How It Went
Location: R'vain and Ruvoth's Weyr
Time: Lunchtime on Day 25, Month 6, Turn 2
Players: R'vain, Roa, Ruvoth, Tialith
Scene: At the promised time, Roa shows up with news. R'vain, he is less than happy.
R'vain and Ruvoth's Weyr
The main chamber of this modest weyr is divided into two parts by means of decor and function. The section dedicated to Ruvoth consists of a stone wallow, freshly lain with rushes; a gathering of dried daisies hangs somewhat ridiculously from a tether on the wall above, some strange testament to the spot where the beast sleeps.
The rest of the chamber has undergone a dramatic transformation. A leather curtain keeps the drafts down, while thick new floor cloths offer splashes of bright color underfoot. A hearth is tucked in one corner, a finely woven blanket wrapping the settee and a worn leather padded chair facing across a low table set with pitcher and cups for serving klah or tea. Two clothes presses stand stately aside a fine set of shelves for those things that don't belong in a press, namely bound volumes of hides, a few sconces for glows, and a collection of brightly colored lake stones in a bowl of water.
A narrow curtain, tucked neatly aside, frames the sleeping chamber's entrance.
Ruvoth's ledge is empty. Since the Weyrwoman's death his domain is the training complex, the world of weyrling dragons and their riders. He is their companion, their comfort, their willing and always-ready protector. His statue, black wings arched in embrace around playful hatchlings, would be proud of the bronze's dedication these days.
But absence of the body need not mean absence of the spirit, and to Tialith's inquiry comes the bronze's broad, willing and affectionate welcome. Adoration surrounds her. The strength of his emotion may threaten to engulf her. There's something a little different about Ruvoth of late, but it is a little thing, and dragons and men have other worries now.
The drape draws back a moment after Ruvoth has knowledge of the Telgaris' intent. R'vain remains in the shadows of his ill-lit den, but from that refuge he squints out into glaring daylight with eyes rimmed red. But his nose is pale beneath the freckles and his hair's still damp from a wash. He's got no shoes or socks on, fresh trousers, a white shirt not even buttoned all the way up. Mid-dressing at lunchtime. You never really can tell, with the Weyrlingmaster, what that might mean.
The reception to all of that heady adoration is perhaps a slight startle and, if there is no overt displeasure in the display, there is a tightening of her own barriers. A sieve of sorts is set up between them, that the queen might accept the sent emotion in a more tempered way. It will all come to her, but it will come more slowly than Ruvoth may intend. In return, with her milder affection, is the attached pleasure at his action, the embracing of his duties as guide and protector. Genuine strength is appreciated where ego is not.
The physical figure of the golden dragon lands lightly on the Weyrlingmaster's ledge and Roa swings down wordlessly. She looks alert, quiet, drawn. The circles under her eyes have lightened and she once again stands straight instead of bowed, but one cannot really say she looks *better*. More that she looks...resolute. The trundlebug that keeps climbing up and up over fingers, despite the child that continues to add endless climbing distance by moving hand over hand over hand. She walks directly towards the Weyrlingmaster, blue eyes settled on him, his face mostly, less on bare feet and slight undress. Not yet invited in, she doesn't come in. "It's not exactly what I expected to come back to," she murmurs. This is her greeting.
Ruvoth takes no affront, feels no loss of face, no shame. This in itself is significant, but its significance is lost on the bronze and irrelevant just now to the concerns of his rider. Weyrlingmaster and dragon tend their own duties, their own needs, their own emotions-- as one in their separation.
He glances past her, sees Tialith, then refinds Roa with his focus. It takes willpower, and he must set his jaw to accomplish it. "Isn't it, Weyrwoman," says R'vain, and while there might be sympathy and sadness and the willingness to share the pain of bereavement with a fellow mourner, there is something else there too. It makes his tone rough and gray, fills his throat with gravel and makes his voice little more than ice-cold water running through that treacherous streambed. He has rarely been wary with the little Telgari. This is more than wary. He looks on her long, emerald fire frozen cold, then turns and stalks into his weyr. A toss of his paw in the air, fingers curved, jerking, gestures her welcome. "You look like you need a drink," he says, command as much as invitation.
The queen settles herself on the ledge, her gaze resting briefly on the Weyrlingmaster before it's directed outwards and over the sweep of bowl and Weyr. The spade of her tail flicks, once, as she studies the bronze's domain.
Roa must tip her head back a little for the full effect of that cool and green regard and she only inhales slowly through her nose as it's sent pouring over her. He turns and jerks, she follows, letting the leather curtain fall closed behind her. "A drink, then," she agrees softly. And while she walks over to the seat she tends to favor when in this weyr, she only stands beside it. She doesn't sit.
And he doesn't invite her to. Instead he takes down a bottle-- fine bottle it is, made of cut glass with a blown bulb stopper, the contents a curious deep red that takes on, too willingly, shades of gold when met with glowlight. He takes down a glass, too, but not from the wineglasses on the mantel. It's a lowballer, from his poorly-built and much-abused little shelves. With a flip of his paw he turns it upright, then turns around to not face her while he pours, attention on the pouring. "So how'd it go," R'vain lets out in an almost growl against the backdrop of the brandy splashing into the glass.
Arms lift and cross loosely over her chest as she observes R'vain's choice of drinks. Roa is not, has never been, a heavy drinker and this will be, actually, the first time she ever tastes brandy. If she decides to taste it at all. She seems to be letting the Weyrlingmaster take the lead, but at the question she answers gently, "It went fine. Smoothly. Safely."
He rerights the bottle with barely his own thumb's width of the liquid in the glass. Bottle and stopper go up on the mantel for the meanwhile and he carries the brandy to Roa, and from his full arm's length away holds it out for her to take. His body is angled, shoulder toward her, arm outstretched-- and along that same line of sight, a foot and a half or better upward, he stares down at her, unyielding. "Where is she?"
The glass is accepted, lifted lightly up and away from R'vain's fingers to be cradled in her own. Her hands are so small, the bowl of the glass so wide, that the image is almost absurd. A child playing with a grown-up's possessions. The alcohol is drawn close to her chest and held there. She makes no move to bring it to her lips and her eyes hold the weyrlingmaster's. Her words, when they come, are calm and slow. "I told you where I was taking her. She's with Diya."
"You told me who you're takin' her to," replies R'vain, steady despite the raw rumble of the gravel. He holds her gaze with his but takes no pleasure in it. He does not leer or seek depth she's unwilling to grant him. He just stares at her, a wall with green eyes. "Not where. Tell me where. Be real, real plain about it. Simple." In this pause, his upper lip twitches, threatening that curling sneer. He resists. "Like me."
Oh. He's caught her now, the rug that she balanced on swiped suddenly and cleanly out from her feet and leaving her expression, for a moment, unguarded. Eyes widen, mouth opens, but no sounds come out. Shock. Plain and simple and gathered up and away before Roa actually speaks. "I'm sorry. I hadn't realized...I thought you *knew* where. I thought that was understood." One hand moves, fingers splaying wide against the curve of the glass. "The West," she says softly. And then, to be certain that she is, indeed, plain and simple, "the island."
Maybe R'vain did know, because he doesn't gasp for breath or widen eyes in shock. He just draws back his outstretched paw-- it takes this long for him to do, as if every movement is calculated specifically to display his displeasure or increase her discomfort-- and crosses his arms across his chest. "West, to the isles. And what company is she among there?"
A long and quiet study before Roa slowly shakes her head. "No. I'm sorry. Those aren't your secrets. You have my word the company she keeps will assure her safety and her happiness. I can't give you any more than that."
But he just keeps going as if she answered him. "And what do they have to do with a dead Weyrwoman hanging off my arm for which I AM BEING BLAMED?" The emphasis rises throughout, a smooth progression of barely suppressed rage, bitterness and resentment. When he's finished R'vain's nostrils flare, and at last he breaks the gaze he's held with the little Telgari-- to glance out at the ledge where her queen waits. Very plainly he chews back some words he'd like to say and substitutes these instead. "I hope you know what you're screwing with."
Eyes. Narrow. "If you are being blamed for Yevide's death, I can only presume it was through your own brand of idiocy, as it had nothing to do with mine." Roa's hand, the one that does not hold the brandy, lifts and points towards the battered old armchair. "Sit."
R'vain departs her presence. That simple: he puts his back to her and walks toward the big table where he does his hidework, drinks his wine, and does most likely other things not to be described at this time. "No, Weyrwoman. She was just on my arm at th'time." At last his speech starts to slip into slurs again. It represents a softening, but by its existence betrays how hard he'd been. One paw flattens on the table and he leans into it, glaring at the stained wood. He breathes. The way he does it suggests it takes effort to keep on at it. "I got nothing t'worry about but th'weyrlings and my own problems. You, I figure, you got your own." He looks up then, cold still, but pained. "Th'brandy'll do you good. Take it with you."
She keeps still as R'vain moves, speaks, leans. And despite the obvious dismissal, she doesn't leave. Instead Roa pads quietly after him, through the weyr and over to the table and around. So there is the expanse of the cluttered space between them perhaps, but also so they are face to face, whether he'll look at her or not. The wide glass is lifted then to her lips and her head tips back so the entire amount of brandy dissapears in three large swallows. Her cheeks flush almost immediately, her throat bobbing to fight down coughs that jerk at her gut. Wordlessly, the glass, now empty, is set down. Near his hand. *Tink* "You got people to worry with you, you want them." And that, it seems, is all. Because unless she is otherwise derailed, she'll be going back through the weyr, out to the ledge, and away.
That is all-- and not enough. He lets her go. He looks up-- he watches after her. His eyes reflect confusion and irritation to complement the grim set of pain on his mouth. But R'vain does not chase after her, nor say a word to stay her feet. It takes his rage so long to boil that she may be with Tialith gone before she would even hear behind them the crash of breaking glass.
Time: Lunchtime on Day 25, Month 6, Turn 2
Players: R'vain, Roa, Ruvoth, Tialith
Scene: At the promised time, Roa shows up with news. R'vain, he is less than happy.
R'vain and Ruvoth's Weyr
The main chamber of this modest weyr is divided into two parts by means of decor and function. The section dedicated to Ruvoth consists of a stone wallow, freshly lain with rushes; a gathering of dried daisies hangs somewhat ridiculously from a tether on the wall above, some strange testament to the spot where the beast sleeps.
The rest of the chamber has undergone a dramatic transformation. A leather curtain keeps the drafts down, while thick new floor cloths offer splashes of bright color underfoot. A hearth is tucked in one corner, a finely woven blanket wrapping the settee and a worn leather padded chair facing across a low table set with pitcher and cups for serving klah or tea. Two clothes presses stand stately aside a fine set of shelves for those things that don't belong in a press, namely bound volumes of hides, a few sconces for glows, and a collection of brightly colored lake stones in a bowl of water.
A narrow curtain, tucked neatly aside, frames the sleeping chamber's entrance.
Ruvoth's ledge is empty. Since the Weyrwoman's death his domain is the training complex, the world of weyrling dragons and their riders. He is their companion, their comfort, their willing and always-ready protector. His statue, black wings arched in embrace around playful hatchlings, would be proud of the bronze's dedication these days.
But absence of the body need not mean absence of the spirit, and to Tialith's inquiry comes the bronze's broad, willing and affectionate welcome. Adoration surrounds her. The strength of his emotion may threaten to engulf her. There's something a little different about Ruvoth of late, but it is a little thing, and dragons and men have other worries now.
The drape draws back a moment after Ruvoth has knowledge of the Telgaris' intent. R'vain remains in the shadows of his ill-lit den, but from that refuge he squints out into glaring daylight with eyes rimmed red. But his nose is pale beneath the freckles and his hair's still damp from a wash. He's got no shoes or socks on, fresh trousers, a white shirt not even buttoned all the way up. Mid-dressing at lunchtime. You never really can tell, with the Weyrlingmaster, what that might mean.
The reception to all of that heady adoration is perhaps a slight startle and, if there is no overt displeasure in the display, there is a tightening of her own barriers. A sieve of sorts is set up between them, that the queen might accept the sent emotion in a more tempered way. It will all come to her, but it will come more slowly than Ruvoth may intend. In return, with her milder affection, is the attached pleasure at his action, the embracing of his duties as guide and protector. Genuine strength is appreciated where ego is not.
The physical figure of the golden dragon lands lightly on the Weyrlingmaster's ledge and Roa swings down wordlessly. She looks alert, quiet, drawn. The circles under her eyes have lightened and she once again stands straight instead of bowed, but one cannot really say she looks *better*. More that she looks...resolute. The trundlebug that keeps climbing up and up over fingers, despite the child that continues to add endless climbing distance by moving hand over hand over hand. She walks directly towards the Weyrlingmaster, blue eyes settled on him, his face mostly, less on bare feet and slight undress. Not yet invited in, she doesn't come in. "It's not exactly what I expected to come back to," she murmurs. This is her greeting.
Ruvoth takes no affront, feels no loss of face, no shame. This in itself is significant, but its significance is lost on the bronze and irrelevant just now to the concerns of his rider. Weyrlingmaster and dragon tend their own duties, their own needs, their own emotions-- as one in their separation.
He glances past her, sees Tialith, then refinds Roa with his focus. It takes willpower, and he must set his jaw to accomplish it. "Isn't it, Weyrwoman," says R'vain, and while there might be sympathy and sadness and the willingness to share the pain of bereavement with a fellow mourner, there is something else there too. It makes his tone rough and gray, fills his throat with gravel and makes his voice little more than ice-cold water running through that treacherous streambed. He has rarely been wary with the little Telgari. This is more than wary. He looks on her long, emerald fire frozen cold, then turns and stalks into his weyr. A toss of his paw in the air, fingers curved, jerking, gestures her welcome. "You look like you need a drink," he says, command as much as invitation.
The queen settles herself on the ledge, her gaze resting briefly on the Weyrlingmaster before it's directed outwards and over the sweep of bowl and Weyr. The spade of her tail flicks, once, as she studies the bronze's domain.
Roa must tip her head back a little for the full effect of that cool and green regard and she only inhales slowly through her nose as it's sent pouring over her. He turns and jerks, she follows, letting the leather curtain fall closed behind her. "A drink, then," she agrees softly. And while she walks over to the seat she tends to favor when in this weyr, she only stands beside it. She doesn't sit.
And he doesn't invite her to. Instead he takes down a bottle-- fine bottle it is, made of cut glass with a blown bulb stopper, the contents a curious deep red that takes on, too willingly, shades of gold when met with glowlight. He takes down a glass, too, but not from the wineglasses on the mantel. It's a lowballer, from his poorly-built and much-abused little shelves. With a flip of his paw he turns it upright, then turns around to not face her while he pours, attention on the pouring. "So how'd it go," R'vain lets out in an almost growl against the backdrop of the brandy splashing into the glass.
Arms lift and cross loosely over her chest as she observes R'vain's choice of drinks. Roa is not, has never been, a heavy drinker and this will be, actually, the first time she ever tastes brandy. If she decides to taste it at all. She seems to be letting the Weyrlingmaster take the lead, but at the question she answers gently, "It went fine. Smoothly. Safely."
He rerights the bottle with barely his own thumb's width of the liquid in the glass. Bottle and stopper go up on the mantel for the meanwhile and he carries the brandy to Roa, and from his full arm's length away holds it out for her to take. His body is angled, shoulder toward her, arm outstretched-- and along that same line of sight, a foot and a half or better upward, he stares down at her, unyielding. "Where is she?"
The glass is accepted, lifted lightly up and away from R'vain's fingers to be cradled in her own. Her hands are so small, the bowl of the glass so wide, that the image is almost absurd. A child playing with a grown-up's possessions. The alcohol is drawn close to her chest and held there. She makes no move to bring it to her lips and her eyes hold the weyrlingmaster's. Her words, when they come, are calm and slow. "I told you where I was taking her. She's with Diya."
"You told me who you're takin' her to," replies R'vain, steady despite the raw rumble of the gravel. He holds her gaze with his but takes no pleasure in it. He does not leer or seek depth she's unwilling to grant him. He just stares at her, a wall with green eyes. "Not where. Tell me where. Be real, real plain about it. Simple." In this pause, his upper lip twitches, threatening that curling sneer. He resists. "Like me."
Oh. He's caught her now, the rug that she balanced on swiped suddenly and cleanly out from her feet and leaving her expression, for a moment, unguarded. Eyes widen, mouth opens, but no sounds come out. Shock. Plain and simple and gathered up and away before Roa actually speaks. "I'm sorry. I hadn't realized...I thought you *knew* where. I thought that was understood." One hand moves, fingers splaying wide against the curve of the glass. "The West," she says softly. And then, to be certain that she is, indeed, plain and simple, "the island."
Maybe R'vain did know, because he doesn't gasp for breath or widen eyes in shock. He just draws back his outstretched paw-- it takes this long for him to do, as if every movement is calculated specifically to display his displeasure or increase her discomfort-- and crosses his arms across his chest. "West, to the isles. And what company is she among there?"
A long and quiet study before Roa slowly shakes her head. "No. I'm sorry. Those aren't your secrets. You have my word the company she keeps will assure her safety and her happiness. I can't give you any more than that."
But he just keeps going as if she answered him. "And what do they have to do with a dead Weyrwoman hanging off my arm for which I AM BEING BLAMED?" The emphasis rises throughout, a smooth progression of barely suppressed rage, bitterness and resentment. When he's finished R'vain's nostrils flare, and at last he breaks the gaze he's held with the little Telgari-- to glance out at the ledge where her queen waits. Very plainly he chews back some words he'd like to say and substitutes these instead. "I hope you know what you're screwing with."
Eyes. Narrow. "If you are being blamed for Yevide's death, I can only presume it was through your own brand of idiocy, as it had nothing to do with mine." Roa's hand, the one that does not hold the brandy, lifts and points towards the battered old armchair. "Sit."
R'vain departs her presence. That simple: he puts his back to her and walks toward the big table where he does his hidework, drinks his wine, and does most likely other things not to be described at this time. "No, Weyrwoman. She was just on my arm at th'time." At last his speech starts to slip into slurs again. It represents a softening, but by its existence betrays how hard he'd been. One paw flattens on the table and he leans into it, glaring at the stained wood. He breathes. The way he does it suggests it takes effort to keep on at it. "I got nothing t'worry about but th'weyrlings and my own problems. You, I figure, you got your own." He looks up then, cold still, but pained. "Th'brandy'll do you good. Take it with you."
She keeps still as R'vain moves, speaks, leans. And despite the obvious dismissal, she doesn't leave. Instead Roa pads quietly after him, through the weyr and over to the table and around. So there is the expanse of the cluttered space between them perhaps, but also so they are face to face, whether he'll look at her or not. The wide glass is lifted then to her lips and her head tips back so the entire amount of brandy dissapears in three large swallows. Her cheeks flush almost immediately, her throat bobbing to fight down coughs that jerk at her gut. Wordlessly, the glass, now empty, is set down. Near his hand. *Tink* "You got people to worry with you, you want them." And that, it seems, is all. Because unless she is otherwise derailed, she'll be going back through the weyr, out to the ledge, and away.
That is all-- and not enough. He lets her go. He looks up-- he watches after her. His eyes reflect confusion and irritation to complement the grim set of pain on his mouth. But R'vain does not chase after her, nor say a word to stay her feet. It takes his rage so long to boil that she may be with Tialith gone before she would even hear behind them the crash of breaking glass.