log [ snip snip ]
Where: Weyrlingmaster's Office
Who: Fadra, Tzivya
Tzivya comes to ask Fadra a favor. Fadra obliges. Includes sharp objects.
Weyrlingmaster's Office
Hollowed into the mountainside beneath a deep overhang, the rough-carved workroom maintains a cooler, more even temperature than the outer barracks, while its row of narrow windows - high and deep enough to sit square upon, barring the broadest of shoulders - may be unshuttered to let in the breeze. Now that it's Interval, a few stringy plants hang from hooks in the windows, freshening the air further and foiling most weyrlings' attempts at eavesdropping from without.
The walls are covered: hooks for jackets and straps; charts of formations and of stars; all sorts of small- and large-scale maps; a progress board with colored pegs; shelves with primers for topics such as strap-making and basic dragonhealing, plus examples of really good work -and- really, really bad work, not to mention jars of hide oil and the odd tchotchke; a couple of ratty firelizard perches; inventory slates; duty lists; and quite possibly hit lists. Beyond that, there's a battered desk, a few chairs, woven-straw mats for weyrlings to unstack and sit on during a meeting, and a much-used broom leaning by the door.
Contents:
Tzivya
Obvious exits:
Weyrling Barracks
It's her desk. She can put her feet wherever she wants. And now? The Istan Weyrlingmaster has them propped on the desk, carefully placed between a half-full glass of wine and a full bottle of the same. Perched on the end of the desk, head flopped longingly on the pile of hides, is Tod, who is obviously being neglected and wants to play. Something. Anything. Just pay attention to me! Fadra's not, as it is. She's got one hide, held between thumb and forefinger as though it's contagious, and is peering at it with a frown.
A knock on the door precedes Tzivya's entry into the woman's domain. She's dressed in loose shirt and shorts, the kind of thing used for sleeping in in the barracks beyond the door. As she approaches the desk, a walk full of wariness and uncertainty, her gaze sweeps over the desk, taking in firelizard, hides, win and glass, before settling on the woman and her disdainful grip on her work. "Ma'am." She says, in a careful voice.
Fadra tilts her head off to the side, peering around the hide and rotating her ankles so her boots are out of direct line-of-sight. A quick regard of who's walked in is given, and in turn, the boots remain on the table and the hide is replaced with wine. One lean forward for the bottle, another for the glass, and once the latter is filled again, the brownrider says, "What d'ya need, Tzivya?"
Tzivya eyes the wine warily. Whatever she's here to ask, a Fadra with drink is clearly not to her liking. "Fadra." She says quietly; an intention shift to name - she comes as friend not weyrling. "I actually came to ask you a favor. As my friend, and as someone I trust, and as someone who might care what the results are..." A small, almost shy smile. "As it seems all the rage at the moment, I came to ask you to cut my hair."
"T'cut your hair," Fadra echoes slowly, and unaware of any discomfort that might be brought on by her drinking, she takes a decent swallow of the drink, feet falling from the desk so she can lean forward and put the bottle down. At the stirring, Tod looks positively joyous at the potential of being noticed. He prowls over the hides, and creeps up to the bottle, peering around it with a mrrr. Absently, Fadra reaches out a hand to stroke over his head, in leaning forward to rest her elbows on the desk. "Why d'ya want t'cut your hair?"
Tzivya lifts a hand to her shoulder length hair - somewhat neglected with her duties as a weyrling. While it is carefully brushed, it is fairly uneven and seems unwilling to look anything other than disheveled. "I look like a feral creature who's never been properly groomed." She answers, flushing a little. "And I'm not used to looking like that. Shorter hair will be easier to keep clean and tidy, and especially once we have helmets to wear, even as long as mine is will be more work than I want, keeping it from being greasy and nasty." A small, almost flirting smile. "And I figured I'd trust you to make sure I'm still pretty afterwards."
"Y'mean t'tell me your /nay/ a feral creature who's never been groomed?" Fadra says, affecting shock. "I've been livin' a lie." Another drink to accentuate the obvious distress she's in. "If'n you had seen m'hair when I cut it as a weyrling, the lot o'ya would nay take stock in m'skills as a barber," Fadra warns.
Tzivya smiles more. "Don't care about the others. Just me. And you. And I know you will do just fine with it. Just remember, whatever you do, you're gonna have to see every day for the next turn, or until it grows back, at the very least." She glances down, her voice growing a bit quieter. "I can ask Bali if you want, Fadra. But it'd mean a lot to me if you would do this with me."
Fadra ponders it slowly, but something about the mention of Balinne makes her eyes flicker. Whatever the emotion is, it's gone as quickly as it came, a few seconds that might even be lost in the glowlight. The wine glass set carefully aside, Fadra reaches down to pull open a drawer, saying, "Nay say I didn't warn y'that I looked like a dragon tried t'eat m'head when I was through with mine. I'm nay responsible for any repercussions o'how y'look after this."
Tzivya offers the woman a dazzling smile. "Worst case, I shave my head like some of the boys are talking about doing, and I'll spend a turn being amused by the looks I get for it!" She looks around. "Where would you like me to sit? I was thinking about long enough to just cover the tops of my ears? Try not to cut THEM off, you'll want them there someday!"
"The chair, the chair," Fadra says almost impatiently, waving towards one of the pair of wooden seats that are positioned across from her desk. She rises from digging in the desk drawer triumphant, with a pair of rarely used scissors, which she snaps experimentally a couple times. "We could always just save y'the trouble an' shave your head now."
Tzivya moves to the chair and settles down in it, giving Fadra a cheeky grin. "Would you like that, Fadra? Dragging a razor across my skin, taking the hair off? I never would have figured you for the type, but if that's what it takes to ensure your enjoyment, then perhaps we should discuss it?" Her voice remains light and teasing, though there's something in the intensity of her gaze that belies the tone.
No, that is not a smile. Fadra doesn't smile, especially not when there's big knots on her shoulder. It can't happen. So the twitch of the corner of her mouth is also fleeting as she comes across the desk, snapping the scissors menacingly. She makes no comment about shaving heads, but instead comes around the back of the chair, where she eyeballs Tzivya's hair before wondering, "E'en though y'look like y'haven't touched your hair since y'Impressed...y'have, right? I'm nay going t'get diseases from touchin', right?" Cynical, as always.
there isn't a trace of smugness in Tzivya at the twitching lips; she knows better than that. Instead, she looks resolutely straight ahead, her own grin undiminished. "Now, Fadra. We both know the alchahol content of your body kills any pests that come into contact. It's why I have to wear gloves when I am near you, remember?" She stays still now, waiting for the other woman to start. "But, yes. I am as clean as can be. Feryth would never permit me to not bathe at least once a day. Had her way, it'd be three or four." The rolling of her eyes is audible in her words.
"Good. Weyrlings smell bad anyways, especially if'n they nay shower." That said as though riders don't smell just as bad lacking good personal hygiene. Finally, though, assured in Tzivya's bathing habits, the Weyrlingmaster reaches up and snags a strand of hair. She doesnn't even just haphazardly cut, either; she seems to measure for a few seconds before clipping away. "Y'know - nay more'n a sevenday ago, y'said it felt like I hated you. 'Tis funny how quick y'decided I didn't and trusted me t'cut your hair."
Look how quick Tzivya's body can tense up! "You said you didn't. Explained the situation. So, I'm listening to what you said. You are my Weyrlingmaster, and thus, I can only be your weyrling." She says carefully. A moment passes before she adds, "And I decided I'm not letting you get off that easily. If you want to be rid of me, and not talk with me, you're going to have to try a lot harder. After all, here we are, alone, and talking, and noone will ever know about what, or think it anything more than a weyrling getting her hair trimmed."
The silence might be uncomfortable, especially with no way of keeping Fadra in sight and with the scissor's clip clip clipping so close to someone's head. If Tzivya were...say...T'mic, she might be reduced to tears at the thought of having the brownrider weild such sharp objects so close to such an important part of the body. "And what does that mean? That y'think we're going t'talk differently than if someone were standin' right there?" But there /is/ someone standing right there. Tod, looking needy, is on the desk, stretched forward. Cut my hair, that look says. Even if he has no hair.
"Would that be so bad?" Tzi asks, curiously. "But no, Fadra, I don't think that. Well, I don't think you will. Me? I doubt I'd be half so friendly were, say, Niklo here. But she's not." Head remains rigidly unmoving, and that tension hasn't left her; this is clearly not a comfortable line of conversation for her. "You don't do anything halfway. When you decide to cut someone out of your life, they are out. When you decide to hurt someone, they know they've been hurt. I can only hope one day to see that same dedication put towards something that might make me happy." A slight shrug and a laugh. "Or at least release some tension."
Tod flutters from the desk, landing in Tzivya's lap and curling up. Fine. Ignore me. Cruel, cruel world. Fadra doesn't answer, as per the usual response for when she doesn't like the road the conversation is taking -- even if she put it in that direction. "You'll find 'tis better t'make sure there's no room for interpretation."
"True. Best make my hair look bad, so they don't think you like me enough to do well." Tzi says, a sarcastic edge to her voice. Her hand finds Tod, giving him gentle caresses as she works at keeping her head still. "You know, you can have friends and not be considered biased or unfair. It's not like there are bunches of rumors going around about hell well treated I am with my aunt as one of your assistants. Of course, given you so clearly dislike me as far as they are concerned, I guess it balances." Scritch, scritch. There's almost a roughness to the touches to the lizard; lucky for him he's got thick lizardhide. Her voice is quieter. "You never cared what anyone thought of you, before. Why do you care so much now? Not having any friends isn't making you look good, you know. Just mean."
Another lingering silence. Clip. Snip. Locks of hair fall to the ground, and there's a few moments where Fadra's no doubt surveying the artistic quality of her styling before she goes at it again. "Cause I've got something t'prove now. If'n y'just ride in the wings your common - there are hundreds o'other riders who do the same thing as you." There's a hardly noticable pause, then, "If'n one o'you dies, in between or flyin or because I lose m'temper and strangle someone, 'twill be on me."
"Then why be so determined to be alone with it?" Tzivya asks quietly, trying to ignore the hair falling around her. "Weyrling or not, no matter what else happened, we were friends. And I believed in you when all anyone else saw was a drunken, bitter wreck of a rider." She closes her eyes. "I never saw you that way. You seemed alone, yeah, and scared to let anyone close. But never a wreck." A soft sigh. "Is that part of this, Fadra? That need to push anyone away who wants to be close? I don't understand that."
All that's left is the sound of scissors and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of a tug on Tzivya's hair as Fadra grabs the last strand that needs proper trimming and trims away. That done, she moves back around the desk to yank the drawer open and drop the scissors in. She even has the kindness (?) to rummage around and find a mirror, which she slides across towards Tzivya, all the while refraining from answer. And, as she is wont to do, she changes the subject by returning question with question, "Is that fine?"
Tzivya takes the mirror with an echo of that silence; what's to say? She spends a minute examining from every which way she can. It's not the worst haircut ever done, but it's by no means the best. Still, she seems pleased as she stands and carries the mirror over to Fadra, standing entirely too close to the brownrider. "You can say nothing, Fadra. You're good at it, I know. But I know you listen, too, and think. And remember, when this is done and I am a rider, noone's going to care about what favourites you did or did not play. But the people who matter will know whether you made this easy, or hard, on Feryth and I. Yourself chief among them. Push me as hard as you want in drills, in excercise, in everything. I'll rise to what you set me. But do it as my friend, not just to prove you're not." She offers the mirror across the small distance between them.
Fadra would be stupid to not notice the distance - or lack thereof - between them. She reaches up to take the mirror and deliberately takes a step away, opening the drawer and not dropping this in, at least. It finds it's place back in the drawr with only the slight clinking of it tapping the rest of the contents within, and the drawer is slid shut with a hip. "If y'make it t'rider, no one's going t'care who played favorites," Fadra finally says. "Until y'graduate, let's nay talk about when you're a rider. "
A faintly frustrated growl escapes Tzivya - her dragon must be rubbing off on her. "You really want to ignore me for the next turn? Psh. I'm not going to make it that easy, Fadra." She turns, and heads towards the door - leaving the mess for the woman to clean up, no less. She pauses a few feet from the door, though doesn't turn back. "There'll be more days like this, Fadra. Like I said, you don't get off that easily. If nothing else, I'll enjoy the chase. Different than the last, but no less a chase. Thank you, my head feels a lot better for your help."
Fadra has taken a seat back at her desk, watching Tzivya go with her wine reclaimed and already being nursed. She lets Tzivya get her words in, edgewise, before saying, "Nay anything is stoppin' y'from tryin," Fadra says, "But I'm nay going t'give y'my thoughts on the chances o'your success."
Tzivya smiles sweetly over her shoulder. "Depends on what you think I define success as, Fadra. And I know you. And I will say only, it's not always about winning, but about the game. The chase. And there .will. come a time that I win, regardless. Feryth can assure that, if it comes down to it." She opens the door, stepping through. "Good night, Weyrlingmaster, and thank you again."
The silence that follows Tzivya out isn't the normal one - it's a stunned one. How does one take a threat like that? Fadra has no other way than by swallowing down the rest of her drink and filling it. Hmph.
Who: Fadra, Tzivya
Tzivya comes to ask Fadra a favor. Fadra obliges. Includes sharp objects.
Weyrlingmaster's Office
Hollowed into the mountainside beneath a deep overhang, the rough-carved workroom maintains a cooler, more even temperature than the outer barracks, while its row of narrow windows - high and deep enough to sit square upon, barring the broadest of shoulders - may be unshuttered to let in the breeze. Now that it's Interval, a few stringy plants hang from hooks in the windows, freshening the air further and foiling most weyrlings' attempts at eavesdropping from without.
The walls are covered: hooks for jackets and straps; charts of formations and of stars; all sorts of small- and large-scale maps; a progress board with colored pegs; shelves with primers for topics such as strap-making and basic dragonhealing, plus examples of really good work -and- really, really bad work, not to mention jars of hide oil and the odd tchotchke; a couple of ratty firelizard perches; inventory slates; duty lists; and quite possibly hit lists. Beyond that, there's a battered desk, a few chairs, woven-straw mats for weyrlings to unstack and sit on during a meeting, and a much-used broom leaning by the door.
Contents:
Tzivya
Obvious exits:
Weyrling Barracks
It's her desk. She can put her feet wherever she wants. And now? The Istan Weyrlingmaster has them propped on the desk, carefully placed between a half-full glass of wine and a full bottle of the same. Perched on the end of the desk, head flopped longingly on the pile of hides, is Tod, who is obviously being neglected and wants to play. Something. Anything. Just pay attention to me! Fadra's not, as it is. She's got one hide, held between thumb and forefinger as though it's contagious, and is peering at it with a frown.
A knock on the door precedes Tzivya's entry into the woman's domain. She's dressed in loose shirt and shorts, the kind of thing used for sleeping in in the barracks beyond the door. As she approaches the desk, a walk full of wariness and uncertainty, her gaze sweeps over the desk, taking in firelizard, hides, win and glass, before settling on the woman and her disdainful grip on her work. "Ma'am." She says, in a careful voice.
Fadra tilts her head off to the side, peering around the hide and rotating her ankles so her boots are out of direct line-of-sight. A quick regard of who's walked in is given, and in turn, the boots remain on the table and the hide is replaced with wine. One lean forward for the bottle, another for the glass, and once the latter is filled again, the brownrider says, "What d'ya need, Tzivya?"
Tzivya eyes the wine warily. Whatever she's here to ask, a Fadra with drink is clearly not to her liking. "Fadra." She says quietly; an intention shift to name - she comes as friend not weyrling. "I actually came to ask you a favor. As my friend, and as someone I trust, and as someone who might care what the results are..." A small, almost shy smile. "As it seems all the rage at the moment, I came to ask you to cut my hair."
"T'cut your hair," Fadra echoes slowly, and unaware of any discomfort that might be brought on by her drinking, she takes a decent swallow of the drink, feet falling from the desk so she can lean forward and put the bottle down. At the stirring, Tod looks positively joyous at the potential of being noticed. He prowls over the hides, and creeps up to the bottle, peering around it with a mrrr. Absently, Fadra reaches out a hand to stroke over his head, in leaning forward to rest her elbows on the desk. "Why d'ya want t'cut your hair?"
Tzivya lifts a hand to her shoulder length hair - somewhat neglected with her duties as a weyrling. While it is carefully brushed, it is fairly uneven and seems unwilling to look anything other than disheveled. "I look like a feral creature who's never been properly groomed." She answers, flushing a little. "And I'm not used to looking like that. Shorter hair will be easier to keep clean and tidy, and especially once we have helmets to wear, even as long as mine is will be more work than I want, keeping it from being greasy and nasty." A small, almost flirting smile. "And I figured I'd trust you to make sure I'm still pretty afterwards."
"Y'mean t'tell me your /nay/ a feral creature who's never been groomed?" Fadra says, affecting shock. "I've been livin' a lie." Another drink to accentuate the obvious distress she's in. "If'n you had seen m'hair when I cut it as a weyrling, the lot o'ya would nay take stock in m'skills as a barber," Fadra warns.
Tzivya smiles more. "Don't care about the others. Just me. And you. And I know you will do just fine with it. Just remember, whatever you do, you're gonna have to see every day for the next turn, or until it grows back, at the very least." She glances down, her voice growing a bit quieter. "I can ask Bali if you want, Fadra. But it'd mean a lot to me if you would do this with me."
Fadra ponders it slowly, but something about the mention of Balinne makes her eyes flicker. Whatever the emotion is, it's gone as quickly as it came, a few seconds that might even be lost in the glowlight. The wine glass set carefully aside, Fadra reaches down to pull open a drawer, saying, "Nay say I didn't warn y'that I looked like a dragon tried t'eat m'head when I was through with mine. I'm nay responsible for any repercussions o'how y'look after this."
Tzivya offers the woman a dazzling smile. "Worst case, I shave my head like some of the boys are talking about doing, and I'll spend a turn being amused by the looks I get for it!" She looks around. "Where would you like me to sit? I was thinking about long enough to just cover the tops of my ears? Try not to cut THEM off, you'll want them there someday!"
"The chair, the chair," Fadra says almost impatiently, waving towards one of the pair of wooden seats that are positioned across from her desk. She rises from digging in the desk drawer triumphant, with a pair of rarely used scissors, which she snaps experimentally a couple times. "We could always just save y'the trouble an' shave your head now."
Tzivya moves to the chair and settles down in it, giving Fadra a cheeky grin. "Would you like that, Fadra? Dragging a razor across my skin, taking the hair off? I never would have figured you for the type, but if that's what it takes to ensure your enjoyment, then perhaps we should discuss it?" Her voice remains light and teasing, though there's something in the intensity of her gaze that belies the tone.
No, that is not a smile. Fadra doesn't smile, especially not when there's big knots on her shoulder. It can't happen. So the twitch of the corner of her mouth is also fleeting as she comes across the desk, snapping the scissors menacingly. She makes no comment about shaving heads, but instead comes around the back of the chair, where she eyeballs Tzivya's hair before wondering, "E'en though y'look like y'haven't touched your hair since y'Impressed...y'have, right? I'm nay going t'get diseases from touchin', right?" Cynical, as always.
there isn't a trace of smugness in Tzivya at the twitching lips; she knows better than that. Instead, she looks resolutely straight ahead, her own grin undiminished. "Now, Fadra. We both know the alchahol content of your body kills any pests that come into contact. It's why I have to wear gloves when I am near you, remember?" She stays still now, waiting for the other woman to start. "But, yes. I am as clean as can be. Feryth would never permit me to not bathe at least once a day. Had her way, it'd be three or four." The rolling of her eyes is audible in her words.
"Good. Weyrlings smell bad anyways, especially if'n they nay shower." That said as though riders don't smell just as bad lacking good personal hygiene. Finally, though, assured in Tzivya's bathing habits, the Weyrlingmaster reaches up and snags a strand of hair. She doesnn't even just haphazardly cut, either; she seems to measure for a few seconds before clipping away. "Y'know - nay more'n a sevenday ago, y'said it felt like I hated you. 'Tis funny how quick y'decided I didn't and trusted me t'cut your hair."
Look how quick Tzivya's body can tense up! "You said you didn't. Explained the situation. So, I'm listening to what you said. You are my Weyrlingmaster, and thus, I can only be your weyrling." She says carefully. A moment passes before she adds, "And I decided I'm not letting you get off that easily. If you want to be rid of me, and not talk with me, you're going to have to try a lot harder. After all, here we are, alone, and talking, and noone will ever know about what, or think it anything more than a weyrling getting her hair trimmed."
The silence might be uncomfortable, especially with no way of keeping Fadra in sight and with the scissor's clip clip clipping so close to someone's head. If Tzivya were...say...T'mic, she might be reduced to tears at the thought of having the brownrider weild such sharp objects so close to such an important part of the body. "And what does that mean? That y'think we're going t'talk differently than if someone were standin' right there?" But there /is/ someone standing right there. Tod, looking needy, is on the desk, stretched forward. Cut my hair, that look says. Even if he has no hair.
"Would that be so bad?" Tzi asks, curiously. "But no, Fadra, I don't think that. Well, I don't think you will. Me? I doubt I'd be half so friendly were, say, Niklo here. But she's not." Head remains rigidly unmoving, and that tension hasn't left her; this is clearly not a comfortable line of conversation for her. "You don't do anything halfway. When you decide to cut someone out of your life, they are out. When you decide to hurt someone, they know they've been hurt. I can only hope one day to see that same dedication put towards something that might make me happy." A slight shrug and a laugh. "Or at least release some tension."
Tod flutters from the desk, landing in Tzivya's lap and curling up. Fine. Ignore me. Cruel, cruel world. Fadra doesn't answer, as per the usual response for when she doesn't like the road the conversation is taking -- even if she put it in that direction. "You'll find 'tis better t'make sure there's no room for interpretation."
"True. Best make my hair look bad, so they don't think you like me enough to do well." Tzi says, a sarcastic edge to her voice. Her hand finds Tod, giving him gentle caresses as she works at keeping her head still. "You know, you can have friends and not be considered biased or unfair. It's not like there are bunches of rumors going around about hell well treated I am with my aunt as one of your assistants. Of course, given you so clearly dislike me as far as they are concerned, I guess it balances." Scritch, scritch. There's almost a roughness to the touches to the lizard; lucky for him he's got thick lizardhide. Her voice is quieter. "You never cared what anyone thought of you, before. Why do you care so much now? Not having any friends isn't making you look good, you know. Just mean."
Another lingering silence. Clip. Snip. Locks of hair fall to the ground, and there's a few moments where Fadra's no doubt surveying the artistic quality of her styling before she goes at it again. "Cause I've got something t'prove now. If'n y'just ride in the wings your common - there are hundreds o'other riders who do the same thing as you." There's a hardly noticable pause, then, "If'n one o'you dies, in between or flyin or because I lose m'temper and strangle someone, 'twill be on me."
"Then why be so determined to be alone with it?" Tzivya asks quietly, trying to ignore the hair falling around her. "Weyrling or not, no matter what else happened, we were friends. And I believed in you when all anyone else saw was a drunken, bitter wreck of a rider." She closes her eyes. "I never saw you that way. You seemed alone, yeah, and scared to let anyone close. But never a wreck." A soft sigh. "Is that part of this, Fadra? That need to push anyone away who wants to be close? I don't understand that."
All that's left is the sound of scissors and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of a tug on Tzivya's hair as Fadra grabs the last strand that needs proper trimming and trims away. That done, she moves back around the desk to yank the drawer open and drop the scissors in. She even has the kindness (?) to rummage around and find a mirror, which she slides across towards Tzivya, all the while refraining from answer. And, as she is wont to do, she changes the subject by returning question with question, "Is that fine?"
Tzivya takes the mirror with an echo of that silence; what's to say? She spends a minute examining from every which way she can. It's not the worst haircut ever done, but it's by no means the best. Still, she seems pleased as she stands and carries the mirror over to Fadra, standing entirely too close to the brownrider. "You can say nothing, Fadra. You're good at it, I know. But I know you listen, too, and think. And remember, when this is done and I am a rider, noone's going to care about what favourites you did or did not play. But the people who matter will know whether you made this easy, or hard, on Feryth and I. Yourself chief among them. Push me as hard as you want in drills, in excercise, in everything. I'll rise to what you set me. But do it as my friend, not just to prove you're not." She offers the mirror across the small distance between them.
Fadra would be stupid to not notice the distance - or lack thereof - between them. She reaches up to take the mirror and deliberately takes a step away, opening the drawer and not dropping this in, at least. It finds it's place back in the drawr with only the slight clinking of it tapping the rest of the contents within, and the drawer is slid shut with a hip. "If y'make it t'rider, no one's going t'care who played favorites," Fadra finally says. "Until y'graduate, let's nay talk about when you're a rider. "
A faintly frustrated growl escapes Tzivya - her dragon must be rubbing off on her. "You really want to ignore me for the next turn? Psh. I'm not going to make it that easy, Fadra." She turns, and heads towards the door - leaving the mess for the woman to clean up, no less. She pauses a few feet from the door, though doesn't turn back. "There'll be more days like this, Fadra. Like I said, you don't get off that easily. If nothing else, I'll enjoy the chase. Different than the last, but no less a chase. Thank you, my head feels a lot better for your help."
Fadra has taken a seat back at her desk, watching Tzivya go with her wine reclaimed and already being nursed. She lets Tzivya get her words in, edgewise, before saying, "Nay anything is stoppin' y'from tryin," Fadra says, "But I'm nay going t'give y'my thoughts on the chances o'your success."
Tzivya smiles sweetly over her shoulder. "Depends on what you think I define success as, Fadra. And I know you. And I will say only, it's not always about winning, but about the game. The chase. And there .will. come a time that I win, regardless. Feryth can assure that, if it comes down to it." She opens the door, stepping through. "Good night, Weyrlingmaster, and thank you again."
The silence that follows Tzivya out isn't the normal one - it's a stunned one. How does one take a threat like that? Fadra has no other way than by swallowing down the rest of her drink and filling it. Hmph.