Counsel
Location: Weyrling Cavern and Weyrlngmaster's Office
Time: Late Afternoon on Day 22, Month 6, Turn 2
Players: Roa, R'vain, Ruvoth, Tialith
Scene: If anybody has been wondering how in the world Roa managed to not only get Riann packing to the island, but how she did it with R'vain's approval and support...well...here's how it all went down.
Weyrlingmaster's Office
Like any office, this one is entirely given over to the business at hand. Large enough to call several weyrlings onto the carpet, should the need exist, its walls are lined with storage cabinets and chests holding everything from spare straps to old records describing antiquated drill lessons to emergency first aid equipment for humans and dragons. The center of the room is taken up by an immense desk and whether it's neat or chaotic depends on the resident weyrlingmaster. A semi-circle of four chairs sit opposite the desk, facing the single chair that decorates its proper side.
Though Roa and Tialith arrive together, the rider is simply walking, the queen padding quietly alongside. Trailing behind them, perhaps redundantly considering the sheer mass of gold dragon, is the guard Morley who situates himself in a spot by the door. Roa's head is somewhat down, shoulders rolled a little forward as she trudges through the main area and up to the Weyrlingmaster's Office. There is no hesitation, no quiet grumbling. There's only a quick rap-rap-rap on the closed door. Something is clearly wrong here.
Ruvoth dozes near the entrance to the barracks. Maybe it's the young queen's gait or some subtle draconic perfume that wakes him, but for whatever reason the monster bronze lifts his huge head and cracks open an eye. It might seem, from the curve of his maw, that he smiles. A little tendril of adoration reaches out to Tialith, subtle as he can make himself-- 'I see you, booful,' and not much more.
It takes a few seconds, but then the door swings open inward, R'vain on its other side. The office is clean. Well, it's always clean in a sense-- the furnishings are sparse to make the small space seem as large as it can possibly be, and the Weyrlingmaster typically keeps his 'junk' crammed into the cupboard-closet inset in the wall-- but it's especially clean at the moment, and his desk has been shoved over at an angle so about a third of the room stands conspicuously empty. The man has in one massive paw a rag, apparently damp and lined with dust from something recently wiped. He blinks first, to see Roa there, to see the backdrop of her entourage behind her. Then he cracks wide a toothy grin and growls through it, "Hey, Weyrwoman." Not entirely dense, he does also ask, "What's th'matter?"
Tialith notices, well, perhaps it is the smile or the thought. Perhaps both, though the one, the little psionic offering is coiled up close to her almost greedily. Like someone thirsty who finds there are only the dregs left in a cup and must make do. She settles herself near the reclining bronze. Not *too* near of course, but near enough. Her head and neck lower and she wuffles faintly. There is, in her thoughts, a calm and stillness that is usually absent. Restraint, maybe. A tighter self control than is typical for the mercurial gold.
Roa, for her part looks...okay. Let's say it. She looks awful. Skin is too pale, heavy circles under her eyes, a quiet tension in her face and features. She did, at least, manage to straighten her head and lift her shoulders as the door opens, and there is, at least, a glance beyond and a quizzical brow arch. Cleaning? "Could I come in, please?" is all she asks.
"Of course, Weyrwoman." The grin vanishes, though a trace of its hunger remains in the keen emerald glint of his eyes. That sharpness might just come across as meanness, though, when he allows her past him and then steps forward to close the door behind her-- before he does so, he glances outside at her guard, and at that moment there is mistrust enough to knit a sweater out of. R'vain turns around to put his back to the door, crossing his arms over his chest. "Don't look like they're doin' any kind of good job of looking after you, girl," he says, and stops just short of clucking disapprovingly. "Siddown and I'll find you something t'drink."
Ruvoth looks long at the queen from one eye, head canted, nostrils pulsing-- a tic untimed with his breaths. The bronze is thinking hard, and working hard to keep his thoughts his own so all Tialith can feel from him is another little swirling curl of affection and... comfort. The strain is evident in his posture, in the flaring and narrowing of his nostrils.
There is a small exhalation from the gold, another quiet acceptance of the comfort. But as her eyes close, lid by lid by lid, the thought comes floating towards Ruvoth, wry, bemused, You are terrible at secrets. Tell me.
In she steps, and over to a seat before the awkwardly placed desk. Roa sinks down, tipping her head back, though her eyes remain open. "I'm afraid they can't much keep me safe from my own thoughts," she muses. One hand comes up to rub the back of her neck, before it falls into her lap again. The movement causes the collar of her shirt to shift just slightly and there is a moment, before the cloth settles, that a small, dark purple spot can be seen at the juncture of shoulder and throat. But then it's hidden again. Unaware, the weyrwoman only queries idly, "Spring cleaning?"
Ruvoth's neck droops, bowing his head. I was trying to decide what might be wrong, he confesses simply, and lets his own eyelids drift shut too.
If R'vain sees the bruise, it's reflected only in a dark furrowing of his heavy brows, a sudden shadow passing over his countenance. This much could be just as likely his reaction to her words. He shrugs, unfolds his arms, stalks into the office's empty space. "Uh, just rearranging stuff. Movin' furniture. I got some water, th'ice has melted but-- " Water. He has water. In... a pitcher... in the closet. Apparently. Because that's where he goes and where he gets the water out of. And a wine glass, reasonably clean. The dustrag disappears into the closet in trade. "What's on your mind, Weyrwoman."
Ah, comes Tialith's languid understanding. Do not. It is not for you to have. Her head tips so her breath blows across Ruvoth's muzzle. A softening of the chastisement.
Water? Is that...slang for something? But, no, out it comes. Water. "On my mind?" The words cause a tiny smile in the corner of Roa's mouth. One cannot say it's a happy thing. "That's what I came to see you about, actually. I..." she quiets, as she often does when about to speak of something genuine. Phrasing is key. "Tia," she begins, "took some thoughts and gave them to me. It was necessary. But. They're stuck. I can't...they just keep looping and I've got to tuck them away somehow. I thought. With the weyrlings. Maybe it's a problem you've dealt with before and you'd have some advice?"
Ruvoth rumbles and allows her breath to warm his snout, opening his eyes after it. But then he draws his head a little away from her. I am not that stupid, he objects, faintly petulant. And /she/ has gone in to see him. It will come to me anyway.
"Took 'em from where?" R'vain is a little light-hearted about this question, so that it might come across as a joke on Roa's grammar. He's not /quite/ light enough that it would be an ignorable question, though, if his literal interpretation of her words were correct in its understanding. Meanwhile he comes back to the desk and plants the wineglass there so he can pour water into it. "Well. I ain't shy of givin' advice if I got some, Weyrwoman, so you may as well try me." Casual-serious, he bends forward, sliding the glass over to her with one paw, thick fingers split around its stem and palm curved around the foot. He pauses there a moment, his hand on her glass, his gaze keen on her and a little too close. He looms, but the looming is not the threat she's accustomed to; he seems at best merely curious, maybe a bit concerned. Anyway the moment is brief and he backs up from the desk to retrieve his battered old chair from its 'spring cleaning' spot by the wall.
Perhaps it will. considers the gold. And then, slightly sullen, Some of it is my fault.
"From somewhere else," is the glib reply. Roa does accept the glass of water although, of course, she waits until R'vain's hand retreats before she leans forward to pick it up, cup it in her palms, take a sip. "I don't think naming the source is necessary. Sufficed to stay they are unpleasant, they are on loop, and I haven't slept in quite a while because of them. So, if you do have any suggestions or advice or some such. Some way to secure them more to the back of my head than sitting up at the front, I would appreciate it. Please."
Then tell me! Ruvoth only makes this demand when she claims blame; his head swings around so he can stare at her fully, in all his baleful force. Maybe I can help. And if I can't help, at least you will have told someone, and it won't be so heavy on you. There is something long-rehearsed about this argument, like he's used it before. Many times. Weyrling dragons? His own rider? In any case he emphasizes his point by dipping his nose toward her forepaws and letting out a little whuff.
"You want me t'tell you how to squash your own thinkin'?" R'vain sets his chair into place behind his desk and, after a moment just using it to lean on while he squints a keen eye at the Telgari, shakes his head and flops into the battered upholstery. "Uh. Well. There's fillin' your head with other things. Y'find something you're obsessed with, or that y'could get obsessed with, and think all about that. And there's emptying your head, and I could give you a good vintage out of Telgar f'that, maybe." He's only half serious; if she checks him, she'll find him wearing a crooked bit of a smile, then trying to hide it by raising a paw to rub across his red-grizzled chin and mouth. "Thing is, Weyrwoman, if they're in your own head now, th'fact that it was th'queen that gave 'em to you doesn't matter much. Y'got to cope like any other human being. Now, if she's just sharin' 'em over and over, well, she's old enough by now y'ought t'be able t'get her to stop...?"
I cannot. It is a secret. Complicated. The last word has an edge of distaste about it. Tialith dislikes complications when they trifle with her own emotions. Nothing is too heavy, she soothes, one eye cracking open and whirling slowly. But it is new, and I would see her more as she was before.
"I wanted..." What? What *did* she want? What is she *doing* here? Roa sits forward a little, brows drawing downwards into a small scowl. "Some exercises, I guess. Some way, besides wine, to quiet my head. I tried the basics but...well." She shakes her head slowly. "She might be caught up in the feedback, but I think it's more me than her at this point. You're right." A quick glance up to the red headed Weyrlingmaster. Did she just actually say those words to him? "It shouldn't matter. I'll...I'll just. Fix it."
"I ain't sure how you aim t'just fix it," retorts R'vain in a grunt, good-natured. He pulls himself and his chair with him closer to his side of the desk and puts up his paws on the edge of it, lacing thick fingers there. "Exercises. Well, if I got a weyrling who doesn't know his history or his maths or whatever quite right I'll make that his work: keeping th'mind busy with that so other things don't get in. You tried your studies? After that-- " He unlaces his hands, needing one to rub at his jaw some more. "Y'could meditate. Just clean your head clear out. Go out in th'rain and try t'listen so you can hear every single drop hit ground, or something that makes you focus on your senses. Then go inward from there until you can be in your own head without thinkin' what you don't want to think." A moment's pause, emerald gaze narrowing keen. He lowers his voice, growing gruffer, rougher in the effort. "What /have/ you got stuck in there, Weyrwoman?"
I dislike secrets, replies Ruvoth, as if this is an ethical statement. Perhaps for him it is. He disapproves, clearly-- but he allows her this single sin with a sigh upon her talons, then raises his head in such manner that his 'knobs gently nudge toward her chin.
Roa shakes her head slowly. "I'm sorry, but it's private. I've tried using my studies, but the rain." She tips her head down into a slow and thoughtful nod. "That I haven't done. I'll give it a go. See how it works. I...thank you, R'vain." There is perhaps some faint surprise in her voice. That she's saying it and meaning it too. "Very much."
So do I, comes the easy agreement. But she has asked me. So there you have it, because like Ruvoth, Tialith's loyalty to her rider is absolute. But her head does move so chin meets headknobs and rubs slowly with another whuffling sigh.
There is no room for compromise and this, Ruvoth recognizes. There is room, however, for a little comfort, a little affection. These he shares with Tialith as best she will allow him, with touch and thought, while they await her rider's exit from her strange choice of counsel.
"Private," laughs R'vain, but the laugh is short-- it lasts only as long as the word. "A'right, Weyrwoman. Anything I can do, y'know-- I'm here." He drops the one hand from his chin and raises the other from the table so he may show her both palms, helpless and willing.
Such offers are, of course, accepted by the gold. Touch and thought, when there is no one but Morley to watch.
"Well shells," Roa murmurs, picking up her glass again, letting the rim of it hover near her lips. "I really must be unhinged, when that makes me feel better." Sip. "How are you, then? Troubles touched you much?"
"Whatever y'do, don't let me feel like I might be of any good t'you," snorts the Weyrlingmaster, not unpleasantly, and drops his hands again to the edge of the desk, folding them there, one thumb tapping a silent drumbeat out atop the other hand. "Troubles. Uh. Well, T'zen. And Tavaly. And th'weyrlings. So honest up there ain't been much t'see here that ain't trouble except Essdara and you, and not you no longer." He cracks up a quick grin at her, then finds himself again staring at his hands. "I, uh, took a rest day w'th'lil'girl." That last is all one smear of a word; he'd make it one syllable if he could.
Maybe he's lucky or maybe *she's* lucky that she spends most of R'vain's words staring down into the water and the way the half-cleaned room is reflected, long and distorted, around the perimeter. Then she lifts the glass, closing one eye and peering with the other, through the water, at the Weyrlingmaster. He's a blur, a smudge of red hair and pale skin and brown leather. An impression. A smear. And then the glass is lowered, both eyes open, and there he is again, glaring at his hands, multidimensional and human. "Huh," Roa murmurs softly. And then, ignoring all the rest and honing in on that word of a sentence, "How did it go?"
"I dunno. Ask her when she can talk." He glances up, brows furrowed so his eyes are cast in their shadows. "I walked with her 'round the edge of the lake and talked a bit and we watched a couple of weyrling dragons doing stretches. Or I watched and she sorta sat there in my arm. She's not very big." As compared to him, of course, so many things are not very big. "I guess she's a good baby? Th'nannies didn't seem t'think I'd have trouble with her and I didn't, much." He stares down at his hands again, where his thumb stops moving and lies still. "I wish she had her mother t'take her places. I don't know what you're s'posed to do with a baby."
"I don't think you're supposed to know. Far as I can tell, none of them come with instructions posted anywhere on them." Roa is slowly turning the glass by its stem, letting glowlight wink through the clear liquid. "Can you tell when she's happy?"
"Yeah!" This answer comes too fast, and should she look up from her water at him, she'll find him suddenly red, the freckles fading against this new backdrop. He grunts, as if in doing so he could negate the quick reply. "Uh, she smiles. And laughs, sometimes, or makes little noises. Got t'say weird stuff makes a baby happy." Like having a bowel movement, maybe; his nose wrinkles, anyway, and he looks away. "Don't ever get one yourself, Weyrwoman. They make you stupid, staring at their tiny fingers and stuff. No good in it."
"Oh," there's a soft laugh and a quick shake of Roa's head. "Don't worry on that account. I'm no sort of mothering material." A small pause where she does look up from the water. "She's...everything's all right? I mean, nobody's tried to..." but unable to clarify, the words just trail away.
Dark. "She was fine when I saw her, Weyrwoman." The blush is gone and he just stares at her now, green-eyed, sharp-toothed, jaw angled slightly open. Tell him he might have endangered his daughter. Tell him, he dares it.
Well this is interesting. Brows draw down, head tips to the side and the Telgari quips lightly, "Don't you glower at me. In case you haven't noticed, I have a detail of guards tailing me around the clock. I'm starting to know what trouble looks like. Riann, with no protection and the rumors that have been floating around, seems like trouble. I didn't mean it as a personal attack."
At the very start-- 'don't you glower at me'-- a pleased, oh so pleased, sneaky hungry wolfish little grin starts to creep out across his mouth, quite ruining the dark look. By the time she's done he's positively prepared to eat her alive and savor every taste. It's a wonder he doesn't start climbing over the desk, the way his eyes glint, the way they turn hard and shine her reflection back at her as surely as the water in the glass. It's a wonder he hasn't moved, for all that without so much as a muscular twitch it suddenly seems he's so much closer, warmer, bigger than a moment before. The moment stretches long and he watches her through it, then gathers himself enough to lap his lips with his tongue so they're not too dry for speaking and say, "What trouble looks like." A pause. More gathering. So distracted. He speaks his daughter's name-- "Riann-- " and the bubble bursts. R'vain slumps back into his chair, paws flopped impotent on the upholstered arms. "They already got her mother. D'you really think they're goin' t'still want her too?"
Oh. Boy. If Roa had expected something at her little snark it certainly was not that...that...whatever the shells the Weyrlingmaster is currently doing with his face. Her eyes hold his as they glint, because to look away seems the greater amount of trouble. But the glass is slowly set on the desk so both of her hands are free and there's a quiet, coiling sort of tension building in her shoulders. A preparation for motion, should motion be necessary. But all of that vanishes as soon as R'vain goes limp. "I don't know what they want," she says, soft and solemn. "If I did, they'd be caught."
R'vain lets out a frustrated clack of teeth, a beast snapping at a taunting hand he can't reach from the bars of his cage. "This is about your Captain, ain't it." The gaze that went distant for a moment comes back to her now, unthreatening. If anything, he looks tired. Maybe these shows take more out of him than they used to. More likely, gnawing concern for his daughter wearies him.
"In part," Roa says softly, "It's about Jensen, yes." Her eyes close slowly but, ah, yes, the nightmares. Lids are snapping open again, even that brief respite currently denied her. One can only hope it will rain soon. "She's tied to him. That's a good thing and a bad thing, just now. I know you don't think much of his skills, but I do" Fine words for a man who just confessed to murder and sabotage. "I don't like that as soon as he's out of the picture, I'm hearing mutterings about her in the kitchens."
"Jensen." He repeats the other man's name with all the fondness he would use in naming a rival for a contested property or a lady's favors, and shakes his head over it. "Well, skills or not, he's in no position just now to-- " Pause. The rewinding and replaying of Roa's last few words in R'vain's head is almost visible, almost audible. Teeth show. Through them he grits out, "Heard. What. Muttered. About her?"
The weyrwoman's eyebrows lift slowly, and her expression is tipping into something less relaxed. "You...haven't?" This seems less good. The fewer people who've heard such things, the more likely it wasn't just idle chatter. "There was someone, in the kitchens. Trying to talk to one of the nannies eating breakfast about her schedule. I..." frown, "perhaps he was just trying to flirt with the woman?" No, it's clear from Roa's tone that *she's* not even buying this excuse.
"Weyrwoman, even I can figure out that y'don't get into a nanny's bloomers by suggesting there's harm coming to a baby child." R'vain, too, is skeptical. And dark again, too. He leans forward once more, lowering his chin so he can give the little Telgari one of his most meaningful glares outside the realm of I'm-going-to-eat-you-now-my-lovey. "Tell me what you heard."
"No," she begins calmly. "He wasn't...threatening. Just pressing. When does she eat. When do the shifts change. When does she nap. It was odd. It wasn't...it was only odd." Roa's fingers thread. "Shells," her eyes close...snap open...teeth grit. "It just won't stop. Can't anything keep still for a fucking minute?" This last is whispered, her own eyes glinting as she stares off into a tidied corner of the office.
Thick red brows slink upward, an uncommon gesture on the Weyrlingmaster's part. Roa cusses, and does so casually. Fascinating. "A'right," he says, in his rumbling rough effort at being softspoken, and leans forward so he can reach a paw across the table. It's meant to offer comfort. "I ain't tryin' t'make you think on it if it's bugging you. I just, y'know, she's." His daughter. "What d'you want me t'do?"
Roa seems, at least, to be aware of the cuss, her lips pressing together quickly after, as if trying to catch the inappropriate word too late. Certain Lieutenants have had a bad influence on her clean language. She turns to look at R'vain with a small shake of her head. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I just...I. Just." A small swallow. "Do you have any connections, R'vain? Anywhere she might get fostered for a while? Until things calm or someone is caught or...it's safer here?"
The paw retracts, slowly. "Sian had all th'connections," he replies, as low as his voice gets, suppressed until it's a throaty rasp. "We were goin' t'send her t'one of th'Holds." But he told her that before, and it's no use to him now. R'vain's hand curls into a fist on his edge of the table, and he stares at it for a time. Suddenly it raises and comes back down, BAM, making the wood shudder. The fist pulses there, fingers tightening and loosening in fits. Rage. His face is red.
Roa's eyes snap to the fist. Slammed. One hand lifts, palm out in a 'stop' gesture. Or it would be if her fingers weren't slightly curled. "Shhhh..." she either soothes or chastises. "I'm thinking. She's not getting lost, all right?" Her jaw works as she chews her lower lip. "There's Telgar Weyr possibly. Although I can't see as owing S'lien anything would be smart for anyone."
"I don't care who I owe. I want her t'grow up right." And alive. R'vain stares a moment longer at his twitching fist, then whams the table another time, much more gently, just a helpless display of frustration. "Would she be safe there? D'you have - family?" He looks at her funny just now, as if the idea that Roa could have relatives has come to him as a surprise.
"Family?" Roa looks up sharply and her eyes widen. "At Telgar," and shoulders relax again. "There was a woman who fostered me. And five other children. She's...nice." Not exactly a glowing recommendation there. "She won't take on anyone under six turns, though. I don't really know anyone else. There. I could write to S'lien though..." and wait for him to write back. And write to him again to make arrangements. And wait for those arrangements to be implemented...
BAM. Fist on table. Clearly S'lien won't do. "Weyrwoman, y'got no intention of putting my daughter in your Weyrleader's hands. /I/ got no intention of sending her there. If you came here t'warn me, fine." His nostrils flare and for a moment R'vain seethes, searching out his next raging words. "I'll hire some wench t'come stay at my side day an' night so I can protect her myself. How's that?" Obviously unfitting. It's not even really a solution, just an expression of his frustration, and after saying it he draws back his hand from the desk to splay his palm wide over his face.
"Family," Roa repeats again softly. She doesn't even seem to notice this latest fist slam. She is having, possibly, the worst idea on the face of the planet, and her gaze is distant as she works it over, under, and around. "I...all right. This is, rather admittedly, a desperate measure. Very very desperate." But maybe not as bad as having R'vain watch her himself, and couched in the best euphemism she can scrounge up from her thoughts, "I could...arrange to have her sent. To Diya." and now she is watching the Weyrlingmaster. His face.
His face would be largely obscured by the splay of his fingers just now, but even what few features are partly visible betray some softening that might telegraph some sparing element of hope. Slowly the paw drags down, distorting his face as it goes, to finally come to rest cradling his chin, thumb up over his broad mouth. "Diya," he says from behind his thumb, rasping, reverent. "Now there'd be th'thing. Safer from Samien than she could ever be. Raised up right. Dragonrider and Blood too." R'vain lets out a huff through his nostrils and slams his hand down on the desk yet another time, though this time his palm lands flat rather than curled in a fist. There's a problem; leaning over his hand he leans closer to the Telgari to explain it. "But she's gone solo. Is she even safe herself? How could she take on th'burden?"
A slow blink and carefully carefully schooled features before the twitch of eyebrows can betray anything. Roa simply watching R'vain as he speaks, blinking slowly. "I don't know," she says softly. "Safe enough for Nenuith to rise and, as far as we know, grow egg heavy. The rest of it...I don't know. It could be managed, I think."
"We'd know if she weren't cooking, I think. Knowing she got flown." About this notion R'vain frowns, his frown dark, thoughtful, bitter. His gaze goes off into half distance, fixing on nothing, focused on faraway things. His mouth twitches unhappily and the hand on the desk curls up slow, rough nails digging into the wood like a dragon's claws. "I want her back here, Weyrwoman." He speaks first, focuses his eyes on her second. They burn green fire, eerie, starved in a way she's rarely-- perhaps never-- seen. It threatens her little, or else it threatens everything. "I want 'em both back here. Do it. And tell her whose she is." So the pronouns are a little sloppy. His intent ought to be frighteningly clear.
Roa sucks in a slow breath through her nose, but she just nods at first. Once. "You'll need to come up with somewhere she's gone and get the word out. And get her things packed. Tomorrow night. I'll need everything ready by then, and a way to get her without dealing with Wistella. I'm not playing *that* game again."
"Somewhere no one'll think t'go make sure she's there?" R'vain snorts. "A'right. Some cothold in east bumblefuck it'll be." With the palm planted on the desk he has every capacity to push himself up sudden from his decrepit throne and start a prowling pace around the clear part of the office. "I'll get her out in her pretty dress for th'celebration. Get her clothes like I'm gonna maybe have her overnight somewhere with someone." Thinking on his feet he comes up with things that are at least borderline plausible. Wistella, of course, will get the biggest charge out of all of this. "S'good because I can have her a while. Say g'bye a bit. Then I'll have V'to bring her t'your weyr."
Roa is nodding slowly, each bit of R'vain's plan heard and approved. Until the last. Her weyr. "R'vain," his name is a gentle chastisement. "I'm Telgari. I live in the barracks." Had he forgotten?
R'vain's pacing stops abruptly and he turns on a bootheel to stare at her. His jaw works to no avail for a moment, and then he swallows hard and comes up to his side of the desk again. "You're Reaches'," he says there, planting his hands and leaning over, speaking low and with a vehement passion. "I'll fix that somehow, I swear it." Nostrils flare. "Where d'you want t'meet him, then."
And now there is a little surprise writ on the Telgari's features. She hadn't expected...but. Question. "Guest Weyr," she says simply. "When dinner starts. I'll wait there, and make sure he understands he'll have to keep quiet about helping." A pause. "Make sure *nicely*," she amends.
R'vain straightens. "Good enough. And he's good. One thing he's managed t'learn is when t'keep his face closed." The Weyrlingmaster turns around away from her, thick arms folding over his broad chest, and with vague discontentedness he watches the empty space he's created in the office sit there and be empty space. "Anything else, Weyrwoman?" His voice is low. Creaky. Cracking.
There is more listening and then a slow stand from Roa's chair. Anything else? "Don't drink. After I leave." a small pause. "Don't look for me, either. After the party. Or the next day. I'll come see you the day after, let you know how it went. Okay?"
"I ain't planning on drinking," grunts R'vain. "I'll see you th'next day then." He doesn't turn around; plainly he expects her to leave him.
"Good," Roa murmurs softly. "Thank you again. About the rain." And then, for once, Roa does what the Weyrlingmaster expects, turns, and leaves.
He listens to her as she goes out, but does not even steal a glance. Once she's gone he turns around and lets out a roar of a sigh, exasperated and pained and-- well, anything, really, to avoid crying. So he stalks up to the desk and BAM slams down his fist yet another time. "Faranth's fat fanny flaps," he hisses for his own benefit. "Where do women get off tryin' t'stop a man having at a good bottle."
Time: Late Afternoon on Day 22, Month 6, Turn 2
Players: Roa, R'vain, Ruvoth, Tialith
Scene: If anybody has been wondering how in the world Roa managed to not only get Riann packing to the island, but how she did it with R'vain's approval and support...well...here's how it all went down.
Weyrlingmaster's Office
Like any office, this one is entirely given over to the business at hand. Large enough to call several weyrlings onto the carpet, should the need exist, its walls are lined with storage cabinets and chests holding everything from spare straps to old records describing antiquated drill lessons to emergency first aid equipment for humans and dragons. The center of the room is taken up by an immense desk and whether it's neat or chaotic depends on the resident weyrlingmaster. A semi-circle of four chairs sit opposite the desk, facing the single chair that decorates its proper side.
Though Roa and Tialith arrive together, the rider is simply walking, the queen padding quietly alongside. Trailing behind them, perhaps redundantly considering the sheer mass of gold dragon, is the guard Morley who situates himself in a spot by the door. Roa's head is somewhat down, shoulders rolled a little forward as she trudges through the main area and up to the Weyrlingmaster's Office. There is no hesitation, no quiet grumbling. There's only a quick rap-rap-rap on the closed door. Something is clearly wrong here.
Ruvoth dozes near the entrance to the barracks. Maybe it's the young queen's gait or some subtle draconic perfume that wakes him, but for whatever reason the monster bronze lifts his huge head and cracks open an eye. It might seem, from the curve of his maw, that he smiles. A little tendril of adoration reaches out to Tialith, subtle as he can make himself-- 'I see you, booful,' and not much more.
It takes a few seconds, but then the door swings open inward, R'vain on its other side. The office is clean. Well, it's always clean in a sense-- the furnishings are sparse to make the small space seem as large as it can possibly be, and the Weyrlingmaster typically keeps his 'junk' crammed into the cupboard-closet inset in the wall-- but it's especially clean at the moment, and his desk has been shoved over at an angle so about a third of the room stands conspicuously empty. The man has in one massive paw a rag, apparently damp and lined with dust from something recently wiped. He blinks first, to see Roa there, to see the backdrop of her entourage behind her. Then he cracks wide a toothy grin and growls through it, "Hey, Weyrwoman." Not entirely dense, he does also ask, "What's th'matter?"
Tialith notices, well, perhaps it is the smile or the thought. Perhaps both, though the one, the little psionic offering is coiled up close to her almost greedily. Like someone thirsty who finds there are only the dregs left in a cup and must make do. She settles herself near the reclining bronze. Not *too* near of course, but near enough. Her head and neck lower and she wuffles faintly. There is, in her thoughts, a calm and stillness that is usually absent. Restraint, maybe. A tighter self control than is typical for the mercurial gold.
Roa, for her part looks...okay. Let's say it. She looks awful. Skin is too pale, heavy circles under her eyes, a quiet tension in her face and features. She did, at least, manage to straighten her head and lift her shoulders as the door opens, and there is, at least, a glance beyond and a quizzical brow arch. Cleaning? "Could I come in, please?" is all she asks.
"Of course, Weyrwoman." The grin vanishes, though a trace of its hunger remains in the keen emerald glint of his eyes. That sharpness might just come across as meanness, though, when he allows her past him and then steps forward to close the door behind her-- before he does so, he glances outside at her guard, and at that moment there is mistrust enough to knit a sweater out of. R'vain turns around to put his back to the door, crossing his arms over his chest. "Don't look like they're doin' any kind of good job of looking after you, girl," he says, and stops just short of clucking disapprovingly. "Siddown and I'll find you something t'drink."
Ruvoth looks long at the queen from one eye, head canted, nostrils pulsing-- a tic untimed with his breaths. The bronze is thinking hard, and working hard to keep his thoughts his own so all Tialith can feel from him is another little swirling curl of affection and... comfort. The strain is evident in his posture, in the flaring and narrowing of his nostrils.
There is a small exhalation from the gold, another quiet acceptance of the comfort. But as her eyes close, lid by lid by lid, the thought comes floating towards Ruvoth, wry, bemused, You are terrible at secrets. Tell me.
In she steps, and over to a seat before the awkwardly placed desk. Roa sinks down, tipping her head back, though her eyes remain open. "I'm afraid they can't much keep me safe from my own thoughts," she muses. One hand comes up to rub the back of her neck, before it falls into her lap again. The movement causes the collar of her shirt to shift just slightly and there is a moment, before the cloth settles, that a small, dark purple spot can be seen at the juncture of shoulder and throat. But then it's hidden again. Unaware, the weyrwoman only queries idly, "Spring cleaning?"
Ruvoth's neck droops, bowing his head. I was trying to decide what might be wrong, he confesses simply, and lets his own eyelids drift shut too.
If R'vain sees the bruise, it's reflected only in a dark furrowing of his heavy brows, a sudden shadow passing over his countenance. This much could be just as likely his reaction to her words. He shrugs, unfolds his arms, stalks into the office's empty space. "Uh, just rearranging stuff. Movin' furniture. I got some water, th'ice has melted but-- " Water. He has water. In... a pitcher... in the closet. Apparently. Because that's where he goes and where he gets the water out of. And a wine glass, reasonably clean. The dustrag disappears into the closet in trade. "What's on your mind, Weyrwoman."
Ah, comes Tialith's languid understanding. Do not. It is not for you to have. Her head tips so her breath blows across Ruvoth's muzzle. A softening of the chastisement.
Water? Is that...slang for something? But, no, out it comes. Water. "On my mind?" The words cause a tiny smile in the corner of Roa's mouth. One cannot say it's a happy thing. "That's what I came to see you about, actually. I..." she quiets, as she often does when about to speak of something genuine. Phrasing is key. "Tia," she begins, "took some thoughts and gave them to me. It was necessary. But. They're stuck. I can't...they just keep looping and I've got to tuck them away somehow. I thought. With the weyrlings. Maybe it's a problem you've dealt with before and you'd have some advice?"
Ruvoth rumbles and allows her breath to warm his snout, opening his eyes after it. But then he draws his head a little away from her. I am not that stupid, he objects, faintly petulant. And /she/ has gone in to see him. It will come to me anyway.
"Took 'em from where?" R'vain is a little light-hearted about this question, so that it might come across as a joke on Roa's grammar. He's not /quite/ light enough that it would be an ignorable question, though, if his literal interpretation of her words were correct in its understanding. Meanwhile he comes back to the desk and plants the wineglass there so he can pour water into it. "Well. I ain't shy of givin' advice if I got some, Weyrwoman, so you may as well try me." Casual-serious, he bends forward, sliding the glass over to her with one paw, thick fingers split around its stem and palm curved around the foot. He pauses there a moment, his hand on her glass, his gaze keen on her and a little too close. He looms, but the looming is not the threat she's accustomed to; he seems at best merely curious, maybe a bit concerned. Anyway the moment is brief and he backs up from the desk to retrieve his battered old chair from its 'spring cleaning' spot by the wall.
Perhaps it will. considers the gold. And then, slightly sullen, Some of it is my fault.
"From somewhere else," is the glib reply. Roa does accept the glass of water although, of course, she waits until R'vain's hand retreats before she leans forward to pick it up, cup it in her palms, take a sip. "I don't think naming the source is necessary. Sufficed to stay they are unpleasant, they are on loop, and I haven't slept in quite a while because of them. So, if you do have any suggestions or advice or some such. Some way to secure them more to the back of my head than sitting up at the front, I would appreciate it. Please."
Then tell me! Ruvoth only makes this demand when she claims blame; his head swings around so he can stare at her fully, in all his baleful force. Maybe I can help. And if I can't help, at least you will have told someone, and it won't be so heavy on you. There is something long-rehearsed about this argument, like he's used it before. Many times. Weyrling dragons? His own rider? In any case he emphasizes his point by dipping his nose toward her forepaws and letting out a little whuff.
"You want me t'tell you how to squash your own thinkin'?" R'vain sets his chair into place behind his desk and, after a moment just using it to lean on while he squints a keen eye at the Telgari, shakes his head and flops into the battered upholstery. "Uh. Well. There's fillin' your head with other things. Y'find something you're obsessed with, or that y'could get obsessed with, and think all about that. And there's emptying your head, and I could give you a good vintage out of Telgar f'that, maybe." He's only half serious; if she checks him, she'll find him wearing a crooked bit of a smile, then trying to hide it by raising a paw to rub across his red-grizzled chin and mouth. "Thing is, Weyrwoman, if they're in your own head now, th'fact that it was th'queen that gave 'em to you doesn't matter much. Y'got to cope like any other human being. Now, if she's just sharin' 'em over and over, well, she's old enough by now y'ought t'be able t'get her to stop...?"
I cannot. It is a secret. Complicated. The last word has an edge of distaste about it. Tialith dislikes complications when they trifle with her own emotions. Nothing is too heavy, she soothes, one eye cracking open and whirling slowly. But it is new, and I would see her more as she was before.
"I wanted..." What? What *did* she want? What is she *doing* here? Roa sits forward a little, brows drawing downwards into a small scowl. "Some exercises, I guess. Some way, besides wine, to quiet my head. I tried the basics but...well." She shakes her head slowly. "She might be caught up in the feedback, but I think it's more me than her at this point. You're right." A quick glance up to the red headed Weyrlingmaster. Did she just actually say those words to him? "It shouldn't matter. I'll...I'll just. Fix it."
"I ain't sure how you aim t'just fix it," retorts R'vain in a grunt, good-natured. He pulls himself and his chair with him closer to his side of the desk and puts up his paws on the edge of it, lacing thick fingers there. "Exercises. Well, if I got a weyrling who doesn't know his history or his maths or whatever quite right I'll make that his work: keeping th'mind busy with that so other things don't get in. You tried your studies? After that-- " He unlaces his hands, needing one to rub at his jaw some more. "Y'could meditate. Just clean your head clear out. Go out in th'rain and try t'listen so you can hear every single drop hit ground, or something that makes you focus on your senses. Then go inward from there until you can be in your own head without thinkin' what you don't want to think." A moment's pause, emerald gaze narrowing keen. He lowers his voice, growing gruffer, rougher in the effort. "What /have/ you got stuck in there, Weyrwoman?"
I dislike secrets, replies Ruvoth, as if this is an ethical statement. Perhaps for him it is. He disapproves, clearly-- but he allows her this single sin with a sigh upon her talons, then raises his head in such manner that his 'knobs gently nudge toward her chin.
Roa shakes her head slowly. "I'm sorry, but it's private. I've tried using my studies, but the rain." She tips her head down into a slow and thoughtful nod. "That I haven't done. I'll give it a go. See how it works. I...thank you, R'vain." There is perhaps some faint surprise in her voice. That she's saying it and meaning it too. "Very much."
So do I, comes the easy agreement. But she has asked me. So there you have it, because like Ruvoth, Tialith's loyalty to her rider is absolute. But her head does move so chin meets headknobs and rubs slowly with another whuffling sigh.
There is no room for compromise and this, Ruvoth recognizes. There is room, however, for a little comfort, a little affection. These he shares with Tialith as best she will allow him, with touch and thought, while they await her rider's exit from her strange choice of counsel.
"Private," laughs R'vain, but the laugh is short-- it lasts only as long as the word. "A'right, Weyrwoman. Anything I can do, y'know-- I'm here." He drops the one hand from his chin and raises the other from the table so he may show her both palms, helpless and willing.
Such offers are, of course, accepted by the gold. Touch and thought, when there is no one but Morley to watch.
"Well shells," Roa murmurs, picking up her glass again, letting the rim of it hover near her lips. "I really must be unhinged, when that makes me feel better." Sip. "How are you, then? Troubles touched you much?"
"Whatever y'do, don't let me feel like I might be of any good t'you," snorts the Weyrlingmaster, not unpleasantly, and drops his hands again to the edge of the desk, folding them there, one thumb tapping a silent drumbeat out atop the other hand. "Troubles. Uh. Well, T'zen. And Tavaly. And th'weyrlings. So honest up there ain't been much t'see here that ain't trouble except Essdara and you, and not you no longer." He cracks up a quick grin at her, then finds himself again staring at his hands. "I, uh, took a rest day w'th'lil'girl." That last is all one smear of a word; he'd make it one syllable if he could.
Maybe he's lucky or maybe *she's* lucky that she spends most of R'vain's words staring down into the water and the way the half-cleaned room is reflected, long and distorted, around the perimeter. Then she lifts the glass, closing one eye and peering with the other, through the water, at the Weyrlingmaster. He's a blur, a smudge of red hair and pale skin and brown leather. An impression. A smear. And then the glass is lowered, both eyes open, and there he is again, glaring at his hands, multidimensional and human. "Huh," Roa murmurs softly. And then, ignoring all the rest and honing in on that word of a sentence, "How did it go?"
"I dunno. Ask her when she can talk." He glances up, brows furrowed so his eyes are cast in their shadows. "I walked with her 'round the edge of the lake and talked a bit and we watched a couple of weyrling dragons doing stretches. Or I watched and she sorta sat there in my arm. She's not very big." As compared to him, of course, so many things are not very big. "I guess she's a good baby? Th'nannies didn't seem t'think I'd have trouble with her and I didn't, much." He stares down at his hands again, where his thumb stops moving and lies still. "I wish she had her mother t'take her places. I don't know what you're s'posed to do with a baby."
"I don't think you're supposed to know. Far as I can tell, none of them come with instructions posted anywhere on them." Roa is slowly turning the glass by its stem, letting glowlight wink through the clear liquid. "Can you tell when she's happy?"
"Yeah!" This answer comes too fast, and should she look up from her water at him, she'll find him suddenly red, the freckles fading against this new backdrop. He grunts, as if in doing so he could negate the quick reply. "Uh, she smiles. And laughs, sometimes, or makes little noises. Got t'say weird stuff makes a baby happy." Like having a bowel movement, maybe; his nose wrinkles, anyway, and he looks away. "Don't ever get one yourself, Weyrwoman. They make you stupid, staring at their tiny fingers and stuff. No good in it."
"Oh," there's a soft laugh and a quick shake of Roa's head. "Don't worry on that account. I'm no sort of mothering material." A small pause where she does look up from the water. "She's...everything's all right? I mean, nobody's tried to..." but unable to clarify, the words just trail away.
Dark. "She was fine when I saw her, Weyrwoman." The blush is gone and he just stares at her now, green-eyed, sharp-toothed, jaw angled slightly open. Tell him he might have endangered his daughter. Tell him, he dares it.
Well this is interesting. Brows draw down, head tips to the side and the Telgari quips lightly, "Don't you glower at me. In case you haven't noticed, I have a detail of guards tailing me around the clock. I'm starting to know what trouble looks like. Riann, with no protection and the rumors that have been floating around, seems like trouble. I didn't mean it as a personal attack."
At the very start-- 'don't you glower at me'-- a pleased, oh so pleased, sneaky hungry wolfish little grin starts to creep out across his mouth, quite ruining the dark look. By the time she's done he's positively prepared to eat her alive and savor every taste. It's a wonder he doesn't start climbing over the desk, the way his eyes glint, the way they turn hard and shine her reflection back at her as surely as the water in the glass. It's a wonder he hasn't moved, for all that without so much as a muscular twitch it suddenly seems he's so much closer, warmer, bigger than a moment before. The moment stretches long and he watches her through it, then gathers himself enough to lap his lips with his tongue so they're not too dry for speaking and say, "What trouble looks like." A pause. More gathering. So distracted. He speaks his daughter's name-- "Riann-- " and the bubble bursts. R'vain slumps back into his chair, paws flopped impotent on the upholstered arms. "They already got her mother. D'you really think they're goin' t'still want her too?"
Oh. Boy. If Roa had expected something at her little snark it certainly was not that...that...whatever the shells the Weyrlingmaster is currently doing with his face. Her eyes hold his as they glint, because to look away seems the greater amount of trouble. But the glass is slowly set on the desk so both of her hands are free and there's a quiet, coiling sort of tension building in her shoulders. A preparation for motion, should motion be necessary. But all of that vanishes as soon as R'vain goes limp. "I don't know what they want," she says, soft and solemn. "If I did, they'd be caught."
R'vain lets out a frustrated clack of teeth, a beast snapping at a taunting hand he can't reach from the bars of his cage. "This is about your Captain, ain't it." The gaze that went distant for a moment comes back to her now, unthreatening. If anything, he looks tired. Maybe these shows take more out of him than they used to. More likely, gnawing concern for his daughter wearies him.
"In part," Roa says softly, "It's about Jensen, yes." Her eyes close slowly but, ah, yes, the nightmares. Lids are snapping open again, even that brief respite currently denied her. One can only hope it will rain soon. "She's tied to him. That's a good thing and a bad thing, just now. I know you don't think much of his skills, but I do" Fine words for a man who just confessed to murder and sabotage. "I don't like that as soon as he's out of the picture, I'm hearing mutterings about her in the kitchens."
"Jensen." He repeats the other man's name with all the fondness he would use in naming a rival for a contested property or a lady's favors, and shakes his head over it. "Well, skills or not, he's in no position just now to-- " Pause. The rewinding and replaying of Roa's last few words in R'vain's head is almost visible, almost audible. Teeth show. Through them he grits out, "Heard. What. Muttered. About her?"
The weyrwoman's eyebrows lift slowly, and her expression is tipping into something less relaxed. "You...haven't?" This seems less good. The fewer people who've heard such things, the more likely it wasn't just idle chatter. "There was someone, in the kitchens. Trying to talk to one of the nannies eating breakfast about her schedule. I..." frown, "perhaps he was just trying to flirt with the woman?" No, it's clear from Roa's tone that *she's* not even buying this excuse.
"Weyrwoman, even I can figure out that y'don't get into a nanny's bloomers by suggesting there's harm coming to a baby child." R'vain, too, is skeptical. And dark again, too. He leans forward once more, lowering his chin so he can give the little Telgari one of his most meaningful glares outside the realm of I'm-going-to-eat-you-now-my-lovey. "Tell me what you heard."
"No," she begins calmly. "He wasn't...threatening. Just pressing. When does she eat. When do the shifts change. When does she nap. It was odd. It wasn't...it was only odd." Roa's fingers thread. "Shells," her eyes close...snap open...teeth grit. "It just won't stop. Can't anything keep still for a fucking minute?" This last is whispered, her own eyes glinting as she stares off into a tidied corner of the office.
Thick red brows slink upward, an uncommon gesture on the Weyrlingmaster's part. Roa cusses, and does so casually. Fascinating. "A'right," he says, in his rumbling rough effort at being softspoken, and leans forward so he can reach a paw across the table. It's meant to offer comfort. "I ain't tryin' t'make you think on it if it's bugging you. I just, y'know, she's." His daughter. "What d'you want me t'do?"
Roa seems, at least, to be aware of the cuss, her lips pressing together quickly after, as if trying to catch the inappropriate word too late. Certain Lieutenants have had a bad influence on her clean language. She turns to look at R'vain with a small shake of her head. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I just...I. Just." A small swallow. "Do you have any connections, R'vain? Anywhere she might get fostered for a while? Until things calm or someone is caught or...it's safer here?"
The paw retracts, slowly. "Sian had all th'connections," he replies, as low as his voice gets, suppressed until it's a throaty rasp. "We were goin' t'send her t'one of th'Holds." But he told her that before, and it's no use to him now. R'vain's hand curls into a fist on his edge of the table, and he stares at it for a time. Suddenly it raises and comes back down, BAM, making the wood shudder. The fist pulses there, fingers tightening and loosening in fits. Rage. His face is red.
Roa's eyes snap to the fist. Slammed. One hand lifts, palm out in a 'stop' gesture. Or it would be if her fingers weren't slightly curled. "Shhhh..." she either soothes or chastises. "I'm thinking. She's not getting lost, all right?" Her jaw works as she chews her lower lip. "There's Telgar Weyr possibly. Although I can't see as owing S'lien anything would be smart for anyone."
"I don't care who I owe. I want her t'grow up right." And alive. R'vain stares a moment longer at his twitching fist, then whams the table another time, much more gently, just a helpless display of frustration. "Would she be safe there? D'you have - family?" He looks at her funny just now, as if the idea that Roa could have relatives has come to him as a surprise.
"Family?" Roa looks up sharply and her eyes widen. "At Telgar," and shoulders relax again. "There was a woman who fostered me. And five other children. She's...nice." Not exactly a glowing recommendation there. "She won't take on anyone under six turns, though. I don't really know anyone else. There. I could write to S'lien though..." and wait for him to write back. And write to him again to make arrangements. And wait for those arrangements to be implemented...
BAM. Fist on table. Clearly S'lien won't do. "Weyrwoman, y'got no intention of putting my daughter in your Weyrleader's hands. /I/ got no intention of sending her there. If you came here t'warn me, fine." His nostrils flare and for a moment R'vain seethes, searching out his next raging words. "I'll hire some wench t'come stay at my side day an' night so I can protect her myself. How's that?" Obviously unfitting. It's not even really a solution, just an expression of his frustration, and after saying it he draws back his hand from the desk to splay his palm wide over his face.
"Family," Roa repeats again softly. She doesn't even seem to notice this latest fist slam. She is having, possibly, the worst idea on the face of the planet, and her gaze is distant as she works it over, under, and around. "I...all right. This is, rather admittedly, a desperate measure. Very very desperate." But maybe not as bad as having R'vain watch her himself, and couched in the best euphemism she can scrounge up from her thoughts, "I could...arrange to have her sent. To Diya." and now she is watching the Weyrlingmaster. His face.
His face would be largely obscured by the splay of his fingers just now, but even what few features are partly visible betray some softening that might telegraph some sparing element of hope. Slowly the paw drags down, distorting his face as it goes, to finally come to rest cradling his chin, thumb up over his broad mouth. "Diya," he says from behind his thumb, rasping, reverent. "Now there'd be th'thing. Safer from Samien than she could ever be. Raised up right. Dragonrider and Blood too." R'vain lets out a huff through his nostrils and slams his hand down on the desk yet another time, though this time his palm lands flat rather than curled in a fist. There's a problem; leaning over his hand he leans closer to the Telgari to explain it. "But she's gone solo. Is she even safe herself? How could she take on th'burden?"
A slow blink and carefully carefully schooled features before the twitch of eyebrows can betray anything. Roa simply watching R'vain as he speaks, blinking slowly. "I don't know," she says softly. "Safe enough for Nenuith to rise and, as far as we know, grow egg heavy. The rest of it...I don't know. It could be managed, I think."
"We'd know if she weren't cooking, I think. Knowing she got flown." About this notion R'vain frowns, his frown dark, thoughtful, bitter. His gaze goes off into half distance, fixing on nothing, focused on faraway things. His mouth twitches unhappily and the hand on the desk curls up slow, rough nails digging into the wood like a dragon's claws. "I want her back here, Weyrwoman." He speaks first, focuses his eyes on her second. They burn green fire, eerie, starved in a way she's rarely-- perhaps never-- seen. It threatens her little, or else it threatens everything. "I want 'em both back here. Do it. And tell her whose she is." So the pronouns are a little sloppy. His intent ought to be frighteningly clear.
Roa sucks in a slow breath through her nose, but she just nods at first. Once. "You'll need to come up with somewhere she's gone and get the word out. And get her things packed. Tomorrow night. I'll need everything ready by then, and a way to get her without dealing with Wistella. I'm not playing *that* game again."
"Somewhere no one'll think t'go make sure she's there?" R'vain snorts. "A'right. Some cothold in east bumblefuck it'll be." With the palm planted on the desk he has every capacity to push himself up sudden from his decrepit throne and start a prowling pace around the clear part of the office. "I'll get her out in her pretty dress for th'celebration. Get her clothes like I'm gonna maybe have her overnight somewhere with someone." Thinking on his feet he comes up with things that are at least borderline plausible. Wistella, of course, will get the biggest charge out of all of this. "S'good because I can have her a while. Say g'bye a bit. Then I'll have V'to bring her t'your weyr."
Roa is nodding slowly, each bit of R'vain's plan heard and approved. Until the last. Her weyr. "R'vain," his name is a gentle chastisement. "I'm Telgari. I live in the barracks." Had he forgotten?
R'vain's pacing stops abruptly and he turns on a bootheel to stare at her. His jaw works to no avail for a moment, and then he swallows hard and comes up to his side of the desk again. "You're Reaches'," he says there, planting his hands and leaning over, speaking low and with a vehement passion. "I'll fix that somehow, I swear it." Nostrils flare. "Where d'you want t'meet him, then."
And now there is a little surprise writ on the Telgari's features. She hadn't expected...but. Question. "Guest Weyr," she says simply. "When dinner starts. I'll wait there, and make sure he understands he'll have to keep quiet about helping." A pause. "Make sure *nicely*," she amends.
R'vain straightens. "Good enough. And he's good. One thing he's managed t'learn is when t'keep his face closed." The Weyrlingmaster turns around away from her, thick arms folding over his broad chest, and with vague discontentedness he watches the empty space he's created in the office sit there and be empty space. "Anything else, Weyrwoman?" His voice is low. Creaky. Cracking.
There is more listening and then a slow stand from Roa's chair. Anything else? "Don't drink. After I leave." a small pause. "Don't look for me, either. After the party. Or the next day. I'll come see you the day after, let you know how it went. Okay?"
"I ain't planning on drinking," grunts R'vain. "I'll see you th'next day then." He doesn't turn around; plainly he expects her to leave him.
"Good," Roa murmurs softly. "Thank you again. About the rain." And then, for once, Roa does what the Weyrlingmaster expects, turns, and leaves.
He listens to her as she goes out, but does not even steal a glance. Once she's gone he turns around and lets out a roar of a sigh, exasperated and pained and-- well, anything, really, to avoid crying. So he stalks up to the desk and BAM slams down his fist yet another time. "Faranth's fat fanny flaps," he hisses for his own benefit. "Where do women get off tryin' t'stop a man having at a good bottle."