Log: Bitter
Who: Iesia, P'draig, T'mic
When: It is a winter afternoon, 17:15 of day 21, month 13, turn 17 of Interval 10.
Where: Living Cavern, Ista Weyr
What: Paddy and Mic meet newly transferred Iesia who poses something of a challenge to even their cheer.
It's getting on towards dinner time and P'draig's made his way to the living cavern along with a steadily growing crowd of the Weyr's residents and riders. The brownrider has already peeled out of his jacket, has it tied around his waist as he works through the short line to load up a plate, secure a glass of water and ambles out into the largely empty tables to secure a seat.
Sleeves rolled up, arms stained red to the elbow, Iesia also walks in from the bowl. There's a brief little hesitation as she crosses the threshhold, the Healer's head lifting to look around the unfamiliar cavern as if to get her bearings. The gold on her shoulder offers a quiet chitter, little claws clutching at brown hair as the firelizard also studies these new surroundings. Without a word, Iesia bypasses the food for a glass of wine. Secured, she makes another quick assessment of the room and moves to an empty table. She finds it at the same moment as the brownrider, and falters. A moment of silent contemplation while she watches him and then her hand reaches out, pulls a chair away, and she sits down.
P'draig pauses behind a chair and starts to lean in to put his stuff down just as Iesia does the same. Gray-blue eyes lift to take in the healer and he grins. "I can find another spot, if you'd rather," he offers, foot still hooked in the back rung of that chair. "Plenty of space," he notes with a little tilt of his head around the room and another friendly grin.
"Oh, don't bother," decides Iesia, already quite settled in her own chair. "It's your Weyr, your Cavern, you're table." She lifts her hand, idling scratching at the red stain on her elbow before she reaches for her equally red wine. "The one thing a Weyr does not lack is space," but her tone of voice seems to say she doesn't feel it's quite enough.
P'draig's brows lift a little but his foot pulls and the chair comes out and P'draig steps around it, sets his plate and glass down and sits, pulling the chair in towards the table. "Actually, I've only lived here for five months," the brownrider explains, "but I guess it's starting to feel more like home here than it did when my daughter and I first got here." He unties his jacket, picks it up and folds it over the back of the chair, then leans across, hand offered. "P'draig, brown Jekzith's, well met, Healer."
"Five months?" repeats Iesia, an eyebrow arching in question. She reaches out for her glass and takes a slow sip. Silence, a pursing of her lips. Finally, the glass is put down and she reaches over with her own hand. "Iesia," she tells him. "What made you move?"
"Mmhm," P'draig replies as he shakes hands, mindless of the redwort stains. He draws his hand back reaches for his fork to start digging into the pile of noodles on his plate. "Well met, Iesia. I moved because my weyrmate lives here and the flying back and forth between Fort and Ista had gotten a little old." He hefts his laden fork up and considers the healer for a moment. "And you?"
T'mic swings in from the bowl, shirt off and slung over his shoulders and hair damp. He gives the busy 'caverns an eyeing before veering away from the line at the serving tables and toward some pals he's spotted across the room. On the way there, though, he veers again, this time ending up behind P'draig. Planting his hands on the taller man's shoulders, he drops a kiss into his hair before grinning across the table to Iesia. "Who's your friend, Paddy? Mind if I join you?"
She smirks a little at 'weyrmate', and returns her hand to he wine. "Travel. Hm. Tedious sort of thing, isn't it? Even for a dragonrider." It's a little snarky, perhaps a little bitter. But whatever thoughts Iesia had been entertaining seem to vanish at the appearance of said weyrmate, and an eyebrow is arched towards the shirtless greenrider. "We are not friends," she clarifies needlessly. And for P'draig she answers, "Why would a Crafter be anywhere? Because I was assigned here." Bitter again.
And there's Mic himself and P'draig leans back into those hands, grinning up at T'mic. "Hey you," he replies and tilts his head back to kiss the greenrider's cheek fondly. His gaze drops back down across the table to Iesia, that bitter tone unmistakable. "This is Iesia, T'mic, she's a healer, we've just met," he clarifies for the greenrider. "Mm, but how long have you been assigned here," P'draig queries further of Iesia. "Most crafters do turn up somewhere because of being posted, either because of a Master's decision or a request. I used to be a Baker," he says mildly and gestures to the chair beside him. "Have a seat, Mic?" And that forkful of noodles actually makes it into his mouth next.
"Iesia," Mic repeats, flopping into the indicated chair with an exaggerated groan before leaning over to offer his hand to the Healer. "Well met. T'mic, Aath's, but you can call me Mic. Everyone does. You've got beautiful eyes. So why aren't you friends yet?" This last is wondered between the pair, as if either P'draig or Iesia has an equal chance of answering correctly. "I heard Aion'd been transferred away - are you his replacement?"
"Not yet a sevenday," replies Iesia for how long she's been. An idle shrug of her shoulder, which mildly upsets the sulky firelizard upon it, and she lifts her wine glass again. It's more a hand-ornament than for drinking, at least at the moment. "Aath?" Iesia repeats, the barest hint of curiosity in her tone. "What has come over the world that even the shortest names need shortening?" she wonders broodily. Those beautiful eyes are narrowed, fixed on T'mic in careful scrutiny before she moves on to P'draig. Study. A shrug again. "If I am, it would explain why they picked Ista. I have not seen Aion in... in Turns. Not since before he got his Master's knot." A smirk. "I am sure he is happy to be away, what with his asthma."
P'draig gives Mic a fond roll of his eyes for the 'friends yet' remark from Mic and nods for Iesia's reply. "Welcome to Ista then, Iesia," he says with good-natured politeness. "Not a request then?" he inquires curiously. And looks over towards T'mic for his reaction about Aion.
"Don't think you -can- shorten Aath's name, even if you wanted to," the greenrider tosses back, idly. He runs a hand over his hair again and glances toward the line - still long - then tugs the shirt off his shoulders and starts to wriggle into it. "Don't think I've ever seen Aion /happy/, 'cept a couple times. What's 'asthma'? That his breathing thing?" As the shirt settles a more complex twisting of cords appears on his shoulder - more complex than a simple rider's knot, anyway.
An angry twitter at her ear makes Iesia raise her hand and rub at the firelizard, soothing the little beast into silence. "I wasn't talking about..." a pause as she glances at that knot, "Her name. I was talking about yours. And mine. And anyone's name who is short yet gets shorter for.. convenience?" She snorts and finally takes another sip of her wine, a long one. "Yes, his breathing thing," is all Iesia says about Aion. "No, it was not a request," and again, she's not going to explain further. Instead, she'll frown and wonder of T'mic, "You work with Weyrlings? Why?"
T'mic ohs understanding, as unruffled now as when he sat down, and tugs his shirt straight. "Wasn't that short before, though. Tol-e-mic. Mic. It was Aath who made it T'mic." He grins sidelong at the brownrider and, waiting until Paddy's fork isn't full, bumps a companionable shoulder against the other man. "Well, I hope he's happier wherever he is. And you, too," he adds politely. Her question about weyrlings brings his eyebrows up. "--Because I like to?" is his answer, tone split between bemusement and uncertainty.
Silence, and a mildly envious look for the brownrider's plate, though Iesia doesn't so much as twitch to go get her own. A soft sound of acceptance, but she still asks him, "Why? I am sorry, but I could never fathom what would make someone *want* to be responsible for so many lives. Untrained ones, at that." Another swallow of wine, and her glass is set down, pushed away, and subsequently ignored. Empty.
Mic still eyes Iesia like she's just declared that she's marrying a tree, but he remains civil, and even tries to elaborate. "Because they need me. Because I had good teachers when I was a weyrling, and I want to make sure that -these- weyrlings have somebody who cares about 'em too. Not everybody wants to do it; not everybody -can- do it." He shrugs to both. "I dunno why anyone'd want to be a Healer, but I'm glad we have 'em."
There's a cold eyebrow arched towards the greenrider. "So, because you are good at it?" Iesia sums up, almost satisfied at that answer. It certainly seems to be more acceptable than 'because they need me,' which is brushed away with a flick of her fingers like dust. Ignored. "I know why *I* am a Healer," she tells him plainly, not at all defensive. "Skill. Fascination. The beating of a heart and the twitching of muscles, broken bones that need to be mended, that moment when a life hangs in my hands..." but she stops, allows herself the barest of smiles, and shrugs it off again.
"I dunno if I'm -good- at it," the greenrider says with a shrug and a baldness that speaks of honesty and not false humility, "But I try to do my best by 'em. S'all I can do." His eyebrow goes up again at her recitation of symptoms, but he - like she - shrugs as well. And ne'er the twain shall meet? "Like I said, glad we have 'em."
P'draig's contribution: "Used to be a Weyrlingmaster myself, even though it's a lot of work, I actually liked the job. Getting to make a difference, helping young riders learn how to get along with their dragons and so on." He loads up another bite on his fork, bumps Mic back. "You're good at it," he confirms with a wink for the greenrider and looks back across at Iesia thoughtfully. "Seems like a lot to learn, being a healer. Don't think I could've."
"The humidity must addle the brain," says Iesia dryly, once she's learned of P'draig's own weyrling-rich history. Never mind that 'before' probably also means 'before Ista'. A little curl of her lip, a wrinkling of her nose in disgust. "As I said, I would not want to be responsible for so many untrained lives. And no," she confirms rather vainly, "I doubt you could have."
T'mic's other eyebrow goes up to join its brother; he pushes up from his chair and bestows another kiss on the top of the brownrider's head. "Line's looking shorter," he says cheerfully, though there seem to be as many people there now as there were when he came in. "I've got inspection after supper, then I'm free. Aath'll let Jekzith know." He turns a bright smile onto Iesia. "Nice meeting you, ma'am. Hope you enjoy your stay at Ista." With that he heads back into the crowd, aiming generally for the meal tables though he pauses now and again for a word with those already eating.
"Nope, he addles my brain," P'draig notes about T'mic, pointing his thumb towards the greenrider. "At least it's dryer in winter, though I'll agree that in general, Ista is a little more humid than I'd like," the brownrider remarks. "Mic can just take it as a compliment that I moved here because of him and in spite of the weather. At any rate, I was Weyrlingmaster at Fort for a good ten turns, but I resigned the post when I moved here. Right now the only untrained lives I'm in charge of are my kids'." Mic rises and P'draig smiles for that kiss. "All right. I'll see you later. I didn't get a chance to bake today, so no dessert tonight," he lets the greenrider know.
T'mic's leaving gets a simple lift of Iesia's chin. Acknowledgment. "Good luck," she offers dryly. With her wine finished, she folds her hands and tucks them into her lap, leaning back against her chair. P'draig is given a long, studious look once more, expression neutral. "Ista...Hm. It could be worse." she finally decides. "But now I wonder, and forgive me if it is rude," though she doesn't sound the least bit worried if it is, "But you removed yourself and your children from a familiar life simply to be closer to one individual? You must... really care for him."
Gray-blue eyes track Mic towards the food tables, his gaze pulling back to Iesia as she speaks again and his shoulders lift in a slight shrug. "Just one of my kids. Palia. She's three, will be four in the second month of the new turn. My son lives with his mother at Telgar," he explains a little and his mouth pulls to the side a little. "And yes. I did, because I do, very much."
"More than one," and there's a scrutinizing look at P'draig's face, perhaps a careful consideration of his age. "Dragonriders," is all she says on the matter, shifting her eyes to something inanimate. "And he cares as strongly for you?" she wonders. "Would he have moved?" Her lips purse and she brings her hands up, palms together, and rests her index fingers against her mouth. "A remarkable thing, to care for someone so strongly. I hope it doesn't bite you in the a-" but she stops, seems to remember where she is and shrugs again.
That judgment and the single-word statement of it quirk Paddy's brows upward, but he nods. "He does. We share a weyr here. And he would have, though he has no resistance to the colder weather at Fort." That cut off remark just brings a grin to P'draig's face. "I've been burned before. Doesn't stop me from trying again. Though -- it's different with him. No insecurity," Paddy mentions and finishes up the last few bites from his plate, leans forward to claim his glass and drink deeply. "You've never been in love?"
A shudder. It seems lack of resistance to cold is something Iesia can sympathize with. "Well. What has happened happened, so it looks as if T'mic will not have to make a difficult decision between love, and sanity." Sanity being not moving to Fort, presumably. A snap, and her eyes are back on the brownrider, sharp and cold. "Not much of your business to ask, but... yes. Once. Foolishly." A smirk for herself. "Human resilience in the matter of love is something I could not understand. Is it foolish, or wise?"
"No more than asking me about Mic and my kids was yours," P'draig says with a little shrug. "I figured maybe we were kind of beyond the strict guidelines of etiquette by now," the brownrider says with another loose grin. "And nope, I got to pick love over sanity," he goes on, humor rich in his voice. Her answer though makes him thoughtful. "I think it's just the way people are. We're drawn to it, no matter how many times we're foolish or get burned."
A frown, and Iesia stands. "I believe it's time I left," she decides suddenly, no comment, no questions. A flick of a glance for her empty wine, and she leaves as swiftly as she came, back to the infirmary.
When: It is a winter afternoon, 17:15 of day 21, month 13, turn 17 of Interval 10.
Where: Living Cavern, Ista Weyr
What: Paddy and Mic meet newly transferred Iesia who poses something of a challenge to even their cheer.
It's getting on towards dinner time and P'draig's made his way to the living cavern along with a steadily growing crowd of the Weyr's residents and riders. The brownrider has already peeled out of his jacket, has it tied around his waist as he works through the short line to load up a plate, secure a glass of water and ambles out into the largely empty tables to secure a seat.
Sleeves rolled up, arms stained red to the elbow, Iesia also walks in from the bowl. There's a brief little hesitation as she crosses the threshhold, the Healer's head lifting to look around the unfamiliar cavern as if to get her bearings. The gold on her shoulder offers a quiet chitter, little claws clutching at brown hair as the firelizard also studies these new surroundings. Without a word, Iesia bypasses the food for a glass of wine. Secured, she makes another quick assessment of the room and moves to an empty table. She finds it at the same moment as the brownrider, and falters. A moment of silent contemplation while she watches him and then her hand reaches out, pulls a chair away, and she sits down.
P'draig pauses behind a chair and starts to lean in to put his stuff down just as Iesia does the same. Gray-blue eyes lift to take in the healer and he grins. "I can find another spot, if you'd rather," he offers, foot still hooked in the back rung of that chair. "Plenty of space," he notes with a little tilt of his head around the room and another friendly grin.
"Oh, don't bother," decides Iesia, already quite settled in her own chair. "It's your Weyr, your Cavern, you're table." She lifts her hand, idling scratching at the red stain on her elbow before she reaches for her equally red wine. "The one thing a Weyr does not lack is space," but her tone of voice seems to say she doesn't feel it's quite enough.
P'draig's brows lift a little but his foot pulls and the chair comes out and P'draig steps around it, sets his plate and glass down and sits, pulling the chair in towards the table. "Actually, I've only lived here for five months," the brownrider explains, "but I guess it's starting to feel more like home here than it did when my daughter and I first got here." He unties his jacket, picks it up and folds it over the back of the chair, then leans across, hand offered. "P'draig, brown Jekzith's, well met, Healer."
"Five months?" repeats Iesia, an eyebrow arching in question. She reaches out for her glass and takes a slow sip. Silence, a pursing of her lips. Finally, the glass is put down and she reaches over with her own hand. "Iesia," she tells him. "What made you move?"
"Mmhm," P'draig replies as he shakes hands, mindless of the redwort stains. He draws his hand back reaches for his fork to start digging into the pile of noodles on his plate. "Well met, Iesia. I moved because my weyrmate lives here and the flying back and forth between Fort and Ista had gotten a little old." He hefts his laden fork up and considers the healer for a moment. "And you?"
T'mic swings in from the bowl, shirt off and slung over his shoulders and hair damp. He gives the busy 'caverns an eyeing before veering away from the line at the serving tables and toward some pals he's spotted across the room. On the way there, though, he veers again, this time ending up behind P'draig. Planting his hands on the taller man's shoulders, he drops a kiss into his hair before grinning across the table to Iesia. "Who's your friend, Paddy? Mind if I join you?"
She smirks a little at 'weyrmate', and returns her hand to he wine. "Travel. Hm. Tedious sort of thing, isn't it? Even for a dragonrider." It's a little snarky, perhaps a little bitter. But whatever thoughts Iesia had been entertaining seem to vanish at the appearance of said weyrmate, and an eyebrow is arched towards the shirtless greenrider. "We are not friends," she clarifies needlessly. And for P'draig she answers, "Why would a Crafter be anywhere? Because I was assigned here." Bitter again.
And there's Mic himself and P'draig leans back into those hands, grinning up at T'mic. "Hey you," he replies and tilts his head back to kiss the greenrider's cheek fondly. His gaze drops back down across the table to Iesia, that bitter tone unmistakable. "This is Iesia, T'mic, she's a healer, we've just met," he clarifies for the greenrider. "Mm, but how long have you been assigned here," P'draig queries further of Iesia. "Most crafters do turn up somewhere because of being posted, either because of a Master's decision or a request. I used to be a Baker," he says mildly and gestures to the chair beside him. "Have a seat, Mic?" And that forkful of noodles actually makes it into his mouth next.
"Iesia," Mic repeats, flopping into the indicated chair with an exaggerated groan before leaning over to offer his hand to the Healer. "Well met. T'mic, Aath's, but you can call me Mic. Everyone does. You've got beautiful eyes. So why aren't you friends yet?" This last is wondered between the pair, as if either P'draig or Iesia has an equal chance of answering correctly. "I heard Aion'd been transferred away - are you his replacement?"
"Not yet a sevenday," replies Iesia for how long she's been. An idle shrug of her shoulder, which mildly upsets the sulky firelizard upon it, and she lifts her wine glass again. It's more a hand-ornament than for drinking, at least at the moment. "Aath?" Iesia repeats, the barest hint of curiosity in her tone. "What has come over the world that even the shortest names need shortening?" she wonders broodily. Those beautiful eyes are narrowed, fixed on T'mic in careful scrutiny before she moves on to P'draig. Study. A shrug again. "If I am, it would explain why they picked Ista. I have not seen Aion in... in Turns. Not since before he got his Master's knot." A smirk. "I am sure he is happy to be away, what with his asthma."
P'draig gives Mic a fond roll of his eyes for the 'friends yet' remark from Mic and nods for Iesia's reply. "Welcome to Ista then, Iesia," he says with good-natured politeness. "Not a request then?" he inquires curiously. And looks over towards T'mic for his reaction about Aion.
"Don't think you -can- shorten Aath's name, even if you wanted to," the greenrider tosses back, idly. He runs a hand over his hair again and glances toward the line - still long - then tugs the shirt off his shoulders and starts to wriggle into it. "Don't think I've ever seen Aion /happy/, 'cept a couple times. What's 'asthma'? That his breathing thing?" As the shirt settles a more complex twisting of cords appears on his shoulder - more complex than a simple rider's knot, anyway.
An angry twitter at her ear makes Iesia raise her hand and rub at the firelizard, soothing the little beast into silence. "I wasn't talking about..." a pause as she glances at that knot, "Her name. I was talking about yours. And mine. And anyone's name who is short yet gets shorter for.. convenience?" She snorts and finally takes another sip of her wine, a long one. "Yes, his breathing thing," is all Iesia says about Aion. "No, it was not a request," and again, she's not going to explain further. Instead, she'll frown and wonder of T'mic, "You work with Weyrlings? Why?"
T'mic ohs understanding, as unruffled now as when he sat down, and tugs his shirt straight. "Wasn't that short before, though. Tol-e-mic. Mic. It was Aath who made it T'mic." He grins sidelong at the brownrider and, waiting until Paddy's fork isn't full, bumps a companionable shoulder against the other man. "Well, I hope he's happier wherever he is. And you, too," he adds politely. Her question about weyrlings brings his eyebrows up. "--Because I like to?" is his answer, tone split between bemusement and uncertainty.
Silence, and a mildly envious look for the brownrider's plate, though Iesia doesn't so much as twitch to go get her own. A soft sound of acceptance, but she still asks him, "Why? I am sorry, but I could never fathom what would make someone *want* to be responsible for so many lives. Untrained ones, at that." Another swallow of wine, and her glass is set down, pushed away, and subsequently ignored. Empty.
Mic still eyes Iesia like she's just declared that she's marrying a tree, but he remains civil, and even tries to elaborate. "Because they need me. Because I had good teachers when I was a weyrling, and I want to make sure that -these- weyrlings have somebody who cares about 'em too. Not everybody wants to do it; not everybody -can- do it." He shrugs to both. "I dunno why anyone'd want to be a Healer, but I'm glad we have 'em."
There's a cold eyebrow arched towards the greenrider. "So, because you are good at it?" Iesia sums up, almost satisfied at that answer. It certainly seems to be more acceptable than 'because they need me,' which is brushed away with a flick of her fingers like dust. Ignored. "I know why *I* am a Healer," she tells him plainly, not at all defensive. "Skill. Fascination. The beating of a heart and the twitching of muscles, broken bones that need to be mended, that moment when a life hangs in my hands..." but she stops, allows herself the barest of smiles, and shrugs it off again.
"I dunno if I'm -good- at it," the greenrider says with a shrug and a baldness that speaks of honesty and not false humility, "But I try to do my best by 'em. S'all I can do." His eyebrow goes up again at her recitation of symptoms, but he - like she - shrugs as well. And ne'er the twain shall meet? "Like I said, glad we have 'em."
P'draig's contribution: "Used to be a Weyrlingmaster myself, even though it's a lot of work, I actually liked the job. Getting to make a difference, helping young riders learn how to get along with their dragons and so on." He loads up another bite on his fork, bumps Mic back. "You're good at it," he confirms with a wink for the greenrider and looks back across at Iesia thoughtfully. "Seems like a lot to learn, being a healer. Don't think I could've."
"The humidity must addle the brain," says Iesia dryly, once she's learned of P'draig's own weyrling-rich history. Never mind that 'before' probably also means 'before Ista'. A little curl of her lip, a wrinkling of her nose in disgust. "As I said, I would not want to be responsible for so many untrained lives. And no," she confirms rather vainly, "I doubt you could have."
T'mic's other eyebrow goes up to join its brother; he pushes up from his chair and bestows another kiss on the top of the brownrider's head. "Line's looking shorter," he says cheerfully, though there seem to be as many people there now as there were when he came in. "I've got inspection after supper, then I'm free. Aath'll let Jekzith know." He turns a bright smile onto Iesia. "Nice meeting you, ma'am. Hope you enjoy your stay at Ista." With that he heads back into the crowd, aiming generally for the meal tables though he pauses now and again for a word with those already eating.
"Nope, he addles my brain," P'draig notes about T'mic, pointing his thumb towards the greenrider. "At least it's dryer in winter, though I'll agree that in general, Ista is a little more humid than I'd like," the brownrider remarks. "Mic can just take it as a compliment that I moved here because of him and in spite of the weather. At any rate, I was Weyrlingmaster at Fort for a good ten turns, but I resigned the post when I moved here. Right now the only untrained lives I'm in charge of are my kids'." Mic rises and P'draig smiles for that kiss. "All right. I'll see you later. I didn't get a chance to bake today, so no dessert tonight," he lets the greenrider know.
T'mic's leaving gets a simple lift of Iesia's chin. Acknowledgment. "Good luck," she offers dryly. With her wine finished, she folds her hands and tucks them into her lap, leaning back against her chair. P'draig is given a long, studious look once more, expression neutral. "Ista...Hm. It could be worse." she finally decides. "But now I wonder, and forgive me if it is rude," though she doesn't sound the least bit worried if it is, "But you removed yourself and your children from a familiar life simply to be closer to one individual? You must... really care for him."
Gray-blue eyes track Mic towards the food tables, his gaze pulling back to Iesia as she speaks again and his shoulders lift in a slight shrug. "Just one of my kids. Palia. She's three, will be four in the second month of the new turn. My son lives with his mother at Telgar," he explains a little and his mouth pulls to the side a little. "And yes. I did, because I do, very much."
"More than one," and there's a scrutinizing look at P'draig's face, perhaps a careful consideration of his age. "Dragonriders," is all she says on the matter, shifting her eyes to something inanimate. "And he cares as strongly for you?" she wonders. "Would he have moved?" Her lips purse and she brings her hands up, palms together, and rests her index fingers against her mouth. "A remarkable thing, to care for someone so strongly. I hope it doesn't bite you in the a-" but she stops, seems to remember where she is and shrugs again.
That judgment and the single-word statement of it quirk Paddy's brows upward, but he nods. "He does. We share a weyr here. And he would have, though he has no resistance to the colder weather at Fort." That cut off remark just brings a grin to P'draig's face. "I've been burned before. Doesn't stop me from trying again. Though -- it's different with him. No insecurity," Paddy mentions and finishes up the last few bites from his plate, leans forward to claim his glass and drink deeply. "You've never been in love?"
A shudder. It seems lack of resistance to cold is something Iesia can sympathize with. "Well. What has happened happened, so it looks as if T'mic will not have to make a difficult decision between love, and sanity." Sanity being not moving to Fort, presumably. A snap, and her eyes are back on the brownrider, sharp and cold. "Not much of your business to ask, but... yes. Once. Foolishly." A smirk for herself. "Human resilience in the matter of love is something I could not understand. Is it foolish, or wise?"
"No more than asking me about Mic and my kids was yours," P'draig says with a little shrug. "I figured maybe we were kind of beyond the strict guidelines of etiquette by now," the brownrider says with another loose grin. "And nope, I got to pick love over sanity," he goes on, humor rich in his voice. Her answer though makes him thoughtful. "I think it's just the way people are. We're drawn to it, no matter how many times we're foolish or get burned."
A frown, and Iesia stands. "I believe it's time I left," she decides suddenly, no comment, no questions. A flick of a glance for her empty wine, and she leaves as swiftly as she came, back to the infirmary.