Log: Meeting T'mic
RL: April 26, 2008.
VR: Day 31, month 2, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a winter evening.
(Original log from P'draig, edited.)
Leova meets up with P'draig and T'mic at the Lava Lounge. Two Green Dragons are drunk. An Oblivion is not.
Lava Lounge
The chill in the air is a pleasant change from the heat of the tropical winds that surround Southern Boll. This cave holds the natively christened Lava Lounge of Southern Boll Hold. The bar, along the far light of the glow baskets hanging from the ceilings. Marcus, the barkeep, is ready to serve you 'drinks'. The largest 'wall' is sanded down for visitors to write on. In addition, there are tables and chairs located throughout the room for people to sit in as well as hanging sky chairs for people to relax in after the day's duties are completed.
The Lava Lounge isn't as crowded as it sometimes is, which might have to do with the two young blueriders singing arm and arm, not quite drunk but getting there. Their audience, or at least the part of the audience that's actually seeming to enjoy it, is lounging in one of those sky chairs with her jacket to pad her back. Now and again, usually during a chorus, she pushes off with the toe of her boot against the nearest table leg to let the chair swing.
Another pair of riders enters, one Istan, one from Fort. "...Trying to take on too much," the greenrider tosses over his shoulder, pausing to let P'draig finish the climb before continuing on. But then there's singing, and rather than interrupt the seranade with boring words Mic only grins, giving Marcus a nod as he unfastens his riding jacket.
There aren't many dragons over here instead of the beach, but one is young Vrianth, leaning up from her crouch with her paws braced on a tree trunk and her long tail in a smooth wave behind her. It's a tall tree. She gives it another push, lighter this time, so it doesn't creak.
P'draig already has his jacket off, slung loosely over his shoulder as he pulls himself up over the edge of the hole leading to the ladder. "Mmyeah, gold weyrlings sometimes too," he agrees with Mic and at the greenrider's pause, takes the opportunity to catch up and slip an arm around the other man's waist. "Now there's a greeting if I ever heard one," he notes laughingly then his gaze scans the space and his grin widens. "There she is," he notes for T'mic's benefit and he lifts a hand to wave Leova's way.
For once, Leova actually has advance warning and it's not just because of F'ren's and W'jar's great whoops of enjoyment. She's swung the chair at an angle by now, enough to see them and even wave. P'draig was easy enough to identify. T'mic? It's a look at his knot that earns him a smile even before his jacket's off.
"Better them than me," the greenrider says, flashing the blue pair a grin and nod before tracking P'draig's wave to Leova's swinging chair. In an undertone, "Leova, right?" and then he tosses her a two-fingered salute. "Lemme go grab drinks - you want whiskey, right, Paddy?"
Jekzith warbles a pleasant greeting to Vrianth as he settles in to wait on Paddy, stretching and peering over at her tree-pushing. A moment later he floats a bubble her way mentally, laced with the taste of whiskey. << Hello Vrianth! >>
Aath settles down into a compact bundle, casually interested in the younger green's gardening efforts. << Aath, >> she offers after a moment, words tipped with a diamond's sparkle. << Whatever are you doing there? >>
P'draig gives Mic a little squeeze and chuckles. "Yeah. You on bronze. That'd never've worked out. Yeah, whiskey." He winks at the Istan then moves away, shifting his jacket down into his hand and pulls up another chair near Leova. "Fort's duties and hiya," the brownrider offers good-naturedly. "That's Mic over there," with a jerk of his chin for the guy paying for the drinks.
"Right." Though Leova also adds, "Dibs on the second round," watching the other greenrider for one more moment before leaning back in her seat, sliding a glance sidelong to P'draig, and skipping duties altogether. "Kind of guessed. Thank the boys, by the way. Kept me from getting lost. Don't know if you remember them from your visits."
T'mic might be paying for the drinks, but delivering them? That's Marcus' job. Either that, or the greenrider's just emptied his purse for the benefit of Marcus' pretty face. Whatever happened at the bar Mic ambles back to join the others, snagging a chair for himself. "Ista's duties to the Reaches and her queens. Hope you don't mind - I got you a Green Dragon. And you," his eyes slide to Paddy, "A nice boring whiskey." Lucky P'draig. "'M Mic - T'mic - and Aath's my green." Intros made, he flops into his chair, legs stretched out in front.
This time, when Vrianth scrapes one paw down the trunk, her talons leave great peels of bark scored all down its length. She eyes it with some satisfaction before turning back, careful not to bump into Jekzith, tail curling along the trunk's base as she regards the other pair. And her mental voice is gravel to Aath's diamond, deep and rough: << I wanted to see whether it would hold up. >> Unnecessarily, << It didn't. >>
"Okay," P'raig answers laughingly and eyes the blueriders again. "A little, yeah," he confirms, watching Mic at the bar. His gaze returns to Leova and his grin is wide, eyes merry. "Good thing about not getting lost too. And for once, I'm not begging you for a seat. How've you been since I saw you last?" T'mic's arrival earns a soft snort. "If I get an Oblivion, we're not going home," he notes to the Istan.
Jekzith continues to observe Vrianth curiously, from his spot near Aath, tail twitching close to the Istan green then away again. Maybe trying to be polite. << Nope. It didn't. Good claws, >> he notes, perhaps unnecessarily.
"High Reaches' duties to Ista and Fort. And their queens." Leova adds something of a sigh on top of that. "Should really be a hand sign to take care of that sort of thing. Vrianth's mine, out there, and don't know what's in a Green Dragon, but it seems practically required. Thanks." One glance back at the blueriders, now engaged in snorting drinks up through reed straws, is enough for her not to do it again. "Been all right. Not tapped yet, though. Them neither."
Aath resettles herself unnecessarily, stretches out a leg to nibble away an invisible blemish. She has no qualms about flicking her tail over against Jekzith, for all she's outwardly paying the brown no mind. << I guess it didn't, >> she agrees breathlessly. << Your claws -are- very sharp. >>
No way for Vrianth not to take that as a compliment, enough to curl her talons into better view, let the dimming light glint off them. Her eyes are strongly blue as she asks Aath, though she includes Jekzith as well, << Have you seen a tree, it is called a skybroom? >>
Mic tries on prim. It doesn't fit. "Well, what if -I- get an Oblivion? She's... something," he adds to the younger greenrider with a grin. "Vrianth - 'sa pretty name. I remember not being tapped. Hard, the waiting. Almost as bad as being a Candidate."
"Sure," P'draig holds up a hand and folds down the middle fingers. Hook 'em horns. "How's that?" Brows lift, laughter in the eyes beneath. "Not yet? Ugh, yeah, waiting for that is hard," agrees the Fortian rider with another look over at the blueriders, a chuckle and a shake of his head following for their antics. "They look happy to be out and about at least."
Jekzith watches both greens, eyes doing the little back and forth thing. The flop of Aath's tail is met by his flipping alongside. Now they've got that straightened out, though he continues to pay polite attention to both. << Yes. Those are very tough. Do you want to try to knock one of those down? >>
Leova's polite smile hadn't been half bad, but now it suddenly deepens, warmer now, showing in her eyes. "Isn't it? Could say it over and over. Vrianth. Silly, maybe." She doesn't seem to mind. "How did you finally get tapped, T'mic, was it a wing you wanted?" She tries the horns on P'draig. "Both of you. And them... Flurry's not flying resupply again until day after tomorrow, think it is."
The darker green is still all wide-eyed over Vrianth's success. << A tree? There are lots of trees here. >> For instance, the half-peeled one Vrianth's just tortured. << I like the sky. Have you seen Jekzith fly? >>
T'mic scants an amused look over at Paddy, pushes upright when Marcus delivers two green drinks and a smaller, brown one, even placing them appropriately. "Thanks, Marcus. --S'like Aath. Vrianth. Poor Paddy, though - Jekzith just isn't a pretty name." Poor Paddy indeed, with Mic's lips quivering in front of the joke. "Fadra - she was my weyrlingmaster - got tapped to lead her own wing. She let me twist a little bit, then threw the knot at me one day and said I probably wasn't going to get her killed, I might as well fly with her. How 'bout you, Paddy?"
<< I want to see if it won't let me. >> Nearly the same thing. Vrianth picks one talon against another, getting out a bit of bark that had splintered the wrong way, and prowls over to the other two. Closer to Aath, though still giving her quite a lot of space, her head tilted to watch them both. << I do like the sky. And I do not remember him. Flying. Should I? >>
"It's a good strong name," P'draig agrees then rolls his eyes at T'mic. "Jekzith is nice and strong and um, definite. Yeah. Nothing wrong with it." Staunchly defending his brown's honor of course though the glimmer of humor remains in his eyes too. "Ummm ...." his eyes lift towards the ceiling. "You'd think I'd remember that better, but t'be honest, I don't. It didn't last long anyway. Leeana hit me with my assistant weyrlingmaster knot pretty soon after and then she had to step down and I've been Weyrlingmaster ever since. I fly with T'rien's wing a lot though." His hand curls around his glass and tips it up for a long sip. "Here's to getting tapped sooner rather than later though, Leova."
Jekzith twitches his tail a /little/ closer to Aath's and tilts a look up at the sky. << Dragons belong in the sky. Flying. >> And he shares the rush of speed, the happy thrill of muscles straining for lift, height, air thinning.
Aath considers the younger green, rolls onto one hip (and closer to Jekzith, of course). << I remember Jekzith flying, >> is her answer, and shares an image of herself being bathed and watching the brown overhead in a startlingly blue sky. << Doesn't he fly just ever so well? >> Trees? What trees?
"Think he wants a pretty name?" Leova's eyes narrow in laughter that doesn't quite make it out. She doesn't reach for the drink, either. Yet. "And that, that tapping, pretty funny. Not that it's," and here she stops. Takes her time to readjust the swing. Switches topics mid-sentence. "A bad name. Strong. Right. And for tapping? I'll drink to that. Wish me a good one while you're at it?" Now she takes her glass, lifts it toward them one at a time.
"It's -his- name," Mic placates, patting P'draig's knee consolingly. "It fits him." Poor Paddy. He sips at his drink, attention split between the others, eyebrows twitching at Leova. "Sure. G'luck, with whoever you fly with. --How'd you end up in Tri's wing, anyway, Paddy? I would've thought the Weyrlingmaster'd fly with the Weyrleader, or some such."
Vrianth's still young yet. Tails, no tails, doesn't much matter. Well, she'd probably notice if the other two didn't have any at all, but aside from that. Same with the lolling. << Well enough, >> she supposes, distracted by that rush of sensation: different wings, muscles, balance. Looking upward now, frankly speculative, << We could be up there right now. >>
"Nope. Likes his nickname just fine too. Jek." Paddy's eyes gleam back at Leova's silent laughter. "And it does fit him and that crazy hide of his." His glass lifts again, the brownrider smiling warmly at Leova. "Best wishes for a good tapping, Leova." Sincerely spoken and he sinks more of the liquid in his glass. For Mic: "I volunteered." Beat. "Didn't want to fly with M'yr." And there's a slightly sour twist of his mouth as he takes another swallow of whiskey, which might speak volumes about his opinion of Fort's current Weyrleader.
Jekzith noses lightly at Aath's side as she lolls so. << We could go! >> An answer for Vrianth, eyes whirling happy blue-green, his mindvoice betraying sudden excitement even though he /was/ just flying not long ago. In his mind, vapor trails of spectacular aerials trace out abstract patterns against a wash of deep blue.
"Thanks." Leova drinks, her attention split too, and then all of a sudden she's focused more on P'draig. It's not staring, not so overt. Just the angle of the way she's sitting, the way she holds her glass, before she looks away. Toward T'mic, as though that should be safe enough.
T'mic says "Yeah, but." But what? But something - he notes Leova's attention and gives her a little shrug, toasts her again. "Was M'yr Weyrleader the whole time you were Weyrlingmaster? There was another one before him, right? Uh... Ter-something? Or's M'yr always been Jenna's Weyrleader?"
Aath casts a lowered-lashes look at Jekzith. << But we flew just such an awfully long way to get here. >> As though they flew straight. << Perhaps you could watch Vrianth fly? >>
"After all the hard work, it's good to get there. Though I guess sometimes it winds up being kind of anti-climactic too," P'draig muses thoughtfully, the not-staring met by a steady look of his own. "P'ter." He supplies for Mic's ailing memory. "M'yr's always been Jenna's Weyrleader."
Leova drinks again on cue. Follows T'mic's question back to P'draig, too, but then she stops to stare into her drink and poke at the fizz with a finger as he answers, relaxed again. Rather than comment on Weyrleaders, "Suppose so. Maybe it's more fun imagining all the wingleaders staying up late at night arguing over who gets whom. Might even make more sense bringing in one or two at a time, not throwing things off quite so much."
Vrianth watches what the elder green does, taking her cue from it and lounging too, though her long tail's conveniently angled across the path. If Haraith and Marckilth's riders want to get past, they'll have a time of it.
Mic says, "Huh," when Paddy supplies the name, and has another swallow of drink. "That's what they did, I thought. S'what they told -me-, anyway. Work with the Weyrleader, 'least at Ista, figure out what the wings need." He settles back into his chair again, balancing one heel on the other toe. "/I/ dunno. I just fly where they tell me."
Jekzith just eyes Aath fondly and nuzzles at her neck again. << I like to fly. It doesn't matter how far. >>
"So what would you two do," Leova asks over her glass, sipping again, taking it slow. "If you did wind up with a wingleader you didn't much like? Or working for a weyrlingmaster, that way. Don't know how you and Q'vek, if that's how you pronounce his name, get on." Her boot touches the table leg again, but lighter, barely a swing.
"Well," Mic says, with just enough pause to suggest that he's thinking about it, "Sometimes it doesn't matter about /like/. Can you respect 'em? Is he - or she - good at what she does? 'Cause all you really need to do up there is follow orders, not have kissing contests. And me, I'm there for the weyrlings. Q'vek's Weyrlingmaster, so if I don't agree with something he's said, I got to bring it up later, after, you know, I do whatever he tells me."
"Try to work it out, I mean, still gotta follow the orders, but if it was really not working out, eventually I'd request a transfer. Sometimes it's just not a good fit." P'draig provides his answer, rolling his empty glass between his palms. "With the weyrlingmaster gig, you don't have to accept it in the first place. It's a request usually, not an order, though sometimes it is. I ask people I think will want to help out and have something they bring to it that I don't have," Paddy explains further, his own voice thoughtful too.
"That's it. Respect." Leova admits, but with a kind of relief, "You said it better than I did, what I was meaning. All right. It sounded like it, but good hearing it from you two. Don't report to you, you know? Bet there's probably some settling in time, too." She nods at P'draig instead of saying more right then, and finding his glass empty, glances at the other greenrider's to gauge it.
T'mic's still working on his drink, with more than half left sloshing about prettily. "Yeah, respect. I respect Fadra *between* and back, but she's prickly to sit down and just have a drink with. --Say." He almost lunges out of his chair, stops himself with knees planted on his elbows so he can look intently at the other greenrider. "Do /you/ know A'son? I keep trying to meet the man, but, well. He's the sharding -Weyrleader-. Every time I see him he's either running off somewhere or looks like he's trying to remember which direction is up."
Aath stretches her neck for Jekzith, though she turns coyly away. << You do. And you're just ever so handsome when you fly. Don't you think so, Vrianth? >>
P'draig nods agreement. "Respect is pretty key." And he nods about what Leova's said about not reporting to him or Mic. "Definitely, settling in time. Sometimes as long as six months to really be sure." He eyes T'mic for that lunge, chuckles a little, reaches over to clap the Istan lightly on the shoulder. "You should ask my sister," the brownrider notes with a quirky little grin, "if you want to fish for information about your Weyrleader."
Leova settles for trying to catch a passing server's eye about the brandy, and nearly makes it, too. At least, until T'mic moves forward quick as he does, and she sits all of a sudden back, barely catching her drink. Then, though, "Not me! Milani," but there's her brother right there. So Leova stops. Except he's saying it anyway, so she settles for just rubbing her head with her free hand and looking sheepish. "What do you want to know?"
Vrianth tries for the right answer, tilting her head Aath's way, then Jekzith's. She tries stretching her neck, too, although she's looking towards the jungle by then. Uncertainly, << Yes? >>
T'mic shoots Paddy a grin sidelong before easing off the pressure he's put on Leova. He's leaning back, see? And drinking his green whatever-it-is. Harmless. "Sorry. Sure, I'll ask her next time I see her, but she'll have to come to Ista to do it. And, you know, just... what's he like? Not is he good at the job, 'cause that I can know myself. The other stuff, that you don't know until you've met 'em. Like... what's he like to drink?"
With Mic calming a little, P'draig sits back too and he flashes Leova a bright grin as they both have the same thought about How To Find Out About A'son. "I'm sure she'll be by eventually, Mic," Paddy says with deadpan humor. "She goes down at least once every other seven to visit the man." There's a loose smirk on his face and then he's sliding to his feet. "I need a refill. If you want, we can skip rounds, Leova, you get the next?"
Vrianth senses that Jekzith slides a pale blue thought towards Vrianth's sparks. << Aath likes to be flattered and to flatter. Don't worry about it too much. It won't bother me if you're honest. >>
Jekzith gives Aath another light stroke from his muzzle and then he slides away mind all rainbow bubbles and airy thoughts of flight. << If either of you would like to come too, I'm going up! >> And he's winding his way to a clear enough spot for a take-off and then pumping his wings and leaping into the air. Up and up he goes, rapidly becoming a sparkling brown mote in the Bollian sunset. << Even though you are both small on the ground, you are lovely from here. >>
Aath showers the younger green with diamonds, glittering bursts of light. << Aren't you just so very clever! >> But then there goes Jekzith, and who does she have now to cuddle with? << I'm /small/? Jekzith, I don't want to be small! >>
Leova's no help. "No idea." She doesn't look straight at the brownrider, not with him talking about his sister that way, not with the laugh that's threatening to make out full-fledged instead of just lighting up her low voice. "How about you let me get this one, and T'mic's when he's caught up. Still haven't fixed up our weyr, have a couple marks to spare." To T'mic, "Could always ask whoever's at your bar what he gets? Unless he's faking it, ordering whatever he thinks Weyrleaders should order."
Jekzith senses that Vrianth replies, just a single spark, << I will remember. >> This time, she keeps a touch of that blue for her own.
And although Vrianth rises up from her crouch, tail curling and then uncurling as Jekzith leaps skyward, she actually stays put. Perhaps it's the diamonds, cousins of her own electric sparks, that sends her arcing still-uncertain pleasure in return. Still, as Jekzith shrinks to one of those diamonds turned brown, << We are what we are. You do not make us smaller! >>
There's some emphatic statement lurking in the background, but just now when Vrianth's thoughts draw near, it's more of a slide to the side, warm and rich and hung with another's borrowed diamonds. << Zunaeth. O Zunaeth... I have a question. >> So unusual. (Vrianth to Zunaeth)
T'mic's lips twist - it's not quite a pout - at the lack of information from both of them. "Well, maybe I'll ask Milani then. You'll have to let me know when she's there," he informs P'draig. "I've never seen her when she visits, but then again, I've been pretty busy the last couple months." The other's humor goes straight over his head, leaving him in possession of, well, half a glass of Green Dragon. "I'm good on the refill - or gimme water. 'F I drink too much, my hands'll get all sticky and anyway, I'm on late shift with the weyrlings tonight."
"I'm thirsty," P'draig replies for Leova's suggestion. "But I'll get some water for now," he continues with a wink and sets the whiskey glass down. "And she hasn't been looking for /you/," notes the brownrider with a teasing grin for his lover. "She was probably hanging around the galleries the last little while, or haunting the 'Bar. I'm not going to speculate about whether or not she decided to camp out on his ledge." There Paddy sighs and brushes his hand through his hair looking a little big-brotherly worried at least. There's a further grimace at mention of T'mic's schedule. "Water it is then." And he's off for the bar.
Jekzith blows merry streams of bubbles to the greens. << No. The distance does. >> And he shares an image of them, two greens, in miniature against the green of the lush Bollian foliage. In his mind's eye, both stand out though, the one shimmering with the glitter of diamonds, the other limned with coursing currents of olive electricity. Both shining.
Leova halts what had been a move to rise, sinking back with folded arms. Though they aren't folded for long, not if she's going to drink. "Does he often just take over?" she asks T'mic behind P'draig's literal back. "Or maybe it's the flip side, not bothering to wait when it comes to getting it done."
"Too bad, she's cute," the Istan grins, wrinkling his nose against that grin. "Yeah, I haven't been either place much." He watches Paddy leave, unabashedly ogling the view, before sliding his attention back to Leova. "Yeah, yeah he does. Think it's the Weyrlingmaster in him. Either way..." He shrugs and eyes first his drink, then the other greenrider. "Aath's fussing a little - tell Vrianth not to mind her?"
Zunaeth bespoke Vrianth with << Yeah? >> He sparks to life, warming as she reaches out to him. << What? >>
"How long you known him?" Leova follows up, glancing past him to P'draig and back again. She pushes off the table, slowly swings. "And I will. Would help to know why she's fussing, though. Vrianth says she has a way about her."
Zunaeth senses that Vrianth's all warm happiness for Zunaeth's response and shares it with him, gladly. It's distracting enough that she almost forgets to wonder, << What do you think of this? >> Almost. It's the sensation of her long neck curving in a slow, easy stretch that culminates with the tilt of her head: a little arch, literally and figuratively, posed for effect and quite aware of what she's doing. Though not exactly why. << Aath does this for me. >>
Over his shoulder to Mic on his way: "Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don't know about you," he teases the Istan. Water doesn't cost and Paddy's back quickly enough with not a glass but a pitcher and three glasses which he sets down on the table. "Insurance against hangover," he notes with a fingertap to the side of the pitcher and he drops back into his chair, fingers drumming lightly on the table." He catches the tail end of what Leova's just said and laughs. "Because Jekzith's flying instead of winding himself around her and trying to make a job of being nice to both her and Vrianth and I'm not sure he's making it."
Vrianth's tail flicks once, twice. Curls again. The image is what it is, and still. << We are what we are. Not smaller. >> Nor he larger, comes the underlying thought.
Aath settles reluctantly, nosing again at a spotless leg. << I don't like distance, >> she offers in an undertone to Vrianth that - surprise! - is just loud enough for Jekzith to hear. << Are those blues I see, down on the beach? >>
Jekzith flips the image around, though it's a little hazy, the reverse view: himself, small in the sky from the ground. It's all the same. Just perspective. And a threaded hint of apology, but he's not coming back down right away, turning somersaults against the sunset with the wind as a partner.
Mic asks, "Paddy?" in case she was wondering about Mic's relationship with Marcus. "Uh, shells. Turns now. Jekzith caught a gold at Ista few turns back, but I met him earlier'n that, when I was still a weyrling." When Paddy returns, he's greeted with an innocent beam, and a reach for the water. "Thanks, babe. And yeah, she's miffed she's not being fawned over. But Vrianth's being nice to her - that'll help a little."
"Right, and how did that go? Back then, I mean." Leova slides a smile at T'mic while he's looking at P'draig, then sets her glass out in line to get it filled. "Don't think Vrianth would care if he fawned over Aath any. Not that she likes being ignored. Secath, she likes her escorts too."
Vrianth senses that Zunaeth eyes that a moment, rumbling. << You look like Aath, >> he finally tells her. This is not exactly a good thing, in his book, the heat of his mind not quite so pleasant as usual.
Vrianth regards the slightly shorter green for a moment, then looks down towards the beach. << Haraith and Marckilth, >> she provides, with a touch more warmth for the former, but still with a what-does-it-matter sort of tone. And then she goes still: perhaps she's scented something.
Aath repeats the blues' names, considers Jekzith up there, ever so far away. She even shoots Vrianth a quick look of consideration. Then the Istan green is out of her lounge and winging her way over the jungle to drop down beside the startled blues. What a surprise to see such handsome lads here - oh, /this/ old oiling? How kind of them to notice.
P'draig tips up the pitcher to fill each of the glasses and slides them roughly towards each of the others, claims his own, drinks long, half-emptying it. He wasn't kidding about being thirsty. "He wants to fly," Paddy says simply, by way of answer. "It'd be like trying to stop a stampeding herd to keep him on the ground when he really wants to be up there."
It's not comfortable, but Vrianth extends that arch, because she can, into a long reach that also happens to drop diamond after diamond into the dark. She doesn't seek to recover them just yet. << You and yours would have me learn from Vmireth, from my Secath, >> and there's an impression of Kaylith too, one or two others perhaps. << Why is this not right, Zunaeth? >> (Vrianth to Zunaeth)
"And Aath wants to be fussed over," Mic returns, a corner of his mouth twitching. He's not bothered by his lifemate's fussiness, but amused. "Eh, me and Paddy didn't get along much until, what? About a turn and a half ago? Something like that." There's another glance to the brownrider and he tosses back the last of his 'Dragon in exchange for the water. "It's been pretty good since, though."
Leova takes hers and leans back, all the way back, two-fisted. Water first. "Milani said you recommended the cure," she muses. "Water, I mean. Along with neck rubs. Unless that was just her idea," and what a thing to say to a man about his sister, perhaps. "So what made the difference? That Turn and a half, I mean."
So fast. It takes a moment before Vrianth looks, but then she watches Aath and what Aath does: how fast she is, how attentive the awkward young blues can learn to be. Still she stays where she is, but lower to the ground now, her wings protective over her sides. Down here, the jungle's swallowed all but a fraction of Jekzith's sunset, but that doesn't seem to matter. Or not matter enough.
<< Not from them, maybe. >> Zunaeth doesn't really seem to know, or be too worried about just who is the right person to learn from. Just not Aath, is the vague sentiment he gives off, eventually realized as, << She's not like you. >> A nebulous reason, not really congealed even in his mind beyond he knows something about it is amiss. (Zunaeth to Vrianth)
"Aath always wants to be fussed over," P'draig says with also-fond amusement and brushes his thumb over his chin where a little water strayed. "Actually, I'd argue that we got along fine, had a bit of a falling out and then fell back in ... hard." The brownrider muses, all the more amused. "You made me laugh before that one Turnover, mostly," he says this right to T'mic. "Didn't really bother me any that you kept asking, I'd just say no." His fingers turn his glass around a few times. "But then a bunch of us were all a little into our cups on Turnover and Mic said some things that T'ri and I didn't take too kindly about T'rien's sister and we dunked poor Mic in the ocean a couple of times and then he kind of sulked at me for what ... half a turn?" The query's accompanied by a brow-lift and then his eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks across the table at the Istan far more than fondly. "And then I changed my mind. Best change of heart ever, if I say so myself." Then he refocuses on Leova and lifts that nearly empty glass. "Yep. Told all of my younger sibs about it. Works too as long as you drink enough of it to counter whatever crazy strong stuff you've had. Neck rubs ... just ask Mic." A little mischief there.
Placidly, "That's my Aath - yeah, see? Now she's busy turning those two poor blues around her little finger." He scants a smirk toward the two blue riders - won't /they/ be surprised to learn what their mates are up to? - but leans in to his companions instead. "Laughing's good. I never knew that - you were always wearing your uptight Weyrlingmaster pants. I'd tease, and I'd flirt, and -he-," he addresses Leova suddenly, tilting his head toward the brownrider, "He'd just grin and ignore it. But yeah, then he and my /just/-dumped-me weyrmate's brother took me for a swim. And it was longer'n that - closer to a turn and a half, I think, before you finally wised up." This back to P'draig of course, with a wink and a toast of water glass. P'draig's offer has him sitting up, glass between his knees, thumbs rotating hopefully at Leova. "Sure - just give the word."
Leova listens contentedly, eyes slid just a little bit less open, trading sips between one glass and the other along the while. "Good for them," she says at one point of the blues and their riders. Dunking becoming swimming becomes a hint of a smile, and she's drinking more water now than the fair portion left in her glass. "Would say, you been dumped, you get to do a little complaining. Course, someone complaining about your sister, your friend's sister, can't argue that either." Near the end? She's comfortable enough that she just waves T'mic P'draig's way, making an assumption about his intent: "Have at. Any other wing advice? What about hazing?"
"'Course she is," mutters P'draig to his glass, emptying it then refilling it. "Uptight Weyrlingmaster pants?" The Fortian shoots T'mic a look of amused askance and shakes his head. "Yeah. Didn't want to make you feel bad, but didn't want to encourage either." He rolls his shoulders a little about the dunking. "We've been over that, long story short, we were all wrong that night. Mic was blowing his mouth off, but Tri and I had no call dropping him over the edge of the Sandbar either. It was dumb." Paddy's nose wrinkles a little and then he shakes his head. "I meant 'til you started talking to me again, not 'til that night at Shipfish. And I /also/ meant that you could /tell/ Leova about my take on neck rubs as cure, not an opening to flirt." The words might be remonstrative, but his eyes are still dancing with good humor and his tone of voice betrays more fondness for the Istan. He's distracted when Leova's question arrives. "Hazing?" He looks utterly perplexed by this. "Who has time for that? I mean maybe in the real Pass, but not now. Too many people dying, not enough dragons. Do or die." And he looks down into his glass, suddenly lost in thought.
Jekzith whirls and twirls with the last of the dying light. If anyone were watching, it's quite the show. Eventually he skims down low over the trees and lands back where he came from. << She went to see the blues, didn't she? >> Amused. Fond. Just like his rider.
<< Not from them? >> But she had, hadn't she? Vrianth's thoughts have become more diffuse with her confusion, less gravel than a slurry. Until suddenly, simple as fact, << None of them are like me. >> Are they? She lets all but the memory of coyness slip too, along with a dimly subterranean sense of Aath flown down to the beach where Marckilth and Haraith are. They'll never know what hit them. (Vrianth to Zunaeth)
T'mic only grins at Paddy for his askancing. "Got 'em off you eventually," and if that was more than Leova wanted to hear, oh well. "Yeah, it's one egg that's well and truly cracked. --Oh yeah?" Mic takes his thumbs back with another not-pout. "All right, Leova, Paddy swears by neck rubs as a hangover cure." Take that. His own amusement turns to confusion right along with the brownrider. "...Hazing? Why? Flying Thread's dangerous enough without your wingmates -trying- to make you miserable. Nah, just do your duty, don't try and show off, and you'll do fine."
Vrianth senses that Zunaeth will agree to that, warm. << No. They're not. >>
Aath doesn't come back, not when the light dies, not when Jekzith returns. Eventually, however, there's an outraged shriek from the direction of those young blues. Aath pops over the treeline almost immediately thereafter, pursued by a persistent but dense blue. It's a matter of moments, of furious wings and tricky flying and a thorough slap of tail across muzzle, and then she's returning to the clearing in a huff. Even all her wriggling isn't enough to self-appease, so she pouts wordlessly at Jekzith for -him- to fix it.
Leova, finishing her water, leans to set it on the table. "Over the edge. Of the Sandbar. And of /course/ you'd all been drinking." Boys. Except they aren't, are they? Successfully managing not to hear anything at all about pants, or at least managing to ignore it, she goes for just a sideways smile about necks and an, "I'll remember that. About hazing, too. Been a little hard, they had just a few of us learning some different things on top of the rest, but no. Don't want to be showing off. Just like the stables." She asides to T'mic, "Used to work there, back Tillek way, first time I ran into P'draig here."
<< She did, >> and now she's back, Vrianth watching this too with distracted interest, particularly that tail-slap. << Marckilth should know better. But he never does. >> At least, in Vrianth-memories, which can be choosy.
"Yeah. I wasn't soused. Had a few though. Him and T'ri though, pretty shaky." Paddy's hand waggles back and forth a couple of times. Then he peers over at Leova with interest. "A few learning something different? Like what?" His head tilts a little and he scratches at his chin. "I mean, Milani didn't mention the Weyrlings doing something different this Turn."
Jekzith only has further amusement to offer first, followed by golden sparks of excitement from the flying. More sensations, the taste of the wind to share with the younger green. The shriek and the tussle lift his head and he sits upright even, perhaps about to leap aloft until Aath returns all huffy, having taken care of it herself. When she puts down, he just quietly, calmly lifts up a wing. << Such a lovely tail shouldn't be put to such awful use. >>
T'mic says "'Ve you -met- T'rien?" Mic asks, holding his hand up a good half-foot above the top of his head. T'ri's height when Mic's standing, presumably, otherwise the other Fortian wouldn't be nearly as impressive. "But yeah, I'd been drinking pretty steadily a couple days before that, so..." His shrug remains phlegmatic: these things happen. To Leova he guesses, "Like... mid-air rescues? Vrianth looks like she'd be good at those. Twisty." Dextrous, he probably means, given the sinuous side-winding his hand's demonstrating."
Aath pouts at Jekzith a bit longer - the wobbling chin -has- to be an illusion, doesn't it? - before availing herself of that offered wing. << Marckilth was -awful-. Even if, >> her voice turns thoughtful, ruby's sparkle dimming to sapphire, << he has -such- nice wings. But they're not as nice as yours, Jekzith. >>
Jekzith tucks his wing down around Aath and sends a bright burst of colors her way, mostly on the gold spectrum. Warm. Always threaded with blue though to relight her diamonds. << I'm so very sorry. >> Still with the patience. Then. << Nice wings aren't everything. >>
"Never met him," Leova agrees, only to say awkwardly, "Sorts of things that meant less sleep?" in the way that suggests it's nothing to fuss over. But then maybe it cicks that P'draig's a weyrlingmaster himself, or that follow-up comment, or possibly T'mic the assistant weyrlingmaster's comment that she can't possibly take anything but a compliment. Not when applying to Vrianth. And she straightens, starts ticking things off, even her tone altered as though reporting. "Theories, early on. Not just what to do but why. Had us sitting on wingleader meetings, taking notes, writing out the copies: funny how you write something a bunch of times, sometimes it actually sinks in. Wing management. Creating and updating 'Fall charts, not just reading them, and," all of a sudden she stops. "Like that. Lot of work."
Zunaeth senses that Vrianth, at that, relaxes a notch. Then two, and she's giving off a quieter radiance that may be felt but never makes it into light. For a long time she doesn't speak. << But I may still learn from you, Zunaeth. >> So much, isn't there? She feels there is. << And bring you things, to ask. >>
Zunaeth bespoke Vrianth with << Not that. >> That arching. His voice is dry, but half-bemused again. Instead, he concedes << Somethin' else, maybe. If you wanna. >> >>
<< It's how you use them. >> If that's a joke, it's not apparent from Vrianth's certain tone, the younger green's tail curled about herself, idly scratching her own chin with its tip.
Of course she does. She doesn't think twice. << Show me? >> (Vrianth to Zunaeth)
"T'ri's kind of a lightweight, actually," Paddy notes slyly, biting at his lips a little, laughter bubbling up behind them. Teasing T'mic. Then he's sitting up a little, listening to Leova. "So ... leadership training," he says with interest and looks at the younger greenrider more closely. "That's interesting. I mean, usually that's the kind of stuff that only gets covered after a weyrling gets tapped into a wing and by the wingleader. So the Reaches is teaching it sooner, but only to a few?"
<< You have nice wings too, Vrianth, >> Aath can afford to be generous, now that she's all cuddled up against motley brown hide, and Jekzith is properly occupied soothing her snit away. << I use my wings to fly. Don't you? >>
Jekzith occupies himself with nuzzling at Aath's neck again. Dutifully soothing. << Fly. Cuddle. All good things. >> Agreeably said by the brown.
T'mic smirks sidelong at the brownrider, promptly drowns it in his glass. When Leova starts ticking his eyebrows head up and don't come down again. "Shells - leadership stuff? And you a greenrider... they must see a lot of potential in you. Or," as a thought strikes him, "Did you ask for it?"
Vrianth senses that Jekzith is sotto voce on a narrower band again. << That was very funny. >> His amusement washes her way, alive with lights and bubbles and sparkles, the brown not at all unaware of Aath's foibles. That he plays along with them, might have a lot to do with the bond between her rider and his. Or maybe he's just that into all females. In the end, it doesn't matter.
<< Of course, >> Vrianth returns, as though to ask what else there could possibly be. Though then she has to think about it herself, and finally offer an image: a protective one, and edited accordingly so it won't be so very detailed, her very own Leova warm beneath her wings as they look out to the stars or whatever else they want to see. For a moment there's a candle, flickering, and floating song. It's just a glimpse.
"Mostly us older ones," Leova agrees in that tone that makes it more like a report. "Four, then five of us. Plus Lujayn, but she had other things. Dragonhealing. Stores." Boring, says that last. "One of them asked for it. I didn't. Couple blueriders, the older bronzerider, L'vae and me. Think it was more to keep Vrianth out of trouble, really." She drinks.
Vrianth senses that Jekzith is touched by that image though and he warms to it, trades one back in exchange. P'draig curled up asleep leaning against his side, covered by the maple wing that currently drapes Aath. Because in the end, no one is more precious than their riders.
Aath brightens at that glimpse; she shares one of her own: T'mic oiling her wings, bright and warm under Ista's sun. << That is good, too. >>
Jekzith senses that Vrianth doesn't linger with even the amusement, even those sparkles, but that other image, now. That she keeps. And she's quiet about it, so as not to disturb even the memory.
Vrianth senses that Jekzith struggles a little to sharpen the focus on that image even: it's not Paddy as he is now, but a younger one. Before he bulked up. Before his face matured. But the image flickers, and repeats itself, the skies moving overhead, shifting through seasons, his rider growing and changing and ending at the man he is today. Always though. Always that wing in place. And briefly a flash of what it's like to be bonded so. This vague third entity that is neither P'draig nor Jekzith, but them /together/. And then it's gone.
P'draig is still listening keenly, letting the talk of past foibles go. He props his chin on both hands and considers for a minute. "Five ... just about a quarter of the clutch," he muses aloud. "Everything that's taught to potential wingleaders and 'seconds and weyrwomen except for the Caverns-management stuff. Wow. That's kind of bold actually." There's another pause and then: "Other than the lack of sleep, did you like it?"
"Right, and shy of a third if you count Lujayn," Leova agrees. "Did I like it?" She hesitates. Doesn't drink, this time. "Don't know if like's the right word. Got a lot out of it. Maybe too much. Easier to just do things when you haven't learned to think about them so much, you know? Don't plan on saying much to people when I do get in a wing. Keep my head down."
"Yeah, but..." Mic's still trying to think through this one, his water temporarily forgotten. "There had to be a reason you were picked. Weyrlingmaster must've seen something in you. I don't think -I- could've handled extra classes on top of what we had. Makes my head hurt, having to stay current so I can teach the weyrlings m'self."
Vrianth senses that Zunaeth has to think about that for a while. Finally, << I dunno what now. But something. Someday, >> he admits. << Maybe. >>
Jekzith senses that Vrianth's intrigued, those changes, those shifts. That he remembers, and puts the pieces together so. She can't keep such repetition-yet-not-repetition, and it doesn't seem right to touch it. But she remembers that it was there.
Zunaeth senses that Vrianth investigates this somewhat quizzically: does he really not have any idea, or is it one of those not-yets that he knows, like /betweening/ before their time? Still, though, she has such faith that Zunaeth knows so much. << Remember, >> she agrees.
"Everyone knows you got the training though right?" P'draig points out mildly, fixing Leova with a thoughtful look. "And ... yeah, sometimes not knowing stuff is easier. You can just ... be. But at the same time, if you never push beyond, then you'll never know what you were really capable of." He rubs at his chin and looks down into his glass again. "Like if Leeana hadn't had to step down, I dunno if I ever would've pegged myself for Weyrlingmaster. Not that soon. Managed though." Paddy looks up again, grinning across at T'mic. "But you do it and you do it pretty well based on what I've seen."
Vrianth senses that Jekzith is cheating of course. That tightness, it's an almost effortless to and fro between his view and P'draig's memories, an elaborate construct. He lets it fade away though, offering the gentle touch of a ray of sun before his contact goes wider again.
Jekzith cuddles Aath a little more closely. << T'mic is very good with the oil. >>
"Maybe," Leova says reluctantly. "Don't think I ever did ask. Or just forgot. Think you know what you're," and it might have been a question but then she looks at P'draig and laughs instead. "Right. Anyway." She leans forward, low alto lowering further, intense. "Wasn't thinking of lying, it's just that people know only if they care to begin with. We know enough to get ourselves into trouble, maybe. And how's a seasoned rider's going to feel, some kid," and she uses the word very deliberately for all of her twenty-three Turns, "Coming in and saying, theory says this or that?"
Vrianth doesn't think twice about this oiling business, just that she can agree that it's wonderful. And, as a matter of fact, it should happen. << They should serve oil in that little weyr they are in. Buckets full. Instead of their drinks. >>
Jekzith senses that Vrianth remembers, at least, to send a spark of thanks before the thoughts of oiling distract her entirely. And a moment's closer examination before it fades entirely: perhaps she and hers could do this. They will have to see.
T'mic lowers his glass, wipes a bit of wet from the corner of his mouth with a thumb. "Betcha half dozen marks that all the Wingleaders know already. Or do you think they don't pay attention to every breath you take, the last few months you're training? Wingriders, nah, they might not know, but anyone with any rank - they know already. They probably know you and Vrianth, what you're capable of, better'n /you/ do. /And/ they already know the theory you've been taught. Who d'you think figured it out, wrote it down?"
<< T'mic likes oil very much, >> Aath agrees, snuggling close against Jekzith's hide and blinking wide eyes at Vrianth. << So does... ooh! Vrianth, what a /clever/ idea! I'll tell T'mic about it. /He/ would like that! So would P'draig! >>
P'draig chuckles along with that laugh as he puts words to what she was thinking, then shakes his head. "Oh shells no, didn't think you meant you'd /lie/. Just that laying too low is kind of pointless if they all know. Just sort of ... acknowledge it maybe and let it be." He shrugs loosely. "I'm not used to having to deal with that kind of disparity in the training. I mean, I train everyone the same, baseline. Even the goldriders. It's actually important to me that it be that way, so every young rider feels like they've an even chance at anything. I leave the goldrider training to the goldriders." He takes a deep breath, lets it out. "But it's an interesting idea to train likely weyrlings to the leadership, cuts out some of the overhead time. And well ... when there's as much turnover as there's been lately, it helps to have more ... backups in place." His fingers are turning his glass around and around during that last, the water shifting back and forth in an uneven line.
Jekzith is quiet for a bit. Snuggling. You know. << I don't think oil tastes very good. >>
"Wasn't talking about the wingleaders," Leova says steadily. A smile deepens the curve of her mouth for a moment. "So I'm not taking that bet. They know all that, they even know just how bad my handwriting is. Meant more, the other wingriders. Which is why I'm gonna keep my mouth shut." One more addition: "Headwoman, Satiet, they took care of Lujayn." But then P'draig's talk of turnover, of backups, sinks in. Her nod is slow. She's forgotten her smile.
Vrianth can't help but throw pleased sparks at Aath's praise, starting to arch her neck in another of those dramatic curves before she remembers and leans her head on the tip of her tail again. But. Drinking oil? << Why would you? >> Why does it matter?
T'mic rocks back into his seat, nodding at Marcus when the big man swings by to collect empties. "Dunno what we're gonna /Aath/!" His spit-take would've been more impressive had he something in his mouth, but thankfully for Leova drier without it; the greenrider's half out of his chair before he remembers himself and sinks back again, repressing a grin sidelong at Paddy. "I, uh... yeah, what he said." Whatever that was - Mic hastily swallows water but can't drown the amusement in his eyes.
Aath stretches out one hind leg to rustle in the greenery, smug. << Why would you what? >>
Vrianth patiently sends an image of a bucket of oil handily placed beneath Jekzith's muzzle, accessible yet somehow not spilling. << Why would he drink it? >> Of course.
P'draig nods at Leova seriously. "Yeah, not much sense in letting yourself in for any extra hard feelings or people getting their pants in a twist because they ride brown or bronze and Vrianth is green and so on." He makes a little face for things being that way, then shrugs a little in a 'what can you do' fashion. But T'mic's breaking off like that and grinning and so on. And the fingers of one hand come up to rub at the bridge of his nose, but he doesn't make any remarks or startle himself, just picks up the pitcher and tops up Mic's glass when he sets it back down. "Yeah. I think that's pretty much how it goes in most Weyrs. Headwoman. Weyrwoman. For goldriders."
Leova's boot shoves her swing back at T'mic's reaction, both boots dropping to the floor to keep it that way. But then he settles, and she settles, and P'draig keeps talking, and it's enough that she can repeat the brownrider's, "Yeah." And again. "Yeah. Well. Should be getting back, I suppose." She eyes what's left of her drink, shrugs, and sets it down untasted. "Good running into you, P'draig. And meeting you, T'mic." She hesitates but in the end, rather than adding more, just smiles.
Jekzith snorts a little. Patiently corrects the image so that riders have glasses to dip into buckets. Because she said 'instead of drinks'. << I don't think it would taste very good. Not like what the things they like taste. >> And he actually shares a comparison, picking Paddy's favorite, whiskey, which he just had too so he floats bubbles of flavor to share with each. Then he follows that up with the flat taste of oil.
"Means Griere, for Fayre," T'mic muses, setting his glass down to reveal a properly thoughtful face. As a bonus he can stand when Leova does, and offer across a hand. "Clear skies, weyrling. Greenrider. It was nice meeting you too - have Vrianth bespeak Aath sometime, huh? Aath likes her, and you'd be welcome at Ista. Maybe you could bring Millie for one of her A'son-chasing trips?"
There's no help for it. Vrianth just tips her head and licks her foreleg, where it hasn't gotten all sandy-dusty-dirty from the ground here the way her paw had. << It has little taste, >> she reports back at last, and gives the mental bucket a wooden stem and base like some glasses. << Still I would not drink it. >>
Aath watches what the younger green does, properly awed and impressed. << I would not drink you either, >> she says finally. << And I do not like what T'mic drinks, not all the time. But T'mic likes the idea of oil in the, the glasses up there. >>
A bunch of nodding ensues from P'draig. "I'll stop by and ask how things're going sometime?" He's got an answering smile for hers and sets his glass down. "Always good talking with you, Leova. I'm sure I'll see you around the Reaches soon." Paddy also rises and waits to hold out a hand as well. The eyeroll about his sister is likely, obligatory.
Jekzith gives a little mental shrug. << Neither would I. Water is fine for me. And I like to taste what he tastes in his glass, but I wouldn't want to drink it myself. >> What P'draig might think of this suggestion, he keeps to himself.
Leova's grip is firm and dry, returning T'mic's. "Will do. I'll bring her by, my turn to stand the drinks next time. Might even get to hear a little more about Aath without the boys around, hm?" Her smile's in her eyes, about level with his, and then she turns to repeat the gesture for P'draig. "Sounds good. Won't even tell her you made a face." Now the smile emerges the rest of the way, just before she scoops up her jacket and does a last scan of the room.
Vrianth swings her head towards Aath, and she says encouragingly, << I will not let you. >> Do not worry. She adds a pleased spark for Jekzith for his sharing, earlier, and adds, << And water is good. >> Though not itchy salty water. But then it's time to draw herself up, uncurl her tail, shake out her wings, and elongate herself in a long swaying stretch.
T'mic chortles, and as he retrieves his hand observes, "Aath always finds a boy to be around." He lets Leova go with a quick salute, stoops to collect his water glass as she says goodbye to Paddy. "I'll be right back - gotta ask Marcus something." Maybe he's being polite, giving the two friends some privacy for their farewells, and maybe not. Either way, privacy they have, at least a semblance of same, while the Istan talks to the barkeep.
Jekzith admires Vrianth's stretch sidelong and floats along a suggestion of wind under wings. << Enjoy the flight home. It was good to see you again, Vrianth. >>
P'draig chuckles softly, lets his head hang a little. "Caught me. Yeah. I'm worried about Millie. She's worried about me too." With a hitch of his thumb towards Mic's back. "Because ... well Mic's Mic. Anyway. If you do bring her to Ista ... keep an eye on her for me?" Sincere brotherly concern there and then Paddy reaches over to clap Leova's shoulder lightly once, like he would any other wingrider. "Clear skies, home."
Leova follows his glance towards T'mic, and lingers there a moment. Two. Then, "What, afraid someone will toss her off the dock?" She lets that sink in before adding, "Evening, P'draig," and pulling her jacket on as soon as her shoulder's free. One stop later, just long enough to make sure her clutchmates are taking care of each other, and she's heading down the ladder.
Vrianth doesn't cut the gesture short, but neither does she dwell on it. << Soon, >> she agrees. And soon comes her rider, too, and Vrianth waits with what passes for patience, with her, to let Leova mount.
One pleased spark for Jekzith, another that's more brightly colored for Aath, and the young green leaps into the air and off they go.
Zunaeth senses that Vrianth sends the thought winging into the air, not the way she'd had to check in while still a weyrling but just because: << Home. >>
VR: Day 31, month 2, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a winter evening.
(Original log from P'draig, edited.)
Leova meets up with P'draig and T'mic at the Lava Lounge. Two Green Dragons are drunk. An Oblivion is not.
Lava Lounge
The chill in the air is a pleasant change from the heat of the tropical winds that surround Southern Boll. This cave holds the natively christened Lava Lounge of Southern Boll Hold. The bar, along the far light of the glow baskets hanging from the ceilings. Marcus, the barkeep, is ready to serve you 'drinks'. The largest 'wall' is sanded down for visitors to write on. In addition, there are tables and chairs located throughout the room for people to sit in as well as hanging sky chairs for people to relax in after the day's duties are completed.
The Lava Lounge isn't as crowded as it sometimes is, which might have to do with the two young blueriders singing arm and arm, not quite drunk but getting there. Their audience, or at least the part of the audience that's actually seeming to enjoy it, is lounging in one of those sky chairs with her jacket to pad her back. Now and again, usually during a chorus, she pushes off with the toe of her boot against the nearest table leg to let the chair swing.
Another pair of riders enters, one Istan, one from Fort. "...Trying to take on too much," the greenrider tosses over his shoulder, pausing to let P'draig finish the climb before continuing on. But then there's singing, and rather than interrupt the seranade with boring words Mic only grins, giving Marcus a nod as he unfastens his riding jacket.
There aren't many dragons over here instead of the beach, but one is young Vrianth, leaning up from her crouch with her paws braced on a tree trunk and her long tail in a smooth wave behind her. It's a tall tree. She gives it another push, lighter this time, so it doesn't creak.
P'draig already has his jacket off, slung loosely over his shoulder as he pulls himself up over the edge of the hole leading to the ladder. "Mmyeah, gold weyrlings sometimes too," he agrees with Mic and at the greenrider's pause, takes the opportunity to catch up and slip an arm around the other man's waist. "Now there's a greeting if I ever heard one," he notes laughingly then his gaze scans the space and his grin widens. "There she is," he notes for T'mic's benefit and he lifts a hand to wave Leova's way.
For once, Leova actually has advance warning and it's not just because of F'ren's and W'jar's great whoops of enjoyment. She's swung the chair at an angle by now, enough to see them and even wave. P'draig was easy enough to identify. T'mic? It's a look at his knot that earns him a smile even before his jacket's off.
"Better them than me," the greenrider says, flashing the blue pair a grin and nod before tracking P'draig's wave to Leova's swinging chair. In an undertone, "Leova, right?" and then he tosses her a two-fingered salute. "Lemme go grab drinks - you want whiskey, right, Paddy?"
Jekzith warbles a pleasant greeting to Vrianth as he settles in to wait on Paddy, stretching and peering over at her tree-pushing. A moment later he floats a bubble her way mentally, laced with the taste of whiskey. << Hello Vrianth! >>
Aath settles down into a compact bundle, casually interested in the younger green's gardening efforts. << Aath, >> she offers after a moment, words tipped with a diamond's sparkle. << Whatever are you doing there? >>
P'draig gives Mic a little squeeze and chuckles. "Yeah. You on bronze. That'd never've worked out. Yeah, whiskey." He winks at the Istan then moves away, shifting his jacket down into his hand and pulls up another chair near Leova. "Fort's duties and hiya," the brownrider offers good-naturedly. "That's Mic over there," with a jerk of his chin for the guy paying for the drinks.
"Right." Though Leova also adds, "Dibs on the second round," watching the other greenrider for one more moment before leaning back in her seat, sliding a glance sidelong to P'draig, and skipping duties altogether. "Kind of guessed. Thank the boys, by the way. Kept me from getting lost. Don't know if you remember them from your visits."
T'mic might be paying for the drinks, but delivering them? That's Marcus' job. Either that, or the greenrider's just emptied his purse for the benefit of Marcus' pretty face. Whatever happened at the bar Mic ambles back to join the others, snagging a chair for himself. "Ista's duties to the Reaches and her queens. Hope you don't mind - I got you a Green Dragon. And you," his eyes slide to Paddy, "A nice boring whiskey." Lucky P'draig. "'M Mic - T'mic - and Aath's my green." Intros made, he flops into his chair, legs stretched out in front.
This time, when Vrianth scrapes one paw down the trunk, her talons leave great peels of bark scored all down its length. She eyes it with some satisfaction before turning back, careful not to bump into Jekzith, tail curling along the trunk's base as she regards the other pair. And her mental voice is gravel to Aath's diamond, deep and rough: << I wanted to see whether it would hold up. >> Unnecessarily, << It didn't. >>
"Okay," P'raig answers laughingly and eyes the blueriders again. "A little, yeah," he confirms, watching Mic at the bar. His gaze returns to Leova and his grin is wide, eyes merry. "Good thing about not getting lost too. And for once, I'm not begging you for a seat. How've you been since I saw you last?" T'mic's arrival earns a soft snort. "If I get an Oblivion, we're not going home," he notes to the Istan.
Jekzith continues to observe Vrianth curiously, from his spot near Aath, tail twitching close to the Istan green then away again. Maybe trying to be polite. << Nope. It didn't. Good claws, >> he notes, perhaps unnecessarily.
"High Reaches' duties to Ista and Fort. And their queens." Leova adds something of a sigh on top of that. "Should really be a hand sign to take care of that sort of thing. Vrianth's mine, out there, and don't know what's in a Green Dragon, but it seems practically required. Thanks." One glance back at the blueriders, now engaged in snorting drinks up through reed straws, is enough for her not to do it again. "Been all right. Not tapped yet, though. Them neither."
Aath resettles herself unnecessarily, stretches out a leg to nibble away an invisible blemish. She has no qualms about flicking her tail over against Jekzith, for all she's outwardly paying the brown no mind. << I guess it didn't, >> she agrees breathlessly. << Your claws -are- very sharp. >>
No way for Vrianth not to take that as a compliment, enough to curl her talons into better view, let the dimming light glint off them. Her eyes are strongly blue as she asks Aath, though she includes Jekzith as well, << Have you seen a tree, it is called a skybroom? >>
Mic tries on prim. It doesn't fit. "Well, what if -I- get an Oblivion? She's... something," he adds to the younger greenrider with a grin. "Vrianth - 'sa pretty name. I remember not being tapped. Hard, the waiting. Almost as bad as being a Candidate."
"Sure," P'draig holds up a hand and folds down the middle fingers. Hook 'em horns. "How's that?" Brows lift, laughter in the eyes beneath. "Not yet? Ugh, yeah, waiting for that is hard," agrees the Fortian rider with another look over at the blueriders, a chuckle and a shake of his head following for their antics. "They look happy to be out and about at least."
Jekzith watches both greens, eyes doing the little back and forth thing. The flop of Aath's tail is met by his flipping alongside. Now they've got that straightened out, though he continues to pay polite attention to both. << Yes. Those are very tough. Do you want to try to knock one of those down? >>
Leova's polite smile hadn't been half bad, but now it suddenly deepens, warmer now, showing in her eyes. "Isn't it? Could say it over and over. Vrianth. Silly, maybe." She doesn't seem to mind. "How did you finally get tapped, T'mic, was it a wing you wanted?" She tries the horns on P'draig. "Both of you. And them... Flurry's not flying resupply again until day after tomorrow, think it is."
The darker green is still all wide-eyed over Vrianth's success. << A tree? There are lots of trees here. >> For instance, the half-peeled one Vrianth's just tortured. << I like the sky. Have you seen Jekzith fly? >>
T'mic scants an amused look over at Paddy, pushes upright when Marcus delivers two green drinks and a smaller, brown one, even placing them appropriately. "Thanks, Marcus. --S'like Aath. Vrianth. Poor Paddy, though - Jekzith just isn't a pretty name." Poor Paddy indeed, with Mic's lips quivering in front of the joke. "Fadra - she was my weyrlingmaster - got tapped to lead her own wing. She let me twist a little bit, then threw the knot at me one day and said I probably wasn't going to get her killed, I might as well fly with her. How 'bout you, Paddy?"
<< I want to see if it won't let me. >> Nearly the same thing. Vrianth picks one talon against another, getting out a bit of bark that had splintered the wrong way, and prowls over to the other two. Closer to Aath, though still giving her quite a lot of space, her head tilted to watch them both. << I do like the sky. And I do not remember him. Flying. Should I? >>
"It's a good strong name," P'draig agrees then rolls his eyes at T'mic. "Jekzith is nice and strong and um, definite. Yeah. Nothing wrong with it." Staunchly defending his brown's honor of course though the glimmer of humor remains in his eyes too. "Ummm ...." his eyes lift towards the ceiling. "You'd think I'd remember that better, but t'be honest, I don't. It didn't last long anyway. Leeana hit me with my assistant weyrlingmaster knot pretty soon after and then she had to step down and I've been Weyrlingmaster ever since. I fly with T'rien's wing a lot though." His hand curls around his glass and tips it up for a long sip. "Here's to getting tapped sooner rather than later though, Leova."
Jekzith twitches his tail a /little/ closer to Aath's and tilts a look up at the sky. << Dragons belong in the sky. Flying. >> And he shares the rush of speed, the happy thrill of muscles straining for lift, height, air thinning.
Aath considers the younger green, rolls onto one hip (and closer to Jekzith, of course). << I remember Jekzith flying, >> is her answer, and shares an image of herself being bathed and watching the brown overhead in a startlingly blue sky. << Doesn't he fly just ever so well? >> Trees? What trees?
"Think he wants a pretty name?" Leova's eyes narrow in laughter that doesn't quite make it out. She doesn't reach for the drink, either. Yet. "And that, that tapping, pretty funny. Not that it's," and here she stops. Takes her time to readjust the swing. Switches topics mid-sentence. "A bad name. Strong. Right. And for tapping? I'll drink to that. Wish me a good one while you're at it?" Now she takes her glass, lifts it toward them one at a time.
"It's -his- name," Mic placates, patting P'draig's knee consolingly. "It fits him." Poor Paddy. He sips at his drink, attention split between the others, eyebrows twitching at Leova. "Sure. G'luck, with whoever you fly with. --How'd you end up in Tri's wing, anyway, Paddy? I would've thought the Weyrlingmaster'd fly with the Weyrleader, or some such."
Vrianth's still young yet. Tails, no tails, doesn't much matter. Well, she'd probably notice if the other two didn't have any at all, but aside from that. Same with the lolling. << Well enough, >> she supposes, distracted by that rush of sensation: different wings, muscles, balance. Looking upward now, frankly speculative, << We could be up there right now. >>
"Nope. Likes his nickname just fine too. Jek." Paddy's eyes gleam back at Leova's silent laughter. "And it does fit him and that crazy hide of his." His glass lifts again, the brownrider smiling warmly at Leova. "Best wishes for a good tapping, Leova." Sincerely spoken and he sinks more of the liquid in his glass. For Mic: "I volunteered." Beat. "Didn't want to fly with M'yr." And there's a slightly sour twist of his mouth as he takes another swallow of whiskey, which might speak volumes about his opinion of Fort's current Weyrleader.
Jekzith noses lightly at Aath's side as she lolls so. << We could go! >> An answer for Vrianth, eyes whirling happy blue-green, his mindvoice betraying sudden excitement even though he /was/ just flying not long ago. In his mind, vapor trails of spectacular aerials trace out abstract patterns against a wash of deep blue.
"Thanks." Leova drinks, her attention split too, and then all of a sudden she's focused more on P'draig. It's not staring, not so overt. Just the angle of the way she's sitting, the way she holds her glass, before she looks away. Toward T'mic, as though that should be safe enough.
T'mic says "Yeah, but." But what? But something - he notes Leova's attention and gives her a little shrug, toasts her again. "Was M'yr Weyrleader the whole time you were Weyrlingmaster? There was another one before him, right? Uh... Ter-something? Or's M'yr always been Jenna's Weyrleader?"
Aath casts a lowered-lashes look at Jekzith. << But we flew just such an awfully long way to get here. >> As though they flew straight. << Perhaps you could watch Vrianth fly? >>
"After all the hard work, it's good to get there. Though I guess sometimes it winds up being kind of anti-climactic too," P'draig muses thoughtfully, the not-staring met by a steady look of his own. "P'ter." He supplies for Mic's ailing memory. "M'yr's always been Jenna's Weyrleader."
Leova drinks again on cue. Follows T'mic's question back to P'draig, too, but then she stops to stare into her drink and poke at the fizz with a finger as he answers, relaxed again. Rather than comment on Weyrleaders, "Suppose so. Maybe it's more fun imagining all the wingleaders staying up late at night arguing over who gets whom. Might even make more sense bringing in one or two at a time, not throwing things off quite so much."
Vrianth watches what the elder green does, taking her cue from it and lounging too, though her long tail's conveniently angled across the path. If Haraith and Marckilth's riders want to get past, they'll have a time of it.
Mic says, "Huh," when Paddy supplies the name, and has another swallow of drink. "That's what they did, I thought. S'what they told -me-, anyway. Work with the Weyrleader, 'least at Ista, figure out what the wings need." He settles back into his chair again, balancing one heel on the other toe. "/I/ dunno. I just fly where they tell me."
Jekzith just eyes Aath fondly and nuzzles at her neck again. << I like to fly. It doesn't matter how far. >>
"So what would you two do," Leova asks over her glass, sipping again, taking it slow. "If you did wind up with a wingleader you didn't much like? Or working for a weyrlingmaster, that way. Don't know how you and Q'vek, if that's how you pronounce his name, get on." Her boot touches the table leg again, but lighter, barely a swing.
"Well," Mic says, with just enough pause to suggest that he's thinking about it, "Sometimes it doesn't matter about /like/. Can you respect 'em? Is he - or she - good at what she does? 'Cause all you really need to do up there is follow orders, not have kissing contests. And me, I'm there for the weyrlings. Q'vek's Weyrlingmaster, so if I don't agree with something he's said, I got to bring it up later, after, you know, I do whatever he tells me."
"Try to work it out, I mean, still gotta follow the orders, but if it was really not working out, eventually I'd request a transfer. Sometimes it's just not a good fit." P'draig provides his answer, rolling his empty glass between his palms. "With the weyrlingmaster gig, you don't have to accept it in the first place. It's a request usually, not an order, though sometimes it is. I ask people I think will want to help out and have something they bring to it that I don't have," Paddy explains further, his own voice thoughtful too.
"That's it. Respect." Leova admits, but with a kind of relief, "You said it better than I did, what I was meaning. All right. It sounded like it, but good hearing it from you two. Don't report to you, you know? Bet there's probably some settling in time, too." She nods at P'draig instead of saying more right then, and finding his glass empty, glances at the other greenrider's to gauge it.
T'mic's still working on his drink, with more than half left sloshing about prettily. "Yeah, respect. I respect Fadra *between* and back, but she's prickly to sit down and just have a drink with. --Say." He almost lunges out of his chair, stops himself with knees planted on his elbows so he can look intently at the other greenrider. "Do /you/ know A'son? I keep trying to meet the man, but, well. He's the sharding -Weyrleader-. Every time I see him he's either running off somewhere or looks like he's trying to remember which direction is up."
Aath stretches her neck for Jekzith, though she turns coyly away. << You do. And you're just ever so handsome when you fly. Don't you think so, Vrianth? >>
P'draig nods agreement. "Respect is pretty key." And he nods about what Leova's said about not reporting to him or Mic. "Definitely, settling in time. Sometimes as long as six months to really be sure." He eyes T'mic for that lunge, chuckles a little, reaches over to clap the Istan lightly on the shoulder. "You should ask my sister," the brownrider notes with a quirky little grin, "if you want to fish for information about your Weyrleader."
Leova settles for trying to catch a passing server's eye about the brandy, and nearly makes it, too. At least, until T'mic moves forward quick as he does, and she sits all of a sudden back, barely catching her drink. Then, though, "Not me! Milani," but there's her brother right there. So Leova stops. Except he's saying it anyway, so she settles for just rubbing her head with her free hand and looking sheepish. "What do you want to know?"
Vrianth tries for the right answer, tilting her head Aath's way, then Jekzith's. She tries stretching her neck, too, although she's looking towards the jungle by then. Uncertainly, << Yes? >>
T'mic shoots Paddy a grin sidelong before easing off the pressure he's put on Leova. He's leaning back, see? And drinking his green whatever-it-is. Harmless. "Sorry. Sure, I'll ask her next time I see her, but she'll have to come to Ista to do it. And, you know, just... what's he like? Not is he good at the job, 'cause that I can know myself. The other stuff, that you don't know until you've met 'em. Like... what's he like to drink?"
With Mic calming a little, P'draig sits back too and he flashes Leova a bright grin as they both have the same thought about How To Find Out About A'son. "I'm sure she'll be by eventually, Mic," Paddy says with deadpan humor. "She goes down at least once every other seven to visit the man." There's a loose smirk on his face and then he's sliding to his feet. "I need a refill. If you want, we can skip rounds, Leova, you get the next?"
Vrianth senses that Jekzith slides a pale blue thought towards Vrianth's sparks. << Aath likes to be flattered and to flatter. Don't worry about it too much. It won't bother me if you're honest. >>
Jekzith gives Aath another light stroke from his muzzle and then he slides away mind all rainbow bubbles and airy thoughts of flight. << If either of you would like to come too, I'm going up! >> And he's winding his way to a clear enough spot for a take-off and then pumping his wings and leaping into the air. Up and up he goes, rapidly becoming a sparkling brown mote in the Bollian sunset. << Even though you are both small on the ground, you are lovely from here. >>
Aath showers the younger green with diamonds, glittering bursts of light. << Aren't you just so very clever! >> But then there goes Jekzith, and who does she have now to cuddle with? << I'm /small/? Jekzith, I don't want to be small! >>
Leova's no help. "No idea." She doesn't look straight at the brownrider, not with him talking about his sister that way, not with the laugh that's threatening to make out full-fledged instead of just lighting up her low voice. "How about you let me get this one, and T'mic's when he's caught up. Still haven't fixed up our weyr, have a couple marks to spare." To T'mic, "Could always ask whoever's at your bar what he gets? Unless he's faking it, ordering whatever he thinks Weyrleaders should order."
Jekzith senses that Vrianth replies, just a single spark, << I will remember. >> This time, she keeps a touch of that blue for her own.
And although Vrianth rises up from her crouch, tail curling and then uncurling as Jekzith leaps skyward, she actually stays put. Perhaps it's the diamonds, cousins of her own electric sparks, that sends her arcing still-uncertain pleasure in return. Still, as Jekzith shrinks to one of those diamonds turned brown, << We are what we are. You do not make us smaller! >>
There's some emphatic statement lurking in the background, but just now when Vrianth's thoughts draw near, it's more of a slide to the side, warm and rich and hung with another's borrowed diamonds. << Zunaeth. O Zunaeth... I have a question. >> So unusual. (Vrianth to Zunaeth)
T'mic's lips twist - it's not quite a pout - at the lack of information from both of them. "Well, maybe I'll ask Milani then. You'll have to let me know when she's there," he informs P'draig. "I've never seen her when she visits, but then again, I've been pretty busy the last couple months." The other's humor goes straight over his head, leaving him in possession of, well, half a glass of Green Dragon. "I'm good on the refill - or gimme water. 'F I drink too much, my hands'll get all sticky and anyway, I'm on late shift with the weyrlings tonight."
"I'm thirsty," P'draig replies for Leova's suggestion. "But I'll get some water for now," he continues with a wink and sets the whiskey glass down. "And she hasn't been looking for /you/," notes the brownrider with a teasing grin for his lover. "She was probably hanging around the galleries the last little while, or haunting the 'Bar. I'm not going to speculate about whether or not she decided to camp out on his ledge." There Paddy sighs and brushes his hand through his hair looking a little big-brotherly worried at least. There's a further grimace at mention of T'mic's schedule. "Water it is then." And he's off for the bar.
Jekzith blows merry streams of bubbles to the greens. << No. The distance does. >> And he shares an image of them, two greens, in miniature against the green of the lush Bollian foliage. In his mind's eye, both stand out though, the one shimmering with the glitter of diamonds, the other limned with coursing currents of olive electricity. Both shining.
Leova halts what had been a move to rise, sinking back with folded arms. Though they aren't folded for long, not if she's going to drink. "Does he often just take over?" she asks T'mic behind P'draig's literal back. "Or maybe it's the flip side, not bothering to wait when it comes to getting it done."
"Too bad, she's cute," the Istan grins, wrinkling his nose against that grin. "Yeah, I haven't been either place much." He watches Paddy leave, unabashedly ogling the view, before sliding his attention back to Leova. "Yeah, yeah he does. Think it's the Weyrlingmaster in him. Either way..." He shrugs and eyes first his drink, then the other greenrider. "Aath's fussing a little - tell Vrianth not to mind her?"
Zunaeth bespoke Vrianth with << Yeah? >> He sparks to life, warming as she reaches out to him. << What? >>
"How long you known him?" Leova follows up, glancing past him to P'draig and back again. She pushes off the table, slowly swings. "And I will. Would help to know why she's fussing, though. Vrianth says she has a way about her."
Zunaeth senses that Vrianth's all warm happiness for Zunaeth's response and shares it with him, gladly. It's distracting enough that she almost forgets to wonder, << What do you think of this? >> Almost. It's the sensation of her long neck curving in a slow, easy stretch that culminates with the tilt of her head: a little arch, literally and figuratively, posed for effect and quite aware of what she's doing. Though not exactly why. << Aath does this for me. >>
Over his shoulder to Mic on his way: "Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don't know about you," he teases the Istan. Water doesn't cost and Paddy's back quickly enough with not a glass but a pitcher and three glasses which he sets down on the table. "Insurance against hangover," he notes with a fingertap to the side of the pitcher and he drops back into his chair, fingers drumming lightly on the table." He catches the tail end of what Leova's just said and laughs. "Because Jekzith's flying instead of winding himself around her and trying to make a job of being nice to both her and Vrianth and I'm not sure he's making it."
Vrianth's tail flicks once, twice. Curls again. The image is what it is, and still. << We are what we are. Not smaller. >> Nor he larger, comes the underlying thought.
Aath settles reluctantly, nosing again at a spotless leg. << I don't like distance, >> she offers in an undertone to Vrianth that - surprise! - is just loud enough for Jekzith to hear. << Are those blues I see, down on the beach? >>
Jekzith flips the image around, though it's a little hazy, the reverse view: himself, small in the sky from the ground. It's all the same. Just perspective. And a threaded hint of apology, but he's not coming back down right away, turning somersaults against the sunset with the wind as a partner.
Mic asks, "Paddy?" in case she was wondering about Mic's relationship with Marcus. "Uh, shells. Turns now. Jekzith caught a gold at Ista few turns back, but I met him earlier'n that, when I was still a weyrling." When Paddy returns, he's greeted with an innocent beam, and a reach for the water. "Thanks, babe. And yeah, she's miffed she's not being fawned over. But Vrianth's being nice to her - that'll help a little."
"Right, and how did that go? Back then, I mean." Leova slides a smile at T'mic while he's looking at P'draig, then sets her glass out in line to get it filled. "Don't think Vrianth would care if he fawned over Aath any. Not that she likes being ignored. Secath, she likes her escorts too."
Vrianth senses that Zunaeth eyes that a moment, rumbling. << You look like Aath, >> he finally tells her. This is not exactly a good thing, in his book, the heat of his mind not quite so pleasant as usual.
Vrianth regards the slightly shorter green for a moment, then looks down towards the beach. << Haraith and Marckilth, >> she provides, with a touch more warmth for the former, but still with a what-does-it-matter sort of tone. And then she goes still: perhaps she's scented something.
Aath repeats the blues' names, considers Jekzith up there, ever so far away. She even shoots Vrianth a quick look of consideration. Then the Istan green is out of her lounge and winging her way over the jungle to drop down beside the startled blues. What a surprise to see such handsome lads here - oh, /this/ old oiling? How kind of them to notice.
P'draig tips up the pitcher to fill each of the glasses and slides them roughly towards each of the others, claims his own, drinks long, half-emptying it. He wasn't kidding about being thirsty. "He wants to fly," Paddy says simply, by way of answer. "It'd be like trying to stop a stampeding herd to keep him on the ground when he really wants to be up there."
It's not comfortable, but Vrianth extends that arch, because she can, into a long reach that also happens to drop diamond after diamond into the dark. She doesn't seek to recover them just yet. << You and yours would have me learn from Vmireth, from my Secath, >> and there's an impression of Kaylith too, one or two others perhaps. << Why is this not right, Zunaeth? >> (Vrianth to Zunaeth)
"And Aath wants to be fussed over," Mic returns, a corner of his mouth twitching. He's not bothered by his lifemate's fussiness, but amused. "Eh, me and Paddy didn't get along much until, what? About a turn and a half ago? Something like that." There's another glance to the brownrider and he tosses back the last of his 'Dragon in exchange for the water. "It's been pretty good since, though."
Leova takes hers and leans back, all the way back, two-fisted. Water first. "Milani said you recommended the cure," she muses. "Water, I mean. Along with neck rubs. Unless that was just her idea," and what a thing to say to a man about his sister, perhaps. "So what made the difference? That Turn and a half, I mean."
So fast. It takes a moment before Vrianth looks, but then she watches Aath and what Aath does: how fast she is, how attentive the awkward young blues can learn to be. Still she stays where she is, but lower to the ground now, her wings protective over her sides. Down here, the jungle's swallowed all but a fraction of Jekzith's sunset, but that doesn't seem to matter. Or not matter enough.
<< Not from them, maybe. >> Zunaeth doesn't really seem to know, or be too worried about just who is the right person to learn from. Just not Aath, is the vague sentiment he gives off, eventually realized as, << She's not like you. >> A nebulous reason, not really congealed even in his mind beyond he knows something about it is amiss. (Zunaeth to Vrianth)
"Aath always wants to be fussed over," P'draig says with also-fond amusement and brushes his thumb over his chin where a little water strayed. "Actually, I'd argue that we got along fine, had a bit of a falling out and then fell back in ... hard." The brownrider muses, all the more amused. "You made me laugh before that one Turnover, mostly," he says this right to T'mic. "Didn't really bother me any that you kept asking, I'd just say no." His fingers turn his glass around a few times. "But then a bunch of us were all a little into our cups on Turnover and Mic said some things that T'ri and I didn't take too kindly about T'rien's sister and we dunked poor Mic in the ocean a couple of times and then he kind of sulked at me for what ... half a turn?" The query's accompanied by a brow-lift and then his eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks across the table at the Istan far more than fondly. "And then I changed my mind. Best change of heart ever, if I say so myself." Then he refocuses on Leova and lifts that nearly empty glass. "Yep. Told all of my younger sibs about it. Works too as long as you drink enough of it to counter whatever crazy strong stuff you've had. Neck rubs ... just ask Mic." A little mischief there.
Placidly, "That's my Aath - yeah, see? Now she's busy turning those two poor blues around her little finger." He scants a smirk toward the two blue riders - won't /they/ be surprised to learn what their mates are up to? - but leans in to his companions instead. "Laughing's good. I never knew that - you were always wearing your uptight Weyrlingmaster pants. I'd tease, and I'd flirt, and -he-," he addresses Leova suddenly, tilting his head toward the brownrider, "He'd just grin and ignore it. But yeah, then he and my /just/-dumped-me weyrmate's brother took me for a swim. And it was longer'n that - closer to a turn and a half, I think, before you finally wised up." This back to P'draig of course, with a wink and a toast of water glass. P'draig's offer has him sitting up, glass between his knees, thumbs rotating hopefully at Leova. "Sure - just give the word."
Leova listens contentedly, eyes slid just a little bit less open, trading sips between one glass and the other along the while. "Good for them," she says at one point of the blues and their riders. Dunking becoming swimming becomes a hint of a smile, and she's drinking more water now than the fair portion left in her glass. "Would say, you been dumped, you get to do a little complaining. Course, someone complaining about your sister, your friend's sister, can't argue that either." Near the end? She's comfortable enough that she just waves T'mic P'draig's way, making an assumption about his intent: "Have at. Any other wing advice? What about hazing?"
"'Course she is," mutters P'draig to his glass, emptying it then refilling it. "Uptight Weyrlingmaster pants?" The Fortian shoots T'mic a look of amused askance and shakes his head. "Yeah. Didn't want to make you feel bad, but didn't want to encourage either." He rolls his shoulders a little about the dunking. "We've been over that, long story short, we were all wrong that night. Mic was blowing his mouth off, but Tri and I had no call dropping him over the edge of the Sandbar either. It was dumb." Paddy's nose wrinkles a little and then he shakes his head. "I meant 'til you started talking to me again, not 'til that night at Shipfish. And I /also/ meant that you could /tell/ Leova about my take on neck rubs as cure, not an opening to flirt." The words might be remonstrative, but his eyes are still dancing with good humor and his tone of voice betrays more fondness for the Istan. He's distracted when Leova's question arrives. "Hazing?" He looks utterly perplexed by this. "Who has time for that? I mean maybe in the real Pass, but not now. Too many people dying, not enough dragons. Do or die." And he looks down into his glass, suddenly lost in thought.
Jekzith whirls and twirls with the last of the dying light. If anyone were watching, it's quite the show. Eventually he skims down low over the trees and lands back where he came from. << She went to see the blues, didn't she? >> Amused. Fond. Just like his rider.
<< Not from them? >> But she had, hadn't she? Vrianth's thoughts have become more diffuse with her confusion, less gravel than a slurry. Until suddenly, simple as fact, << None of them are like me. >> Are they? She lets all but the memory of coyness slip too, along with a dimly subterranean sense of Aath flown down to the beach where Marckilth and Haraith are. They'll never know what hit them. (Vrianth to Zunaeth)
T'mic only grins at Paddy for his askancing. "Got 'em off you eventually," and if that was more than Leova wanted to hear, oh well. "Yeah, it's one egg that's well and truly cracked. --Oh yeah?" Mic takes his thumbs back with another not-pout. "All right, Leova, Paddy swears by neck rubs as a hangover cure." Take that. His own amusement turns to confusion right along with the brownrider. "...Hazing? Why? Flying Thread's dangerous enough without your wingmates -trying- to make you miserable. Nah, just do your duty, don't try and show off, and you'll do fine."
Vrianth senses that Zunaeth will agree to that, warm. << No. They're not. >>
Aath doesn't come back, not when the light dies, not when Jekzith returns. Eventually, however, there's an outraged shriek from the direction of those young blues. Aath pops over the treeline almost immediately thereafter, pursued by a persistent but dense blue. It's a matter of moments, of furious wings and tricky flying and a thorough slap of tail across muzzle, and then she's returning to the clearing in a huff. Even all her wriggling isn't enough to self-appease, so she pouts wordlessly at Jekzith for -him- to fix it.
Leova, finishing her water, leans to set it on the table. "Over the edge. Of the Sandbar. And of /course/ you'd all been drinking." Boys. Except they aren't, are they? Successfully managing not to hear anything at all about pants, or at least managing to ignore it, she goes for just a sideways smile about necks and an, "I'll remember that. About hazing, too. Been a little hard, they had just a few of us learning some different things on top of the rest, but no. Don't want to be showing off. Just like the stables." She asides to T'mic, "Used to work there, back Tillek way, first time I ran into P'draig here."
<< She did, >> and now she's back, Vrianth watching this too with distracted interest, particularly that tail-slap. << Marckilth should know better. But he never does. >> At least, in Vrianth-memories, which can be choosy.
"Yeah. I wasn't soused. Had a few though. Him and T'ri though, pretty shaky." Paddy's hand waggles back and forth a couple of times. Then he peers over at Leova with interest. "A few learning something different? Like what?" His head tilts a little and he scratches at his chin. "I mean, Milani didn't mention the Weyrlings doing something different this Turn."
Jekzith only has further amusement to offer first, followed by golden sparks of excitement from the flying. More sensations, the taste of the wind to share with the younger green. The shriek and the tussle lift his head and he sits upright even, perhaps about to leap aloft until Aath returns all huffy, having taken care of it herself. When she puts down, he just quietly, calmly lifts up a wing. << Such a lovely tail shouldn't be put to such awful use. >>
T'mic says "'Ve you -met- T'rien?" Mic asks, holding his hand up a good half-foot above the top of his head. T'ri's height when Mic's standing, presumably, otherwise the other Fortian wouldn't be nearly as impressive. "But yeah, I'd been drinking pretty steadily a couple days before that, so..." His shrug remains phlegmatic: these things happen. To Leova he guesses, "Like... mid-air rescues? Vrianth looks like she'd be good at those. Twisty." Dextrous, he probably means, given the sinuous side-winding his hand's demonstrating."
Aath pouts at Jekzith a bit longer - the wobbling chin -has- to be an illusion, doesn't it? - before availing herself of that offered wing. << Marckilth was -awful-. Even if, >> her voice turns thoughtful, ruby's sparkle dimming to sapphire, << he has -such- nice wings. But they're not as nice as yours, Jekzith. >>
Jekzith tucks his wing down around Aath and sends a bright burst of colors her way, mostly on the gold spectrum. Warm. Always threaded with blue though to relight her diamonds. << I'm so very sorry. >> Still with the patience. Then. << Nice wings aren't everything. >>
"Never met him," Leova agrees, only to say awkwardly, "Sorts of things that meant less sleep?" in the way that suggests it's nothing to fuss over. But then maybe it cicks that P'draig's a weyrlingmaster himself, or that follow-up comment, or possibly T'mic the assistant weyrlingmaster's comment that she can't possibly take anything but a compliment. Not when applying to Vrianth. And she straightens, starts ticking things off, even her tone altered as though reporting. "Theories, early on. Not just what to do but why. Had us sitting on wingleader meetings, taking notes, writing out the copies: funny how you write something a bunch of times, sometimes it actually sinks in. Wing management. Creating and updating 'Fall charts, not just reading them, and," all of a sudden she stops. "Like that. Lot of work."
Zunaeth senses that Vrianth, at that, relaxes a notch. Then two, and she's giving off a quieter radiance that may be felt but never makes it into light. For a long time she doesn't speak. << But I may still learn from you, Zunaeth. >> So much, isn't there? She feels there is. << And bring you things, to ask. >>
Zunaeth bespoke Vrianth with << Not that. >> That arching. His voice is dry, but half-bemused again. Instead, he concedes << Somethin' else, maybe. If you wanna. >> >>
<< It's how you use them. >> If that's a joke, it's not apparent from Vrianth's certain tone, the younger green's tail curled about herself, idly scratching her own chin with its tip.
Of course she does. She doesn't think twice. << Show me? >> (Vrianth to Zunaeth)
"T'ri's kind of a lightweight, actually," Paddy notes slyly, biting at his lips a little, laughter bubbling up behind them. Teasing T'mic. Then he's sitting up a little, listening to Leova. "So ... leadership training," he says with interest and looks at the younger greenrider more closely. "That's interesting. I mean, usually that's the kind of stuff that only gets covered after a weyrling gets tapped into a wing and by the wingleader. So the Reaches is teaching it sooner, but only to a few?"
<< You have nice wings too, Vrianth, >> Aath can afford to be generous, now that she's all cuddled up against motley brown hide, and Jekzith is properly occupied soothing her snit away. << I use my wings to fly. Don't you? >>
Jekzith occupies himself with nuzzling at Aath's neck again. Dutifully soothing. << Fly. Cuddle. All good things. >> Agreeably said by the brown.
T'mic smirks sidelong at the brownrider, promptly drowns it in his glass. When Leova starts ticking his eyebrows head up and don't come down again. "Shells - leadership stuff? And you a greenrider... they must see a lot of potential in you. Or," as a thought strikes him, "Did you ask for it?"
Vrianth senses that Jekzith is sotto voce on a narrower band again. << That was very funny. >> His amusement washes her way, alive with lights and bubbles and sparkles, the brown not at all unaware of Aath's foibles. That he plays along with them, might have a lot to do with the bond between her rider and his. Or maybe he's just that into all females. In the end, it doesn't matter.
<< Of course, >> Vrianth returns, as though to ask what else there could possibly be. Though then she has to think about it herself, and finally offer an image: a protective one, and edited accordingly so it won't be so very detailed, her very own Leova warm beneath her wings as they look out to the stars or whatever else they want to see. For a moment there's a candle, flickering, and floating song. It's just a glimpse.
"Mostly us older ones," Leova agrees in that tone that makes it more like a report. "Four, then five of us. Plus Lujayn, but she had other things. Dragonhealing. Stores." Boring, says that last. "One of them asked for it. I didn't. Couple blueriders, the older bronzerider, L'vae and me. Think it was more to keep Vrianth out of trouble, really." She drinks.
Vrianth senses that Jekzith is touched by that image though and he warms to it, trades one back in exchange. P'draig curled up asleep leaning against his side, covered by the maple wing that currently drapes Aath. Because in the end, no one is more precious than their riders.
Aath brightens at that glimpse; she shares one of her own: T'mic oiling her wings, bright and warm under Ista's sun. << That is good, too. >>
Jekzith senses that Vrianth doesn't linger with even the amusement, even those sparkles, but that other image, now. That she keeps. And she's quiet about it, so as not to disturb even the memory.
Vrianth senses that Jekzith struggles a little to sharpen the focus on that image even: it's not Paddy as he is now, but a younger one. Before he bulked up. Before his face matured. But the image flickers, and repeats itself, the skies moving overhead, shifting through seasons, his rider growing and changing and ending at the man he is today. Always though. Always that wing in place. And briefly a flash of what it's like to be bonded so. This vague third entity that is neither P'draig nor Jekzith, but them /together/. And then it's gone.
P'draig is still listening keenly, letting the talk of past foibles go. He props his chin on both hands and considers for a minute. "Five ... just about a quarter of the clutch," he muses aloud. "Everything that's taught to potential wingleaders and 'seconds and weyrwomen except for the Caverns-management stuff. Wow. That's kind of bold actually." There's another pause and then: "Other than the lack of sleep, did you like it?"
"Right, and shy of a third if you count Lujayn," Leova agrees. "Did I like it?" She hesitates. Doesn't drink, this time. "Don't know if like's the right word. Got a lot out of it. Maybe too much. Easier to just do things when you haven't learned to think about them so much, you know? Don't plan on saying much to people when I do get in a wing. Keep my head down."
"Yeah, but..." Mic's still trying to think through this one, his water temporarily forgotten. "There had to be a reason you were picked. Weyrlingmaster must've seen something in you. I don't think -I- could've handled extra classes on top of what we had. Makes my head hurt, having to stay current so I can teach the weyrlings m'self."
Vrianth senses that Zunaeth has to think about that for a while. Finally, << I dunno what now. But something. Someday, >> he admits. << Maybe. >>
Jekzith senses that Vrianth's intrigued, those changes, those shifts. That he remembers, and puts the pieces together so. She can't keep such repetition-yet-not-repetition, and it doesn't seem right to touch it. But she remembers that it was there.
Zunaeth senses that Vrianth investigates this somewhat quizzically: does he really not have any idea, or is it one of those not-yets that he knows, like /betweening/ before their time? Still, though, she has such faith that Zunaeth knows so much. << Remember, >> she agrees.
"Everyone knows you got the training though right?" P'draig points out mildly, fixing Leova with a thoughtful look. "And ... yeah, sometimes not knowing stuff is easier. You can just ... be. But at the same time, if you never push beyond, then you'll never know what you were really capable of." He rubs at his chin and looks down into his glass again. "Like if Leeana hadn't had to step down, I dunno if I ever would've pegged myself for Weyrlingmaster. Not that soon. Managed though." Paddy looks up again, grinning across at T'mic. "But you do it and you do it pretty well based on what I've seen."
Vrianth senses that Jekzith is cheating of course. That tightness, it's an almost effortless to and fro between his view and P'draig's memories, an elaborate construct. He lets it fade away though, offering the gentle touch of a ray of sun before his contact goes wider again.
Jekzith cuddles Aath a little more closely. << T'mic is very good with the oil. >>
"Maybe," Leova says reluctantly. "Don't think I ever did ask. Or just forgot. Think you know what you're," and it might have been a question but then she looks at P'draig and laughs instead. "Right. Anyway." She leans forward, low alto lowering further, intense. "Wasn't thinking of lying, it's just that people know only if they care to begin with. We know enough to get ourselves into trouble, maybe. And how's a seasoned rider's going to feel, some kid," and she uses the word very deliberately for all of her twenty-three Turns, "Coming in and saying, theory says this or that?"
Vrianth doesn't think twice about this oiling business, just that she can agree that it's wonderful. And, as a matter of fact, it should happen. << They should serve oil in that little weyr they are in. Buckets full. Instead of their drinks. >>
Jekzith senses that Vrianth remembers, at least, to send a spark of thanks before the thoughts of oiling distract her entirely. And a moment's closer examination before it fades entirely: perhaps she and hers could do this. They will have to see.
T'mic lowers his glass, wipes a bit of wet from the corner of his mouth with a thumb. "Betcha half dozen marks that all the Wingleaders know already. Or do you think they don't pay attention to every breath you take, the last few months you're training? Wingriders, nah, they might not know, but anyone with any rank - they know already. They probably know you and Vrianth, what you're capable of, better'n /you/ do. /And/ they already know the theory you've been taught. Who d'you think figured it out, wrote it down?"
<< T'mic likes oil very much, >> Aath agrees, snuggling close against Jekzith's hide and blinking wide eyes at Vrianth. << So does... ooh! Vrianth, what a /clever/ idea! I'll tell T'mic about it. /He/ would like that! So would P'draig! >>
P'draig chuckles along with that laugh as he puts words to what she was thinking, then shakes his head. "Oh shells no, didn't think you meant you'd /lie/. Just that laying too low is kind of pointless if they all know. Just sort of ... acknowledge it maybe and let it be." He shrugs loosely. "I'm not used to having to deal with that kind of disparity in the training. I mean, I train everyone the same, baseline. Even the goldriders. It's actually important to me that it be that way, so every young rider feels like they've an even chance at anything. I leave the goldrider training to the goldriders." He takes a deep breath, lets it out. "But it's an interesting idea to train likely weyrlings to the leadership, cuts out some of the overhead time. And well ... when there's as much turnover as there's been lately, it helps to have more ... backups in place." His fingers are turning his glass around and around during that last, the water shifting back and forth in an uneven line.
Jekzith is quiet for a bit. Snuggling. You know. << I don't think oil tastes very good. >>
"Wasn't talking about the wingleaders," Leova says steadily. A smile deepens the curve of her mouth for a moment. "So I'm not taking that bet. They know all that, they even know just how bad my handwriting is. Meant more, the other wingriders. Which is why I'm gonna keep my mouth shut." One more addition: "Headwoman, Satiet, they took care of Lujayn." But then P'draig's talk of turnover, of backups, sinks in. Her nod is slow. She's forgotten her smile.
Vrianth can't help but throw pleased sparks at Aath's praise, starting to arch her neck in another of those dramatic curves before she remembers and leans her head on the tip of her tail again. But. Drinking oil? << Why would you? >> Why does it matter?
T'mic rocks back into his seat, nodding at Marcus when the big man swings by to collect empties. "Dunno what we're gonna /Aath/!" His spit-take would've been more impressive had he something in his mouth, but thankfully for Leova drier without it; the greenrider's half out of his chair before he remembers himself and sinks back again, repressing a grin sidelong at Paddy. "I, uh... yeah, what he said." Whatever that was - Mic hastily swallows water but can't drown the amusement in his eyes.
Aath stretches out one hind leg to rustle in the greenery, smug. << Why would you what? >>
Vrianth patiently sends an image of a bucket of oil handily placed beneath Jekzith's muzzle, accessible yet somehow not spilling. << Why would he drink it? >> Of course.
P'draig nods at Leova seriously. "Yeah, not much sense in letting yourself in for any extra hard feelings or people getting their pants in a twist because they ride brown or bronze and Vrianth is green and so on." He makes a little face for things being that way, then shrugs a little in a 'what can you do' fashion. But T'mic's breaking off like that and grinning and so on. And the fingers of one hand come up to rub at the bridge of his nose, but he doesn't make any remarks or startle himself, just picks up the pitcher and tops up Mic's glass when he sets it back down. "Yeah. I think that's pretty much how it goes in most Weyrs. Headwoman. Weyrwoman. For goldriders."
Leova's boot shoves her swing back at T'mic's reaction, both boots dropping to the floor to keep it that way. But then he settles, and she settles, and P'draig keeps talking, and it's enough that she can repeat the brownrider's, "Yeah." And again. "Yeah. Well. Should be getting back, I suppose." She eyes what's left of her drink, shrugs, and sets it down untasted. "Good running into you, P'draig. And meeting you, T'mic." She hesitates but in the end, rather than adding more, just smiles.
Jekzith snorts a little. Patiently corrects the image so that riders have glasses to dip into buckets. Because she said 'instead of drinks'. << I don't think it would taste very good. Not like what the things they like taste. >> And he actually shares a comparison, picking Paddy's favorite, whiskey, which he just had too so he floats bubbles of flavor to share with each. Then he follows that up with the flat taste of oil.
"Means Griere, for Fayre," T'mic muses, setting his glass down to reveal a properly thoughtful face. As a bonus he can stand when Leova does, and offer across a hand. "Clear skies, weyrling. Greenrider. It was nice meeting you too - have Vrianth bespeak Aath sometime, huh? Aath likes her, and you'd be welcome at Ista. Maybe you could bring Millie for one of her A'son-chasing trips?"
There's no help for it. Vrianth just tips her head and licks her foreleg, where it hasn't gotten all sandy-dusty-dirty from the ground here the way her paw had. << It has little taste, >> she reports back at last, and gives the mental bucket a wooden stem and base like some glasses. << Still I would not drink it. >>
Aath watches what the younger green does, properly awed and impressed. << I would not drink you either, >> she says finally. << And I do not like what T'mic drinks, not all the time. But T'mic likes the idea of oil in the, the glasses up there. >>
A bunch of nodding ensues from P'draig. "I'll stop by and ask how things're going sometime?" He's got an answering smile for hers and sets his glass down. "Always good talking with you, Leova. I'm sure I'll see you around the Reaches soon." Paddy also rises and waits to hold out a hand as well. The eyeroll about his sister is likely, obligatory.
Jekzith gives a little mental shrug. << Neither would I. Water is fine for me. And I like to taste what he tastes in his glass, but I wouldn't want to drink it myself. >> What P'draig might think of this suggestion, he keeps to himself.
Leova's grip is firm and dry, returning T'mic's. "Will do. I'll bring her by, my turn to stand the drinks next time. Might even get to hear a little more about Aath without the boys around, hm?" Her smile's in her eyes, about level with his, and then she turns to repeat the gesture for P'draig. "Sounds good. Won't even tell her you made a face." Now the smile emerges the rest of the way, just before she scoops up her jacket and does a last scan of the room.
Vrianth swings her head towards Aath, and she says encouragingly, << I will not let you. >> Do not worry. She adds a pleased spark for Jekzith for his sharing, earlier, and adds, << And water is good. >> Though not itchy salty water. But then it's time to draw herself up, uncurl her tail, shake out her wings, and elongate herself in a long swaying stretch.
T'mic chortles, and as he retrieves his hand observes, "Aath always finds a boy to be around." He lets Leova go with a quick salute, stoops to collect his water glass as she says goodbye to Paddy. "I'll be right back - gotta ask Marcus something." Maybe he's being polite, giving the two friends some privacy for their farewells, and maybe not. Either way, privacy they have, at least a semblance of same, while the Istan talks to the barkeep.
Jekzith admires Vrianth's stretch sidelong and floats along a suggestion of wind under wings. << Enjoy the flight home. It was good to see you again, Vrianth. >>
P'draig chuckles softly, lets his head hang a little. "Caught me. Yeah. I'm worried about Millie. She's worried about me too." With a hitch of his thumb towards Mic's back. "Because ... well Mic's Mic. Anyway. If you do bring her to Ista ... keep an eye on her for me?" Sincere brotherly concern there and then Paddy reaches over to clap Leova's shoulder lightly once, like he would any other wingrider. "Clear skies, home."
Leova follows his glance towards T'mic, and lingers there a moment. Two. Then, "What, afraid someone will toss her off the dock?" She lets that sink in before adding, "Evening, P'draig," and pulling her jacket on as soon as her shoulder's free. One stop later, just long enough to make sure her clutchmates are taking care of each other, and she's heading down the ladder.
Vrianth doesn't cut the gesture short, but neither does she dwell on it. << Soon, >> she agrees. And soon comes her rider, too, and Vrianth waits with what passes for patience, with her, to let Leova mount.
One pleased spark for Jekzith, another that's more brightly colored for Aath, and the young green leaps into the air and off they go.
Zunaeth senses that Vrianth sends the thought winging into the air, not the way she'd had to check in while still a weyrling but just because: << Home. >>