In the wee hours
Who: Miniyal and G'thon
When: Not long after the immediately prior post; that is, the morning after the hatching.
What: Conversation and plans, never fulfilled, for tea and backgammon.
G'thon is many things, several of them less than admirable. In the interest of time we shall not list those things here. He is also, in addition to all of those things, a few other things - very admirable - which in the eyes of the majority public excuse or even obfuscate wholly his less attractive traits. Among those better characteristics is this: G'thon is a gentleman. So it makes perfect sense that they should have, in the dance of ardor and undress, found themselves in his bedchamber; it makes perfect sense that they should now, in these dark hours of morning, lie in his bed.
Of course, that doesn't mean that they sleep. Perhaps, with his arm about her, the man dozes a little at first, but in time the deeply relaxed weariness that comes in the wake of a seduction gives way to the more world-weary ache of wakefulness that haunts him nightly. Eventually, he props himself up on an elbow, drawing back from her just enough that his motion is unlikely to cause her stirring. So arranged he watches her, perhaps thoughtful; perhaps he watches, instead, for the fall of her breath, the movement of her eyes, signs that she sleeps heavily enough that he could slip out of bed.
It's those less than admirable things that will get him in trouble someday. Perhaps sooner than he might expect. However, for now, Miniyal has those things set aside to deal with later. Sometimes a girl just has to live in the moment and worry about the next few days when they crash down upon her. This night was one of those times. Any doubts about what someone's intentions might be were lost. Drowned in sweet wine and sweeter words from someone with too much charm for his own good. Therefore, we find her here, dozing. There has been little enough of it once they settled down. Every time her eyes flutter closed they crack back open moments later.
As baby bear is famous for saying, 'Someone's been sleeping in my bed and he is still there.' Well, that is a paraphrase unless Goldilocks was hiding more than stolen porridge. It's perhaps, a telling statement on their positions in this new friendship in the making that she had just settled down to sleep. She looks to be deep asleep, but the moment he actually tries to remove himself from the bed her eyes snap open and that confusion of being somewhere unexpected wakes her up fully.
"Ah!" But it's barely a whisper, a voiceless reining-in of his breath, and G'thon goes stock still. Only for a moment, though; then he leans in a little and breathes out another sound, the comforting hush a nanny whispers to a baby. "It's all right," he adds, on the tail of that sibilant sigh, and untangles a hand from the sheets. With the backs of his fingers he brushes back hair from her forehead, then traces the curve of her cheek in a motion now familiar, but with a manner yet awed, as though he finds himself surprised still to have her so near. "Good morning," he adds, still whispering, but just a little bit louder - loud enough that she will be able to pluck from his voice the dry irony of the hour.
The words or the touch draw her back to location and. . .company. Oh, that's right. She never left. Miniyal peers up with the last traces of sleep fading too quickly. "Did I wake you?" she asks with concern in her voice. "I didn't mean to." There's a lot she didn't /mean/ to do, like wind up here in the first place. Under the blankets she stretches and then one hand sneaks out to grasp the hand tracing her cheek. Catching it up she draws it to her lips for a soft kiss onto his fingertips. "Should I go so you can sleep?" Sitting up then, blankets held tightly to her she looks around, searching for her clothes.
"No." The word draws out on the heels of a chuckle, something he tries without success to suppress. She sits up; he leans back, then pushes himself up by straightening the arm he'd been propped on, and with the hand she's no longer tending to he draws a caress out upon her back, between her shoulder blades. It is, after all, all of her exposed now she's clutched the blankets up against herself. "I haven't slept well." This is the sort of statement that is usually followed by something like, 'since _____,' where the blank is filled in by a traumatic event; apparently G'thon feels no need to fill in the blanks. "I was awake. I'll probably be awake. Would you like - " To talk? To be held? To sleep beside me? To be insomniacs together? "- some tea?"
Miniyal doesn't need things explained to her and even if she did, would not ask. It's not something that can be forgotten, but there's no need to dredge up pain every time an opportunity presents. "I've never slept well," she admits with a faint grimace that turns into something else when he touches her back. A blush accompanies the pleased smile and she shivers. "I would love some tea," she answers with a shy smile. "We could talk. Or, I play a few games if you've anything in here you wish to play. I'm not so good. I mean, I'm technically quite proficient, but my play has always been limited." Because games require friends or at least people you can /ask/ to play with you. She's a whiz, most likely, at solitaire. But other than that? What cause has she had to get good?
"Then let's have tea," he replies, and pushes himself up from his lean into a proper sit so that he can curve his arm around her bare back, caress her opposite shoulder with his hand, and bend his head to breathe kisses along her nearer shoulder up to her neck. They are an odd pair, certainly, he painfully thin and she rather not so, but his affection, his ardor seems honest enough. "Games," he echoes against her skin, then straightens; his smile is one-sided but sly, his eyes sparkling. That they have already entertained themselves with a game, a very old one, probably crosses his mind. He does not go so far as to remark on the subject, but when he lifts his head from her shoulder and makes his suggestion - "Backgammon?" - there's such coy smirkiness in the syllables that he probably hasn't need to. After that he pulls his legs up out of the covers and shifts around behind her, to exit the bed on 'her' side of it, indifferent to his own nudity; a dragonrider, at least, in that respect.
Being a woman, she is allowed to have her own quirks. One of them is that while she's no difficulty in bathing among strangers and those she barely knows when alone with someone in private every insecurity that crowds into her brain comes into play. So she waits until his back is turned and keeps one blanket about her as she begins to search for her clothes. This is stopped by a quiet gasp as she glances towards where G'thon is. "You're too thin," she whispers although it is not chiding, but concern that laces her tone so heavily. She might have noticed this before had she not been so thoroughly distracted in that game they played earlier. Frozen on the side of the bed by her own comment she fights with herself the losing battle of concern for him. How dare he make her feel this way? Struggling now to shake it off she tries a light smile, but it fails to lessen the gravity of her expression. Soldiering on she nods once. "Backgammon. I've not played in some time, but if you're patient with me we could play."
G'thon strides effortlessly across the small chamber to a wardrobe built of a dark and glossy wood, inset into the wall. Its hinges creak slightly as he draws the doors open. "Am I?" He asks this without turning around, and reaches in for a dressing-gown, which he pulls out and drapes over a pale arm, then reaches in again, this time to come out with a bathrobe. Thicker, softer, of broader make, it may have fit him a turn and a half ago, when preparation for Threadfall gave him musculature and soft living in his middle age gave him very slight paunch. He would swim in it now, but he carries it toward the woman draped in his bedsheets and holds it out in both hands like a gentleman offering a lady her coat. "I suppose you shall have to put up with it until I can make some improvements, then," he remarks, still half-smiling and wry. "And I have not played anything but poker in turns. We shall both have to be patient."
"It's not the putting up with it," Miniyal objects quietly as she loses the blanket just long enough to get herself wrapped in the robe. "It's not. . .you know. Healthy is all." A pause as the woman with her own weight problems decides to shut up in case he were to think of pointing it out. "I'm sorry. You must tell me if I bring it up too often. That's not polite." And she is all about polite. In her own way. "Why not?" she then asks in reply to the last comment. "Do you enjoy things other than poker? I like chess. But I've only really played with my parents. They both always beat me soundly. I can't figure it out. I know all the moves. I've read plenty, but they still always beat me." Another pause, she's good at these, and when she speaks again there is frustration in her tone. "They don't do what they are supposed to." Still pesky people. Not doing everything by a book.
He wraps her in his arms, too, while he has the chance; holding her a moment from behind, his fingers still upon the sleeves he's just held up for her to shrug into as ostensible excuse for his embrace. "I know," he murmurs, helpless a bit, regarding his thinness being unhealthy; then a dip of his head and another of those comforting hushes, 'Shhh,' to dismiss her concerns about the good or bad manners of remarking upon his shape. He seals the topic with a kiss near her temple, a little bit into her hair, and unhands her so he can get into his dressing-gown and start for the main room. "I have played chess," he remarks, standing by the doorway - evidently she must go through first - in wait. "What are they supposed to do, then? Should they display their affection for you by throwing you games?" Teasing, a little bit, his tone lightweight, but one silver brow slinks upward just the same.
As if she did this sort of thing every day, there is little shuffling of feet or obvious nervousness when touched. There is even, perhaps, a slight disappearance of shyness as she smiles at him when he steps away. No more speaking of weight she heads for the door then and listens to his words. A quiet laugh breaks her steps and she pauses to look at him with warm regard. "They are supposed to. . .to follow the rules. If you do one thing the logical next step is to counter with something else and they are just not. . .logical." Unlike their daughter who, well, likes to pretend to be logical? Yes, that works. Shaking her head she mumbles something about parents but the light tone and the sparkle in her eyes shows she is mumbling for its own sake and there is no real animosity. Mama and Daddy's little girl still. "I don't expect anyone to throw a game for me," she adds as she steps into the next room. An almost coy glance over her shoulder as she adds, teasing, "Although I might allow you to."
"Chess is not a game of logic," replies G'thon with a bow of his head, gaze raised to sparkle at her, to warm his words with wry rebuke. He follows her out into the larger chamber, and laughs at that coy tease. The laugh is brief and unexpected, delighted. "I fear we'll have no need of such favors with backgammon." He reaches forward, fingertips sweeping at the edge of the robe he put her into, then steps past her and strides out toward the tea-cart. Dinner dishes remain on the lower shelf, but there with them is a heavy ceramic pot for warming water, and this he gathers up to take toward the stove, keeping track of the sleeves of his gown with the other hand as he moves. "It relies a little bit on luck. Chess is a war game; it's more emotional." A pause, and he looks back at her, hesitating on his way to the fire. "I - think I do have a chessboard, only not unpacked - if you would prefer that?"
"It should be logical," is said with a faint trace of petulance in her tone. "I've read several write ups about it and it makes logical sense." Miniyal stops near the table and shakes her head. "No, we don't have to play. I'm not in the mood to go to war." There is a quiet laugh to accompany this statement and she, at loose ends, moves about absently and randomly tidying up. Dirty dishes found go here, books go here, the table is cleared off. Nervous energy relieved with the only outlet available to her right now. What she doesn't do is bring up what happened, technically, last night. She doesn't talk at all as she moves around, going slow so as not to bump into anything or trip herself up.
"The game, I suppose, might be logical in its rules and structure. But you cannot assume the same of its players." That she is in no mood for war brightens his smile, then mutes it; the latter is a mildness inspired by warmth, by earnest affection, and once he's set the pot on the stove he starts back toward the table by way of the bookcase. From it he takes down a small wooden box with an engraved lid in one hand, then a somewhat larger and shallower wooden box with an inlaid lid in the other. With both he comes over to where they shared dinner before, to find the table cleared. "You don't have to do that," he says, lowly, looking first at the open space and then up at the woman responsible for it. "I -can- take care of a table, of dishes. I just - haven't." Because they did something else.
"I never thought I /had/ to," Miniyal replies with a brief smile. It's still not so easy to, well, open up enough to smile. Yes, it's weird all things considered but it's a sure bet she's been to bed with more people than truly smiled. "Anyway, I don't mind. I like things tidy. I mean, I'm. . .weird about it. Like some people. I don't go crazy over a mess, but I just. . .if things can be tidy they should." Shaking her head she swipes at the table once more with the sleeve of her robe. "And, people should be more logical. And ordering. And stuff. It would be easier." Although if she were being orderly and logical she would not be sitting here right now in someone else's bathrobe.
"Well, I can tidy myself, just fine. But - thank you." He affords her a dry smile, a little bemused about it, and sets down upon the table the shallower box, which must from the pattern of the inlay be the backgammon. The other box he opens, the lid opening on a pair of tiny brass hinges, then G'thon leans down over the table and holds the box out. Six square compartments within offer six different blends of dried little shreds of plant matter. The smell is sweet and spicy. "Pick one?" Over the lid he smiles at her, eyes bright, affectionate, dear. "If you like you can set up the board while I get the tea on, and tell me how you think these more logical and ordered people would behave."
"I'm happy to help," comes mumbled out. Looking at the board she bites at her lip before nodding her head. "I /think/ I remember that much," she answers with a nod and a gesture of one hand. "Go on. You're better at the tea stuff than me. I don't even think I drink it when not with you." Because, whatever is handy works for her normally. A mug of something grabbed on the go. At the last comment Miniyal lifts her head from the board to look over. "Are you making fun?" she asks softly. Because he could be. Most people would be. And it never hurts to check.
"Orange and cinnamon. Should help us - sleep." The pause is timed nicely, as he draws back the teachest from the woman's side of the table, with a slight upward slip of one pale brow to accentuate the irony, or even perhaps a little suggestiveness. G'thon steps around to the tea-cart then and, from the other side of it, gazes down at her. The cake's still there, glistening with its sweet glaze, a third of it gone - to their credit it was only meant to serve two anyway, a miniature. "Am I making fun," he echoes thoughtfully, through the wry one-sided lift of his smile. "I suppose I am, but not of you. I'm playing a little with the social idea of a more logical people. Tell me how you think they'd behave." This requested, he puts tea into the filter-ball for the steeping pot, a ritual of spoon and tea leaves and arcane instruments. The heavier pot on the stove steams a bit, no urgency in it.
Blinking as she watches what he does there might be, there could have been, the slightest of blushes at what he seems to be suggesting. This situation is, well, not exactly one she's had much experience with as she's rarely in the past spent the night, slipping off to her own bed once done with what her and whatever partner she had chose to do. So, Miniyal will try to pretend and do the best she can. "I don't know. I've never really thought of it. I guess it was always an abstract ideal. If only because, for me, it is quite logical to avoid everyone and if everyone else were logical they might avoid me as well. It's. . .wearisome. People always trying to draw me out. Like I am some project so they feel better. I wish-" A full stop here and a quiet sigh. "I don't know what I wish anymore. /Someone/ has seen fit to leave me confused." Her gaze finds his at that statement and while she looks vexed it's not all that is visible in her eyes. However, the rest causes her to look away, towards the fire as it's the first place her eyes slide.
"Ah, but - " But. G'thon does not get farther into that; he glances up at her while she goes on about logic, about being a project, and so forth. He attends to the preparation of tea, or ostensibly does anyway, but there's a smirky consciousness about his demeanor; clearly he's listening to her first and performing ritual second. That's maintained even as he strides across to the stove and takes up the water-pot, then returns, playing coy on his way back: "Someone? Someone?" He even affects a flutter of lashes, though he manages only a couple of blinks; it's a gesture his facial musculature just isn't made for, so he finishes off with an arch of brows while he untops the pot and pours steaming water in over the tea. "About what are you confused, Miniyal? I will answer anything you ask me."
The flutter draws out a laugh, genuine and happy for all its brevity. However, it lingers in her eyes as she watches the tea ritual. "You can't help me in this," Miniyal says softly. Pulling out a chair she sits down finally, giving her robe a tug or two to make sure it stays in place. A quiet sigh as she watches him again, memorizing the moment before the world crashes into her with an 'Oops? Were you thinking of being happy? Let's fix that shall we then?' Resting her elbows on the table she lets out a brief, wry laugh. "You gave me what I thought I wanted more than anything. And the longer I had it the more I. . .didn't want it. Well, the more I wanted more. But, there is no more. Now I am at loose ends again. My parents want to know what I will do. Why I did what I did. Everyone wants to know and no one more than I, but the problem is I don't. So, I am confused. Puzzled. Vexed. I'm not even twenty-three (Yes, let's bring up the age difference, shall we?) and the one dream I had I've achieved and tossed aside. It's an odd feeling to no longer see a goal in your future, but just turns stretching out endlessly for no reason."
G'thon, having prepared the tea to the point where it must be left alone to steep, does the only sensible thing left to do: take up the cake knife and shave off a thin sliver from the cake's cut face, then cut a slice of eating size onto - well, not a plate; those were used and are with the others now, thanks to Miniyal's tidying. Onto a napkin, which he takes up in his hand. "It's all right, you know. To have a dream, and not know what the dream is." He comes around to her side, now that she's seated, and bends a bit there so he can pluck with his fingers from the napkin a cherry from the cake and offer it to her. Yes, he intends that she will take it with her lips, though one could probably manage some more awkward arrangement involving fingers. "You want more. That -is- a dream. We just need to find out what the more becomes. Meanwhile - " His brows slide up a little bit farther than they had done already. "Perhaps I can be a sounding board for your thoughts."
"I suppose," Miniyal answers with a shake of her head. And more watching as he plays with the cake and moves to her and then hesitation as she looks up before trying to take the fruit offered. "I just get annoyed not knowing things," is admitted with a slight smile. "But, I would like to talk to you of it." Then she uses her lips to take what is offered, eyes searching his as she does so. Pulling away then from his hand she rises from her chair, bumping into him lightly which gives her an excuse to take his hand. Because she still needs one. "But right now I think I'd rather not talk of it. Or anything else. I should be going soon. I thought perhaps I'd lie down again before I do." A step is taken from the table towards the bedchamber again, his hand still loosely held in hers. It's the only invitation he will get to follow her.
When: Not long after the immediately prior post; that is, the morning after the hatching.
What: Conversation and plans, never fulfilled, for tea and backgammon.
G'thon is many things, several of them less than admirable. In the interest of time we shall not list those things here. He is also, in addition to all of those things, a few other things - very admirable - which in the eyes of the majority public excuse or even obfuscate wholly his less attractive traits. Among those better characteristics is this: G'thon is a gentleman. So it makes perfect sense that they should have, in the dance of ardor and undress, found themselves in his bedchamber; it makes perfect sense that they should now, in these dark hours of morning, lie in his bed.
Of course, that doesn't mean that they sleep. Perhaps, with his arm about her, the man dozes a little at first, but in time the deeply relaxed weariness that comes in the wake of a seduction gives way to the more world-weary ache of wakefulness that haunts him nightly. Eventually, he props himself up on an elbow, drawing back from her just enough that his motion is unlikely to cause her stirring. So arranged he watches her, perhaps thoughtful; perhaps he watches, instead, for the fall of her breath, the movement of her eyes, signs that she sleeps heavily enough that he could slip out of bed.
It's those less than admirable things that will get him in trouble someday. Perhaps sooner than he might expect. However, for now, Miniyal has those things set aside to deal with later. Sometimes a girl just has to live in the moment and worry about the next few days when they crash down upon her. This night was one of those times. Any doubts about what someone's intentions might be were lost. Drowned in sweet wine and sweeter words from someone with too much charm for his own good. Therefore, we find her here, dozing. There has been little enough of it once they settled down. Every time her eyes flutter closed they crack back open moments later.
As baby bear is famous for saying, 'Someone's been sleeping in my bed and he is still there.' Well, that is a paraphrase unless Goldilocks was hiding more than stolen porridge. It's perhaps, a telling statement on their positions in this new friendship in the making that she had just settled down to sleep. She looks to be deep asleep, but the moment he actually tries to remove himself from the bed her eyes snap open and that confusion of being somewhere unexpected wakes her up fully.
"Ah!" But it's barely a whisper, a voiceless reining-in of his breath, and G'thon goes stock still. Only for a moment, though; then he leans in a little and breathes out another sound, the comforting hush a nanny whispers to a baby. "It's all right," he adds, on the tail of that sibilant sigh, and untangles a hand from the sheets. With the backs of his fingers he brushes back hair from her forehead, then traces the curve of her cheek in a motion now familiar, but with a manner yet awed, as though he finds himself surprised still to have her so near. "Good morning," he adds, still whispering, but just a little bit louder - loud enough that she will be able to pluck from his voice the dry irony of the hour.
The words or the touch draw her back to location and. . .company. Oh, that's right. She never left. Miniyal peers up with the last traces of sleep fading too quickly. "Did I wake you?" she asks with concern in her voice. "I didn't mean to." There's a lot she didn't /mean/ to do, like wind up here in the first place. Under the blankets she stretches and then one hand sneaks out to grasp the hand tracing her cheek. Catching it up she draws it to her lips for a soft kiss onto his fingertips. "Should I go so you can sleep?" Sitting up then, blankets held tightly to her she looks around, searching for her clothes.
"No." The word draws out on the heels of a chuckle, something he tries without success to suppress. She sits up; he leans back, then pushes himself up by straightening the arm he'd been propped on, and with the hand she's no longer tending to he draws a caress out upon her back, between her shoulder blades. It is, after all, all of her exposed now she's clutched the blankets up against herself. "I haven't slept well." This is the sort of statement that is usually followed by something like, 'since _____,' where the blank is filled in by a traumatic event; apparently G'thon feels no need to fill in the blanks. "I was awake. I'll probably be awake. Would you like - " To talk? To be held? To sleep beside me? To be insomniacs together? "- some tea?"
Miniyal doesn't need things explained to her and even if she did, would not ask. It's not something that can be forgotten, but there's no need to dredge up pain every time an opportunity presents. "I've never slept well," she admits with a faint grimace that turns into something else when he touches her back. A blush accompanies the pleased smile and she shivers. "I would love some tea," she answers with a shy smile. "We could talk. Or, I play a few games if you've anything in here you wish to play. I'm not so good. I mean, I'm technically quite proficient, but my play has always been limited." Because games require friends or at least people you can /ask/ to play with you. She's a whiz, most likely, at solitaire. But other than that? What cause has she had to get good?
"Then let's have tea," he replies, and pushes himself up from his lean into a proper sit so that he can curve his arm around her bare back, caress her opposite shoulder with his hand, and bend his head to breathe kisses along her nearer shoulder up to her neck. They are an odd pair, certainly, he painfully thin and she rather not so, but his affection, his ardor seems honest enough. "Games," he echoes against her skin, then straightens; his smile is one-sided but sly, his eyes sparkling. That they have already entertained themselves with a game, a very old one, probably crosses his mind. He does not go so far as to remark on the subject, but when he lifts his head from her shoulder and makes his suggestion - "Backgammon?" - there's such coy smirkiness in the syllables that he probably hasn't need to. After that he pulls his legs up out of the covers and shifts around behind her, to exit the bed on 'her' side of it, indifferent to his own nudity; a dragonrider, at least, in that respect.
Being a woman, she is allowed to have her own quirks. One of them is that while she's no difficulty in bathing among strangers and those she barely knows when alone with someone in private every insecurity that crowds into her brain comes into play. So she waits until his back is turned and keeps one blanket about her as she begins to search for her clothes. This is stopped by a quiet gasp as she glances towards where G'thon is. "You're too thin," she whispers although it is not chiding, but concern that laces her tone so heavily. She might have noticed this before had she not been so thoroughly distracted in that game they played earlier. Frozen on the side of the bed by her own comment she fights with herself the losing battle of concern for him. How dare he make her feel this way? Struggling now to shake it off she tries a light smile, but it fails to lessen the gravity of her expression. Soldiering on she nods once. "Backgammon. I've not played in some time, but if you're patient with me we could play."
G'thon strides effortlessly across the small chamber to a wardrobe built of a dark and glossy wood, inset into the wall. Its hinges creak slightly as he draws the doors open. "Am I?" He asks this without turning around, and reaches in for a dressing-gown, which he pulls out and drapes over a pale arm, then reaches in again, this time to come out with a bathrobe. Thicker, softer, of broader make, it may have fit him a turn and a half ago, when preparation for Threadfall gave him musculature and soft living in his middle age gave him very slight paunch. He would swim in it now, but he carries it toward the woman draped in his bedsheets and holds it out in both hands like a gentleman offering a lady her coat. "I suppose you shall have to put up with it until I can make some improvements, then," he remarks, still half-smiling and wry. "And I have not played anything but poker in turns. We shall both have to be patient."
"It's not the putting up with it," Miniyal objects quietly as she loses the blanket just long enough to get herself wrapped in the robe. "It's not. . .you know. Healthy is all." A pause as the woman with her own weight problems decides to shut up in case he were to think of pointing it out. "I'm sorry. You must tell me if I bring it up too often. That's not polite." And she is all about polite. In her own way. "Why not?" she then asks in reply to the last comment. "Do you enjoy things other than poker? I like chess. But I've only really played with my parents. They both always beat me soundly. I can't figure it out. I know all the moves. I've read plenty, but they still always beat me." Another pause, she's good at these, and when she speaks again there is frustration in her tone. "They don't do what they are supposed to." Still pesky people. Not doing everything by a book.
He wraps her in his arms, too, while he has the chance; holding her a moment from behind, his fingers still upon the sleeves he's just held up for her to shrug into as ostensible excuse for his embrace. "I know," he murmurs, helpless a bit, regarding his thinness being unhealthy; then a dip of his head and another of those comforting hushes, 'Shhh,' to dismiss her concerns about the good or bad manners of remarking upon his shape. He seals the topic with a kiss near her temple, a little bit into her hair, and unhands her so he can get into his dressing-gown and start for the main room. "I have played chess," he remarks, standing by the doorway - evidently she must go through first - in wait. "What are they supposed to do, then? Should they display their affection for you by throwing you games?" Teasing, a little bit, his tone lightweight, but one silver brow slinks upward just the same.
As if she did this sort of thing every day, there is little shuffling of feet or obvious nervousness when touched. There is even, perhaps, a slight disappearance of shyness as she smiles at him when he steps away. No more speaking of weight she heads for the door then and listens to his words. A quiet laugh breaks her steps and she pauses to look at him with warm regard. "They are supposed to. . .to follow the rules. If you do one thing the logical next step is to counter with something else and they are just not. . .logical." Unlike their daughter who, well, likes to pretend to be logical? Yes, that works. Shaking her head she mumbles something about parents but the light tone and the sparkle in her eyes shows she is mumbling for its own sake and there is no real animosity. Mama and Daddy's little girl still. "I don't expect anyone to throw a game for me," she adds as she steps into the next room. An almost coy glance over her shoulder as she adds, teasing, "Although I might allow you to."
"Chess is not a game of logic," replies G'thon with a bow of his head, gaze raised to sparkle at her, to warm his words with wry rebuke. He follows her out into the larger chamber, and laughs at that coy tease. The laugh is brief and unexpected, delighted. "I fear we'll have no need of such favors with backgammon." He reaches forward, fingertips sweeping at the edge of the robe he put her into, then steps past her and strides out toward the tea-cart. Dinner dishes remain on the lower shelf, but there with them is a heavy ceramic pot for warming water, and this he gathers up to take toward the stove, keeping track of the sleeves of his gown with the other hand as he moves. "It relies a little bit on luck. Chess is a war game; it's more emotional." A pause, and he looks back at her, hesitating on his way to the fire. "I - think I do have a chessboard, only not unpacked - if you would prefer that?"
"It should be logical," is said with a faint trace of petulance in her tone. "I've read several write ups about it and it makes logical sense." Miniyal stops near the table and shakes her head. "No, we don't have to play. I'm not in the mood to go to war." There is a quiet laugh to accompany this statement and she, at loose ends, moves about absently and randomly tidying up. Dirty dishes found go here, books go here, the table is cleared off. Nervous energy relieved with the only outlet available to her right now. What she doesn't do is bring up what happened, technically, last night. She doesn't talk at all as she moves around, going slow so as not to bump into anything or trip herself up.
"The game, I suppose, might be logical in its rules and structure. But you cannot assume the same of its players." That she is in no mood for war brightens his smile, then mutes it; the latter is a mildness inspired by warmth, by earnest affection, and once he's set the pot on the stove he starts back toward the table by way of the bookcase. From it he takes down a small wooden box with an engraved lid in one hand, then a somewhat larger and shallower wooden box with an inlaid lid in the other. With both he comes over to where they shared dinner before, to find the table cleared. "You don't have to do that," he says, lowly, looking first at the open space and then up at the woman responsible for it. "I -can- take care of a table, of dishes. I just - haven't." Because they did something else.
"I never thought I /had/ to," Miniyal replies with a brief smile. It's still not so easy to, well, open up enough to smile. Yes, it's weird all things considered but it's a sure bet she's been to bed with more people than truly smiled. "Anyway, I don't mind. I like things tidy. I mean, I'm. . .weird about it. Like some people. I don't go crazy over a mess, but I just. . .if things can be tidy they should." Shaking her head she swipes at the table once more with the sleeve of her robe. "And, people should be more logical. And ordering. And stuff. It would be easier." Although if she were being orderly and logical she would not be sitting here right now in someone else's bathrobe.
"Well, I can tidy myself, just fine. But - thank you." He affords her a dry smile, a little bemused about it, and sets down upon the table the shallower box, which must from the pattern of the inlay be the backgammon. The other box he opens, the lid opening on a pair of tiny brass hinges, then G'thon leans down over the table and holds the box out. Six square compartments within offer six different blends of dried little shreds of plant matter. The smell is sweet and spicy. "Pick one?" Over the lid he smiles at her, eyes bright, affectionate, dear. "If you like you can set up the board while I get the tea on, and tell me how you think these more logical and ordered people would behave."
"I'm happy to help," comes mumbled out. Looking at the board she bites at her lip before nodding her head. "I /think/ I remember that much," she answers with a nod and a gesture of one hand. "Go on. You're better at the tea stuff than me. I don't even think I drink it when not with you." Because, whatever is handy works for her normally. A mug of something grabbed on the go. At the last comment Miniyal lifts her head from the board to look over. "Are you making fun?" she asks softly. Because he could be. Most people would be. And it never hurts to check.
"Orange and cinnamon. Should help us - sleep." The pause is timed nicely, as he draws back the teachest from the woman's side of the table, with a slight upward slip of one pale brow to accentuate the irony, or even perhaps a little suggestiveness. G'thon steps around to the tea-cart then and, from the other side of it, gazes down at her. The cake's still there, glistening with its sweet glaze, a third of it gone - to their credit it was only meant to serve two anyway, a miniature. "Am I making fun," he echoes thoughtfully, through the wry one-sided lift of his smile. "I suppose I am, but not of you. I'm playing a little with the social idea of a more logical people. Tell me how you think they'd behave." This requested, he puts tea into the filter-ball for the steeping pot, a ritual of spoon and tea leaves and arcane instruments. The heavier pot on the stove steams a bit, no urgency in it.
Blinking as she watches what he does there might be, there could have been, the slightest of blushes at what he seems to be suggesting. This situation is, well, not exactly one she's had much experience with as she's rarely in the past spent the night, slipping off to her own bed once done with what her and whatever partner she had chose to do. So, Miniyal will try to pretend and do the best she can. "I don't know. I've never really thought of it. I guess it was always an abstract ideal. If only because, for me, it is quite logical to avoid everyone and if everyone else were logical they might avoid me as well. It's. . .wearisome. People always trying to draw me out. Like I am some project so they feel better. I wish-" A full stop here and a quiet sigh. "I don't know what I wish anymore. /Someone/ has seen fit to leave me confused." Her gaze finds his at that statement and while she looks vexed it's not all that is visible in her eyes. However, the rest causes her to look away, towards the fire as it's the first place her eyes slide.
"Ah, but - " But. G'thon does not get farther into that; he glances up at her while she goes on about logic, about being a project, and so forth. He attends to the preparation of tea, or ostensibly does anyway, but there's a smirky consciousness about his demeanor; clearly he's listening to her first and performing ritual second. That's maintained even as he strides across to the stove and takes up the water-pot, then returns, playing coy on his way back: "Someone? Someone?" He even affects a flutter of lashes, though he manages only a couple of blinks; it's a gesture his facial musculature just isn't made for, so he finishes off with an arch of brows while he untops the pot and pours steaming water in over the tea. "About what are you confused, Miniyal? I will answer anything you ask me."
The flutter draws out a laugh, genuine and happy for all its brevity. However, it lingers in her eyes as she watches the tea ritual. "You can't help me in this," Miniyal says softly. Pulling out a chair she sits down finally, giving her robe a tug or two to make sure it stays in place. A quiet sigh as she watches him again, memorizing the moment before the world crashes into her with an 'Oops? Were you thinking of being happy? Let's fix that shall we then?' Resting her elbows on the table she lets out a brief, wry laugh. "You gave me what I thought I wanted more than anything. And the longer I had it the more I. . .didn't want it. Well, the more I wanted more. But, there is no more. Now I am at loose ends again. My parents want to know what I will do. Why I did what I did. Everyone wants to know and no one more than I, but the problem is I don't. So, I am confused. Puzzled. Vexed. I'm not even twenty-three (Yes, let's bring up the age difference, shall we?) and the one dream I had I've achieved and tossed aside. It's an odd feeling to no longer see a goal in your future, but just turns stretching out endlessly for no reason."
G'thon, having prepared the tea to the point where it must be left alone to steep, does the only sensible thing left to do: take up the cake knife and shave off a thin sliver from the cake's cut face, then cut a slice of eating size onto - well, not a plate; those were used and are with the others now, thanks to Miniyal's tidying. Onto a napkin, which he takes up in his hand. "It's all right, you know. To have a dream, and not know what the dream is." He comes around to her side, now that she's seated, and bends a bit there so he can pluck with his fingers from the napkin a cherry from the cake and offer it to her. Yes, he intends that she will take it with her lips, though one could probably manage some more awkward arrangement involving fingers. "You want more. That -is- a dream. We just need to find out what the more becomes. Meanwhile - " His brows slide up a little bit farther than they had done already. "Perhaps I can be a sounding board for your thoughts."
"I suppose," Miniyal answers with a shake of her head. And more watching as he plays with the cake and moves to her and then hesitation as she looks up before trying to take the fruit offered. "I just get annoyed not knowing things," is admitted with a slight smile. "But, I would like to talk to you of it." Then she uses her lips to take what is offered, eyes searching his as she does so. Pulling away then from his hand she rises from her chair, bumping into him lightly which gives her an excuse to take his hand. Because she still needs one. "But right now I think I'd rather not talk of it. Or anything else. I should be going soon. I thought perhaps I'd lie down again before I do." A step is taken from the table towards the bedchamber again, his hand still loosely held in hers. It's the only invitation he will get to follow her.