Log: In which Taikrin is kind of a sad-sack
Date: Evening, day 21, month 10, turn 26 of Interval 10
Summary: Taikrin is pretty screwed in the head over her reaction to the goldflight and subsequent events; what sounded like a noble act in her head ends up getting taken in a horribly wrong way by Riorde. Whoops!
Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr(#634RJ)
Partly sheltered by the curving stone overhang, partly exposed to the weather, the wide stone patio serves as a balcony for socializing or just plain drinking on a sizable scale. The repurposed ledge might once have let two large dragons land, but now there's too much furniture for that: two rustic tables with attendant chairs, plus a couple more in particularly good weather, and a wrought iron bench situated to make the most of the view of the western bowl and the lake beyond.
Other changes include rough little niches carved out of the stone walls to hold glows in colored bottles at night, the climbing plant that's being trained to grow up along the overhang, and the blue ceramic pots of flowers that dot the edge of the ledge as a colorful reminder not to fall off.
An archway leads to the Snowasis itself, housed in the ledge's former weyr, while a few wide steps descend along the wall to the bowl.
A layer of gray clouds covers the sky. The air feels cool and damp, but there is no rainfall today.
Obvious exits:
Snowasis Bowl
Riorde has arrived.
It's a gray day, which matches Taikrin's mood just fine; she's been incredibly scarce since the goldflight, neither outrageously drunk (as one might expect) nor outrageously angry (as one might also expect). She /is/ drinking, tucked up on the far side of the ledge with her legs dangling over the edge and a flask in-hand. Szadath, looking more ashen then tan, lies curled on the ground just beneath the ledge proper. Though the ledge isn't heavily populated, the empty space around Taikrin is notable.
Free time is a luxury Riorde hasn't had much of in the past couple sevendays. Ignoring the fact that work is work and best kept out of sight and out of mind when it comes to a location deliberately devoted to relaxation and diverting pastimes, the weyrling brings a much-worn copy of something that can only be work -- easy enough to tell even with the title obscured by the way she holds it; the word 'Tactics' is clear and writ large. She comes up the stairs, chin tucked down and a grey-blue scarf wound about her throat. She must have seen Szadath -- she walked right by him -- and it's likely that he serves as the place marker that brings her unerringly over to Taikrin. "Hi." Riorde pauses and looks down, noticing the space Taikrin's gathered around her. "No Glacier riders? Want some company, or..." Riorde lets the other possibility dangle.
For all that Szadath must surely have taken note of Riorde -- he's not asleep, only unnaturally still -- Taikrin still seems surprised to have Riorde standing above her. "Uh." She blinks, as if half-asleep, and shrugs noncommitally. "Sure. Have a seat." Up close, she looks unkempt (and possibly unwashed) and smells strongly of whiskey. "S'just us, today."
"I'll get something to drink first." By which Riorde means klah, optimistically a mind-sharpener rather than something that would dull her senses and contribute woefully to the reading of her tactics book. She puts the book down next to Taikrin as a place marker before heading inside. Riorde isn't long. She saves passing judgment on the brownrider's appearance until her return, but even when she sits down alongside, she hesitates to say anything. Her appraisal is silent; what's voiced is a question. "You okay?"
When Riorde comes back, Taikrin is leafing through the tactics book in desultry fashion while nursing on her flask. The question earns a one-shouldered shrug, and hoarse, "Fine." But at least she takes the time to pause, cough, and reiterate, "Fine, I'm fine. Why're you readin' this?" The smile she offers Riorde is weak, but it /is/ at least an attempt.
"Okay." Superficially, Riorde accepts the answer along with the ensuing diversion, but her sharp, critical attention admits no such thing. "Research project. Meara gave us a projected Threadfall, and each of us have got a wing in a different place and have to decide which formation to fly." Her scarf, still wound tight, covers her shoulderknot with its conspicuous silver thread, and Riorde's hunched posture is unhelpful to that end as well. "Sforzath's flying," she announces after her first sip of klah. There's no mistaking the pleasure in her tone.
"Formations? Already? Shells, how old're they, already?" Taikrin abandons the book in favor of squinting up at Riorde, as if the answer were to be found written across her face. "Flyin' and studyin' formations, don't that seem early?" The curiosity is enough to rouse Szadath enough so that he rumbles, stirring, but doesn't seek out Sforzath's mind. Yet. "How, uh. How was flyin'? You like it?" Her voice is still flat, tired, and her gaze slides off of Riorde and back to the book with what might be a hint of guilt.
"Almost four months." Riorde strives for matter-of-factness in light of Taikrin's mood. The contrast between that and her satisfaction is all too jarring, but even with the self-containment, Riorde's satisfaction bleeds through. "He loves it, though they won't let him go as long as he'd like. Soon, though. And we started learning what the formations are last month." It's only half an answer, and Riorde keeps something back with her glimmer of a smile. It doesn't sit right, and fades. "Haven't seen you much," she ventures, looking sideways at the rider.
"Been around." Except, of course, that she hasn't been; no random drop-ins to the barracks with a snack, or run-ins at dinnertime, or even a 'hey little brother' from Szadath to Sforzath. "Busy." Taikrin's gaze drifts out to Szadath, but she gives a start and re-focuses on the book instead. The nice, safe, easy book. "You'll be flyin' all over the place here, soon enough. Drillin'. You makin' friends with the other weyrlings?" All at once she's intent on the answer to the nonsequiter, attention fixed tightly on Riorde's expression.
Riorde could call Taikrin on it, but doesn't. This is a choice. A reading of the situation or a misreading, maybe. Instead she shifts, straightening her spine without straightening up and losing the roundedness in her shoulders as she pushes them back, now stretching rather than slumping. "Been busy too." Riorde holds no malice as she puts out her hand for the book which is also a symbol. Nice, easy, safe -- she wants it too. "Sure." Her answer would be offhand were she not mildly puzzled at the closeness of Taikrin's inspection. "Grew up with half of them, and the most of the rest aren't bad either."
"Yeah, but it's /different/, now. You got the dragons. They make everything different." Taikrin misreads, reaching out to take Riorde's hand tightly in hers. "Bein' weyrlings, makes it easier, you should-- you should be friends with 'em. Be close to 'em. D'you understand?" The book is abandoned in her lap, forgotten, in her sudden need to make Riorde /understand/. "You need t'be with someone who's good for you."
"We are friends." Her faint stress accents the verb, endorsement of this weyrling-bond Taikrin's identifying, but she shakes her head slightly to the question that comes after. No, Riorde doesn't entirely get what Taikrin's driving at -- but then apprehension comes as a dawning light to Riorde's eyes and a stillness to her frame when the final remark transfigures those preceding, and Riorde thinks she understands. "We are friends." The stress lies differently on the repetition, hitting the last word of three. The weyrling pries her fingers loose and nabs her book out of Taikrin's lap and thus slips out of the brownrider's grasp altogether. "I've got to study," is how she excuses herself in a flat and factual way, not sticking around, stung.
"No, we--" Confused, and more than a little perturbed by Riorde's reaction, Taikrin half-rises as she walks away. "/Riorde/--!" Szadath finally uncurls himself, raising up to push his nose at Taikrin's waist and prevent her from chasing after the weyrling. "/Wait/."
Too late; Riorde's achieved the steps that will take her away and into the bowl (how annoying, the ineffectiveness of an escape that necessitates walking past Szadath) and leaves her half-empty mug undrunk beside where she was sitting. "I have to study," she persists, stubbornly, and makes good on that escape.
Summary: Taikrin is pretty screwed in the head over her reaction to the goldflight and subsequent events; what sounded like a noble act in her head ends up getting taken in a horribly wrong way by Riorde. Whoops!
Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr(#634RJ)
Partly sheltered by the curving stone overhang, partly exposed to the weather, the wide stone patio serves as a balcony for socializing or just plain drinking on a sizable scale. The repurposed ledge might once have let two large dragons land, but now there's too much furniture for that: two rustic tables with attendant chairs, plus a couple more in particularly good weather, and a wrought iron bench situated to make the most of the view of the western bowl and the lake beyond.
Other changes include rough little niches carved out of the stone walls to hold glows in colored bottles at night, the climbing plant that's being trained to grow up along the overhang, and the blue ceramic pots of flowers that dot the edge of the ledge as a colorful reminder not to fall off.
An archway leads to the Snowasis itself, housed in the ledge's former weyr, while a few wide steps descend along the wall to the bowl.
A layer of gray clouds covers the sky. The air feels cool and damp, but there is no rainfall today.
Obvious exits:
Snowasis Bowl
Riorde has arrived.
It's a gray day, which matches Taikrin's mood just fine; she's been incredibly scarce since the goldflight, neither outrageously drunk (as one might expect) nor outrageously angry (as one might also expect). She /is/ drinking, tucked up on the far side of the ledge with her legs dangling over the edge and a flask in-hand. Szadath, looking more ashen then tan, lies curled on the ground just beneath the ledge proper. Though the ledge isn't heavily populated, the empty space around Taikrin is notable.
Free time is a luxury Riorde hasn't had much of in the past couple sevendays. Ignoring the fact that work is work and best kept out of sight and out of mind when it comes to a location deliberately devoted to relaxation and diverting pastimes, the weyrling brings a much-worn copy of something that can only be work -- easy enough to tell even with the title obscured by the way she holds it; the word 'Tactics' is clear and writ large. She comes up the stairs, chin tucked down and a grey-blue scarf wound about her throat. She must have seen Szadath -- she walked right by him -- and it's likely that he serves as the place marker that brings her unerringly over to Taikrin. "Hi." Riorde pauses and looks down, noticing the space Taikrin's gathered around her. "No Glacier riders? Want some company, or..." Riorde lets the other possibility dangle.
For all that Szadath must surely have taken note of Riorde -- he's not asleep, only unnaturally still -- Taikrin still seems surprised to have Riorde standing above her. "Uh." She blinks, as if half-asleep, and shrugs noncommitally. "Sure. Have a seat." Up close, she looks unkempt (and possibly unwashed) and smells strongly of whiskey. "S'just us, today."
"I'll get something to drink first." By which Riorde means klah, optimistically a mind-sharpener rather than something that would dull her senses and contribute woefully to the reading of her tactics book. She puts the book down next to Taikrin as a place marker before heading inside. Riorde isn't long. She saves passing judgment on the brownrider's appearance until her return, but even when she sits down alongside, she hesitates to say anything. Her appraisal is silent; what's voiced is a question. "You okay?"
When Riorde comes back, Taikrin is leafing through the tactics book in desultry fashion while nursing on her flask. The question earns a one-shouldered shrug, and hoarse, "Fine." But at least she takes the time to pause, cough, and reiterate, "Fine, I'm fine. Why're you readin' this?" The smile she offers Riorde is weak, but it /is/ at least an attempt.
"Okay." Superficially, Riorde accepts the answer along with the ensuing diversion, but her sharp, critical attention admits no such thing. "Research project. Meara gave us a projected Threadfall, and each of us have got a wing in a different place and have to decide which formation to fly." Her scarf, still wound tight, covers her shoulderknot with its conspicuous silver thread, and Riorde's hunched posture is unhelpful to that end as well. "Sforzath's flying," she announces after her first sip of klah. There's no mistaking the pleasure in her tone.
"Formations? Already? Shells, how old're they, already?" Taikrin abandons the book in favor of squinting up at Riorde, as if the answer were to be found written across her face. "Flyin' and studyin' formations, don't that seem early?" The curiosity is enough to rouse Szadath enough so that he rumbles, stirring, but doesn't seek out Sforzath's mind. Yet. "How, uh. How was flyin'? You like it?" Her voice is still flat, tired, and her gaze slides off of Riorde and back to the book with what might be a hint of guilt.
"Almost four months." Riorde strives for matter-of-factness in light of Taikrin's mood. The contrast between that and her satisfaction is all too jarring, but even with the self-containment, Riorde's satisfaction bleeds through. "He loves it, though they won't let him go as long as he'd like. Soon, though. And we started learning what the formations are last month." It's only half an answer, and Riorde keeps something back with her glimmer of a smile. It doesn't sit right, and fades. "Haven't seen you much," she ventures, looking sideways at the rider.
"Been around." Except, of course, that she hasn't been; no random drop-ins to the barracks with a snack, or run-ins at dinnertime, or even a 'hey little brother' from Szadath to Sforzath. "Busy." Taikrin's gaze drifts out to Szadath, but she gives a start and re-focuses on the book instead. The nice, safe, easy book. "You'll be flyin' all over the place here, soon enough. Drillin'. You makin' friends with the other weyrlings?" All at once she's intent on the answer to the nonsequiter, attention fixed tightly on Riorde's expression.
Riorde could call Taikrin on it, but doesn't. This is a choice. A reading of the situation or a misreading, maybe. Instead she shifts, straightening her spine without straightening up and losing the roundedness in her shoulders as she pushes them back, now stretching rather than slumping. "Been busy too." Riorde holds no malice as she puts out her hand for the book which is also a symbol. Nice, easy, safe -- she wants it too. "Sure." Her answer would be offhand were she not mildly puzzled at the closeness of Taikrin's inspection. "Grew up with half of them, and the most of the rest aren't bad either."
"Yeah, but it's /different/, now. You got the dragons. They make everything different." Taikrin misreads, reaching out to take Riorde's hand tightly in hers. "Bein' weyrlings, makes it easier, you should-- you should be friends with 'em. Be close to 'em. D'you understand?" The book is abandoned in her lap, forgotten, in her sudden need to make Riorde /understand/. "You need t'be with someone who's good for you."
"We are friends." Her faint stress accents the verb, endorsement of this weyrling-bond Taikrin's identifying, but she shakes her head slightly to the question that comes after. No, Riorde doesn't entirely get what Taikrin's driving at -- but then apprehension comes as a dawning light to Riorde's eyes and a stillness to her frame when the final remark transfigures those preceding, and Riorde thinks she understands. "We are friends." The stress lies differently on the repetition, hitting the last word of three. The weyrling pries her fingers loose and nabs her book out of Taikrin's lap and thus slips out of the brownrider's grasp altogether. "I've got to study," is how she excuses herself in a flat and factual way, not sticking around, stung.
"No, we--" Confused, and more than a little perturbed by Riorde's reaction, Taikrin half-rises as she walks away. "/Riorde/--!" Szadath finally uncurls himself, raising up to push his nose at Taikrin's waist and prevent her from chasing after the weyrling. "/Wait/."
Too late; Riorde's achieved the steps that will take her away and into the bowl (how annoying, the ineffectiveness of an escape that necessitates walking past Szadath) and leaves her half-empty mug undrunk beside where she was sitting. "I have to study," she persists, stubbornly, and makes good on that escape.