When we collapse.
WHO: R'vain, Tavaly, (Ruvoth and Immath)
WHERE: Ista Weyr, guest weyr
WHEN: 23:30 on day 27, month 5, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
WHAT: R'vain receives word, through the grape vine, of a certain greenrider and her injuries while fighting fall as a transferred rider at ISta Weyr.
OTHER: To explain Tav's Absence from the Weyr, the staff and I have come up with this: J'cor, before losing his station as Weyrleader, decided it to be a good idea to further dismantle any of 2C that he considered loyal to E'sere. Of the PCs, Tavaly was sent to Ista Weyr , and T'zen was sent to Igen Weyr. This scene is to fit it all together.
Ista's heat is unbearable. At least for the hearty folk of the frozen Northern lands. The black sands of the bowl are sizzling to the point of sending up wavering lengths of hot air that dance and flicker upon the earth. The weyrs are nearer to the ground to escape the brutal sun, shadowed by the great curving walls of the bowl. One of the lowermost weyrs, reserved for guests, has probably seen better days. After all, guests usually stay a night. Maybe two. Due to the circumstances of her stay, however, it's nearly become a third (or fourth) home, by this point.
Immath stretches flat over the ledge, her eyes closed in the calmness of afternoon dozing, and nearby, Tavaly works. Leather, always. Hands have to do something, even if one does not yet desire to do anything at all. Short breeks and a sleeveless tunic reveal all. The leg whose skin is still blackened and healing in mangled, smooth scarring patterns. And her left forearm with similar results even creeping up into her palm. It wasn't a good run at all, however, they are still there. And still functioning. Despite the daily stinging of examination and various liquid remedies, they are still there. And for that, surely, she is grateful. Hair gathered into a messy bun at the back of her head, Tav wipes sweat from her brow on the back of one hand, looking upward into the brilliant, cloudless blue sky. Watching.
Ruvoth comes unannounced. Someone, somewhere, probably knows he is coming-- the Istan Weyrleader's dragon, if nothing else!-- but he has not rumbled, thundered, purred or whimpered the least of notes to Immath about it, and he does not bother with doing so until long after he's spotted her flat sprawl on the ledge below and wound his way down to a landing mere feet away. He rumbles then, the softest of notes, sweet and maybe a bit rueful. No words.
R'vain fills those in. He heaves down from the bronze's back and immediately starts shedding layers on the move. Heavy footfalls thump the dark Istan soil toward the few steps up onto the low ledge. The Reachian Weyrleader yanks off his cap and gloves and shoves them into a pocket, then shrugs out of jacket, tucks that in an arm and starts pawing open shirt-buttons, a sweat already gleaming a fine sheen along his temples. "Coulda picked a fuckin' oven t'fly in, be just as well," he's growling against the aural backdrop of Ruvoth's hello. But he stops short at the bottom of the steps and stares up. Well. She's changed, it's sure.
Change, indeed. The months spent in Ista have burned her, allowed her to heal, burned again.. She does not tan. Only just enough to bring out a streak of freckles beneath her blue eyes and to give her shoulders the same decoration. But it has done little else to the pale constant of her skin. She stands, bare feet on the cool stone. She's standing when Ruvoth settles, and when R'vain makes his walk toward her. Immath's head raises, one eye staying closed for a moment longer than the other. Her cheek is healing, at least. The awful gash that nearly stole her eye is a welcome alternative. The green bows her head briefly to Ruvoth. No rumble. No voice. Those are up to Tav.
"I didn't pick it." Tav states simply. The leather project is left at her feet, her right hand curling up to settle on one hip. Her left arm, rather unconciously, is slipped slightly behind her to hide itself. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Weyrleader?" She questions. While their last discussion has dimmed in her mind, the initial reaction to seeing him is still startling. Defensive. Formal. Cordial, even. Just not warm. There's enough warmth in the Istan bowl to make cold, heartless bastards out of the lot of them.
R'vain has always been freckled, and Ista only makes him sweat. And raise a paw, the left one, which betrays a little bit that he, too, has changed-- the side of his hand is scarred and misshapen, narrower than it should be-- to shade his eyes from the sun, to better squint up from between red lashes at the greenrider above. "Tavaly," he replies after a beat or two, long enough time gone by since her question that his address-- reproachful, almost rueful-- sounds belated. He shakes his head once, lets down his shade-awning paw, and ascends the steps, head down.
Eh. She has never understood, nor assumes to do so now. She makes little move as he ascends the steps, her hands as they were, though now the right one descends, hanging at her side. Both disfigured limbs aren't hard to see, though they still try to hide themselves. Weakness, after all. "Yes?" The woman asks, her head tilting to the sides, a few stray strands of hair falling over her face. "For someone who's come all the way to Ista to, as it appears, check on me, you're awful long in getting to the point, R'vain.." One brow lifts above the other. There, at least, is a classic Tav look.
"Three heartbeats," grumbles R'vain, each syllable pounded out alongside the echo of a boot hitting the stone of the ledge. He glances at Immath, and for a moment the grin he's meant to wear twitches at the edge of his mouth-- but no display of perfect white teeth comes out to shine. He looks back at Tavaly, because he approaches her, walking heavily, his free hand coming up to wipe back damp from his forehead into his hair. The latter grows only more spiky for the effort. "Ain't s'far," he adds in his thunderbolt rumble, standing finally before her; his fists curl loosely at his hips, jacket a mess in the crook of one arm. His brows draw down, expression concerned, but he does not look at her scores-- he looks at her face, deeply, like he could read something there that the scars won't tell him. "Could say I'm checkin' up, sure. Could say Jensen told me t'ask you 'bout him and I said I would, so here I am. Could say I missed y'company." There, he did. Gruff enough. "Y'goin' t'say 'H'lo, R'vain, siddown, want a drink,' or'm'I goin' t'have t'do this th'hard way?"
Her face is something she offers without.. well, anything. It is long. Older. Some of the light taken out of it. Her lips are a thin line by nature, now, instead of something she has to work to achieve. And her eyes.. well, they're there, too. Spit and vinegar more than mischief. Older and wiser, perhaps. Even if she's not, exactly, older herself. At mention of Jensen's name, however, a brief twitch of a sideways smile tugs that thin, serious line. It's his smile, even, in the time it spends on his lips. "Sit if you like. I'm afraid all I've got to offer is day old klah in a cold pitcher or water. I haven't had wine since I left the 'Reaches, else I'd offer it to you. However, to be fair, you really didn't give me time to prepare anything better." She turns, to the left, and moves deeper into the weyr. IT's sparse, but not prison-sparse. There are table and chairs, and an alcove that's been torn apart so healery folk can access it easily. Blech. There's another small table just beside it covered in all sorts of healery things. "How are the 'Reaches?" She asks. An admission, in her own small way, of missing home.
"Don't need wine. Or klah. Water's probably goin' t'be necessary 'less I make this fast." But he has no obvious intention of doing so. He follows Tavaly into the weyr, one last glance sidelong-strewn at Immath before he disappears into the welcome shade. "Cracked up like usual, but we're tryin' t'hold'er together. Y'hear?" Because she would have. Should have. Well, R'vain evidently figures what she'd have heard is one of those things that goes without saying. And he goes without saying it, all the while he prowls on in toward one of the chairs, grabs it, hauls it back and swings himself into it, taking ownership. He looks up at her then, eyes growing keen now that they don't have to fight wateriness in the bright Istan sun. "He's goin' t'kick my ass, he gets a chance."
For the time being, her movements are careful. The lacerations lining both limbs are not yet completely healed. She's learned on more than one occasion what skin pulling itself apart feels like, and has found it very much not to her liking. As he sits, she moves to the pitchers and a large cup, pouring clear, cool water into it before making her way back to his chair. "Rumors, mostly. I hear we had a good hatching. Couldn't hear who, though. It happened while.. well, Immath and I were mostly resting." She says quietly, offering the cup to the man - right hand extended - and arching a brow at him. "He who? And you're Weyrleader. Just have Ruvoth sit on them."
By the time the greenrider comes back with the cup, R'vain's staring. It's not how she moves-- though he watched that with careful eye, thoughtful and foreboding-- it's what she says. That's what slacks his jaw for a moment and makes his hand wobble for a moment around the cup, what makes him not quite take it from her hand even though his is now upon it. "He, uh. Y'know. Uh." No, she doesn't know. His tongue goes up over his upper teeth and comes back off with a soft slurk. "He. Y'brother. Guardin' th'gate t'th'sands. Y'remember th'last clutch. Been havin' th'sands guarded because." Because egg-smashing bad. "Uh. So he was there. And, uh, a hatchling went wild and he sorta tried t'get outa th'way too slow." A beat and, rushed: "Ain't hurt! But. Uh."
No, that part she was out for. And for good reason. Even if she'd wanted to be awake, healers said nonono. And so, with her hand around the handle, his around the base, she simply stares at him for a moment. She is, by no means, a stupid woman. But this idea that he tries to convery with sentence pauses and words like 'uh' and 'um' are.. really not helping. "Well, if he's not hurt than.." What could possibly be so interesting as to bring u--oooooh. Luckily for the potters of the Weyr, they'll not have to make another mug to replace this one. She's not the sort to go dropping things when the feeling of complete shock consumes her. "Oh, /no/." She says, the corner of her mouth ticking upward again. Beyond her knowledge, that is. "Nooohoohohoooo." And it /grows/.
"Uh," replies R'vain, and the corner of his mouth ticks upward too, because hey, if they can laugh about this, that would be best. It beats someone getting smacked. "Name's Sehkrath. Bronze." Important details, conveyed through a hesitant grin-- come on, laugh. His paw curls a little tighter around the bottom of the mug, ready now to take it from her and signalling so with a little tug. "Fell right on his ass tryin' t'get away from somethin' y'can't get away from. He's goin' t'want t'kill me, I figure." Plaaaaaying up the funny.
It's not so much a laugh as it is a roar and it's awful. Her left arm curls up against her side vulnerably, and her face points to the ceiling. The laugh wakes Immath from her doze and even forces the green from her perch. She meanders a short ways from the opening and bathes in the sun. And as Tav's hilarity finally subsides, she simply /staaarrrres/ at the wall. "Oh blessed Shards of Faranth." She finally chokes out. "He's got to be in a right old snit, hasn't he?" She asks. Her hand has since released the mug and she sinks against the table, leaning. "Why would he want to kill you?"
R'vain, then, can laugh too-- though his time for roaring is past and he now only chortles, pulling back the mug once she lets it go, resting it against his chest as he slumps into a slouch, knees out wide, boots tucked back against the chair-legs. Grinning, his teeth now show in all their white, hungry glory, and he looks on the greenrider with a speculative, if not quite leering, gaze-- thinking, more than devouring, but pleased. "F'is behaviour on th'sand's any indication, I bet. Uh. He's goin' t'want to since it's me ordered him t'stand guard. He wanted t'be somewhere else, dunno. But I trust him." And all of a sudden the grin vanishes, the Weyrleader's jaw popping forward in a rangy stretch, and his eyes darken a bit. "Don't tell him I said that."
"You should trust him. He's a good man, if a bit stupid." Tav says with no malice. She speaks through experience. "This will be good for him." She nods, looking at the wall again. "Teach him to follow the rules a little. He's now part of something larger than he's ever experienced. I'm interested to see how he'll do, now." She speculates, chin trapped in one hand for a moment. "But if you insist, I'll not let that little gem slip." Tav says, taking a deep breath. "Tell me more about it later. That, I think, is about all I can handle. How are /you/, then?" She asks, peering at the ruddy-haired man with a sincere and curious face. Whatever leering he may do, she is oblivious to it.
"Got t'tell him myself. Ain't ready." There. About that 'gem.' R'vain looks away, at the wall that's held Tavaly's attention-- so she has his partial profile to consider, to peer at, while he's serious and not leering at all, sort of hiding from her gaze in his lazy, sprawled way. "I'm a'right. It's been, uh, interesting." Whatever 'it' he means goes unclarified; he suffers a gulp of the water instead and folds his jacket over his lap so he can use the other hand to wipe back damp from his brow. "Sent T'zen a letter. He say?" Green eyes flick to their corners, stealing a look at Tavaly, to gauge reaction.
"That you do. Not my place. But you should do it. When he's out of the killing you mood, that is." Tav replies simply. At talk of 'interesting', she affords a soft laugh. No more than a puff of air out of her nostrils. Though when he asks about T'zen, the woman's mouth runs a little dry, and she runs her tongue out over her lips, followed by teeth that chew her lower lip briefly. "He didn't, no." She admits, head dropping. "We don't.. really talk all that much anymore. Since J'cor's orders, and his transfer to Igen, he's.. well. Understand. After the whole ordeal with the killings and attacks, he's just never been the same." She says softly, then looks to R'vain. And there the age and somberness is explained. Loss. Not in death, but in closeness. In sharing it. It's gone for her, and the hardened spirit is left behind. "He didn't say."
Slowly, the red Weyrleader's head turns to match the direction of his gaze. His mouth twists, though not in derision; deeply furrowed brows make him seem dark again, worried. "Yeah. I-- yeah." Then R'vain jerks his head down and looks at the cup of water, as though looking at Tavaly is an intimacy he hasn't the right to assume. His voice turns rough, raspy, as quiet as he ever is-- not very, but a notable difference. He restrains it, for the sake of telling her this. "I'd like y't'come back t'th'Reaches."
Ah. So.. that's why he's here. That's.. that's all right. That's /good/. That is something solid she can put her feet down on. And with a curious look, she faces the wall again. Taking a deep breath, her gaze goes far off. Consulting. It lasts a short time before she answers, "I'd like that, too. I miss.. the mountains. The people." A small smile. "My brother." Her eyes close. And then she thinks. "What's left of 2C?"
R'vain shrugs. "S'a good wing. H'kon's still there. Most th'others of /his/ riders've been slipped away--" His mouth twists, and his head shakes, and he has to wash out something sour with a swig of water from the cup before he can go on. "Still a good wing. Core's there, tried t'shore it up a bit with strong flank. Ain't sure I'd want t'throw you in, though." A pause. Then-- she said not to say more on this-- it might be too much-- but he does it, anyway. It's irresistible. Just a mutter, raspy and low, grinning a bit. "Y'brother th'bronzerider."
"It was always a good wing. A Wingleader does not make his wing. It's the riders behind him that give it its name." Tav states simply. Perhaps he touched on a nerve or two, but to that end she gives no evidence. It sounded more tetchy than she intended, really. However, when he voices his doubts on putting her back into it, she gives him a tilted expression. Brow raised. "If not there, then where?" She'd liked being in 2C. Gave her a good chance to /fight/. His pause, and then his little joke. "So it would seem. Outranks me again." She laughs. At herself, mostly. "Hard to imagine the look on his face."
"No idea th'look on his face, could mostly only see his feet," R'vain replies, grinning-- this is the easier topic; he enjoys it for a moment. Then he's looking vaguely serious again, his grin a little wan, his gaze going back down into the cup. "Tryin' t'make th'wings more effective. Got some new formations. Just ideas. Uh. It'd be good, I think. Th'way you fly. Kinda plannin' t'rearrange a bit. Make three-cee th'first one t'use th'new figures, got t'be able t'change back and forth from th'one to th'other, depending on which of th'big wings they're with, maybe on
other things." It's not so easy to tell in the dim light of the weyr but it might be that in his brief stint out in the Istan sun, R'vain got burned a bit; his cheeks seem redder. "Dunno, y'might like it. Sure be a boon t'me."
It is, perhaps, her pride that hurts a bit more than her arm and leg. And it nearly shows. For all the time she's had to practice a hard mask, it seems to falter here. "Three-cee." She repeats, chewing her lip. Judging by her expression, she's not.. thrilled. But. On the tails of a sigh she replies, "Whatever you need of me." Tactful. Diplomatic. And most probably bull-shit. "I'll do my best. Work hard, no matter what the 'fall looks like."
R'vain hears her tone at least as much as her words, because his head snaps up and he looks at her, careful, eyes narrow and keen, sure not to miss a detail. And in a little while he rumbles, "I ain't playin' down t'you. Not cause you're hurt. Not cause you're little. Not cause you've shown me up good a time or two. F'I get th'right wingleader in there and th'formations prove, y'goin' t'have work enough t'do." He looks on her long enough more, hard enough, that he might seem to be scowling, almost. He rumbles again, wordless, and straightens, shoving forward in the chair for another drink from the cup.
"I don't want to be played down to." She states, her head turning toward him. She's smiling. Whatever moment of weakness she experienced is gone. "I want to be challenged." She adds, arms crossing carefully over her chest, shoulders rolled forward. "Whoever you do choose to lead it better have the anatomy to do it the right way. The last thing the 'Reaches needs is another disaster. That wing seems cursed." She chews the inside of her lip a moment. "Who else will you put there? Weyrlings?"
'The anatomy' makes the Weyrleader choke a bit on a laugh, a single, sucked-in bark. It leaves him with a bit of his usual, toothy grin to look up at her with, and for whatever reason-- the cup's empty, now-- he stays in the chair, though ready obviously to rise. "Ain't been cursed since before y'left," he rumbles, an aside only. "/Every/ wing gets some new riders out of a weyrling class, th'ones we figure're best for it.
Tavaly." There's that reproach in her name again, not rueful this time-- it's almost a command, and certainly a requirement that she /attend/ to what he's saying. "It'll challenge you. Y'seasoned now; y'think I'd do y'less? Think a sec. Y'know me. Y'know how I thought. Y'tried t'make me think again. G'me th'benefit of th'doubt just once."
"Oh, I do know how you think. And I know it well enough to understand that you're not about to give me the choice not to, so what choice do I have /but/ to go along with it?" Now she's teasing. And its apparent in the smile that speaks of an old, dusty fondness. "I will. And I will give it all I've got. You just make sure three-cee's scheduled for a big fall now and then. I don't want to get rusty hovering over the dirt." She states, staring at him and, obviously, waiting for an answer. But, before he can, "Describe to me how you think now."
She catches him with mouth a bit agape-- he'd have replied, of course, about big falls and hovering over the dirt, and he'd have had a cocky answer, too, if the tip of his head and the twist of his grin were any indication. But she interrupts him and he turns the open grin into a
toothy smirk, then shakes his head, slow. "Y'askin' a tall order from a man y'd figure ain't used t'doing it at all," R'vain points out, thunderously low, maybe sly. "Lissen. I can show y'better'n I can tell. Tell y'this. I want t'get a wingleader in who's interested in a fight that uses his pairs t'th'best of their capacities. Each one, y'know, different. Formations built t'take advantage. F'you-- " He overturns a paw and flips out a gesture, palm-up, fingers wriggling. "Fast. Clever. Daring." So she was, once, anyway-- and having said this, explained what he
envisions her place in his custom-built wing to be, R'vain tips back his head and looks across his bent nose up at her, waiting.
"You're a Weyrleader now, R'vain. I expect you to do it all and more. Unfortunately you've gone and raised folks' expectations of you, now that you've exceeded the ones placed upon you before." Tav says for starters. This is her Weyrleader. Her Weyrlingmaster. Her /friend/. There are no boundaries set in this conversation. So, she speaks as she will. She listens to him carefully, nodding her head as he makes his points. She agrees. To all of them. "As a leader should.." Wait. Prepare for a Jensen-esque response. The lip is chewed again. Blank staring. And then a completely honest, "You have someone in mind already?" And curiosity.
The corner of his mouth twists up. She'll speak as she will. And he listens, withstanding her remarks with a little flush in the cheeks, but no rage, and he doesn't change his chin-up pose or perspective just because she's got to have her say. "Think so. He's a'right on th'formations. Just want t'make sure he'll be good f'th'wing, too. You come home, I'll point him out t'you. You can think 'bout it. While y'heal." Match.
The fact that he doesn't fly off the deep end earns him a look of.. dare we say admiration? It's small, and fleeting, but it was there. There is pride in her grin, too. Not for herself, but for him. Good. He's turning out all right, afterall. As he offers his reply, she nods, lips pursing in that way that means she's thinking about it. And juding by the continual nod, she's in agreement. Her arms uncross and palms slap together. No wince, no sign of pain. "When do we leave?"
R'vain's grin goes wide and pearly. "You can go whenever y'ready." He gets up then, rather sudden, and puts out one of his enormous paws (the other has hold of the cup) in an effort to grab her hands, or one of them, just to touch her, briefly. "/I/ got t'talk t'K'ver, and hope t'high'skies he don't want t'have us in f'a drink once we got it agreed-- so, y'know. If you were in a hurry, wouldn't bother me none."
She lets him take one of them. The right. The left she places on the man's shoulder. "Let's get the fuck out of this oven." She says, and already her face is lit up with a smile. And a laugh. She's going home. And while Tav's overwhelming joy is quiet, Immath's is not. She's already bugling it skyward, pummeling Ruvoth's poor thoughts with it. Haa! Home. Home!
He holds her hand for a moment, turning his under her fingers so he's got hold of them with the same odd gentleness he uses on weyrling dragons. For a moment R'vain can keep on looking at her-- then he's looking down at her fingers, and grinning, and shaking his head-- and /then/ he's letting go of her hand and turning his shoulder out from under her touch. "I'll g'wan up t'K'ver," he notes, and with jacket under one arm starts for the ledge. "You get y'shit t'gether. Don't strain nothin' tryin' t'beat me out of here-- I'll be a bit." He pauses to grin back at her. "See y'at home?"
"I packed lightly." She replies with a grin. "Didn't expect to stay here forever, after all. Nice of you to invite me so soon." She says with a half-grin. Joking. Has to. This is a moment that has to be saved by joviality. "I'll seeya." She says with a strong salute, and turns from the man to pack what few possessions she really has brought with her.
WHERE: Ista Weyr, guest weyr
WHEN: 23:30 on day 27, month 5, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
WHAT: R'vain receives word, through the grape vine, of a certain greenrider and her injuries while fighting fall as a transferred rider at ISta Weyr.
OTHER: To explain Tav's Absence from the Weyr, the staff and I have come up with this: J'cor, before losing his station as Weyrleader, decided it to be a good idea to further dismantle any of 2C that he considered loyal to E'sere. Of the PCs, Tavaly was sent to Ista Weyr , and T'zen was sent to Igen Weyr. This scene is to fit it all together.
Ista's heat is unbearable. At least for the hearty folk of the frozen Northern lands. The black sands of the bowl are sizzling to the point of sending up wavering lengths of hot air that dance and flicker upon the earth. The weyrs are nearer to the ground to escape the brutal sun, shadowed by the great curving walls of the bowl. One of the lowermost weyrs, reserved for guests, has probably seen better days. After all, guests usually stay a night. Maybe two. Due to the circumstances of her stay, however, it's nearly become a third (or fourth) home, by this point.
Immath stretches flat over the ledge, her eyes closed in the calmness of afternoon dozing, and nearby, Tavaly works. Leather, always. Hands have to do something, even if one does not yet desire to do anything at all. Short breeks and a sleeveless tunic reveal all. The leg whose skin is still blackened and healing in mangled, smooth scarring patterns. And her left forearm with similar results even creeping up into her palm. It wasn't a good run at all, however, they are still there. And still functioning. Despite the daily stinging of examination and various liquid remedies, they are still there. And for that, surely, she is grateful. Hair gathered into a messy bun at the back of her head, Tav wipes sweat from her brow on the back of one hand, looking upward into the brilliant, cloudless blue sky. Watching.
Ruvoth comes unannounced. Someone, somewhere, probably knows he is coming-- the Istan Weyrleader's dragon, if nothing else!-- but he has not rumbled, thundered, purred or whimpered the least of notes to Immath about it, and he does not bother with doing so until long after he's spotted her flat sprawl on the ledge below and wound his way down to a landing mere feet away. He rumbles then, the softest of notes, sweet and maybe a bit rueful. No words.
R'vain fills those in. He heaves down from the bronze's back and immediately starts shedding layers on the move. Heavy footfalls thump the dark Istan soil toward the few steps up onto the low ledge. The Reachian Weyrleader yanks off his cap and gloves and shoves them into a pocket, then shrugs out of jacket, tucks that in an arm and starts pawing open shirt-buttons, a sweat already gleaming a fine sheen along his temples. "Coulda picked a fuckin' oven t'fly in, be just as well," he's growling against the aural backdrop of Ruvoth's hello. But he stops short at the bottom of the steps and stares up. Well. She's changed, it's sure.
Change, indeed. The months spent in Ista have burned her, allowed her to heal, burned again.. She does not tan. Only just enough to bring out a streak of freckles beneath her blue eyes and to give her shoulders the same decoration. But it has done little else to the pale constant of her skin. She stands, bare feet on the cool stone. She's standing when Ruvoth settles, and when R'vain makes his walk toward her. Immath's head raises, one eye staying closed for a moment longer than the other. Her cheek is healing, at least. The awful gash that nearly stole her eye is a welcome alternative. The green bows her head briefly to Ruvoth. No rumble. No voice. Those are up to Tav.
"I didn't pick it." Tav states simply. The leather project is left at her feet, her right hand curling up to settle on one hip. Her left arm, rather unconciously, is slipped slightly behind her to hide itself. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Weyrleader?" She questions. While their last discussion has dimmed in her mind, the initial reaction to seeing him is still startling. Defensive. Formal. Cordial, even. Just not warm. There's enough warmth in the Istan bowl to make cold, heartless bastards out of the lot of them.
R'vain has always been freckled, and Ista only makes him sweat. And raise a paw, the left one, which betrays a little bit that he, too, has changed-- the side of his hand is scarred and misshapen, narrower than it should be-- to shade his eyes from the sun, to better squint up from between red lashes at the greenrider above. "Tavaly," he replies after a beat or two, long enough time gone by since her question that his address-- reproachful, almost rueful-- sounds belated. He shakes his head once, lets down his shade-awning paw, and ascends the steps, head down.
Eh. She has never understood, nor assumes to do so now. She makes little move as he ascends the steps, her hands as they were, though now the right one descends, hanging at her side. Both disfigured limbs aren't hard to see, though they still try to hide themselves. Weakness, after all. "Yes?" The woman asks, her head tilting to the sides, a few stray strands of hair falling over her face. "For someone who's come all the way to Ista to, as it appears, check on me, you're awful long in getting to the point, R'vain.." One brow lifts above the other. There, at least, is a classic Tav look.
"Three heartbeats," grumbles R'vain, each syllable pounded out alongside the echo of a boot hitting the stone of the ledge. He glances at Immath, and for a moment the grin he's meant to wear twitches at the edge of his mouth-- but no display of perfect white teeth comes out to shine. He looks back at Tavaly, because he approaches her, walking heavily, his free hand coming up to wipe back damp from his forehead into his hair. The latter grows only more spiky for the effort. "Ain't s'far," he adds in his thunderbolt rumble, standing finally before her; his fists curl loosely at his hips, jacket a mess in the crook of one arm. His brows draw down, expression concerned, but he does not look at her scores-- he looks at her face, deeply, like he could read something there that the scars won't tell him. "Could say I'm checkin' up, sure. Could say Jensen told me t'ask you 'bout him and I said I would, so here I am. Could say I missed y'company." There, he did. Gruff enough. "Y'goin' t'say 'H'lo, R'vain, siddown, want a drink,' or'm'I goin' t'have t'do this th'hard way?"
Her face is something she offers without.. well, anything. It is long. Older. Some of the light taken out of it. Her lips are a thin line by nature, now, instead of something she has to work to achieve. And her eyes.. well, they're there, too. Spit and vinegar more than mischief. Older and wiser, perhaps. Even if she's not, exactly, older herself. At mention of Jensen's name, however, a brief twitch of a sideways smile tugs that thin, serious line. It's his smile, even, in the time it spends on his lips. "Sit if you like. I'm afraid all I've got to offer is day old klah in a cold pitcher or water. I haven't had wine since I left the 'Reaches, else I'd offer it to you. However, to be fair, you really didn't give me time to prepare anything better." She turns, to the left, and moves deeper into the weyr. IT's sparse, but not prison-sparse. There are table and chairs, and an alcove that's been torn apart so healery folk can access it easily. Blech. There's another small table just beside it covered in all sorts of healery things. "How are the 'Reaches?" She asks. An admission, in her own small way, of missing home.
"Don't need wine. Or klah. Water's probably goin' t'be necessary 'less I make this fast." But he has no obvious intention of doing so. He follows Tavaly into the weyr, one last glance sidelong-strewn at Immath before he disappears into the welcome shade. "Cracked up like usual, but we're tryin' t'hold'er together. Y'hear?" Because she would have. Should have. Well, R'vain evidently figures what she'd have heard is one of those things that goes without saying. And he goes without saying it, all the while he prowls on in toward one of the chairs, grabs it, hauls it back and swings himself into it, taking ownership. He looks up at her then, eyes growing keen now that they don't have to fight wateriness in the bright Istan sun. "He's goin' t'kick my ass, he gets a chance."
For the time being, her movements are careful. The lacerations lining both limbs are not yet completely healed. She's learned on more than one occasion what skin pulling itself apart feels like, and has found it very much not to her liking. As he sits, she moves to the pitchers and a large cup, pouring clear, cool water into it before making her way back to his chair. "Rumors, mostly. I hear we had a good hatching. Couldn't hear who, though. It happened while.. well, Immath and I were mostly resting." She says quietly, offering the cup to the man - right hand extended - and arching a brow at him. "He who? And you're Weyrleader. Just have Ruvoth sit on them."
By the time the greenrider comes back with the cup, R'vain's staring. It's not how she moves-- though he watched that with careful eye, thoughtful and foreboding-- it's what she says. That's what slacks his jaw for a moment and makes his hand wobble for a moment around the cup, what makes him not quite take it from her hand even though his is now upon it. "He, uh. Y'know. Uh." No, she doesn't know. His tongue goes up over his upper teeth and comes back off with a soft slurk. "He. Y'brother. Guardin' th'gate t'th'sands. Y'remember th'last clutch. Been havin' th'sands guarded because." Because egg-smashing bad. "Uh. So he was there. And, uh, a hatchling went wild and he sorta tried t'get outa th'way too slow." A beat and, rushed: "Ain't hurt! But. Uh."
No, that part she was out for. And for good reason. Even if she'd wanted to be awake, healers said nonono. And so, with her hand around the handle, his around the base, she simply stares at him for a moment. She is, by no means, a stupid woman. But this idea that he tries to convery with sentence pauses and words like 'uh' and 'um' are.. really not helping. "Well, if he's not hurt than.." What could possibly be so interesting as to bring u--oooooh. Luckily for the potters of the Weyr, they'll not have to make another mug to replace this one. She's not the sort to go dropping things when the feeling of complete shock consumes her. "Oh, /no/." She says, the corner of her mouth ticking upward again. Beyond her knowledge, that is. "Nooohoohohoooo." And it /grows/.
"Uh," replies R'vain, and the corner of his mouth ticks upward too, because hey, if they can laugh about this, that would be best. It beats someone getting smacked. "Name's Sehkrath. Bronze." Important details, conveyed through a hesitant grin-- come on, laugh. His paw curls a little tighter around the bottom of the mug, ready now to take it from her and signalling so with a little tug. "Fell right on his ass tryin' t'get away from somethin' y'can't get away from. He's goin' t'want t'kill me, I figure." Plaaaaaying up the funny.
It's not so much a laugh as it is a roar and it's awful. Her left arm curls up against her side vulnerably, and her face points to the ceiling. The laugh wakes Immath from her doze and even forces the green from her perch. She meanders a short ways from the opening and bathes in the sun. And as Tav's hilarity finally subsides, she simply /staaarrrres/ at the wall. "Oh blessed Shards of Faranth." She finally chokes out. "He's got to be in a right old snit, hasn't he?" She asks. Her hand has since released the mug and she sinks against the table, leaning. "Why would he want to kill you?"
R'vain, then, can laugh too-- though his time for roaring is past and he now only chortles, pulling back the mug once she lets it go, resting it against his chest as he slumps into a slouch, knees out wide, boots tucked back against the chair-legs. Grinning, his teeth now show in all their white, hungry glory, and he looks on the greenrider with a speculative, if not quite leering, gaze-- thinking, more than devouring, but pleased. "F'is behaviour on th'sand's any indication, I bet. Uh. He's goin' t'want to since it's me ordered him t'stand guard. He wanted t'be somewhere else, dunno. But I trust him." And all of a sudden the grin vanishes, the Weyrleader's jaw popping forward in a rangy stretch, and his eyes darken a bit. "Don't tell him I said that."
"You should trust him. He's a good man, if a bit stupid." Tav says with no malice. She speaks through experience. "This will be good for him." She nods, looking at the wall again. "Teach him to follow the rules a little. He's now part of something larger than he's ever experienced. I'm interested to see how he'll do, now." She speculates, chin trapped in one hand for a moment. "But if you insist, I'll not let that little gem slip." Tav says, taking a deep breath. "Tell me more about it later. That, I think, is about all I can handle. How are /you/, then?" She asks, peering at the ruddy-haired man with a sincere and curious face. Whatever leering he may do, she is oblivious to it.
"Got t'tell him myself. Ain't ready." There. About that 'gem.' R'vain looks away, at the wall that's held Tavaly's attention-- so she has his partial profile to consider, to peer at, while he's serious and not leering at all, sort of hiding from her gaze in his lazy, sprawled way. "I'm a'right. It's been, uh, interesting." Whatever 'it' he means goes unclarified; he suffers a gulp of the water instead and folds his jacket over his lap so he can use the other hand to wipe back damp from his brow. "Sent T'zen a letter. He say?" Green eyes flick to their corners, stealing a look at Tavaly, to gauge reaction.
"That you do. Not my place. But you should do it. When he's out of the killing you mood, that is." Tav replies simply. At talk of 'interesting', she affords a soft laugh. No more than a puff of air out of her nostrils. Though when he asks about T'zen, the woman's mouth runs a little dry, and she runs her tongue out over her lips, followed by teeth that chew her lower lip briefly. "He didn't, no." She admits, head dropping. "We don't.. really talk all that much anymore. Since J'cor's orders, and his transfer to Igen, he's.. well. Understand. After the whole ordeal with the killings and attacks, he's just never been the same." She says softly, then looks to R'vain. And there the age and somberness is explained. Loss. Not in death, but in closeness. In sharing it. It's gone for her, and the hardened spirit is left behind. "He didn't say."
Slowly, the red Weyrleader's head turns to match the direction of his gaze. His mouth twists, though not in derision; deeply furrowed brows make him seem dark again, worried. "Yeah. I-- yeah." Then R'vain jerks his head down and looks at the cup of water, as though looking at Tavaly is an intimacy he hasn't the right to assume. His voice turns rough, raspy, as quiet as he ever is-- not very, but a notable difference. He restrains it, for the sake of telling her this. "I'd like y't'come back t'th'Reaches."
Ah. So.. that's why he's here. That's.. that's all right. That's /good/. That is something solid she can put her feet down on. And with a curious look, she faces the wall again. Taking a deep breath, her gaze goes far off. Consulting. It lasts a short time before she answers, "I'd like that, too. I miss.. the mountains. The people." A small smile. "My brother." Her eyes close. And then she thinks. "What's left of 2C?"
R'vain shrugs. "S'a good wing. H'kon's still there. Most th'others of /his/ riders've been slipped away--" His mouth twists, and his head shakes, and he has to wash out something sour with a swig of water from the cup before he can go on. "Still a good wing. Core's there, tried t'shore it up a bit with strong flank. Ain't sure I'd want t'throw you in, though." A pause. Then-- she said not to say more on this-- it might be too much-- but he does it, anyway. It's irresistible. Just a mutter, raspy and low, grinning a bit. "Y'brother th'bronzerider."
"It was always a good wing. A Wingleader does not make his wing. It's the riders behind him that give it its name." Tav states simply. Perhaps he touched on a nerve or two, but to that end she gives no evidence. It sounded more tetchy than she intended, really. However, when he voices his doubts on putting her back into it, she gives him a tilted expression. Brow raised. "If not there, then where?" She'd liked being in 2C. Gave her a good chance to /fight/. His pause, and then his little joke. "So it would seem. Outranks me again." She laughs. At herself, mostly. "Hard to imagine the look on his face."
"No idea th'look on his face, could mostly only see his feet," R'vain replies, grinning-- this is the easier topic; he enjoys it for a moment. Then he's looking vaguely serious again, his grin a little wan, his gaze going back down into the cup. "Tryin' t'make th'wings more effective. Got some new formations. Just ideas. Uh. It'd be good, I think. Th'way you fly. Kinda plannin' t'rearrange a bit. Make three-cee th'first one t'use th'new figures, got t'be able t'change back and forth from th'one to th'other, depending on which of th'big wings they're with, maybe on
other things." It's not so easy to tell in the dim light of the weyr but it might be that in his brief stint out in the Istan sun, R'vain got burned a bit; his cheeks seem redder. "Dunno, y'might like it. Sure be a boon t'me."
It is, perhaps, her pride that hurts a bit more than her arm and leg. And it nearly shows. For all the time she's had to practice a hard mask, it seems to falter here. "Three-cee." She repeats, chewing her lip. Judging by her expression, she's not.. thrilled. But. On the tails of a sigh she replies, "Whatever you need of me." Tactful. Diplomatic. And most probably bull-shit. "I'll do my best. Work hard, no matter what the 'fall looks like."
R'vain hears her tone at least as much as her words, because his head snaps up and he looks at her, careful, eyes narrow and keen, sure not to miss a detail. And in a little while he rumbles, "I ain't playin' down t'you. Not cause you're hurt. Not cause you're little. Not cause you've shown me up good a time or two. F'I get th'right wingleader in there and th'formations prove, y'goin' t'have work enough t'do." He looks on her long enough more, hard enough, that he might seem to be scowling, almost. He rumbles again, wordless, and straightens, shoving forward in the chair for another drink from the cup.
"I don't want to be played down to." She states, her head turning toward him. She's smiling. Whatever moment of weakness she experienced is gone. "I want to be challenged." She adds, arms crossing carefully over her chest, shoulders rolled forward. "Whoever you do choose to lead it better have the anatomy to do it the right way. The last thing the 'Reaches needs is another disaster. That wing seems cursed." She chews the inside of her lip a moment. "Who else will you put there? Weyrlings?"
'The anatomy' makes the Weyrleader choke a bit on a laugh, a single, sucked-in bark. It leaves him with a bit of his usual, toothy grin to look up at her with, and for whatever reason-- the cup's empty, now-- he stays in the chair, though ready obviously to rise. "Ain't been cursed since before y'left," he rumbles, an aside only. "/Every/ wing gets some new riders out of a weyrling class, th'ones we figure're best for it.
Tavaly." There's that reproach in her name again, not rueful this time-- it's almost a command, and certainly a requirement that she /attend/ to what he's saying. "It'll challenge you. Y'seasoned now; y'think I'd do y'less? Think a sec. Y'know me. Y'know how I thought. Y'tried t'make me think again. G'me th'benefit of th'doubt just once."
"Oh, I do know how you think. And I know it well enough to understand that you're not about to give me the choice not to, so what choice do I have /but/ to go along with it?" Now she's teasing. And its apparent in the smile that speaks of an old, dusty fondness. "I will. And I will give it all I've got. You just make sure three-cee's scheduled for a big fall now and then. I don't want to get rusty hovering over the dirt." She states, staring at him and, obviously, waiting for an answer. But, before he can, "Describe to me how you think now."
She catches him with mouth a bit agape-- he'd have replied, of course, about big falls and hovering over the dirt, and he'd have had a cocky answer, too, if the tip of his head and the twist of his grin were any indication. But she interrupts him and he turns the open grin into a
toothy smirk, then shakes his head, slow. "Y'askin' a tall order from a man y'd figure ain't used t'doing it at all," R'vain points out, thunderously low, maybe sly. "Lissen. I can show y'better'n I can tell. Tell y'this. I want t'get a wingleader in who's interested in a fight that uses his pairs t'th'best of their capacities. Each one, y'know, different. Formations built t'take advantage. F'you-- " He overturns a paw and flips out a gesture, palm-up, fingers wriggling. "Fast. Clever. Daring." So she was, once, anyway-- and having said this, explained what he
envisions her place in his custom-built wing to be, R'vain tips back his head and looks across his bent nose up at her, waiting.
"You're a Weyrleader now, R'vain. I expect you to do it all and more. Unfortunately you've gone and raised folks' expectations of you, now that you've exceeded the ones placed upon you before." Tav says for starters. This is her Weyrleader. Her Weyrlingmaster. Her /friend/. There are no boundaries set in this conversation. So, she speaks as she will. She listens to him carefully, nodding her head as he makes his points. She agrees. To all of them. "As a leader should.." Wait. Prepare for a Jensen-esque response. The lip is chewed again. Blank staring. And then a completely honest, "You have someone in mind already?" And curiosity.
The corner of his mouth twists up. She'll speak as she will. And he listens, withstanding her remarks with a little flush in the cheeks, but no rage, and he doesn't change his chin-up pose or perspective just because she's got to have her say. "Think so. He's a'right on th'formations. Just want t'make sure he'll be good f'th'wing, too. You come home, I'll point him out t'you. You can think 'bout it. While y'heal." Match.
The fact that he doesn't fly off the deep end earns him a look of.. dare we say admiration? It's small, and fleeting, but it was there. There is pride in her grin, too. Not for herself, but for him. Good. He's turning out all right, afterall. As he offers his reply, she nods, lips pursing in that way that means she's thinking about it. And juding by the continual nod, she's in agreement. Her arms uncross and palms slap together. No wince, no sign of pain. "When do we leave?"
R'vain's grin goes wide and pearly. "You can go whenever y'ready." He gets up then, rather sudden, and puts out one of his enormous paws (the other has hold of the cup) in an effort to grab her hands, or one of them, just to touch her, briefly. "/I/ got t'talk t'K'ver, and hope t'high'skies he don't want t'have us in f'a drink once we got it agreed-- so, y'know. If you were in a hurry, wouldn't bother me none."
She lets him take one of them. The right. The left she places on the man's shoulder. "Let's get the fuck out of this oven." She says, and already her face is lit up with a smile. And a laugh. She's going home. And while Tav's overwhelming joy is quiet, Immath's is not. She's already bugling it skyward, pummeling Ruvoth's poor thoughts with it. Haa! Home. Home!
He holds her hand for a moment, turning his under her fingers so he's got hold of them with the same odd gentleness he uses on weyrling dragons. For a moment R'vain can keep on looking at her-- then he's looking down at her fingers, and grinning, and shaking his head-- and /then/ he's letting go of her hand and turning his shoulder out from under her touch. "I'll g'wan up t'K'ver," he notes, and with jacket under one arm starts for the ledge. "You get y'shit t'gether. Don't strain nothin' tryin' t'beat me out of here-- I'll be a bit." He pauses to grin back at her. "See y'at home?"
"I packed lightly." She replies with a grin. "Didn't expect to stay here forever, after all. Nice of you to invite me so soon." She says with a half-grin. Joking. Has to. This is a moment that has to be saved by joviality. "I'll seeya." She says with a strong salute, and turns from the man to pack what few possessions she really has brought with her.