Log: Sandbar Re-Opening Partay
Who: Ch'val, Fayre, Leova, P'draig, T'mic, Jekzith, Vrianth
When: Day 7, Month 9, Turn 17
Where: Beach, Ista Weyr
What: Paddy and Mic grace the festivities with their presence and hook themselves a couple of dance partners, then enjoy drinks with Ch'val who seems to remember Paddy in passing from visits to Telgar.
Clean log partly from Ch'val.
A pair of men wander up from farther down the beach, the shorter laughing as he gives a nod to the dancing. "See? Told you this'd be going all night. Better than a Gather." He shoots an impish glance the brownrider's way. "You want to dance?"
"I didn't claim you do, goldrider," replies Ch'val, as stiff as Fayre and yet dancing, yet holding her as he would a lover, because they are dancing a dance where that's what you do. He does it perfectly, the pair of them moving past the other couples with mostly an easy grace; it's the expressions that give away the fact that they're conversing and the conversation isn't perfectly comfortable just now. "But I'd advise against it all the same. Habits become formative." He varies from the proper form of dance the least bit to let his shoulders shrug. The piece to which they've danced begins to reach its culmination, and an end to the dance is within sight; as such, the graying bronzer dips a nod and changes the subject somewhat. "I understand the appeal of eggs and hatchlings, though, have no doubt. And now Ista'll have more of her own. Good timing for me." There's something slightly sarcastic in that, but he seems to expect Fayre will be in on the joke.
A low chuckle answers T'mic and then a nod. "Sure," P'draig dressed down in sleeveless shirt and shorts. "I'm just glad we'll be able to come down and get drinks without hammers going," he answers further. "And I'm keen to see how that kitchen turned out."
Fayre's frown lessens some, but it's certainly still there, betraying the slightest bit of unhappiness despite their close dance. "Mm. I'm afraid my habit has already done that. Become formative, or however it was you phrased it. But who knows. I feel set in my ways, but I'm still young, eh? Might not be too late." As the music piece they're dancing to comes to an end, the weyrwoman lets her hands drop from Ch'val so she can applaud politely for the Harpers. "Thank you for the dance. And yes, you do have perfect timing. Least I think y'do. I know I'm lookin' forward to the upcomin' clutch." Her frown deepens once more, "I'll be sure to hide my bettin' book when you're around, though. If you'll excuse me, I better go check on the party inside." After a polite curtsey, Fayre heads back inside the Sandbar.
"You and your kitchen," the greenrider teases, grinning up at the brownrider. "You're going to end up working for Kip after all, aren't you? --Oh hey, music's ending." Which is his cue to dart out into the crowd, just in time for the Harpers to stop. His goal? Ch'val and Fayre, now just-Ch'val, but that doesn't stop him from tossing a bright, "Clear skies!" after the goldrider, or grinning up at the unfamiliar rider. "I was going to ask to cut in, but... can I have this dance?"
"Why not? It's an Interval and I'm not Weyrlingmaster anymore, have to do /something/ with all this extra time I'll have on my hands," P'draig says with easy good humor. And there goes Mic a-darting and Paddy's following at a more sedate pace. He has a wave for Fayre as they pass and his hand lifts to cover his mouth as the greenrider asks Ch'val for that dance. The brownrider makes no comment though, just claps Mic on the shoulder on the way past and approaches one of Kip's barkeeps, a petite blonde just leaving another partner and holds a hand out to her, greeting her with a warm smile besides.
Fayre's polite curtsey receives from Ch'val a polite bow. "I do appreciate it," he tells her, whether he means the dance or her determination to hide her betting book. He follows her like to leave the dance floor, several paces behind - more than enough room for a greenrider to appear between himself and the weyrwoman, and halt his forward progress. Graying brows shoot up even before T'mic gets to the good part, so there's not much more for the bronzer's face to do to express surprise but let his mouth pop open when the offer of the dance comes clear. "Ah," says the older man. "Dance." Like he's forgotten what those are. In the last fifteen seconds. But not, it seems, what greenriders are, for a flush slowly appears in his worn cheeks. Drily, he recovers: "Who leads?"
T'mic beams like the bronzerider's just agreed to his heart's desire and offers his hands, tossing a bit more of that beam over his shoulder to P'draig as he finds a partner as well. "Taller one," the greenrider says simply. "Makes it easier. And after the dance, I can buy you a drink? He," this time he jerks his head Paddy-way, "Might still be dancing with her." The Harpers, after a little bit of noodling around, segue into a recognizable tune again - slow still, but not the cheek-to-cheek press of earlier. "I'm Mic," he adds. "Aath's my green."
As the music swings back into sway, P'draig leads his tow-headed partner out into the fray, steps sure, hand curled at the small of her back, fingers comfortably ensconcing her much smaller hand. "Behave," he tells T'mic as he swings by, smiles at Ch'val politely. "P'draig, brown Jekzith's formerly of Fort, frequent minder of that there greenrider, but do enjoy the dance. He's pretty light on his feet," the brownrider says good-naturedly, also teasing T'mic on the side and earning himself a shoulder poke from his partner. "Be nice, you," she teases him in turn and then they're slow-spinning away.
"Ch'val. Iath's my bronze." After a quick blink and a twitch at the corner of his mouth - something was just funny - the bronzerider's face resolves into something not quite like relief. He might like to be the one who'll lead, but that still obliges him to the dance. Nevertheless he raises a hand to offer it as the proper platform for T'mic's, and by it will take them both back into the loosely defined area serving as the 'floor.' "He accompanied you," understands Ch'val aloud, after P'draig and his partner have moved into their own space; and then he's reaching for T'mic's waist (finding it somewhat less expertly than he might if there were womanly swell of hips below and breast above to define the spot in question) to begin the dance.
"Behave," Mic scoffs as P'draig and his partner breeze past, but then his attention's back on the bronzerider as though they were the only two on the floor. "Ch'val and Iath. I'd say 'you aren't from around here', but you know that already." Not that the Southerner has any room to point fingers. He is, as advertised, light enough on his feet to make dancing easy (even if not a pleasure), and the music ends to clapping with little more than small talk passing. "I believe I owe you a drink now, Ch'val," Mic says, first nodding toward a table and then leading the way. "Can I talk you into sitting down for it, too? Or d'you have more dancing in mind first?"
A few times, P'draig and his partner swing by, a lot of shared laughter seeming to be in the offing between the two and at the end of the dance, the brownrider has his head bent to the blonde's ear and she's swatting at his arm, but grinning and nodding. They head to the side of the 'floor' and the young woman steers a course for the bar, while Paddy scans the area, finds the table where T'mic and Ch'val have headed for and moves that way. "Mind one more?" he inquires jovially.
Ch'val is a dutiful sort, and at some point learning to dance might have been his duty, for he does a fine job of it even when the partner is not quite what he'd expect. He is, just the same, not at all displeased to leave the dancing square and the harpers' music for drinks instead. "I've been on my feet a while," he tells the greenrider, absolutely straightfaced. "A seat would be welcome. - And you," he adds, perhaps the first honest proof that he has a sense of humor beneath the gray demeanor, for that's cast off to P'draig with the lightest of airs.
T'mic, still grinning, holds out Ch'val's chair for him, pulls out another for Paddy. "You know I don't. You want your usual, Paddy? How about you, Ch'val? What can I get you?" He kicks out a third chair as well, shoves it close to the brownrider's so that P'draig will serve as a buffer between him and the bronzerider. "Pretty much anything you want'll be great. I've never had a drink of Kip's that wasn't."
"Ale," P"draig tells T'mic which may or may not be his usual and he lounges comfortably into that hel out seat. "Ch'val, is it? Well met," the brownrider says with a smile, holds his hand out across the table to the older man. "I'll second that opinion on Kip's drinks too."
Aged blue eyes regard the chair pulled out for him in a nonplussed manner, but after a shrug Ch'val takes the seat. "I had some red thing a while ago, when they were doing the samples. Too sweet, too fruity. F'they got a decent ale? The Reaches brought a keg, I saw." The older man pulls a quick face, but then adds, with a nod to P'draig, "Even that'd do," so a substance hailing from somewhere that's not Telgar - whose superiority might be guessed from the tiniest hints of a Bitran clip in the man's consonants - might be preferred to Ista's mixed drinks. "Yes. Iath's. And you're P'draig," he replies, and then squints contemplatively.
"Two ales, then." Mic nods to cement the order like he's done this before, and maybe he has, though surely most servers don't stop to lay a kiss on the top of P'draig's head. Not Ch'val's, though. It doesn't take him long to get to the bar and back with three mugs, though his has one of those foofy umbrellas in it. He announces, "Here you are," and serves, straddles his chair and tosses the umbrella onto the table. "So Ch'val - how's life at Ista treating you?"
A fond smile is cast upward for that kiss by P'draig, a hand lifted to touch the greenrider's wrist fondly and briefly then he turns back towards Ch'val as T'mic playes server. "Iath, aha, recent transfer too, right?" His smile is friendly, but not overly so, mostly he's making polite conversation. The arrival of his ale finds his hand curling around the mug, the brownrider leaning forward to rest elbows on table. "Thanks, Mic." And his attention is secured for the answer to that question to the bronzerider.
"Warmly," replies Ch'val, pulling up to the table and reaching for one of the umbrella-less mugs with a ready hand. He's still got a thoughtful eye half on P'draig, like he aims to place the man from somewhere, though all he gave for the 'recent transfer' comment was a solitary nod. Now he takes a sip from the ale and exhales pleasure over its rim, then explains, "We know our way around, now, both of us. Going to be a little longer adjusting to the - " He leans back a bit in his chair, pulling the mug of ale up to his chest to rest it in one hand against his shirt. "Culture," he finishes at some length, now looking at T'mic.
"I've been here over eight turns," the greenrider offers, grinning at Ch'val even though he's leaning into P'draig. "If you want a guide, just let me know. So what's this... culture you have to get used to? A Weyr's a Weyr's a Weyr, yeah? I'm Southern, originally," he adds as though his vowels didn't give it utterly away. "Impressed here, though. Don't mind Aath, and warn Iath that if he's nice to her," and here he's sliding another one of those mischievous grins Paddy's way, "He'll never get rid of her." But is he laughing at her, or at him?
P'draig slings one arm casually across Mic's back, comfortable, not possessive. "Would you really say that, Mic, if you'd moved to Fort for instance," the brownrider points out with a grin. The tease about Aath earns an outright chuckle. "I don't think Jekzith /minds/, Mic," he says lightly, smiles across at Ch'val. "Where're you in from?"
Not quite comfortable or possessive, Ch'val does achieve self-possessed without much trouble. "A Weyr's a Weyr, but there's more to the weyr than the dragons and their men," says the old rider, in a tone that suggests he's lectured on the topic before - and just now he catches himself in lecturing mode, and quits that mode with a twitch of one shoulder and a quaff of the ale. A wince to T'mic interrupts his enjoyment: "No fear. Iath makes no habit of being nice. - Telgar," to P'draig, at whom those blue eyes squint again. "Do you have family there?"
Some distance along the edge of the beach, a rangy green descends to a landing well up from the waves. Her rider oversees her passenger's dismounting despite the tall redhead's not needing particular help, waving her on in favor of staying by Vrianth's side for a few moments and then a few more. But then the green folds her wings, with emphasis, and the rider begins to make her slow and sandaled way along the shore.
Three men have claimed one of the chairs beside an empty spot currently doing duty as a dance floor. The Harpers still play, couples still dance, but quietly now, as the evening's festivities wind down. "I dunno," Mic answers P'draig as he sips now and again from his mug. "Southern's not that different from Ista, right? How's it different from Fort? --Or Telgar," he adds, with a nod to the bronzerider. He quiets to listen, his eyes drifting over the crowd to the arriving dragon. He doesn't leap up out of his chair to wave at her, or even show much recognition, but watching - watching he can do. It's easy.
"Exactly," P'draig agrees with Ch'val's statement, a little nod of his head following and up goes his mug of ale for a good long drink. "Ah, Telgar, yes I do actually. My grandmother, Master Baker Emne and my younger brother, though he tops me by a good few inches in height, red hair, harper," Paddy says with a grin, "and my son, but he's only a turn old, lives with his mother, Jenivrys, brown Xoneth's. I'm in and out of Telgar fairly often on visits." It's Jekzith who spots Vrianth and nudges P'draig who looks down the beach and smirks. "And there's my sister in from the Reaches, with Leova," the brownrider murmurs. He tracks Milani over to the bar and briefly there's a smirk on his face and then he /is/ lifting a hand to wave down the approaching greenrider even as Jekzith blows a bubble full of ale Vrianth's way with a map to that triad-occupied table.
"Then maybe I've seen you," says Ch'val to P'draig, "possibly when you were younger than you are now." That's the most the graying rider will give to suggest the gap in ages; he indulges in the ale after that, lifting his free hand to make a hesitant wave to the rider who'll evidently be joining them. Back to T'mic next: "There's a slowness here, if you don't mind my saying so. An unhurriedness." A laziness, he doesn't say, but his brows raise and his mouth goes slim for a moment with the thought. "I think it's the heat. You can't sleep in the height of day at Telgar. Not and be on top of your game."
Her dragon's all but silent, just an instant's gravel-rough attention. She noticed. And passed along, evidently, for after a little more than an instant's hesitation her rider changes course: towards the light of the table rather than the brighter, busy, possibly dizzy bar. And Leova waits to say anything until she's near them, though she does return those two waves with an upraised hand of her own. Her, "Congratulations," though? That's for T'mic.
"/Milani/," says Mic in an undecipherable tone - part happiness, part satisfaction, and part something else, something less open to interpretation - and watches the red-head's trek to the bar for a moment. "Lets you stay up later at night, though," he points out to Ch'val, turning his mug in his hands idly and dragging his attention back to the table. "When it's cooler. No sea breeze at Telgar. Or at Fort," he adds, though surely the other men know this already. The other greenrider's single word gets Mic looking; he grins and stands, kicks out a chair invitingly with a, "H'lo, Leova. What's that for?"
"Could be," P'draig replies, laid-back, "I've been in and out of Telgar for turns, either visiting my grandmother, my brother or in the last turn, almost nightly to see my son." Gray-blue eyes pull back to mark Leova's approach and there's a brief, sidelong look at his weyrmate for that single-word description of his sister, all wrapped up in her name. "Nope, both pretty much land-locked, though Fort's not so far from the coast," the brownrider replies about the location of the Weyrs. "Have to agree with Ch'val though, pace of life at Ista is different, More laid-back," he continues and smiles up at Leova as she draws near. "My turn to offer a seat," he tells her gaily and pushes out the fourth chair at the table for her.
Undecipherable as T'mic's tone is when he speaks the redhead's name, Ch'val does cock a brow a bit more for its emphasis. No comment. "Indeed," he says instead, of staying up later. "But I'm afraid I'm not quite accustomed to it yet." That's his signal. He sucks down the rest of the ale with a practiced tilt, then surrenders the mug to the table. "If you'll all excuse me; it was a pleasure to - meet you. Leova, it is?" Since they've not even had a chance to be introduced, he does this much to cover that subject even as he's getting out of his chair, a supplicative smile briefly flashed to the newcomer. "Enjoy the beach."
"It is. Green Vrianth's, out of the 'Reaches, afraid I missed yours." Leova gives the older, make that the /oldest/ man a nod amiable enough to soften her level glance. And then, those seats. All those seats. In the end she winds up taking T'mic's with the ease that cut-offs allow, angled so one corner's between her knees. "Heard P'draig moved," with a tip of her head to that brownrider's knot and an equally amused, "Sorry. Think he beat you to it," to the brownrider himself.
"Paddy's got family everywhere," the Istan greenrider laughs, eyes twinkling. "You heading out, Ch'val?" As though that wasn't obvious. "Well, see you around. Maybe we can dance again some other night." Now his grin's for the bronzerider even as he settles back into his chair like someone well-behaved and polite. "That's Ch'val, Iath's," he adds to Leova with a nod at the departing. "Transferred in from Telgar. So what's that need congratulations for?"
There's a nod for Ch'val from P'draig as the bronzerider excuses himself. Leova's taking care of her own introduction so there's only: "Clear skies and see you around, Ch'val," from the brownrider as he eases back comfortably in his seat, grins across at Leova. "So he did." And he makes much of snapping his fingers, winks at the Reachian greenrider. "Either way, table's turned for once. How've you been?" Asked warmly and then a nod for his knot. "Did. As promised." Beat. "Milani?" For the source of Leova's news. And then his attention lent to a maybe-answer for T'mic's question.
Ch'val feints at staying a second more to tell Leova his dragon's name, but the word dies on his lips, leaving the shape of Iath's first syllable formed there. He turns it into a smile, executes a little nod respectful to Leova and then wry to P'draig and T'mic in turn. Then he turns and strides upland, making weigh for the weyr. A slim draconic shape slides down from the rim to shadow him to some determined pick-up point at the base of the volcano's slope.
"They're all over, hm? /Iath/," and although the man departs and Leova pauses, it's in the end to shake her head: no luck. Asided to P'draig again, his other question of her deferred for now, "Persie. Actually." To his weyrmate, still sitting forward herself, "Heard something about you liking the warm weather. And here and all, you got your way." And there goes her smile.
T'mic says, "Think it was more Paddy... shells, how -did- you end up here?" He turns to the brownrider with rapt attention, drowns laughter in his mug. "--And this is the only one of these I get," he adds, tapping a fingernail against the pottery. "Else I'll get grabby. Er. S'nice that you're here, Leova. We were just talking about you the other day - don't remember why, though. You want a drink? My treat."
"Telgar, Harper, Reaches, Igen, Smithcraft, Ista" P'draig lists off the litany of places where one might find his wideflung family. "Cousins at Cove Hold too," he notes, mouth pulling to the side wryly. A little lift of brows for the named source of Leova's intel and he nods. "She stopped by, I'll be coming by to return the visit soon. My mother has a hankering to dress up her granddaughter again too, so I've a Palia to provide to her." Leova's last draws another grin and he makes to tousle Mic's hair fondly. "I think it went like this: Mic, I'll move to Ista, how's that? Great! Wait, no, you move to Fort? Uhh ... And then again, yes, I'll come to Ista. Great! And here I am."
Listening to the story's recounting, Leova has to laugh, and imagine, "Easier to feel less... weyrlingmaster-y when out of that Weyr, maybe?" And to T'mic, appreciatively, "Don't mind if I do. And thank you. Although if they're still serving the free drinks I heard tell about, would be fine with those too. Too hot to get grabby, I figure, time of night or no."
"Only," Mic starts, has to tick off on his fingers, "missing two Weyrs." He hoists his mug triumphantly for his math skills, tosses back a swig and stands again. "And I said I'd move to Fort. Even got flannel and wool to prove it, too." He bumps his hip fondly into P'draig's shoulder, offers the other greenrider yet another (or perhaps this is the same) smile. "I think I'm gonna go see if I can track down Milani. Haven't seen her for a bit. I'll send somebody over with something for you, Leova. Clear skies if I don't get back before you leave, a'right?"
"Mm, so far," P'draig answers Leova's first, fingering the handle of his mug of ale, but not picking it up. "I think my father still has family over Benden-way too," the brownrider says with a slight frown, thinking, then he shrugs and does lift his mug, drinks. "Yes you did, but your first reaction was 'uhhh'," Paddy points out, "and the flannel will still come in useful for visiting the Reaches," he adds further. Mic gets a squeeze and another one of those looks as the Istan greenrider mentions his sister. "Tell her I'll catch up soon too."
Flannel and wool, they're enough to raise Leova's marveling brows, and though her mouth rounds for the uhhhh, at least she doesn't actually repeat it out loud. "Have to move fast, T'mic, and clear skies right back to you."
T'mic leaves his mug and what's left in it - well over half, should anyone check - for the others to do with as they please. Perhaps, if they're feeling magnanimous, they'll leave it untouched. But Mic's not thinking of that now: he heads off through the crowd, stopping first to lean on the bar and throw a nod back Leova's way, then to disappear into the thinning masses.
When: Day 7, Month 9, Turn 17
Where: Beach, Ista Weyr
What: Paddy and Mic grace the festivities with their presence and hook themselves a couple of dance partners, then enjoy drinks with Ch'val who seems to remember Paddy in passing from visits to Telgar.
Clean log partly from Ch'val.
A pair of men wander up from farther down the beach, the shorter laughing as he gives a nod to the dancing. "See? Told you this'd be going all night. Better than a Gather." He shoots an impish glance the brownrider's way. "You want to dance?"
"I didn't claim you do, goldrider," replies Ch'val, as stiff as Fayre and yet dancing, yet holding her as he would a lover, because they are dancing a dance where that's what you do. He does it perfectly, the pair of them moving past the other couples with mostly an easy grace; it's the expressions that give away the fact that they're conversing and the conversation isn't perfectly comfortable just now. "But I'd advise against it all the same. Habits become formative." He varies from the proper form of dance the least bit to let his shoulders shrug. The piece to which they've danced begins to reach its culmination, and an end to the dance is within sight; as such, the graying bronzer dips a nod and changes the subject somewhat. "I understand the appeal of eggs and hatchlings, though, have no doubt. And now Ista'll have more of her own. Good timing for me." There's something slightly sarcastic in that, but he seems to expect Fayre will be in on the joke.
A low chuckle answers T'mic and then a nod. "Sure," P'draig dressed down in sleeveless shirt and shorts. "I'm just glad we'll be able to come down and get drinks without hammers going," he answers further. "And I'm keen to see how that kitchen turned out."
Fayre's frown lessens some, but it's certainly still there, betraying the slightest bit of unhappiness despite their close dance. "Mm. I'm afraid my habit has already done that. Become formative, or however it was you phrased it. But who knows. I feel set in my ways, but I'm still young, eh? Might not be too late." As the music piece they're dancing to comes to an end, the weyrwoman lets her hands drop from Ch'val so she can applaud politely for the Harpers. "Thank you for the dance. And yes, you do have perfect timing. Least I think y'do. I know I'm lookin' forward to the upcomin' clutch." Her frown deepens once more, "I'll be sure to hide my bettin' book when you're around, though. If you'll excuse me, I better go check on the party inside." After a polite curtsey, Fayre heads back inside the Sandbar.
"You and your kitchen," the greenrider teases, grinning up at the brownrider. "You're going to end up working for Kip after all, aren't you? --Oh hey, music's ending." Which is his cue to dart out into the crowd, just in time for the Harpers to stop. His goal? Ch'val and Fayre, now just-Ch'val, but that doesn't stop him from tossing a bright, "Clear skies!" after the goldrider, or grinning up at the unfamiliar rider. "I was going to ask to cut in, but... can I have this dance?"
"Why not? It's an Interval and I'm not Weyrlingmaster anymore, have to do /something/ with all this extra time I'll have on my hands," P'draig says with easy good humor. And there goes Mic a-darting and Paddy's following at a more sedate pace. He has a wave for Fayre as they pass and his hand lifts to cover his mouth as the greenrider asks Ch'val for that dance. The brownrider makes no comment though, just claps Mic on the shoulder on the way past and approaches one of Kip's barkeeps, a petite blonde just leaving another partner and holds a hand out to her, greeting her with a warm smile besides.
Fayre's polite curtsey receives from Ch'val a polite bow. "I do appreciate it," he tells her, whether he means the dance or her determination to hide her betting book. He follows her like to leave the dance floor, several paces behind - more than enough room for a greenrider to appear between himself and the weyrwoman, and halt his forward progress. Graying brows shoot up even before T'mic gets to the good part, so there's not much more for the bronzer's face to do to express surprise but let his mouth pop open when the offer of the dance comes clear. "Ah," says the older man. "Dance." Like he's forgotten what those are. In the last fifteen seconds. But not, it seems, what greenriders are, for a flush slowly appears in his worn cheeks. Drily, he recovers: "Who leads?"
T'mic beams like the bronzerider's just agreed to his heart's desire and offers his hands, tossing a bit more of that beam over his shoulder to P'draig as he finds a partner as well. "Taller one," the greenrider says simply. "Makes it easier. And after the dance, I can buy you a drink? He," this time he jerks his head Paddy-way, "Might still be dancing with her." The Harpers, after a little bit of noodling around, segue into a recognizable tune again - slow still, but not the cheek-to-cheek press of earlier. "I'm Mic," he adds. "Aath's my green."
As the music swings back into sway, P'draig leads his tow-headed partner out into the fray, steps sure, hand curled at the small of her back, fingers comfortably ensconcing her much smaller hand. "Behave," he tells T'mic as he swings by, smiles at Ch'val politely. "P'draig, brown Jekzith's formerly of Fort, frequent minder of that there greenrider, but do enjoy the dance. He's pretty light on his feet," the brownrider says good-naturedly, also teasing T'mic on the side and earning himself a shoulder poke from his partner. "Be nice, you," she teases him in turn and then they're slow-spinning away.
"Ch'val. Iath's my bronze." After a quick blink and a twitch at the corner of his mouth - something was just funny - the bronzerider's face resolves into something not quite like relief. He might like to be the one who'll lead, but that still obliges him to the dance. Nevertheless he raises a hand to offer it as the proper platform for T'mic's, and by it will take them both back into the loosely defined area serving as the 'floor.' "He accompanied you," understands Ch'val aloud, after P'draig and his partner have moved into their own space; and then he's reaching for T'mic's waist (finding it somewhat less expertly than he might if there were womanly swell of hips below and breast above to define the spot in question) to begin the dance.
"Behave," Mic scoffs as P'draig and his partner breeze past, but then his attention's back on the bronzerider as though they were the only two on the floor. "Ch'val and Iath. I'd say 'you aren't from around here', but you know that already." Not that the Southerner has any room to point fingers. He is, as advertised, light enough on his feet to make dancing easy (even if not a pleasure), and the music ends to clapping with little more than small talk passing. "I believe I owe you a drink now, Ch'val," Mic says, first nodding toward a table and then leading the way. "Can I talk you into sitting down for it, too? Or d'you have more dancing in mind first?"
A few times, P'draig and his partner swing by, a lot of shared laughter seeming to be in the offing between the two and at the end of the dance, the brownrider has his head bent to the blonde's ear and she's swatting at his arm, but grinning and nodding. They head to the side of the 'floor' and the young woman steers a course for the bar, while Paddy scans the area, finds the table where T'mic and Ch'val have headed for and moves that way. "Mind one more?" he inquires jovially.
Ch'val is a dutiful sort, and at some point learning to dance might have been his duty, for he does a fine job of it even when the partner is not quite what he'd expect. He is, just the same, not at all displeased to leave the dancing square and the harpers' music for drinks instead. "I've been on my feet a while," he tells the greenrider, absolutely straightfaced. "A seat would be welcome. - And you," he adds, perhaps the first honest proof that he has a sense of humor beneath the gray demeanor, for that's cast off to P'draig with the lightest of airs.
T'mic, still grinning, holds out Ch'val's chair for him, pulls out another for Paddy. "You know I don't. You want your usual, Paddy? How about you, Ch'val? What can I get you?" He kicks out a third chair as well, shoves it close to the brownrider's so that P'draig will serve as a buffer between him and the bronzerider. "Pretty much anything you want'll be great. I've never had a drink of Kip's that wasn't."
"Ale," P"draig tells T'mic which may or may not be his usual and he lounges comfortably into that hel out seat. "Ch'val, is it? Well met," the brownrider says with a smile, holds his hand out across the table to the older man. "I'll second that opinion on Kip's drinks too."
Aged blue eyes regard the chair pulled out for him in a nonplussed manner, but after a shrug Ch'val takes the seat. "I had some red thing a while ago, when they were doing the samples. Too sweet, too fruity. F'they got a decent ale? The Reaches brought a keg, I saw." The older man pulls a quick face, but then adds, with a nod to P'draig, "Even that'd do," so a substance hailing from somewhere that's not Telgar - whose superiority might be guessed from the tiniest hints of a Bitran clip in the man's consonants - might be preferred to Ista's mixed drinks. "Yes. Iath's. And you're P'draig," he replies, and then squints contemplatively.
"Two ales, then." Mic nods to cement the order like he's done this before, and maybe he has, though surely most servers don't stop to lay a kiss on the top of P'draig's head. Not Ch'val's, though. It doesn't take him long to get to the bar and back with three mugs, though his has one of those foofy umbrellas in it. He announces, "Here you are," and serves, straddles his chair and tosses the umbrella onto the table. "So Ch'val - how's life at Ista treating you?"
A fond smile is cast upward for that kiss by P'draig, a hand lifted to touch the greenrider's wrist fondly and briefly then he turns back towards Ch'val as T'mic playes server. "Iath, aha, recent transfer too, right?" His smile is friendly, but not overly so, mostly he's making polite conversation. The arrival of his ale finds his hand curling around the mug, the brownrider leaning forward to rest elbows on table. "Thanks, Mic." And his attention is secured for the answer to that question to the bronzerider.
"Warmly," replies Ch'val, pulling up to the table and reaching for one of the umbrella-less mugs with a ready hand. He's still got a thoughtful eye half on P'draig, like he aims to place the man from somewhere, though all he gave for the 'recent transfer' comment was a solitary nod. Now he takes a sip from the ale and exhales pleasure over its rim, then explains, "We know our way around, now, both of us. Going to be a little longer adjusting to the - " He leans back a bit in his chair, pulling the mug of ale up to his chest to rest it in one hand against his shirt. "Culture," he finishes at some length, now looking at T'mic.
"I've been here over eight turns," the greenrider offers, grinning at Ch'val even though he's leaning into P'draig. "If you want a guide, just let me know. So what's this... culture you have to get used to? A Weyr's a Weyr's a Weyr, yeah? I'm Southern, originally," he adds as though his vowels didn't give it utterly away. "Impressed here, though. Don't mind Aath, and warn Iath that if he's nice to her," and here he's sliding another one of those mischievous grins Paddy's way, "He'll never get rid of her." But is he laughing at her, or at him?
P'draig slings one arm casually across Mic's back, comfortable, not possessive. "Would you really say that, Mic, if you'd moved to Fort for instance," the brownrider points out with a grin. The tease about Aath earns an outright chuckle. "I don't think Jekzith /minds/, Mic," he says lightly, smiles across at Ch'val. "Where're you in from?"
Not quite comfortable or possessive, Ch'val does achieve self-possessed without much trouble. "A Weyr's a Weyr, but there's more to the weyr than the dragons and their men," says the old rider, in a tone that suggests he's lectured on the topic before - and just now he catches himself in lecturing mode, and quits that mode with a twitch of one shoulder and a quaff of the ale. A wince to T'mic interrupts his enjoyment: "No fear. Iath makes no habit of being nice. - Telgar," to P'draig, at whom those blue eyes squint again. "Do you have family there?"
Some distance along the edge of the beach, a rangy green descends to a landing well up from the waves. Her rider oversees her passenger's dismounting despite the tall redhead's not needing particular help, waving her on in favor of staying by Vrianth's side for a few moments and then a few more. But then the green folds her wings, with emphasis, and the rider begins to make her slow and sandaled way along the shore.
Three men have claimed one of the chairs beside an empty spot currently doing duty as a dance floor. The Harpers still play, couples still dance, but quietly now, as the evening's festivities wind down. "I dunno," Mic answers P'draig as he sips now and again from his mug. "Southern's not that different from Ista, right? How's it different from Fort? --Or Telgar," he adds, with a nod to the bronzerider. He quiets to listen, his eyes drifting over the crowd to the arriving dragon. He doesn't leap up out of his chair to wave at her, or even show much recognition, but watching - watching he can do. It's easy.
"Exactly," P'draig agrees with Ch'val's statement, a little nod of his head following and up goes his mug of ale for a good long drink. "Ah, Telgar, yes I do actually. My grandmother, Master Baker Emne and my younger brother, though he tops me by a good few inches in height, red hair, harper," Paddy says with a grin, "and my son, but he's only a turn old, lives with his mother, Jenivrys, brown Xoneth's. I'm in and out of Telgar fairly often on visits." It's Jekzith who spots Vrianth and nudges P'draig who looks down the beach and smirks. "And there's my sister in from the Reaches, with Leova," the brownrider murmurs. He tracks Milani over to the bar and briefly there's a smirk on his face and then he /is/ lifting a hand to wave down the approaching greenrider even as Jekzith blows a bubble full of ale Vrianth's way with a map to that triad-occupied table.
"Then maybe I've seen you," says Ch'val to P'draig, "possibly when you were younger than you are now." That's the most the graying rider will give to suggest the gap in ages; he indulges in the ale after that, lifting his free hand to make a hesitant wave to the rider who'll evidently be joining them. Back to T'mic next: "There's a slowness here, if you don't mind my saying so. An unhurriedness." A laziness, he doesn't say, but his brows raise and his mouth goes slim for a moment with the thought. "I think it's the heat. You can't sleep in the height of day at Telgar. Not and be on top of your game."
Her dragon's all but silent, just an instant's gravel-rough attention. She noticed. And passed along, evidently, for after a little more than an instant's hesitation her rider changes course: towards the light of the table rather than the brighter, busy, possibly dizzy bar. And Leova waits to say anything until she's near them, though she does return those two waves with an upraised hand of her own. Her, "Congratulations," though? That's for T'mic.
"/Milani/," says Mic in an undecipherable tone - part happiness, part satisfaction, and part something else, something less open to interpretation - and watches the red-head's trek to the bar for a moment. "Lets you stay up later at night, though," he points out to Ch'val, turning his mug in his hands idly and dragging his attention back to the table. "When it's cooler. No sea breeze at Telgar. Or at Fort," he adds, though surely the other men know this already. The other greenrider's single word gets Mic looking; he grins and stands, kicks out a chair invitingly with a, "H'lo, Leova. What's that for?"
"Could be," P'draig replies, laid-back, "I've been in and out of Telgar for turns, either visiting my grandmother, my brother or in the last turn, almost nightly to see my son." Gray-blue eyes pull back to mark Leova's approach and there's a brief, sidelong look at his weyrmate for that single-word description of his sister, all wrapped up in her name. "Nope, both pretty much land-locked, though Fort's not so far from the coast," the brownrider replies about the location of the Weyrs. "Have to agree with Ch'val though, pace of life at Ista is different, More laid-back," he continues and smiles up at Leova as she draws near. "My turn to offer a seat," he tells her gaily and pushes out the fourth chair at the table for her.
Undecipherable as T'mic's tone is when he speaks the redhead's name, Ch'val does cock a brow a bit more for its emphasis. No comment. "Indeed," he says instead, of staying up later. "But I'm afraid I'm not quite accustomed to it yet." That's his signal. He sucks down the rest of the ale with a practiced tilt, then surrenders the mug to the table. "If you'll all excuse me; it was a pleasure to - meet you. Leova, it is?" Since they've not even had a chance to be introduced, he does this much to cover that subject even as he's getting out of his chair, a supplicative smile briefly flashed to the newcomer. "Enjoy the beach."
"It is. Green Vrianth's, out of the 'Reaches, afraid I missed yours." Leova gives the older, make that the /oldest/ man a nod amiable enough to soften her level glance. And then, those seats. All those seats. In the end she winds up taking T'mic's with the ease that cut-offs allow, angled so one corner's between her knees. "Heard P'draig moved," with a tip of her head to that brownrider's knot and an equally amused, "Sorry. Think he beat you to it," to the brownrider himself.
"Paddy's got family everywhere," the Istan greenrider laughs, eyes twinkling. "You heading out, Ch'val?" As though that wasn't obvious. "Well, see you around. Maybe we can dance again some other night." Now his grin's for the bronzerider even as he settles back into his chair like someone well-behaved and polite. "That's Ch'val, Iath's," he adds to Leova with a nod at the departing. "Transferred in from Telgar. So what's that need congratulations for?"
There's a nod for Ch'val from P'draig as the bronzerider excuses himself. Leova's taking care of her own introduction so there's only: "Clear skies and see you around, Ch'val," from the brownrider as he eases back comfortably in his seat, grins across at Leova. "So he did." And he makes much of snapping his fingers, winks at the Reachian greenrider. "Either way, table's turned for once. How've you been?" Asked warmly and then a nod for his knot. "Did. As promised." Beat. "Milani?" For the source of Leova's news. And then his attention lent to a maybe-answer for T'mic's question.
Ch'val feints at staying a second more to tell Leova his dragon's name, but the word dies on his lips, leaving the shape of Iath's first syllable formed there. He turns it into a smile, executes a little nod respectful to Leova and then wry to P'draig and T'mic in turn. Then he turns and strides upland, making weigh for the weyr. A slim draconic shape slides down from the rim to shadow him to some determined pick-up point at the base of the volcano's slope.
"They're all over, hm? /Iath/," and although the man departs and Leova pauses, it's in the end to shake her head: no luck. Asided to P'draig again, his other question of her deferred for now, "Persie. Actually." To his weyrmate, still sitting forward herself, "Heard something about you liking the warm weather. And here and all, you got your way." And there goes her smile.
T'mic says, "Think it was more Paddy... shells, how -did- you end up here?" He turns to the brownrider with rapt attention, drowns laughter in his mug. "--And this is the only one of these I get," he adds, tapping a fingernail against the pottery. "Else I'll get grabby. Er. S'nice that you're here, Leova. We were just talking about you the other day - don't remember why, though. You want a drink? My treat."
"Telgar, Harper, Reaches, Igen, Smithcraft, Ista" P'draig lists off the litany of places where one might find his wideflung family. "Cousins at Cove Hold too," he notes, mouth pulling to the side wryly. A little lift of brows for the named source of Leova's intel and he nods. "She stopped by, I'll be coming by to return the visit soon. My mother has a hankering to dress up her granddaughter again too, so I've a Palia to provide to her." Leova's last draws another grin and he makes to tousle Mic's hair fondly. "I think it went like this: Mic, I'll move to Ista, how's that? Great! Wait, no, you move to Fort? Uhh ... And then again, yes, I'll come to Ista. Great! And here I am."
Listening to the story's recounting, Leova has to laugh, and imagine, "Easier to feel less... weyrlingmaster-y when out of that Weyr, maybe?" And to T'mic, appreciatively, "Don't mind if I do. And thank you. Although if they're still serving the free drinks I heard tell about, would be fine with those too. Too hot to get grabby, I figure, time of night or no."
"Only," Mic starts, has to tick off on his fingers, "missing two Weyrs." He hoists his mug triumphantly for his math skills, tosses back a swig and stands again. "And I said I'd move to Fort. Even got flannel and wool to prove it, too." He bumps his hip fondly into P'draig's shoulder, offers the other greenrider yet another (or perhaps this is the same) smile. "I think I'm gonna go see if I can track down Milani. Haven't seen her for a bit. I'll send somebody over with something for you, Leova. Clear skies if I don't get back before you leave, a'right?"
"Mm, so far," P'draig answers Leova's first, fingering the handle of his mug of ale, but not picking it up. "I think my father still has family over Benden-way too," the brownrider says with a slight frown, thinking, then he shrugs and does lift his mug, drinks. "Yes you did, but your first reaction was 'uhhh'," Paddy points out, "and the flannel will still come in useful for visiting the Reaches," he adds further. Mic gets a squeeze and another one of those looks as the Istan greenrider mentions his sister. "Tell her I'll catch up soon too."
Flannel and wool, they're enough to raise Leova's marveling brows, and though her mouth rounds for the uhhhh, at least she doesn't actually repeat it out loud. "Have to move fast, T'mic, and clear skies right back to you."
T'mic leaves his mug and what's left in it - well over half, should anyone check - for the others to do with as they please. Perhaps, if they're feeling magnanimous, they'll leave it untouched. But Mic's not thinking of that now: he heads off through the crowd, stopping first to lean on the bar and throw a nod back Leova's way, then to disappear into the thinning masses.