[Log] Poor Little Holder Girl
Who: E'sere, Mataiya
Date: Day of Bailie and Sefton's engagement party.
Where: Fort Hold gardens
What: Unable to get ahold of her mother, Mataiya instead targets E'sere as a likely substitute, painting a far different picture of Diya than what the Reachian goldrider presents.
From the previous log of the party:
Ginella flicks another glance at his hair and smiles again, nodding. "Of course, and we wouldn't want you to be remiss in your duties as a son," she says, smiling again as he remembers the correction and gets it right this time. "Thank you," she says, taking his arm and following to the floor. She dances fairly well, with enough natural grace and lightness of foot to make up for a slight hesitancy most likely born of inexperience. She keeps up a steady stream of pleasant conversation so long as he seems willing to chat, as well.
With his background, it's expected for E'sere to be experienced in such social graces; and he doesn't let that down. He's a good dancer, patient with his less experienced partner. And, afterward, he keeps up a light conversation until the party, in winding down, releases a stream of guests needing conveyance back to their home districts. Then, excusing himself with a smile and a 'good night, Ginella,' he departs as well to oversee his wing's part in the departures.
Despite the disappearance of both would-be groom and bride, and the Lord and Lady hosts, the party has continued on, and from a distance an impeccably dressed figure of crimson and cream watches E'sere's progression through the various women. Not terribly subtle, a small smile, half-shy, half-knowing plays on the child-like features and while she does busy herself with the attention of many men, including that of the handsome Reachian lord, the tabs are continued to be kept. Finally, as the party seems to be winding down, the twilight a luminescent blue due to a brightly lit moon, the rustle of taffeta passes by the lightly conversing pair to pass over a slip of hide discreetly, leaving the soft touch of creamy hands and an ethereal lavender scent in her wake. Should he not be so subtle in reading the note, or pass a glance her way, a faint smile is cast coyly over her shoulder before she continues her way out with the other departures. The note indicates, in the effeminate hand of one who strives to be a lady, a desire to converse in the Fortian gardens and is signed with a stylized 'M'.
Accepting the note gracefully and only giving the girl a brief glance, E'sere pockets it for a few minutes until, finally, he's able to slip away from present company and read it in peace. Brows arch as he skims the note once, twice, and finally repockets it and slips outside. In the courtyard, he spares a few more words for departing dignitaries, polite if distracted; it takes him several minutes to get entirely free and find his way over to the gardens of Fort Hold. There, he picks a path and ambles along it, glancing at the plants to either side idly, as though that were his only reason for being there.
Quite the picture, lovely beneath the graceful frond of a flowering tree, Mataiya waits, the slender stalk of one of the decorative flowers held by the stem just beneath the large blooming flower. Other couples from the party seem to have had similar ideas as they dot the landscape of the expansive Hold gardens, but of them, only the Reaches-bred girl is alone. Even in her silent patience, everything seems just a touch too poised, her composure and stance perfection. With her back to the main path, her silhouette is as distinguishable as her mother's, though for vastly different reasons: she has the height of her lineage, but her features are far more diminutive, her arms and shoulders delicate in their bare slimness, and there's a sultry grace in her stillness that speaks of raw energy as opposed to composed elegance.
Though he's surely seen her by now--how could he not?--E'sere takes his time weaving through the gardens, gradually nearing Mataiya's waiting place, directionless, not even glancing over at her. Finally, though, he can't ignore her any longer, and he glances up, brows quirking slightly. He straightens and, after a brief glance around, closes the distance between them. "Evening," he offers then, in a easy drawl.
Mataiya, likewise, ignores his presence, taking her cues from him. Well, mostly ignores, she does slide him a faint glance from behind her lashes to ascertain that it is, in fact, the man she's waiting for. Though spring in Fort is temperate, there's a stiff breeze that causes a slight shiver to course across the girl's shoulders. "Evening, yourself," she returns, lurching forward slightly on her tiny heels before resettling backwards so the back heel clicks along the stone-lined path. "E'sere." Coy, her shy smile returns, accompanied by a flattering drop of her eyes, as if she can't meet him straight on, and the flower she holds is held out, twirled between two fingers. "For you."
Almost bemused, E'sere regards Mataiya, reaching forward to accept the flower solemnly. "Thank you," he tells her. "But aren't I supposed to bring flowers. Mataiya?" The name is a question, hesitant and hopeful at once as if he's not entirely sure about the identity of his date. He's confident enough to continue, however: "I've heard... not a lot about you, but enough to--intrigue me."
The childish profile lifts, the turn of her head exposing the lines of her neck to the bronzerider, and allows the woman to favor the wingleader with a pseudo top-down view, as that minor tilt brings Mataiya a false sense of height. She doesn't clarify her own name, but doesn't deny it which is as good as confirmation. "I should cry, I think. What do you think?" Large eyes, luminous in their velvet brownness, consider E'sere somewhat damply, the will it takes to make them wet transparent, but deliberately so.
"Oh, I don't know," E'sere answers amost breezily, studying her in turn. Idly, he twirls the flower in his hand, glancing down at it briefly. Then, he offers a crooked smile and reaches up, intending to slide it neatly into place in her dark hair, behind one ear. "What do you have to cry about?"
And that smile reemerges, secretive and shy, her eyes suddenly devoid of dampness, and instead fills with a teasing twinkle. "Oh," the young voice drawls out, leisurely as she moves two steps forward, closer to a stone bench that's set right next to the tree's broad base, "What fun would it be if I did tell you why? Then there'd be nothing for you to be intrigued about, no?" A recent rain's made the bench damp, and Mataiya straightens, casting a look over her shoulder expectantly for some sort of manly intervention.
"Oh, I suppose so," E'sere agrees heavily, with a sigh that doesn't seem entirely genuine. Indeed, he's quickly grinning again, that same half-smirk that follows her as she steps over to the bench. He arches a brow, though, at her glance, a 'what do you expect /me/ to do' gesture. Despite that, however, he's already shrugging out of his heavy riding jacket and spreading it across the bench to block the water for her. "An interesting party," he finally remarks, eyes straying away from her, across the garden and the darkened sky. "Did you enjoy it?"
"I never get to wear things like this at the Hold," Mataiya notes, a hand pressing down to smooth out the slimming shape of her two-shaded dress. "It never gets warm enough at High Reaches to be able to wear something so flattering." Approval flickers in dark eyes, and with a hand extended - she really does need assistance in seating herself - she again waits expectantly. In the mean time, her sweet voice lifts, blithe chatter easy to her lips once the mystery of the initial meeting has been cemented. "You're better looking than Lord Reaches ever mentioned, and it's good to see the Caucus instilled some sort of manners."
"It's beautiful," notes E'sere, looking at Mataiya rather than her dress. Obediently, he offers her a hand, ever polite, murmuring an almost abashed "Thank you." Then, wryly: "Lord Reaches talks about me, does he? After all this time? I hope he only remembers the best things."
With his hand in hers, her hold barely touching let alone grasping, Mataiya is now able to seat herself, turning in towards E'sere, and dropping herself gracefully. The folds of her dress continue to stay immaculate in their lines, and with gracious apology in her eyes, she retrieves her hand to rest in her lap. "Rarely. Don't get your pretty little hopes up, wingleader that your childhood friend recalls anything more than just how pretty you are. I'd hoped," some of the semblance of elegant lady is dropped, slim hands reaching to hold her knees as she leans backwards a bit, rocking back and forth. "To get some moments with my mother, but she's quite the social butterfly sometimes, don't you think? You seem to have captured much more attention than I'd have thought. I mean, you're so good-looking, she's so sour and -old-." Incautious, she looks up to solicit his opinion with an arc of her brow and to see his reactions.
E'sere glances sideways at the young woman, settling himself right next to her--he has to be close, of course, to keep from getting his own pants wet on the damp stone. "A weyrwoman has to be," he notes. "I've learned that myself. Do you really think that? She's never been sour toward me, and, well. One's own parents always seem older than they are, because we've never know them any other way." He shrugs, adds, "She doesn't seem old to me--probably because I must fall right in between the two of you."
Mataiya's hands release her knees and she lifts herself somewhat haughtily. "And how old do you think I am? Since you can't even seem to remember me enough to greet as an old friend, let alone how old I am. For all you know," she leans in - for she must to prove her point - the waft of lavender strengthening with her movement, and spares the wingleader a solemn look, "I could be as old, if not older than you. As for the party," her slow smile halts its progress along with her voice as she pulls back first, "It was interesting. Everything a girl would dream for in an engagement ceremony."
E'sere arches his brows, an almost smug gesture. "No, I don't think so," he remarks after a moment's thought, shaking his head. "Your mother had just impressed when I was born, and if I remember my history correctly, she was quite young then. Anyway, I know the people older than me, and the ones my own age. I'd say--" and he pauses now to skim her, mentally calculating "--you're twenty, at the most." He pauses, tilting his head slightly in curiousity. "I suppose so," the young wingleader finally agrees. "I wouldn't really know myself, what a girl might want; but Fort always throws a grand party."
"When I get engaged," it's a when, not if, "It'll be grander. We'll show them that Fort's not the only Hold that can throw a party on such a grand scale for their own." Mataiya reaches for her knees again, a gesture reflective of a habit that hasn't quite been bred out of her yet, and rocks back and forth once more in slow motions. "Twenty, I like that. And you must be- twenty-nine? Nenuith's twenty-nine, which makes you positively ancient. I'm cold," she notes abruptly, expectant, yet again, with a casual glance over at E'sere's dress shirt.
"Indeed," agrees E'sere, with a solemn nod. "I look forward the party. Though, perhaps the bride-to-be would spare me a dance at that one? Still twenty-eight, for a couple months more. Am I /really/ that old?" The vain man sounds almost heart-broken by this, though he gets over it quickly. "You've already got my jacket, Lady," he points out, noting her gaze. "Would you have the shirt off my back, too, and leave me to freeze?" With a bemused, teasing grin, he reaches a hand toward the top button.
Rouged lips part, the lower lip dropping in unanticipated surprise. Mataiya can't even school her expression fast enough. "And when my lord walks in on you taking your shirt off for me-?" The vibrant voice, caught on the first syllable, gains strength throughout, turning coy in her trailing off. "Then, he might definitely remember you for a long time to come. I'm sure." Not that she's said no at all; curious eyes framed by wide-set lashes attempting to peek down whatever that first button may reveal.
E'sere laughs at her surprise, a better reaction than he could hope for. "Better not, then," he tells her seriously, lowering his hand slowly. "Between him and our mothers...." Still grinning, he trails off; but despite his words, he doesn't seem very discouraged: he moves to slip an arm behind her, to add his body heat to hers. "Better?"
"You," the young woman flushes, though it's hard to tell with the obscure moon lighting offered between the tree's shade, "Are trouble. I bet you tease all the girls, and yet, you didn't even come by to ask for one dance before. What makes you think I'll promise you a dance at my engagement? I'm far beneath your notice, I imagine." Still, Mataiya doesn't shrug his arm off, instead, she's content to accept the offering as it's only natural for him to do so. After a length of silence, vtols offering low music of their disharmonious zipping noises around in the greenery, she says nonchalantly, "You gather only the best around you, don't you?"
E'sere regards Mataiya, offering her a light shrug. "I suppose I do," he admits easily. "But you still sought me out. I think, really, this qualifies as a first meeting, don't you? You've changed a lot since the last time I saw you--grown up. I imagine I have, too." Her last question, though, stops him; while he doesn't pull away, a flicker of stiffness affects his posture before he relaxes again and replies in the same nonchalant tone she uses, "As all people try. Why?"
"The Benden weyrwoman. The future Lord and Lady Fort, or Boll. Lord Fort, Masters, Holders, Weyrleaders. Your mother, my mother, that poor man who looks like he could use a warm shoulder to sob desperate dry tears into. Only the best for E'sere." Mataiya, throughout her idle gossiping, plays fingers along the straight line of her strapless dress, brushing against the glittering jewel that rests there. "Soon, you'll have to include me in that list, never to forget again." Her head shake emphasizes this statement, even as she leans in closer - for warmth of course - and rests her head against the rider's shoulder. Beneath his arm, she is as fragile and doll-like as she looks. "You don't really remember me at all, do you?"
E'sere glances askance at her, brows arching at her list. "Will I now," he remarks idly. "And who will you be then?" There's a pause after the question, as he watches her nestle aginst him. "It's been my experience that we remember the people that are higher than us, in rank or, as children, in age. I imagine you can name any number of my peers, as I can still name those who were older than me. You remember me for otherwise?"
"I remember thinking I'd marry you some day. But I was five," Mataiya adds merrily to her sly insertion, looking up with that charismatic sliver of adoration, "What do five turn olds know?" The fact that she neglects to answer his questions is glossed over with two slow bats of her lashes.
E'sere smiles at that, brows arching as he lets her lack of an answer slide. "Oh, you never know. When I was five, I was going to be a bronzerider, and you see how well that's worked out for me," he tells her. For a moment then he's silent, before noting, "But I suppose that can't come true now after all. We riders don't marry."
Mataiya's eyes narrow into narrow little slits, her expression turning unsettled, and to cover it up her eyes just close, as if wearied. "Well that's true, my dream will sadly never come true." While it may be unladylike, her slippered feet find the stone bench and she turns so her back leans against E'sere's solid frame. "But I aim higher these days than a mere bronzerider." With eyes closed, her lips curve into a smile, and with extreme control, she cracks her lids open enough to spy out the wingleader's chin. "Will you at least fulfill one of the dreams of a fi-, no, nine turn old? I think that's the last time I saw you, when my mother allowed me to come back to see a hatching."
E'sere is silent while Mataiya rearranges against him. He waits until she's comfortable to lean over and murmur into her ear, "As do I." Then, leaning back to watch her again, he nods once. "Of course. What would you ask of me?" he answers promptly.
"It's almost a pity," Mataiya muses, her comment trailing off as a smile takes precedent, anticipation for the breath that tickles her ear and what he may say. To her credit, the smile doesn't disappear at his words, instead dimpling with some deeper pleasure. "Just like I remember. The next time a Reaches gold rises-" With surprising upper body strength, her torso lifts up so she strain upwards to tickle the bronzerider's chin with her own breath. "-Come find me."
Perhaps that's not the request E'sere expected, for he allows himself some measure of surprise, brows arching. "What a strange request," he finally remarks, voice light though his expression conveys more seriousness. "An odd dream for a nine-turn-old. Might I ask why?"
Innocence brightens the color of Mataiya's eyes, "Because I've never seen a gold flight? Do you really need to know why? Can't you, you know, just be the hero and grant a request?" Unable to keep herself up anymore, she drops herself slowly, though not against E'sere's shoulder, instead allowing her head to find his leg to use as a makeshift cushion. Her eyes drink in the vision of shaggy hair and rugged features. "Do you think you could've been Lord Tillek some day? Even with your mother not in the line of descent?"
"Then I will, if I am able," E'sere replies solemnly, glancing downward as she shifts her position again. He offers a small smile then, and rolls his shoulders. "I doubt it," admits the man. "I have too many cousins, even with S'lien removed from the line. Besides, I have no desire to lead Tillek myself, and I never have: I am content with High Reaches. It's my home."
"Not even the slightest what if?" Mataiya turns into E'sere's dress shirt, inhaling in softly the scent of his clothing, and the rider himself. A slim arm lifts, as if entitled to do so, to curl a lock of shagginess around an ivory finger. "You don't ever wonder what would have happened if you hadn't Impressed? You'd have been married off to some political match, like the Lady Bailie and the Headmaster, something advantageous to Tillek. Maybe," she secrets a vague smile into the folds of his shirt, only one dark eye visible along with the profile of her face, "You'd be the one marrying into Fort's family."
"Or perhaps I'd have been the shame of the family," suggests E'sere mildly. "Not really Blooded, no talent for a craft, and no dragon to make a purpose for me. Left to my own devices in the lower caverns, or whatever honor I can glean from my family." For a moment, he's silent, perhaps sobered by that thought, then shakes his head and grins slightly. "That honor I am more than willing to leave to our new headmaster."
"E'sere," a warmth that's reminiscent of her mother creeps into Mataiya's sweet voice, and the hair-twined finger tightens it grip, gentle in its admonishing tug. "You could never be the shame of a family. Trust me. You were pretty idolized among the lower cavern girls. The older ones who thought five turn olds didn't know anything." The precociousness of youth, the kind that allowed her to understand everything the older girls would never expect younger girls to know, has blossomed into a calculating creature wrapped in taffeta and sisal on the verge of realizing the potential of bewitching smiles and effective use of innocent beauty. "At least, if you were the shame, you'd be having a grand time of it. I'm sure." Quiet, once again allowing the vtol noises to rise, she then asks with faint wistfulness, "Does- do... Is High Reaches really your home?"
"Oh, I'd make a wonderful black sheep," agrees E'sere, with a too serious nod. "If you must be, you might as well enjoy it." But for all his glib words, there's still a certain genuine seriousness there, that once more slips to the forefront at her latter question. "I've never lived anywhere else; what else is a home? You were born there; is it not yours?"
Mataiya neglects his questions once more, her finger dropping out of that lock of hair to graze knuckles against his cheek. "Do you talk to her often? I can smell her scent on your shirt." Or someone's at least, if not her imagination.
E'sere quirks a brow, curious. "And who might she be?" he wonders.
"You know." There's no flirtation there, just a face of child-like innocence and regret that stares up into his, and Mataiya then turns back to speak into his tummy. "Do you talk to her a lot? Does she talk to you a lot?" And perhaps this was the reason for the flirtation of eyes, the note drop, and the request to speak, combined with some deep-rooted comfort the otherwise composed girl seems to take from E'sere's proximity - odd, given their status as nominal strangers.
"We speak, but I'm not sure we /talk/," answers E'sere after a moment, glancing up away from her thoughtfully. "And not often, really--only the occasional coincidental meeting," he adds, looking back down at her. "You don't see much of her, do you? She... spoke briefly about you, to me, but... Well." He trails off the uncomfortable subject with a slight lift of his shoulders.
"She sends me marks. It's a good arrangement." Mataiya's hands find the chest-line of her gown again, indicating the extravagance as a direct result of her mother's caring. "I just wondered what she might have to talk about with someone like you, but for all Sa-, my lord said about how troublesome you are," seriousness gives way to some teasing, and she reaches up to play warm fingers around his neck to the hair that curls behind there, "You're a perfect gentleman. The Hold's my home. I can't even remember what the Weyr's like much, if at all. But I remembered you. Aren't you flattered?"
"Marks. How lovely," E'sere says blandly. He purses his lips briefly, then shakes his head, extending a vague smile toward her. "I am flattered. Your lord remembers me, and you as well. It's an honor indeed," he tells her. "It's all polite conversation, formalities, nothing terribly interesting. We aren't close," he elaborates after a moment, thoughtful. "You should come back to the Weyr, at least for a short while. Perhaps you can get to know her better?"
"That'd break our little arrangement, and the world revolves around marks, does it not? You shouldn't do that," Mataiya admonishes, using the leverage of her hand around his neck to pull herself up, should he not drop her. Her other hand tries to smooth out his skin. "Pursing your lips makes lines around your mouth and makes you look older than just twenty-eight. I could come to visit you, and you could get to know Lord Samien better once more." Her invitation, though, while including a potential betrothal, is primarily for the bronzerider whose lap she occupies. "I believe I've missed my ride home."
E'sere shrugs mildly, arching a brow at her fingers on his skin again. "Ah, good advice. I need to do everything I can to preserve my fading youth. Soon I'll be as old as she is," he notes, lightly teasing. "I'd like that, I think. ... I haven't spoken to Lord Samien in quite a while." With his characteristic crooked grin, he regards Mataiya, then offers, "I suppose Morelenth and I can carry you, if you'd like? We /are/ on convey duty, after all."
"So," to top off an evening of very odd conversation, Mataiya flashes that flirtatiously shy smile of hers, "Carry me." Her intentions are emphasized that much more by the tightening of her arm around his neck, and the expectant sense of entitlement that exudes from her tiny shoulders.
"But I need Morelenth to help me," E'sere protests weakly, shaking his head. His denial lasts only a moment, though, before he moves to lift her carefully in his arms and stand. "If you please, Lady," he offers her his jacket to hold, his own hands full. And, murmured, with a decided smirk: "What would your lord think of this?"
Coolly, a different sort of twist on the faux-shy flirtation of seconds prior, Mataiya replies, "He'd think you assisted a lady who spent far too much time dancing in new shoes that weren't broken in. And our poor person suffered a twisted ankle." With one arm looped over his shoulders, much in the fashion of an invalid being assisted, the other draws close the rider's jacket, appropriating it to use for the flight home. It wouldn't do for Mataiya, of all people, to suffer the cold of between, right? "You'll take the long way home?"
E'sere nods sagely, slowly, to that. "Ah, yes," he agrees simply. Then: "The long way? And which way might that be? Aren't you out late enough, hmm? Young things like you should already be in bed."
"Oh," Mataiya drawls teasingly, curling into E'sere's broad shoulder. She's a light thing, much of her weight seeming to be in the fabric rather than her actual frame. "I'm a naughty girl, you'll see. The long way, I've never flown straight for too long on a dragon, and when I get bored, I'll be sure to tell you of my boredom."
"I think I already am," notes E'sere, though he doesn't sound too perturbed by that fact. Conditioned by dragonriding, he doesn't have any trouble lifting her slight weight as he starts toward the courtyards and his waiting bronze. "Straight it is, then. We'll take our time, and try to make it interesting for you," he decides.
"Good." Pleased, Mataiya settles in, like the invalid she should be, with the requisite welling of water along her lower lids.
Date: Day of Bailie and Sefton's engagement party.
Where: Fort Hold gardens
What: Unable to get ahold of her mother, Mataiya instead targets E'sere as a likely substitute, painting a far different picture of Diya than what the Reachian goldrider presents.
From the previous log of the party:
Ginella flicks another glance at his hair and smiles again, nodding. "Of course, and we wouldn't want you to be remiss in your duties as a son," she says, smiling again as he remembers the correction and gets it right this time. "Thank you," she says, taking his arm and following to the floor. She dances fairly well, with enough natural grace and lightness of foot to make up for a slight hesitancy most likely born of inexperience. She keeps up a steady stream of pleasant conversation so long as he seems willing to chat, as well.
With his background, it's expected for E'sere to be experienced in such social graces; and he doesn't let that down. He's a good dancer, patient with his less experienced partner. And, afterward, he keeps up a light conversation until the party, in winding down, releases a stream of guests needing conveyance back to their home districts. Then, excusing himself with a smile and a 'good night, Ginella,' he departs as well to oversee his wing's part in the departures.
Despite the disappearance of both would-be groom and bride, and the Lord and Lady hosts, the party has continued on, and from a distance an impeccably dressed figure of crimson and cream watches E'sere's progression through the various women. Not terribly subtle, a small smile, half-shy, half-knowing plays on the child-like features and while she does busy herself with the attention of many men, including that of the handsome Reachian lord, the tabs are continued to be kept. Finally, as the party seems to be winding down, the twilight a luminescent blue due to a brightly lit moon, the rustle of taffeta passes by the lightly conversing pair to pass over a slip of hide discreetly, leaving the soft touch of creamy hands and an ethereal lavender scent in her wake. Should he not be so subtle in reading the note, or pass a glance her way, a faint smile is cast coyly over her shoulder before she continues her way out with the other departures. The note indicates, in the effeminate hand of one who strives to be a lady, a desire to converse in the Fortian gardens and is signed with a stylized 'M'.
Accepting the note gracefully and only giving the girl a brief glance, E'sere pockets it for a few minutes until, finally, he's able to slip away from present company and read it in peace. Brows arch as he skims the note once, twice, and finally repockets it and slips outside. In the courtyard, he spares a few more words for departing dignitaries, polite if distracted; it takes him several minutes to get entirely free and find his way over to the gardens of Fort Hold. There, he picks a path and ambles along it, glancing at the plants to either side idly, as though that were his only reason for being there.
Quite the picture, lovely beneath the graceful frond of a flowering tree, Mataiya waits, the slender stalk of one of the decorative flowers held by the stem just beneath the large blooming flower. Other couples from the party seem to have had similar ideas as they dot the landscape of the expansive Hold gardens, but of them, only the Reaches-bred girl is alone. Even in her silent patience, everything seems just a touch too poised, her composure and stance perfection. With her back to the main path, her silhouette is as distinguishable as her mother's, though for vastly different reasons: she has the height of her lineage, but her features are far more diminutive, her arms and shoulders delicate in their bare slimness, and there's a sultry grace in her stillness that speaks of raw energy as opposed to composed elegance.
Though he's surely seen her by now--how could he not?--E'sere takes his time weaving through the gardens, gradually nearing Mataiya's waiting place, directionless, not even glancing over at her. Finally, though, he can't ignore her any longer, and he glances up, brows quirking slightly. He straightens and, after a brief glance around, closes the distance between them. "Evening," he offers then, in a easy drawl.
Mataiya, likewise, ignores his presence, taking her cues from him. Well, mostly ignores, she does slide him a faint glance from behind her lashes to ascertain that it is, in fact, the man she's waiting for. Though spring in Fort is temperate, there's a stiff breeze that causes a slight shiver to course across the girl's shoulders. "Evening, yourself," she returns, lurching forward slightly on her tiny heels before resettling backwards so the back heel clicks along the stone-lined path. "E'sere." Coy, her shy smile returns, accompanied by a flattering drop of her eyes, as if she can't meet him straight on, and the flower she holds is held out, twirled between two fingers. "For you."
Almost bemused, E'sere regards Mataiya, reaching forward to accept the flower solemnly. "Thank you," he tells her. "But aren't I supposed to bring flowers. Mataiya?" The name is a question, hesitant and hopeful at once as if he's not entirely sure about the identity of his date. He's confident enough to continue, however: "I've heard... not a lot about you, but enough to--intrigue me."
The childish profile lifts, the turn of her head exposing the lines of her neck to the bronzerider, and allows the woman to favor the wingleader with a pseudo top-down view, as that minor tilt brings Mataiya a false sense of height. She doesn't clarify her own name, but doesn't deny it which is as good as confirmation. "I should cry, I think. What do you think?" Large eyes, luminous in their velvet brownness, consider E'sere somewhat damply, the will it takes to make them wet transparent, but deliberately so.
"Oh, I don't know," E'sere answers amost breezily, studying her in turn. Idly, he twirls the flower in his hand, glancing down at it briefly. Then, he offers a crooked smile and reaches up, intending to slide it neatly into place in her dark hair, behind one ear. "What do you have to cry about?"
And that smile reemerges, secretive and shy, her eyes suddenly devoid of dampness, and instead fills with a teasing twinkle. "Oh," the young voice drawls out, leisurely as she moves two steps forward, closer to a stone bench that's set right next to the tree's broad base, "What fun would it be if I did tell you why? Then there'd be nothing for you to be intrigued about, no?" A recent rain's made the bench damp, and Mataiya straightens, casting a look over her shoulder expectantly for some sort of manly intervention.
"Oh, I suppose so," E'sere agrees heavily, with a sigh that doesn't seem entirely genuine. Indeed, he's quickly grinning again, that same half-smirk that follows her as she steps over to the bench. He arches a brow, though, at her glance, a 'what do you expect /me/ to do' gesture. Despite that, however, he's already shrugging out of his heavy riding jacket and spreading it across the bench to block the water for her. "An interesting party," he finally remarks, eyes straying away from her, across the garden and the darkened sky. "Did you enjoy it?"
"I never get to wear things like this at the Hold," Mataiya notes, a hand pressing down to smooth out the slimming shape of her two-shaded dress. "It never gets warm enough at High Reaches to be able to wear something so flattering." Approval flickers in dark eyes, and with a hand extended - she really does need assistance in seating herself - she again waits expectantly. In the mean time, her sweet voice lifts, blithe chatter easy to her lips once the mystery of the initial meeting has been cemented. "You're better looking than Lord Reaches ever mentioned, and it's good to see the Caucus instilled some sort of manners."
"It's beautiful," notes E'sere, looking at Mataiya rather than her dress. Obediently, he offers her a hand, ever polite, murmuring an almost abashed "Thank you." Then, wryly: "Lord Reaches talks about me, does he? After all this time? I hope he only remembers the best things."
With his hand in hers, her hold barely touching let alone grasping, Mataiya is now able to seat herself, turning in towards E'sere, and dropping herself gracefully. The folds of her dress continue to stay immaculate in their lines, and with gracious apology in her eyes, she retrieves her hand to rest in her lap. "Rarely. Don't get your pretty little hopes up, wingleader that your childhood friend recalls anything more than just how pretty you are. I'd hoped," some of the semblance of elegant lady is dropped, slim hands reaching to hold her knees as she leans backwards a bit, rocking back and forth. "To get some moments with my mother, but she's quite the social butterfly sometimes, don't you think? You seem to have captured much more attention than I'd have thought. I mean, you're so good-looking, she's so sour and -old-." Incautious, she looks up to solicit his opinion with an arc of her brow and to see his reactions.
E'sere glances sideways at the young woman, settling himself right next to her--he has to be close, of course, to keep from getting his own pants wet on the damp stone. "A weyrwoman has to be," he notes. "I've learned that myself. Do you really think that? She's never been sour toward me, and, well. One's own parents always seem older than they are, because we've never know them any other way." He shrugs, adds, "She doesn't seem old to me--probably because I must fall right in between the two of you."
Mataiya's hands release her knees and she lifts herself somewhat haughtily. "And how old do you think I am? Since you can't even seem to remember me enough to greet as an old friend, let alone how old I am. For all you know," she leans in - for she must to prove her point - the waft of lavender strengthening with her movement, and spares the wingleader a solemn look, "I could be as old, if not older than you. As for the party," her slow smile halts its progress along with her voice as she pulls back first, "It was interesting. Everything a girl would dream for in an engagement ceremony."
E'sere arches his brows, an almost smug gesture. "No, I don't think so," he remarks after a moment's thought, shaking his head. "Your mother had just impressed when I was born, and if I remember my history correctly, she was quite young then. Anyway, I know the people older than me, and the ones my own age. I'd say--" and he pauses now to skim her, mentally calculating "--you're twenty, at the most." He pauses, tilting his head slightly in curiousity. "I suppose so," the young wingleader finally agrees. "I wouldn't really know myself, what a girl might want; but Fort always throws a grand party."
"When I get engaged," it's a when, not if, "It'll be grander. We'll show them that Fort's not the only Hold that can throw a party on such a grand scale for their own." Mataiya reaches for her knees again, a gesture reflective of a habit that hasn't quite been bred out of her yet, and rocks back and forth once more in slow motions. "Twenty, I like that. And you must be- twenty-nine? Nenuith's twenty-nine, which makes you positively ancient. I'm cold," she notes abruptly, expectant, yet again, with a casual glance over at E'sere's dress shirt.
"Indeed," agrees E'sere, with a solemn nod. "I look forward the party. Though, perhaps the bride-to-be would spare me a dance at that one? Still twenty-eight, for a couple months more. Am I /really/ that old?" The vain man sounds almost heart-broken by this, though he gets over it quickly. "You've already got my jacket, Lady," he points out, noting her gaze. "Would you have the shirt off my back, too, and leave me to freeze?" With a bemused, teasing grin, he reaches a hand toward the top button.
Rouged lips part, the lower lip dropping in unanticipated surprise. Mataiya can't even school her expression fast enough. "And when my lord walks in on you taking your shirt off for me-?" The vibrant voice, caught on the first syllable, gains strength throughout, turning coy in her trailing off. "Then, he might definitely remember you for a long time to come. I'm sure." Not that she's said no at all; curious eyes framed by wide-set lashes attempting to peek down whatever that first button may reveal.
E'sere laughs at her surprise, a better reaction than he could hope for. "Better not, then," he tells her seriously, lowering his hand slowly. "Between him and our mothers...." Still grinning, he trails off; but despite his words, he doesn't seem very discouraged: he moves to slip an arm behind her, to add his body heat to hers. "Better?"
"You," the young woman flushes, though it's hard to tell with the obscure moon lighting offered between the tree's shade, "Are trouble. I bet you tease all the girls, and yet, you didn't even come by to ask for one dance before. What makes you think I'll promise you a dance at my engagement? I'm far beneath your notice, I imagine." Still, Mataiya doesn't shrug his arm off, instead, she's content to accept the offering as it's only natural for him to do so. After a length of silence, vtols offering low music of their disharmonious zipping noises around in the greenery, she says nonchalantly, "You gather only the best around you, don't you?"
E'sere regards Mataiya, offering her a light shrug. "I suppose I do," he admits easily. "But you still sought me out. I think, really, this qualifies as a first meeting, don't you? You've changed a lot since the last time I saw you--grown up. I imagine I have, too." Her last question, though, stops him; while he doesn't pull away, a flicker of stiffness affects his posture before he relaxes again and replies in the same nonchalant tone she uses, "As all people try. Why?"
"The Benden weyrwoman. The future Lord and Lady Fort, or Boll. Lord Fort, Masters, Holders, Weyrleaders. Your mother, my mother, that poor man who looks like he could use a warm shoulder to sob desperate dry tears into. Only the best for E'sere." Mataiya, throughout her idle gossiping, plays fingers along the straight line of her strapless dress, brushing against the glittering jewel that rests there. "Soon, you'll have to include me in that list, never to forget again." Her head shake emphasizes this statement, even as she leans in closer - for warmth of course - and rests her head against the rider's shoulder. Beneath his arm, she is as fragile and doll-like as she looks. "You don't really remember me at all, do you?"
E'sere glances askance at her, brows arching at her list. "Will I now," he remarks idly. "And who will you be then?" There's a pause after the question, as he watches her nestle aginst him. "It's been my experience that we remember the people that are higher than us, in rank or, as children, in age. I imagine you can name any number of my peers, as I can still name those who were older than me. You remember me for otherwise?"
"I remember thinking I'd marry you some day. But I was five," Mataiya adds merrily to her sly insertion, looking up with that charismatic sliver of adoration, "What do five turn olds know?" The fact that she neglects to answer his questions is glossed over with two slow bats of her lashes.
E'sere smiles at that, brows arching as he lets her lack of an answer slide. "Oh, you never know. When I was five, I was going to be a bronzerider, and you see how well that's worked out for me," he tells her. For a moment then he's silent, before noting, "But I suppose that can't come true now after all. We riders don't marry."
Mataiya's eyes narrow into narrow little slits, her expression turning unsettled, and to cover it up her eyes just close, as if wearied. "Well that's true, my dream will sadly never come true." While it may be unladylike, her slippered feet find the stone bench and she turns so her back leans against E'sere's solid frame. "But I aim higher these days than a mere bronzerider." With eyes closed, her lips curve into a smile, and with extreme control, she cracks her lids open enough to spy out the wingleader's chin. "Will you at least fulfill one of the dreams of a fi-, no, nine turn old? I think that's the last time I saw you, when my mother allowed me to come back to see a hatching."
E'sere is silent while Mataiya rearranges against him. He waits until she's comfortable to lean over and murmur into her ear, "As do I." Then, leaning back to watch her again, he nods once. "Of course. What would you ask of me?" he answers promptly.
"It's almost a pity," Mataiya muses, her comment trailing off as a smile takes precedent, anticipation for the breath that tickles her ear and what he may say. To her credit, the smile doesn't disappear at his words, instead dimpling with some deeper pleasure. "Just like I remember. The next time a Reaches gold rises-" With surprising upper body strength, her torso lifts up so she strain upwards to tickle the bronzerider's chin with her own breath. "-Come find me."
Perhaps that's not the request E'sere expected, for he allows himself some measure of surprise, brows arching. "What a strange request," he finally remarks, voice light though his expression conveys more seriousness. "An odd dream for a nine-turn-old. Might I ask why?"
Innocence brightens the color of Mataiya's eyes, "Because I've never seen a gold flight? Do you really need to know why? Can't you, you know, just be the hero and grant a request?" Unable to keep herself up anymore, she drops herself slowly, though not against E'sere's shoulder, instead allowing her head to find his leg to use as a makeshift cushion. Her eyes drink in the vision of shaggy hair and rugged features. "Do you think you could've been Lord Tillek some day? Even with your mother not in the line of descent?"
"Then I will, if I am able," E'sere replies solemnly, glancing downward as she shifts her position again. He offers a small smile then, and rolls his shoulders. "I doubt it," admits the man. "I have too many cousins, even with S'lien removed from the line. Besides, I have no desire to lead Tillek myself, and I never have: I am content with High Reaches. It's my home."
"Not even the slightest what if?" Mataiya turns into E'sere's dress shirt, inhaling in softly the scent of his clothing, and the rider himself. A slim arm lifts, as if entitled to do so, to curl a lock of shagginess around an ivory finger. "You don't ever wonder what would have happened if you hadn't Impressed? You'd have been married off to some political match, like the Lady Bailie and the Headmaster, something advantageous to Tillek. Maybe," she secrets a vague smile into the folds of his shirt, only one dark eye visible along with the profile of her face, "You'd be the one marrying into Fort's family."
"Or perhaps I'd have been the shame of the family," suggests E'sere mildly. "Not really Blooded, no talent for a craft, and no dragon to make a purpose for me. Left to my own devices in the lower caverns, or whatever honor I can glean from my family." For a moment, he's silent, perhaps sobered by that thought, then shakes his head and grins slightly. "That honor I am more than willing to leave to our new headmaster."
"E'sere," a warmth that's reminiscent of her mother creeps into Mataiya's sweet voice, and the hair-twined finger tightens it grip, gentle in its admonishing tug. "You could never be the shame of a family. Trust me. You were pretty idolized among the lower cavern girls. The older ones who thought five turn olds didn't know anything." The precociousness of youth, the kind that allowed her to understand everything the older girls would never expect younger girls to know, has blossomed into a calculating creature wrapped in taffeta and sisal on the verge of realizing the potential of bewitching smiles and effective use of innocent beauty. "At least, if you were the shame, you'd be having a grand time of it. I'm sure." Quiet, once again allowing the vtol noises to rise, she then asks with faint wistfulness, "Does- do... Is High Reaches really your home?"
"Oh, I'd make a wonderful black sheep," agrees E'sere, with a too serious nod. "If you must be, you might as well enjoy it." But for all his glib words, there's still a certain genuine seriousness there, that once more slips to the forefront at her latter question. "I've never lived anywhere else; what else is a home? You were born there; is it not yours?"
Mataiya neglects his questions once more, her finger dropping out of that lock of hair to graze knuckles against his cheek. "Do you talk to her often? I can smell her scent on your shirt." Or someone's at least, if not her imagination.
E'sere quirks a brow, curious. "And who might she be?" he wonders.
"You know." There's no flirtation there, just a face of child-like innocence and regret that stares up into his, and Mataiya then turns back to speak into his tummy. "Do you talk to her a lot? Does she talk to you a lot?" And perhaps this was the reason for the flirtation of eyes, the note drop, and the request to speak, combined with some deep-rooted comfort the otherwise composed girl seems to take from E'sere's proximity - odd, given their status as nominal strangers.
"We speak, but I'm not sure we /talk/," answers E'sere after a moment, glancing up away from her thoughtfully. "And not often, really--only the occasional coincidental meeting," he adds, looking back down at her. "You don't see much of her, do you? She... spoke briefly about you, to me, but... Well." He trails off the uncomfortable subject with a slight lift of his shoulders.
"She sends me marks. It's a good arrangement." Mataiya's hands find the chest-line of her gown again, indicating the extravagance as a direct result of her mother's caring. "I just wondered what she might have to talk about with someone like you, but for all Sa-, my lord said about how troublesome you are," seriousness gives way to some teasing, and she reaches up to play warm fingers around his neck to the hair that curls behind there, "You're a perfect gentleman. The Hold's my home. I can't even remember what the Weyr's like much, if at all. But I remembered you. Aren't you flattered?"
"Marks. How lovely," E'sere says blandly. He purses his lips briefly, then shakes his head, extending a vague smile toward her. "I am flattered. Your lord remembers me, and you as well. It's an honor indeed," he tells her. "It's all polite conversation, formalities, nothing terribly interesting. We aren't close," he elaborates after a moment, thoughtful. "You should come back to the Weyr, at least for a short while. Perhaps you can get to know her better?"
"That'd break our little arrangement, and the world revolves around marks, does it not? You shouldn't do that," Mataiya admonishes, using the leverage of her hand around his neck to pull herself up, should he not drop her. Her other hand tries to smooth out his skin. "Pursing your lips makes lines around your mouth and makes you look older than just twenty-eight. I could come to visit you, and you could get to know Lord Samien better once more." Her invitation, though, while including a potential betrothal, is primarily for the bronzerider whose lap she occupies. "I believe I've missed my ride home."
E'sere shrugs mildly, arching a brow at her fingers on his skin again. "Ah, good advice. I need to do everything I can to preserve my fading youth. Soon I'll be as old as she is," he notes, lightly teasing. "I'd like that, I think. ... I haven't spoken to Lord Samien in quite a while." With his characteristic crooked grin, he regards Mataiya, then offers, "I suppose Morelenth and I can carry you, if you'd like? We /are/ on convey duty, after all."
"So," to top off an evening of very odd conversation, Mataiya flashes that flirtatiously shy smile of hers, "Carry me." Her intentions are emphasized that much more by the tightening of her arm around his neck, and the expectant sense of entitlement that exudes from her tiny shoulders.
"But I need Morelenth to help me," E'sere protests weakly, shaking his head. His denial lasts only a moment, though, before he moves to lift her carefully in his arms and stand. "If you please, Lady," he offers her his jacket to hold, his own hands full. And, murmured, with a decided smirk: "What would your lord think of this?"
Coolly, a different sort of twist on the faux-shy flirtation of seconds prior, Mataiya replies, "He'd think you assisted a lady who spent far too much time dancing in new shoes that weren't broken in. And our poor person suffered a twisted ankle." With one arm looped over his shoulders, much in the fashion of an invalid being assisted, the other draws close the rider's jacket, appropriating it to use for the flight home. It wouldn't do for Mataiya, of all people, to suffer the cold of between, right? "You'll take the long way home?"
E'sere nods sagely, slowly, to that. "Ah, yes," he agrees simply. Then: "The long way? And which way might that be? Aren't you out late enough, hmm? Young things like you should already be in bed."
"Oh," Mataiya drawls teasingly, curling into E'sere's broad shoulder. She's a light thing, much of her weight seeming to be in the fabric rather than her actual frame. "I'm a naughty girl, you'll see. The long way, I've never flown straight for too long on a dragon, and when I get bored, I'll be sure to tell you of my boredom."
"I think I already am," notes E'sere, though he doesn't sound too perturbed by that fact. Conditioned by dragonriding, he doesn't have any trouble lifting her slight weight as he starts toward the courtyards and his waiting bronze. "Straight it is, then. We'll take our time, and try to make it interesting for you," he decides.
"Good." Pleased, Mataiya settles in, like the invalid she should be, with the requisite welling of water along her lower lids.