's dragon rises at High Reaches, Diya comes to the island to set some of her own plans in motion.
On a Western Island, Deep in the Forest
Once uninhabited, this large island, part of the many that make up the Western Isles, is now home to the Instigators. Their numbers swelled in the past decade by births and exiles picked up from other islands in the nearby chain, the tropical island is now home to nearly one hundred and fifty people, including the 31 dragonpairs exiled after the rebellion.
It's a pleasant island, made moreso by the work of many hands. Stone cliffs on the leeward side make a home for dragons, a large cavern at the base home to the rest in all but the worst rain season. Tropical forest covers most of the island, though there is a small plot of land near the cliffs for cultivated crops and beasts, and the exiles have even added a small dock for the small fishing boats made from the wood of the native trees.
The smoke of fires for cooking, heating water from the freshwater stream that bubbles through the center of the camp, and even the occasional resmithing of old metal traces a hazy line above the island.
In the distance, further than the eye can see, the creamed daffodil hue of a dragon queen winks in from between into the afternoon sky. Instantly, with the lacework wings slammed to her sides, the narrowed frame descends rapidly towards the water before pulling herself up at the last minute to just skim the waves towards a private cove. Just one of the many visits Nenuith has made to the island, but in her arrival a flare of light is sent, preceding the image of her location, on a tight band towards two very specific dragons: expectant that they will heed the intuition of their kind and answer a queen's call. The moment gold hits white sands, the fumble of straps long since untangled in the air, Diya dismounts and lands with a soft thud. While impatience streaks her solid features as they seek the beach for signs of life, a hand lifts absently to sooth the agitation of her dragon.
Perhaps it's unfortunate happenstance that Lorna is out along the reefs, knee-deep in the water with her skirt hitched up around her legs -- or maybe it's happy serendipity. Dragons are not so rare a sight on the beach as to cause too much of a stir, so as the queen flies low over the water, little Lorna merely glances up for a brief moment before stooping again to continue digging at the rocks -- for mussels, perhaps, or urchins. That is, until she suddenly drops her knife and stares upwards again, shielding her eyes against the sun to gawk at the -gold-, bewildered and unabashed, as she disappears drops down into the shielded cove.
A certain blue and his rider had been seated on the beach further down from a certain cove, the rider attempting to carve what will become a fishing spear, the dragon dozing. Or, rather, was dozing, because in a flash Vellath's head lift, eyes whirling more quickly than is normal. In a moment, J'lor mimics the gesture (save for the whirling eyes). Knife is tucked away, half-made spear forgotten, he's climbing up onto Vellath's shoulders with quick, terse motions. J'lor doesn't bother with riding straps and Vellath takes to the air, gliding low to wing in for a landing at the little cove.
From the ocean, rather than the island itself, Treanth's polished walnut hide gleams in the light of the sun, his path more leisurely than that of Vellath, and with soft finesse in his descent, he too heeds the call of the Reachian queen, albeit slowly. "Shells, dragon," a kick aims for the brown's side as the rider attempts to dismount. "When I say hurry, I do mean hurry." It's an age-old struggle for Treanth favors S'val with one eye just a breadth wider than the other in askance.
With those requested gathered, Diya begins to shed her riding attire: first jacket, and then goggles and hat which are discarded promptly into the sands. As yet unnoticed is the copper and gold head that ducks down, and with the comfortable presumption of privacy, the slender weyrwoman makes short steps in order to bridge any gap between her and the bluerider. Though S'val and his brown garner a brief glance, it's J'lor that Diya fixes on. "You have a remarkable daughter." Behind her, Nenuith continues to shuffle, the pale sheen of her hide rippling with irritation that burrows deep into the dragon's body.
The initial confusion and shock of seeing one of the fabled gold dragons flying over her head fades after a few moments, to be replaced with alarm as Vellath zooms off after her. Lorna has the presence of mind to stoop and retrieve her knive out of the rocks, wiping the water from it with a trailing edge of her skirt as she stares toward the inlet where the dragons disappeared. She remains where she is for a few long seconds before she's splashing back through the water to the packed wet sand of the beach, at which point she breaks into a run without further hesitation, fleet-footed even barefoot among the bits of shell and rock. Curiosity, when pitted against obedience, has inevitably won out. It isn't till she reaches the little gathering that she slows, hugging the edge of the jungle. She hangs back for several long moments, lower lip caught between her teeth -- Lorna doesn't eavesdrop. But there's an edge in her eye as she recognizes the queen's rider, something in the way her lips press together that suggests she's quick enough to line up the pieces and approach the truth of the matter. Silently, she moves from tree to tree until she's close enough to hear what's being said, fascinated.
Vellath settles lightly and J'lor slides off quickly, his expression significantly more open than their last meeting. After all, the medicines promised were delivered, and in larger quanitites than the once-leader could have hoped. As S'val arrives a small nod is afforded to the familiar face, but he makes his way towards Diya, easy expression giving way to a grin...until the weyrwoman speaks. Then brows curl upwards, mouth opens and his entire face transforms from pleasure to utter confusion. "...pardon me?"
Vellath croons a greeting to the gold and seems about to settle down, but then snuffles softly. Once. Then again. Snuff...snuffle...the blue head turns just slightly in the hidden Lorna's direction. The dragon's sudden and subtle interest is a thing that J'lor doesn't seem to be aware of at all.
"Straddling both sides of the fence, perhaps-," the angular face cants, her expression dark, "A more apt politician than you could ever be." Diya bends, uncaring of what formalities should take place, nor does it seem maintaining any semblance of composed elegance is foremost in her mind. Deft hands work quickly to fold up her pants, and when that fails, pushes them up past her pale, knobbly knees. As she rights herself, S'val catches up with the grouping, even his easy trot drawing fatigue along the brownrider's forehead. "Hot," is his tenor intrusion, a shaded glance first to J'lor and then Diya. In the end, his casual steps align him by the bluerider; by, not behind, or in front of. "I- that she would know of-. I mean to stay a while, if that's fine with the two of you? Nen-," a slim hand falls backward to the golden hide that's not within reach anymore and the agitation of dragon flares sky bright in the weyrwoman's gaze, "A queen rises at the Reaches."
Lorna's quick gasp is silent, as she catches Vellath's scrutiny and pulls back behind her chosen tree. The only thing worse than the shame of eavesdropping would be to get -caught- at it. Her eyes close with concentration, lips forming the words 'I'm not -here-' a number of times, echoing her thoughts. It's quite some time before she leans a little again, one eye emerging from behind the tree to see if she's still under survey. Diya's final comment catches her ear, and for a moment even Vellath is forgotten as this outside world begins to intrude once more on her perceptions -- and she's fascinated, in spite of herself.
"A polti-....Diya, please. You know my Roa? *How* do you know Roa?" J'lor's characteristic charm cracks a little. One must remember that the images he has of his daughter remain of her at nine turns old. And though, clearly, she must have grown, juxtaposing the two ideas together is unsettling to say the least. But he is trying, and clearing his throat at Diya's pronouncement, his lips curl upwards just a little. "Yes. Queens do that." And the smile becomes a touch rueful. "Or so the legends would say."
Vellath turns slowly, snuffling the air and gradually lowering his head in the direction of the concealed Lorna. A few steps take him there and the head dips, tipping to the side so a single, glowing eye can settle on the girl. It is this blue-green orb that Lorna will see when she peeps.
What draws Vellath's focus to the treeline only captures Nenuith's short attention span for a breath of a second, before the typically stately queen is driven to pace along the beach shore utilizing her expressive tail as a rhythmic guide to count out five beats towards the jungle and where Lorna may be, before turning to pace the other way. Treanth, in entreaty to the queen, rumbles low, the undercurrent of his hum attempting to be soothing and instead only serves to garner him a sharp look from his rider. "Queens rise. It's the way things are." That the brownrider turns his narrowed eyes from the brown to the gold isn't subtle, and then to J'lor with a sharp draw up of his brows, query contained in that single, very level look.
"Yes," Diya kicks her boots off last, sinking her toes into the white sands and for a moment is stopped by the pleasant feeling of warmth and the picturesque quality of the island. "But, queens not of Reaches should not be rising at the Reaches." A beat later, with her eyes fluttering open to regard J'lor, the goldrider's wide mouth twists dryly. "Your Roa. Your daughter. Would you displace your daughter too in the world where things that are, aren't right, and things that aren't, will never come to pass?"
Roa? Lorna would probably have more time to spare for such intriguing name-dropping, her own hazy memories of the girl returning after turns of being forgotten, except that there's that large, draconic eye fixed on her when she looks round again. Caught, frozen like some hapless rabbit in a snake's gaze, Lorna just stares back at Vellath, her own eyes wide. There's nothing quite like that icy rush of panic when you're caught doing something you shouldn't be -- but even so, it takes the girl only a few moments to realize that while Vellath is looking at her, J'lor is -not-. Her eyes flicker toward the bluerider and then back to his lifemate, as if uncertain what the next step is. Eventually, she gives the tiniest shake of her head, a silent plea for Vellath's continued tolerance.
"She has lived there a very long time," the bluerider says softly, his own voice perhaps intentionally kept expressionless. "Do you believe, Diya, that she would look for anything else, now?" Perhaps interested in tucking this topic aside, or perhaps simply peaked to attention by the weyrwoman's other words, he next says, simply, "Tell me what has happened. And do, kindly, keep in mind that I am perhaps ten turns behind on current Pernese affairs."
Another dragon might feel compelled to alert his rider. Spy! In bushes! Velltah, however, seems to have no such compunctions and instead lies down so that his shoulders effectively obscure Lorna from sight. One must wonder if part of J'lor's smooth talking abilities perhaps came from partnering with so contrary a dragon. The shoulder is leaned just a little towards the girl, muscles twitching once beneath blue hide. Scritch.
"Your daughter," here the weyrwoman vacillates, the myriad of emotions in her eyes unable to retain any as its predominant one. "Roa is a rider from Telgar. Of Tialith, one of S'lien's weyrwomen." In this case, possession of weyrwomen doesn't seem to imply harem, though the arch quality of Diya's voice also is of mixed emotions. It's given a moment's thought, this Roa and J'lor and what the bluerider does not know of his daughter, before the Reaches woman continues to make herself more at ease in the humid climates by rolling her sleeves up. "Have a knife?"
Abruptly, a sear of white light flies through the blue's mind, the pacing having done Nenuith good it seems in the gold recollecting her composure. You are not subtle, she notes, dryness reflected in the bell-like clarity of her touch. Is she to be trusted?
Lorna's hand wavers a bit as she reaches it out to lay it against Vellath's shoulder. So blackmailed, she has very little choice but to do as the dragon wishes; and yet her touch is still rather fond, perhaps gratitude coming into play. She inches out from around the tree, as hesitantly and cautiously as some small creature emerging from its burrow, ready to leap back again should Vellath shift. But the blue seems settled, and eventually Lorna creeps closer, one hand moving in slow scritches across his hide while she leans back against him, head tilted so she can see over Vellath's lowered neck and watch the proceedings. There's a flicker of a smile at the weyrwoman's last question, some inner humor causing her to lay her hand on the knife at her own belt, though overall her expression remains troubled, almost ill, not enjoying the prospect of eavesdropping at all.
"S'lien..." J'lor shakes his head slowly. "I don't know that name." His voice sounds...a little lost. He once made it a point to know the face and name of every pair at Telgar, and now the weyrleader is someone he's never even met. He leans back, hand reaching out as if he expects Vellath to be here still. But of course, he is not and the rider stumbles backwards before sinking into the sand, tanned face paling. "...weyrwoman..." is the man's hushed whisper. He doesn't even seem to hear Diya's question about knives.
Vellath appears, at least to notice this distress, and in a single motion he is up and moving towards J'lor, one eye resting on the golden Nenuith as his approach leaves Lorna exposed if she continues to sit. A soft, palacting whuffle is directed towards the queen.
Vellath's thoughts are muted, blinded by the flash of light and doing their best to curl beneath it. She is Lorna, comes the simple answer, small curls of warm earth lifting to tentatively nudge at the brightness. Of course she is trustworthy.
With all the entitled expectancy of turns in her rank, Diya's eye fly up to study J'lor as her request for a knife goes unheard. The dark blue eyes turn then, to S'val, who with a helpless shrug of his shoulders, returns with, "Dragonmen have no need for knives." Or, more specifically, /he/ has little need for a knife. It's with a note of frustration in her exhale that Diya yanks at her sleeves, twice, then thrice with little results. Despite the strength of a dragonrider, there have been distinct differences in her training as opposed to fighting dragons. "An Igen queen has risen at High Reaches. Normally, no cause for concern as they do so often, except-," the alto halts abruptly, her teeth finding her lower lip to ruminate against and worry. "Your daughter has mentioned many things in an obscure fashion that lead me to believe otherwise. Cryptic." - "I know not whether to trust her intentions, unless," the stressed face grows distant, acceptance of responsibility etched in the sad lines, "It is she who does not trust me." Without Vellath to obscure the treeline, the light cant of Nenuith's wedged head, the turn of her neck, cuts across to where movement, however minute, might be. The sinuous snaking of the slender frame reaches a point just a dragon's pace away, and the reflective red-tinged blue of the gold's gaze rests on what glimpses of copper and gold might be available to her.
S'val is to the bluerider's side instantly, steps before Vellath reaches the trio, and with a steadying arm for support, the strong jawline of the once Fortian's face tightens. Quietly, with all the presence of the harper he once was, the brownrider turns to eye his childhood friend. "You mention this now, rather than before, because it is in your best interests to do so," he surmises, velvet brown gaze growing beady with prolonged study. "Your final card to use against us, Diya? What other information do you have on and for those of us here," his free arm extends out, encompassing the entire island, "In exile."
Lorna starts rather abruply, turning and leaning against Vellath's neck for a moment, one hand twitching as if wishing to go to J'lor as he stumbles, breath catching in her throat. But Vellath's own movement causes her to draw back in the sudden fear of discovery, tripping over her own heels in a moment of distinctly uncharacteristic clumsiness, and a small cry escapes her before she lands, hard, on her backside, in plain view now that her draconic shield is gone. The gold's eye is the first to catch hers, and she just stares at the glittery creature so much larger than the ones she's seen in her lifetime's memory. She swallows.
J'lor sits quietly, leaving the political banter to S'val. The brownrider's better at it anyhow, and J'lor lets his own thoughts whirl. At the cry, however, he's up on his feet, the carving blade that was tucked into his belt, now in his hand as he turns sharply. But...there is, sitting, no enemy at all. "Lorna," the puzzlement clear in his voice as he immediately lowers the blade. "What are you..." a small laugh, and a shake of his head. "Today is a day for surprises. Come here." And then, noticing the blade in his hand and perhaps linking it to a nearly-forgotten prior question he turns and, without a though, offers the hilt to the weyrwoman.
To S'val's accusation, Diya has no words, unable to articulate them to this one man. Instead, as lashes drop to cross her cheeks, the bowed head of acceptance of what the brownrider says as true is cut short by the cry from the jungle, and like J'lor, the tall and lanky frame goes tense and suspicious to the point that the knife hilt offered is ignored. She'll suffer in the heat if it means staying alive, thanks. That the noise is Lorna does little to settle the goldrider, and in fact, serves to stress those lines more: regret blanching her cheeks as recognition of the girl surfaces. "She isn't supposed to be here-," unlike the warmth in their prior encounter, 'Dee' watches the young girl flatly. Nenuith continues her slow, curving approach until her nose descends enough to whuff softly into the prone teenager's hair. Closer now, and more inquisitive of this creature before her, the red fades into a rainbow swirl of silent, intelligent inquiry of Lorna.
Lorna's wild eyes dart from J'lor to Diya and back to Nenuith, as if uncertain which is more dangerous at the moment. She's absolutely still, though her frame is tense, poised, ready to hang it all and go fleeing back into the jungle. The potential wrath of the riders is one thing, but the huge immediacy of the gold's scrutiny is quite another. It's quite a long moment before Lorna's mouth works a couple times and she manages, "I-I-I-I have a kn-knife, ma'am. Dee. ...ya." She doesn't really miss all that much. Her own belt knife, rather a necessity when living in a jungle, is drawn and offered up to the goldrider on a quavering palm. Her eyes close as the gold snuffles at her hair, a mix of fear and shame.
Seeing yet another knife offered, J'lor tucks his own back into the sheath hanging from his belt. "Our Lorna is nothing if not resourceful," the bluerider muses as Vellath, perhaps making up for his prior negligence, ducks his head under his rider's arm while he watches Nenuith and the girl. "I don't expect terrorizing the child is going to get you much close to your aims if they are to be friendly with this island." The words might be sharp if they weren't said so lightly.
"We've met," is Diya's cooler words, troubled by Lorna's presence, though with Nenuith's approval - that whuff has got to have meant something - the lanky frame relaxes. "Once before." Two long strides gaps the distance between her and the girl, and though she doesn't quite squat fully to retrieve the knife, she lowers herself enough, knees bent slightly, to spare the blonde girl a more favorable regard. Apology writes in her eyes. "I'm sorry for the deception before. You understand, yes?" But whether she does or not, the weyrwoman is quick to use the slowly retrieved knife to slice the sleeves of her shirt off and settle into the sands. "What would you like to know?" Acceptance of Lorna into the group is quick, as if she's gone beyond J'lor's veiled warning, and now is the time not for idle chitchat but immediate strategy.
Fade Out