Turn 2, Dancing, drinking, brawling. Part 1

[miniyal]

Who: Many PCs and NPCs.
Where: Living Cavern
When: End of turn 2
What: Someday the weyr will have an event where nothing untoward happens. I promise! (At least no one died!)



Turn's End festivities has packed the living cavern with merry people tonight, a peppering of constant black and white throughout the room revealing the theme of the celebration. Amidst the thrum of voices, the press of swirling skirts and mingling feet, Issa lingers near the wine table, a useful landmark for those searching and those waiting alike. In one hand she carries evidence that she's recently made use of the table for something other than a landmark, a glass of deep red wine that she occasionally lifts for a tiny sip. Pale blue eyes flit from face to face in the crowd, though from the idle attention she gives to each she doesn't seem too intent on catching any of their gazes. Indeed, she seems somewhat bored by the endless parade of fine clothes passing by her.

Jarvais has to pause just inside the entrance. Not only to take in the sight and sound. In all appearance he doesn't do this much at all; a glance up, and then back down, to where his hands busy themselves brushing thick snowflakes from the black jacket they're suddenly threatening to melt into. A little cap comes off, making a rumpled muss of his hair. One hand rolls the little bit of wool into a pocket, then steals up to put the back of one thumb against idle-grinning mouth. He's standing like that, now obviously scoping the celebration - food noted, drink noted, dance floor noted, food noted again just to be sure - when he's jostled a bit by a couple of other students getting in from the bowl behind him, and with a stammered excuse of apology the curious lad preferred by Greenfields' Lord sidesteps, then starts out toward the drinks. "Ma'am," to anyone in a dress as he goes by, with a nod; that includes Issa, where he stops, looking for glasses.

A single brow is lifted at that one word greeting from-- Issa checks the pin with a slipped glance-- the Caucus student that busies himself with the drinks. Slowly, a subtle smile curves her lips, comfortable amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth. "If this dress makes me look old enough to warrant a 'Ma'am,' maybe I should go change," she notes with a teasing tone, that playful beginning of a smile shoved behind another small sip of wine. She favors Jarvais with her attention for another slim moment only, then returns to her calm survey of the crowd.

The party has started without them. This is not so unusual and likely owing to the peculiarities of the woman who enters on the caucus instructor's arm rather than the former weyrleader himself. It is not Miniyal's way to spend much time at these events after all and so she would have lingered and made G'thon linger as well. However, they do arrive, she with her hand tucked into his elbow, the both of them paler than ever in their black clothes. They do not entirely escape notice in their entry, but Miniyal does her best to ignore any looks they might get and instead will lead G'thon towards the wine table, not having spied Issa yet. Wine must be consumed. As they head that way she speaks loud enough for her companion to hear, if not loud enough to add overly much to the press of voices. "You will likely have to dance with Corin. You know how she is." Teasing him.

A group of people enter from the bowl, boisterous people who look to have started celebrating earlier. They all wear knots which show they are riders of various colors here at High Reaches. Since they are passing a flask around they do not head right for the wine table although one of them eyes one of the kitchen girls with a thoughtful eye as she bustles towards a table with a tray of food.

Glasses located, Jarvais reaches for one, and in doing so is a little late to realize the woman he just greeted so harmlessly is addressing him. He draws back his hand, glassless, and turns to give Issa second consideration. A mouth left slightly ajar produces no words for a length of time, then a low note of 'uh,' and then closes. She's looking away; he gives up, or gives in, with a little lift of shoulders and one of those completely horrible apologetic, miserable-for-having-erred grins, and reaches anew for a wine glass. The other hand goes up to the back of his neck to curve there, the elbow hanging uselessly.

"I would be delighted to dance with Corin, and I do know how she is," replies G'thon, head bent a little toward Miniyal so he can smile the words closer to her ear, lower-spoken. He straightens then and, catching sight of the greenrider ahead before his companion does, crosses his hand over to give Miniyal's fingers a little nudgy squeeze. His chin comes down, the most sparing threat of a nod, and then he's preparing the social smile, the lopsided bend of mouth that threatens a greeting.

"You may be spared if D'ven is about. Navan only lets her do so many dances without him and she is quite taken with. . .well, I've no idea why, but the two are enough alike I suppose." Miniyal shakes her head at the thought of her mother and a man young enough to be her son dancing together. Well, she is an odd one to object to that truly so she must not be. At the squeeze and nearly nod she looks towards Issa. "Oh." Said softly and for a moment there is hesitation and then up goes the chin and she doesn't pause. Well, she wants wine. "Good. There is Issa. I do need to speak with her before we leave tomorrow." When they arrive at the wine table where Issa and Jarvais are standing she stops and studies what is on the table.

This leaves Gans, more or less, to make the greetings. It will do. He's adept at it. "Issa," he begins, delight to see her in each syllable, in his ready smile, in his eyes. "So good to see you. And you look just wonderful. Miniyal - ?" As in: Miniyal, beloved, darling, light of my life: get out of the wine and converse. But he's delighted about it. He's smiling so. See? Delight. And a bright look for Jarvais, too, whenever the student might be done getting his own drink.

The harpers who are playing for this part of the party end one song and begin another. The new song is more lively and several new couples move out to the dance floor to begin. Older couples move off to cede the floor to those with better knees.

In her sweeping survey of the room, Issa catches a fleeting glimpse of G'thon and Miniyal, their imminent approach causing a casual return of her gaze to the man next to her. Noting the pained grin, she huffs a breath of laughter, a nearly silent herald of more words. "Don't worry, sir," she says roundly, the title stressed as she returns the favor, mirth outlined in her subdued smile. "I'm teasing. Faranth help me if I was as touch as that," she says, leaning only slightly his way, as if the subtle change in posture will aid her words in picking past the strains of music. And, so entrenched in conversation as she is, she can turn a surprised blink up in surprise at G'thon's greeting. It was so unexpected, you see. "Gans," she greets familiarly, both hands going to circle her wineglass instead of offering the more customary gesture of a handshake. "Thank you. You both look wonderful as well. Hello, Miniyal." And her newest friend gets the friendliest of treatments (or will as soon as she looks up), a wider smile stretched out just for her. "Had a turn at dancing yet?"

The thing is, Jarvais looks up on 'sir,' apparently assumptive about its address. He holds now a glass of wine, poured in the moment just prior, and with an expression somewhat relieved replies, "Oh." And more would come; there's an opening of mouth and raising of chin and turning toward her that gives this away. But he's not fast enough, and the ethics instructor and his companion get their greetings in next. Young Greenfields puts his lips back together and turns so as to include them in whatever he's not saying; he allows for each of them a nod, and 'sir' for G'thon particularly.

She has not even had a drink yet. Miniyal looks up, however, from perusing the wine available and ever so graciously and adultly sticking her tongue out at G'thon. "The good stuff disappears first. I don't want to be left with drinking wine only fit for the weyrlingmaster." Her nose wrinkles at this, but she abandons entirely the wine so she might look instead at Issa. "Good evening, Issa. I'm so glad to see you." And doesn't she sound it? No, she does truly even finding a smile in return for the greenrider that is not strained. "We have not danced yet. We only just arrived. And, pardon me for getting this out of the way, but I must remember. Corin said to forget dessert and let her know when you would like her to prepare something special for you and Reyce. She will get carried away, you are warned. But that is her way when she thinks-" Well, something. Rather than finish her sentence she glances at Gans. Maybe, since he did not let her find wine he will get some for her. And it is not that she is ignoring Jarvais so much as she just cannot deal with speaking to many people at once and since she does not know him he is. . .well, fine. Ignored.

"Miniyal." Mild, affectionate it is, if it is a chastisement at all; but it must be, because G'thon slips a sidelong gaze at the woman he's arrived (just) with. And then to arch a brow at what she goes on telling Issa. "Corin," remarks Gans, dry. "Forget dessert?" Unbelievable.

"Allow me." Jarvais' next words, probably not the ones he had in mind for Issa, come after a long pause in which everyone else gets their turns at speaking, and he just his turn at preparing three syllables. But he does well enough with actions. His glass gets set aside; another taken up; wine poured. Not too long to offer a drink to Miniyal, then; and then, to offer a glance at G'thon, like, 'sir?' again, but without the word.

The music slows and then ends, a smattering of applause for the harpers who have finished up. As their set is not yet halfway through they launch immediately into another song. With the wine flowing as it will be tis best to get people dancing to work some of it off. That or there will be trouble. So the dance floor becomes even more crowded and more people make a line for the wine at the table while some decide to check out the food. Fewer of them, true, but some do.

Miniyal's tossed out joke about the weyrlingmaster gains her a set of sincere, low chuckles out of Issa, the greenrider dousing them in a drink of her wine. When her expression surfaces, the interrupting amusement has been sequestered to the curve of her smile. "Oh, that's great," Issa responds, breaking out with further delight over the talk of Corin and dessert. "Thank you again for asking her. I really do appreciate it. And thank her, of course," Issa adds, lifting one hand from her glass to wave idly through the air in a mildly dismissive gesture. "You know," she continues, that gesture swinging down to land a gentle, attention-getting touch on Miniyal's elbow before it returns to cradling her wine. "I have a book that I reread a few sevens ago and it made me think of you. A history, but... very unconventional. You'll have to read it." Gans questioning is ignored in all the friendly conversation. Let Miniyal handle that. Instead, she turns back to Jarvais and finds her sense of politeness once again. But she can't do much with it, other than say, "Oh, yes, this is..." and leave the hanging pause for him to fill.

"She did not forget. I mean, I had told Issa that Corin would be happy to do something nice for her, but when I talked to her she said that she would do a full thing. You know how she is." That is said a lot and if Miniyal has been chastised she ignores it entirely. Clearly he is not going to get her wine and so she removes her hand from his elbow. Fine. Be that way she will get it herself. But then she does not have to and so Jarvais gets a nod of her head. No smile, but one cannot expect miracles. She is at the party when she could be home. What she delivers instead of a smile is a quiet and ever so politely offered, "Thank you." Manners. Tilting her head when Issa speaks she smiles, briefly. "Oh, thank you. We're leaving in the morning, but I would love to borrow it when we return? I think we'll be gone. . .I am not sure. Ten days or so." Now her eyes sparkle and she casts a look to Gans that is nothing if not adoring. "He is taking me to Harper so I might look in their records again." By her tone you'd think she had been promised something more mundane, if girly, like precious metals and gems and fine clothes.

Making their way through the crowd is an older couple. Their steps are slow for it seems that if it's not someone one knows stopping them to speak it is another to speak to the other. However, they eventually disengage and it appears the woman is looking for someone because she uses her height to peer through the crowd. Her husband trails along wearily, used to such things, and content to be doing it with her.

Though he lingers near the entrance to the lower caverns, Akos has arrived at the party, self-consciously curling his arms around himself as he looks through the room. It's the first time the young Weavercrafter has had his entire head visible outside of baths and it's a little uncomfortable. He lowers his arms after a certain time and moves to make his way through the crowd, drifting between people and just trying not to bump into anyone as he goes.

"I am," allows G'thon, with another pleased, fond glance sidelong at Miniyal; and then, because she's conversing so successfully, he tightens his fingers over hers and releases them. A glance at Jarvais and a one-sided smile precede a shake of his head in the negative. "If ten days would not be too long to be without it - we will be making a couple of detours as well. You might," and while the beginning of his phrase was clearly directed at Issa, now he speaks toward Miniyal; "have time to read along the way?"

"Jarvais," the appropriate individual fills in, at the appropriate moment, and otherwise he seems content to remain non-conversational. He does pick up his wine again, upon G'thon's negative reply to the unasked question, and steps back a bit so he can get a little better view of the rest of the room, particularly the dance floor, while the ladies and instructor talk.

D'ven wanders into the lower caverns with several members of Three-Cee orbiting him. The group appears to be engaged in pleasant, but largely meaningless, conversation. The bronzerider is wearing his best black riding leathers, and he's obviously taken a lot of time with grooming. Unusually, he's also wearing a scarf. This white garment winds around his neck a few times, before flowing down over his shoulders, contrasting nicely with the shining black leathers. As the group stride into the party, D'ven ends whatever he was saying with a shrug and and an expression of amused tolerance that garners some laughs from his companions.

The older couple, the poor Miniyal's parents finally spy their prey. Well, Corin makes not of G'thon whose height is considerably more than her daughter's own and so she directs her husband towards them. Their path is still slow as they have to pass around everyone who is coming in or moving to the dance floor or doing other enjoyable party things. Mostly there appears to be a lot of drinking.

To Issa, those Harper records might as well be gems and jewelry, for she marvels over them as much as Miniyal. "How lucky. Will you be copying things for our records or..." Fill in the blank here. Issa leaves the completion of the sentence wide open for Miniyal to finish, even busying her mouth with her wine to assure there won't be any interruptions. But her attention is drawn by G'thon's hinting speech, eyes shifting across to him over the lip of her glass. There's a subtle hesitation, swift and hardly traceable in the twitch of her brows, before she turns back to Miniyal with her easy smile. "I think I could trust you with it for that long. Sure."

The nice thing about guards is that they can be discreet. There is not much, besides the general tendency to be burly and watch groups of people, rather than individuals, (well, that their knots) to distinguish them from the other partygoers. They wear all black tonight, to blend in with the theme, and five of six figures mill calmly through the crowd to then settle at various points along the perimeter of the cavern before, after ten or fifteen minutes, milling through again.

"Oh. Do you think? Thank you, Issa! I will be most careful with it, I promise you." Of course she will. It will be treated better than any newborn babe is treated by the gentlest of mothers. Miniyal smiles gratefully, thanking Issa once more with that expression. "And, if I see something there that I feel we need I will see about acquiring copies for here. I think it would not be so hard." Once more she smiles at G'thon and her hand rests on his arm once more, tightening a fraction when Corin and Navan arrive, stately and attractive as always. A thrill to see next to their daughter only attempting to be either.

"G'thon! I thought I saw you. Really, you are not going to stand around are you? I know Miniyal will not dance so you simply must escort me onto the floor. Navan will not dance often either." There is a weary sigh of petulance in Corin's tone and she expects the former weyrleader to abandon her daughter now to take her dancing.

Near one of the hearths a small group of men sit about, chatting together and sharing not only wine provided for the party, but a pair of flasks snuck in by them. Cheerful and happy one of them reaches out to pull a woman onto his lap and she giggles and settles there to share the flasks' contents as well.

Akos eases himself through another clot of people, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt quietly before he breathes out a melancholic exhale and moves to find himself some wine as well. He cradles the cup in his gloved hands, just holding it close to his face for the sake of scent before he even bothers to take a drink.

"Ah, Corin. Navan." Gans' mouth purses, but only to try to hold back the tide of a smile that Miniyal's mother is meant, clearly, to see from the brilliance in his eyes and the creases that form around them. "I am, and you must not tell - " not that anyone couldn't overhear, even with G'thon gently releasing his lover's hand so he can step a bit closer to Corin and bend so as to speak mock-softly. "- but I am promised dances, in some little time. I am sure I might oblige you first, however - " A glance, now, at Navan; should he be willing. Then one at Issa, and finally one again for Miniyal. "Perhaps I might leave you to talk?"

Still brushing off snow from the trip across the bowl, turning his white-dusted outfit into a black one, Reyce enters the cavern and immediately sidesteps, leaving the entrance way clear while he stops to take a look around at the gathering. His suit, once it's revealed, is not the same Benden-striped black one he's worn to just about every formal occasion of this turn - apparently it earned its retirement, and has yielded to a different black suit, this one unadorned but very well cut. He's still tugging the jacket into place on his shoulders when he spies Issa across the room, and sets off on a route that takes him around the wall, avoiding dancing couples and other obstructions to arrive at her side. Those around her gain a glance - a low, hooded glance for G'thon - before he can switch his full attention to Issa, taking in the dress she wears and reaching out a hand to touch her hip. "Hey," he murmurs, once he remembers that she has a face.

D'ven moves through the crowd with his small group, stopping here and there to speak with people he knows. The bronzerider seems in good spirits, and the observant might notice he is slowly but surely making his roundabout way to where the food and drink is on offer.

Corin titters, taken in by charm as always and willing to allow a man who will worship her to lead her to the dance floor. Navan will just nod his head and grin wryly at his daughter who is now left without a companion as well. So G'thon and Corin may exit to the dance floor.

A man a bit too much in his cups wanders towards the group near the hearth and strikes up a conversation with the woman already seated in someone's lap. There is still laughing by everyone so he must be expected as he is found a seat and given his share of the flask making the rounds.

"Pardon me," says Jarvais, some time after the moment would have been best to do so, and slips around behind Issa, past Reyce by coincidence without so much as a nod, toward food instead of drink. He has his glass in his hand; good enough. A nod to the bronzerider's little crowd - and no effort, to be sure, to otherwise make any greeting there.

Of the six guards, the youngest, Morley, has drifted over to the table of food and wine, and one hand seems to be, perhaps, inclined to sneak over to the plate of meatrolls. That's when the girl is yanked into a rider's lap and giggles gleefully. For whatever reason, this has the young guard's hand moving away and him drifting more properly to where he should be. Another guard, heavyset, with dark close-cropped hair, shoots Morley a sharp look which the younger man essentially ignores.

Fashionably late? Later than many, certainly. The issue of fashion is a more subjective one, to be decided by the onlooker. Neiran seems to be avoiding eliciting looks, however, black from head to toe in a manner that's undoubtedly intended as camouflage rather than an attempt at being alluring. The Journeyman healer discreetly enters from the infirmary tunnel, assesses the movement of the crowd to find the least boisterous corner, and summarily proceeds there with his eyes at neck-level to everyone else, staring at jugulars and larynxes rather than invite eye contact.

A few men stumble over towards the hearth, past the men gathered there. They are having their own conversation. One that soon mingles in with the other.

Akos just seems to find solace in the cup of deep red liquid in his hands, just turning it quietly as he leans his hips against the table behind him. It seems the albino's complete lack of proper social skills has come to the fore in the face of such a large crowd of people, and he is left to discreetly try to get drunk enough to find the situation amusing.

Gans is as pleased by Corin's tittering as she must be by his charm; in any case they make a reasonably good pair, and for some time may be involved in their dancing, and in conversation; the latter would be the part worth worrying about.

An over-stimulated bluerider in his early thirties bounds out of nowhere in particular in order to throw an arm around Neiran's neck, squeezing the healer brotherly affection before he disappears into the crowd. Bwaha.

Miniyal had better be careful with it, from the quick look her thanking expression gets, Issa's pale blue eyes more intent than the party atmosphere necessitates. But then it's swiftly back to the light conversation at hand, all steady smiling and easy glances as Corin and Navan finally make their entrance. Both of them get a greeting nod from the greenrider, and she listens with an idle attentiveness, occasionally allowing herself an indulgent sip of the rich red wine she holds. That is until Reyce shows up. Oh, the distraction. Her eyes take the opposite path his do, flicking first to his face as she issues a low, "Hi," her grin deepening when she finds where he's looking. Then she repays the favor, new delight springing to her expression when she spies the new clothes. "What's this?" she asks, curling a single finger into the space just above a button and drawing him in, still letting her gaze linger eagerly on the suit a few more seconds before she lifts it to his face. So distracted is she, that she completely misses G'thon's departure with Corin. But she hasn't completely turned away from Miniyal yet; perhaps she'll return to talk as G'thon suggested soon enough. If Reyce doesn't drag her into an abandoned hallway before then.

Miniyal will, upon the arrival of Reyce glance towards her father. Oh, look. What a perfect time to excuse herself. And so she does with a quietly murmured, "Excuse me. I must speak with my father. Issa? If you might send the book to me tomorrow? I don't imagine we'll be leaving too early." If there is a flicker of a glance towards where her lover is escorting her mother there is nothing, well, little indecent in that smile that occurs after. Jarvais gets a polite nod of the head in thanks for the wine he poured her earlier. Right before he heads off. And off she will break from the group once she losing her father as well soon enough since both will likely have somewhere else they want to be here.

Having a sixth sense for indecency, Miniyal knows when to flee a couple!

Having gathered the food and drink they wanted, D'ven's little group find themselves standing near the hearth and its little population. The bronzerider finds somewhere to lean as he watches those who are dancing, exchanging casual conversation with his friends as he sips at his drink.

While each group of revelers is given a look-over by one of the guards now and again, it is the three clusters of riders over by the hearth that begin to garner quiet interest. It's the heavyseat guard, Borser, that gives a mild chinjerk towards the little cheerful crowd, and both Morley and a short, stocky, blonde deviate from their paths to move calmly and quietly closer to the hearth.

The dancing continues, Corin happily chattering away with Gans. She is every bit as graceful as her daughter is not and displays it to perfection as she dances. Around this couple then are many others and all of them seem to be having a good time. As do the people just now arriving, late for many reasons. Many head right for the wine.

In that spot, D'ven's group is given room. Not much for there is not much. And even less as a couple of women make note of the bronzerider dressed in black leather and make their way to him with swaying hips and invitation in their eyes. It must be the scarf. Even the woman residing in another rider's lap gives this newest arrival a considering look.

Issa is distracted once again, but this time away from Reyce. Her hand still hooked close to him, she twists about to catch Miniyal and nod. "Before drills," she promises her, sending her off with a smooth, amiable smile before returning her attention fully to the Bendenite standing next to her.

Neiran seems utterly taken aback by the sudden choke-hold of a hug, yet has no time to protest or steel himself against it. An instant later as M'eri retreats, the Journeyman is left looking rumpled and displeased. He smoothes his vest, tucks that loosened bit of hair back into the tail, and brings the descended corners of his mouth back to their neutral horizontal line again. One final wary glance is cast in the direction the bluerider disappeared to, ensuring he'll not double back. Rather than risk his chances, Neiran moves away, still bound for the quietest of corners.

This particular bluerider never doubles back. He just finds a new route. He arrives again to bother Neiran, going so far as to steal what he uses to tie his hair before slapping him lightly on the back and fleeing into obscurity.

"S'what I'm sayin' is she may not be the best," a brownrider says near the hearth. "But at least she ain't from somewhere else. And we all heard the rumors that came outta Telgar, now didn't we? I'm just sayin', if you're going ta waste marks, put em on the home team is all."

D'ven laughs softly as he gestures for his attendant friends to reconfigure themselves so there is room for the young ladies to integrate themselves into the group. There's a gesture of welcome with the hand holding his glass, and it seems that the party is doing wonders to remove the bronzerider's troubles and cares. Aside from certain remarks that drift to his ears, of course.

The guards Morley and the stocky blonde, Tannum, take up spots on either side of the hearth and simply lean against the wall there. Their eyes travel over the crowds, but keep drifting back to the large cluster of inebriated men they have set between them. The other four guards continue circling through the crowd at large.

Reyce is distantly aware of Jarvais passing behind him, but processes in it a need for nothing more than to shift further from the proximity of the passing stranger, closer to Issa. The hooked button helps with that, drawing him closer and prompting another hand to find placement on her hip, holding her just a few inches apart from him now. Miniyal's six sense for indecency hasn't failed, although there's no sign of wall-throwing yet. Not even when Issa pauses to trade parting pleasantries with the kept woman does Reyce let himself be distracted from her. "Been in my press," he says, presumably of the new clothes. "You look good," he continues, presumably of her clothes. He pinches a small segment of the smooth fabric between his fingers and gives it a twitch, then uses the wrinkle as an excuse to smooth a hand along her hip and fix what he put in disarray.

A turn ago, R'vain-- and the Lady Sian-- made quite the entrance here, and even better quite the exit. They missed, to be fair, the strangest events of the evening. But there was no small quantity of trouble brewing in their presence while it lasted. Tonight R'vain makes a much more understated entrance. This is not saying much, as he has Sinopa's hand upon his arm, his other paw-- the still-bandaged one-- across himself to cover her fingers. "Well, let's begin with th'dance floor, then," he rumbles to her, continuing some previous conversation in progress. "Lest y'be stolen by any of your other admirers b'fore I can have th'dance my due." Oh charming grin, if wide and toothy and bright; oh not-at-all-subtle flattery.

That hearty slap on the back evokes a jerk of surprise, and Neiran turns on instinct, brows already furrowed, mouth open to hiss a rebuke at his half-brother. But the bluerider is gone. Wait - and why is there suddenly hair falling on either side of his face? Anger mixes with shock and embarrassment and turns icy, the healer's face struggling for a moment before fixing itself behind the defensive mask as best it can. On an otherwise immobile face, the thin skin under the healer's left eye is twitching when he turns to beeline for obscurity. His silent warpath takes him right by Reyce and Issa without so much as a word, and only a swish of hair.

The two women with overly friendly expressions settle on either side of D'ven. They give him looks. They give his friends looks. They are not overly picky right now although should D'ven show any interest it is clear he has them. The group sitting down pauses in the flask passing to glance over at the man who is talking. "Now I don't see why you'd say that, M'ede. If she weren't likely gotten a sterile queen I hear the little woman would be a fine pick. Ain't no fair to say cause she's from somewhere she's no good." Wisdom from a greenrider who ignores the women, but keeps an eye on a particular bluerider who lingers on the edge of the group.

Light laughter follows the Weyrlingmaster's remark, though her attention for the moment appears to lay elsewhere than on the bronzerider upon whose arm she is being escorted. A quick scan of the room with her dark eyes before she turns her head to glance at R'vain."That's right," she replies light-heartedly, for Sinopa is all smiles and good cheer this evening. It must be the new dress and the chance to show off that such events usually afford. "You still owe me a dance or two. Never came back to the last one there was to dance with me."

"Oh, look, Neiran's hair is down," says an obscure voice that is totally not a bluerider's. Or at least a male bluerider's. Somebody says it.

D'ven seems more interested in just enjoying the company and soaking up the atmosphere. His friends, however, are very definetly interested in the companionship and charms of the women who have settled into their group. Letting the group sort themselves out, the bronzerider sips his wine and watches the dancefloor. All the while doing his best to ignore the nearby conversation.

"Evening." Jarvais, to Neiran, since the latter is passing by on his way to... obscurity. His own or someone else's? A nod, simple, and a grin half-buried behind the hand held to the young man's mouth; he's been chewing on a cuticle, and only upon hearing the muted mumbly nature of his greeting does he realize himself and drop the hand to his side. A gesture with his wine glass, then. Nothing else; the healer has places to be. Clearly.

Issa lets her mouth wrap around the word, "Ditto," with an exaggerated pronunciation before stretching it back into her mirthful grin. "I like it," she lets him know before continuing on to the subject of her own apparel. "I still fit into it," she states, allowing her hand to trail down the same section of fabric he's busy touching. "Just barely." And her hand, less lingering than his, catches up. Her fingers wrap themselves around the edge and then push into his palm, lifting away his caress. She must have had a goal in mind for it, but something caught out of the corner of her eye, an important entrance, puts it on hold. Her eyes turn toward the entrance and fall onto the pair of Sinopa and R'vain, her brows lowering only slightly from her party-ready expression. "What a leech," she comments. And then, whether it's the comment or the more immediate swish that catches her attention, she turns to catch a glimpse of the passing healer. Or who she thought to be the passing healer, for her hesitant, "Neiran?" speaks her uncertainty clear enough.

On either side of the hearth, there is a very subtle response to the conversation going on in the crowd resting there. First Morley lifts his chin just a touch and then Tannum's eyes narrow ever so faintly. Still, the men simply hold their places, occasionally looking outwards towards the other four men who set up more stationary positions against the walls of the Living Cavern as it continues to fill with party guests.

"Pretty sure her runnin' off means something." Says M'ede as he looks around at the group gathered near him. "You think she ain't run back home? I'm tellin' you. I realise the other ain't much better, but my money is on her." Another of the riders laughs. The blue hovering on the edge. "You just say that because you'd rather in your dreams be beddin' her. Not that you got a chance. Hear she only. . ." He stops when nudged. Someone gestures then to where the weyrwoman and the weyrlingmaster enter. A couple of men laugh, wine raising their voices. "Ah. See? Even he knows where to be stickin' it to get what he wants. Ain't no questions, now, yea?"

"I'm 'ternally in y'debt." R'vain half-turns toward the acting weyrwoman long enough to dip his head and rumble a 'quieter' refrain, "For y'forgiveness more'n th'dances, I'm sure." After that he starts a path through the crowd-- getting through people is something that for some reason or other the broad-shouldered red man never has much trouble doing-- toward the dance floor, with care to be sure Sinopa attends, lest one of her 'admirers' or other obligations delay their progress.

Vanya is late, but that cannot be helped. She was simply tired, and overslept from the nap she took after working with a couple of clients earlier. But, she slips into the living cavern, hoping mainly to not be noticed by anyone. So, once she's inside, it's to the sidelines she moves, pausing only to collect a glass of red wine. She sees familiar faces, and smiles at them, taking a seat on one of the chairs against the cavern wall. Rather like she did the last time she was present at one of these parties. There's a wariness to her eyes, however, and she looks decidedly ... well, not ill at ease, but certainly not gregarious.

So much for his attempt to find a dark corner in which to hide before finding some kind of replacement tie - the voice has made that quite impossible. Rather than make an even bigger scene and continue with his rapid pace, Neiran slows and stops, winding up far from his goal of obscurity, and rather, somewhere not far from Jarvais. Mortification and an attempted hasty escape are probably overreactions, considering that all that's been done is let his hair down, yet despite the inconsequentiality of the event, the man's usually pale cheeks are now faint red. "Good evening," he returns to Jarvais, inclining his head a mite tersely. Only now does he realize his name was called somewhere, and from his new vantage he looks for the source. It's not difficult for him to find Issa, and upon seeing her all he does is give her a similar nod, and the eye contact of brief greeting. Now he has nowhere to flee too unless he wants to look more a fool to those paying attention, so he lingers.

"If you prove yourself a good dancer, I'll release you from your debt," Sinopa teases gently. A smile directed at the bronzerider, whether he's looking at her at that moment or not, follows up that statement. Then the weyrwoman is quieter, glancing around at the people who are passed and offering those she is familiar with a smile or nod, perhaps promises for later chatting once the goldrider has finally danced with the Weyrlingmaster. It's been an event long in the coming, though unfortunately it will take a little longer to diffuse through the crowd and actually reach the dance floor.

Reyce simply lets himself be halted with the lifting of that hand, staring at her placidly. His thumb pushes into her hand, pinching it a little before he shifts his grip and just closes up her hand in his own, drawing the pair back down to waist level (minus the groping). He follows her gaze only after he's done this, finding the Weyrlingmaster and Weyrwoman at the end of the line. He puffs a small breath, but aside from that offers nothing on the pair of them - Neiran distracts him anyway. He's had occasion, from time to time, to spy the healer with his hair down in the barracks, but never for long, and certainly never in public. His eyes follow the healer's retreat, ready with a level stare when the other man responds to Issa's questioning identification. He adds his own grunt to the mix of greetings going on around Neiran, although it barely rises above the din of the party and may not make it to the healer's ears.

"Caucus," notes Jarvais, in case he should need some further introduction - not that he's given any yet. An explanation as to where Neiran's seen him, if he has; or where he's seen Neiran. "Don't let me, uh, stop you," after that, and a little grin, foolish, before he turns halfway back to the table. Food table. He dips a nod toward the plates and service, to explain himself, then sets to collecting himself something to eat. If there was an invitation in that, it was lightweight at best.

The flask being passed around reaches the next man and is turned upside down. Empty. "That ain't fair, V'en. You had the last of it last time. You always take the last and the first and you never share." The rider sounds annoyed, drunk. And the two had just moments ago been arguing over the merits of the respective potential weyrwomen. So there is little surprise. . .well, there is little doubt. . .well, there is no stopping the way he pushes his chair back and rises up to his feet to grab at V'en who stole the last of the whiskey. One hand in the man's shirt the other draws back and before he can be stopped V'en is stumbling back into someone else seated, his nose bleeding. Not taking kindly to having the woman in his lap disturbed he gets shoved back the way he came. In time for another punch.

They shared more than one dance, Corin and G'thon. Because she had a captive audience after all, one who wishes to charm her to earn her favor. After all, without her approval (or so she believes) he will lose her daughter. So they dance, but soon enough he begs off, charming, reminding her that Navan might get jealous. Teasing her with a twinkle in his eyes and he takes her hand and escorts her to her husband. A few words are exchange and then he steps away. He knows where to go to find Miniyal, she has retreated to a quiet spot near the tunnel and is sipping from her wine, observing without interacting. When she is rejoined she slips her arm through G'thon's and leans up into him to whisper words that leaves him smiling once more and the two of them beginning to make a slow drift towards the tunnel that will lead them somewhere other than here. Alas, they will miss the fight.

This is what the guards have been waiting for. Or, at least, what the two stationing themselves by the hearth have been waiting for. They push back from the wall and shoulder their way through what is likely to become a rather frenetic group in a moment. Tannum is closer to the rider who punched V'en, so he's the one lunging forward to grab that man and pin his arms behind him. "How's about we just take a walk outside? Get y'head cleared, sir?" Tanum offers quietly. Morely, on the other side, is struggling to intercept V'en as he goes skittering back towards his once-drinking-buddy-now-attacker.

"I assure you I'm plenty practiced." And R'vain proves, for now, adept at slicing through a crowd-- and almost as adept at being patient, social and even occasionally pleasant, with the people that Sinopa's waylaid by on their way to the dance floor. But while she's conversing briefly with one of her 'admirers' as he put it, the Weyrlingmaster can't help but be distracted because-- well, say he's got a sixth sense for commotion. "Uh oh," he grunts, roughly, and waves a hip-level point toward the guards and the not-guards, a gesture meant only for the weyrwoman to see.

After the brief greeting, Reyce and Issa shall find themselves ignored by Neiran, more attention paid to the closer conversationalist. As though mistrustful of Jarvais' words, the healer's eyes dart to the Caucus pin on his breast pocket to confirm it; only after seeing the glint of it does he nod silently in acknowledgment. "Indeed," he offers after a moment's hesitation, further recognition of their shared student status imbued in the single word. Neiran's eyes slide to the food table that Jarvais has turned to, but the food is summarily ignored. "Thank you, but I possess no appetite at the moment." It's a tacit recognition of the invitation, however thin in substance, and ultimately denied as politely as possible. Despite that, he does turn towards the table himself, to reach for a pitcher of water. But the gesture is frozen half-way, and Neiran looks towards the hearths. Was that the sound of distal interphalangeal joints connecting with lateral nasal cartilage?

D'ven shakes his head somewhat as he watches the fight break out, and the guards wade in. "This might be about to get interesting." He observes dryly to his friends and the young ladies. "Do excuse me for a moment." So saying, he moves so that he is the closest of his little group to where trouble is brewing to watch as the guards deal with things.

Vanya, despite being near the two combatants, manages to avoid being pushed, shoved or otherwise jostled. Thankfully, the glass of wine remains unspilled. She watches with some dismay, until the guards arrive. After that, it would seem she loses interest, other than once or twice turning her head in that direction. D'ven is noticed, nodded to -- if he even sees her -- as are a couple of others she knows. For the most part, she's the wallflower of the party, and plays that part well.

Ginella arrives rather late. Her dress is black; it's simple but stylish, classy, flattering, etc. Hair is down, coat is shed, and the usual arm candy is nowhere to be seen. She seems not the least bit distressed to be alone, simply passing her coat off to be put somewhere out of the way, and running a hand absently through her hair as she skirts the dancefloor, making her way towards the drinks.

The man who punched V'en isn't happy to be grabbed and he twists, trying to get a swing at Tannum. Since that's more trouble than it is worth he kicks back. That should hit even if he cannot get a good punch on the guard. V'en for his trouble stands up and since his 'friend' is detained by a guard goes for the man next to him. After all, he had the flask as well before there was a chance to drink. Morley is shoved out of the way so V'en can reach for one of the other riders.

The woman who was previously in a lap is dumped as her seat rises up and makes a grab for one of the men standing around. It's a brawl. He doesn't need a reason. Annoyed at being dropped on her butt, the woman in the low cut white dress stands up and launches herself at the back of the man she was cooing over a moment ago. So far D'ven and his friends are spared, but they're too close to be safe for long.

"Never seen you, uh, eat," remarks Jarvais, jovially enough. But even Neiran's slight movements are cue enough for the lad out of Greenfields to catch on; maybe it's from the long hair swinging as the healer's head turns. In any case Jarvais halts in his efforts to pile about a tablespoon of every single dish offered onto his sampler-platter plate, and looks up instead. "What now," he lets out in a bit more drawl than he'd like, as if the evening's been one 'scene' after another.

Issa meets Neiran's mere nod with a wide smile and a tilting acknowledgement of her own, both meant to travel across the distance between them despite the passers-by that might interrupt the line of vision. Before long, however, she turns back to Reyce and her interrupted game with the hands. It takes her a second longer, though, to ascertain that it's her hand that's been captured in the meantime and not his. So she rights this, fingers squirming to regain her grip and then drags his hand behind her to settle it firmly in the small of her back. "Let's go see what the commotion was about?" she asks, her wineglass held apart as she redirects them and pulls herself closer to his side. Reyce's silence and the firm pressure of his hand on her back are both taken as assent, and she guides them away from the wine. She was merely speaking of the commotion of healers rushing by with undone hair, however. It's another commotion altogether that halts their progress. The fight near the hearth has drawn away Issa's attention and stilled her guiding steps; the greenrider stares unabashedly at this new development, expression stiff but neutral.

The progress of Sinopa and her escort is halted once that point is seen. Her head lifts and follows the designated direction. The little scuffle that got started earns a brief look before she turns back to R'vain and offers a slight shrug. "There's guards," she points out softly. In other words - let the trained professionals handle this incident. There's socializing and dancing to be had, after all. "Shall we continue?" Surely the entirety of the weyr isn't about to move over to gawk at a brawl that has yet to even cause a fire or some other calamity, and certainly a few couples are still enjoying the dancing.

Akos just sidles away from the commencing brawl, accidentally bumping into someone and giving a sound of shock that seems somewhat unbalanced to what's actually happened. He just winces slightly and murmurs a quick apology before he grasps his cup and turns to see exactly what's going on, his white hair ruffled and his pale blue eyes blinking rapidly.

Tannum grunts, jaw tightening as the kick connects with the lower portion of his right leg, although not badly enough to give up his hold. He shoots a glance to Morley as the other man is pushed back and what had originally been an offer of help must now shift into an attempt at grabbing at detaining V'en. Except he's punched somebody. Who now wants to punch somebody else. Tannum can either hang on to the man he has or let go and try to stop the thing from...no. There it goes. He begins backing up with the original assailant, presumably to get him out of the party and into the bowl. Borser and the other three men are making their own way over, but even keeping to the periphery, the crowd is slowing them up a little.

These things do not spread fast, that is for sure. But they do earn rumbles and grumbles from other parts of the party. People across the room are complaining now. Caucus students complaining about riders and their ill-bred manners. Riders bristling and commenting, loudly, about stuck up bloods and their inability to have a good time. And throughout it all, there's too much wine drinking and it's too middle of the winter with tempers frayed like they do get sometimes.

D'ven winces as he watches things break out, but somewhere in his blood stirs the call of too many barroom brawls and memories of a Living Cavern at Benden. Admittedly, he also remembers the time spent in the infirmary afterwards. Gesturing for his small group to guide the ladies who have joined them away from the small fight, the bronzerider stays and watches. He'll let the guards handle it for now, but he seems ready to help them if things get too out of control.

"Guards." Somehow the word alone seems to be filled with a low ripple of worry, but the undercurrent is suppressed-- R'vain casts a glance at Sinopa, taking the long route from her hand on his arm to her face. His tongue appears briefly between his lips, and when it disappears again his resolve seems somewhat firmed. Let the pros have it. "Of course. S'long as th'music's good, why not." He leans a little closer to add, "Offer's still open, y'know, f'dinner. If y'd like t'get 'way from this later-- " A shrug; a grin. Perfect teeth, white and brilliant and clean. Then onward toward the dance floor.

Reyce has a sixth sense for fights, similar to Miniyal's indecency sense and just as well attuned. He's perfectly willing to be moved around at Issa's request because his attention is elsewhere, skimming across the room and landing on the hearth just as the guards step in. From that point on he's watching it, chin raised high over Issa's head, and when the fight grinds into being despite the guards' attempt to intervene, his eyes narrow. He does not join the ranks of his fellow students arguing about riders' manners, just watches silently, and stays put.

There's a decision to be made. Vanya's all too close to the hearth and the beginning altercation for her comfort. But, to move might be to draw attention to herself, and therefore become a target. Even an accidental target. So, she remains seated near the wall, trying her best to stay away from flailing feet and fists, away from guards who are trying to restore order. Better to just let the guards handle things, yes. But, her wine glass is drained quickly, and set aside. Her cloak is drawn around herself, most likely to protect that white dress. Why, oh, why did she choose /white/?

Ginella has found herself a glass of white wine, and... a brawl? She finds D'ven, the closest familiar face, and sidles up beside him. "What's going on?" she asks the bronzerider, taking a sip of wine, unpreturbed by the fighting, it seems, at least until one rider stumbles a bit too close to her feet, and she tilts a frown at the crowd. "Surprised you haven't joined in yet."

Neiran's arm drifts to his side, his slight lean over the foods table dissolving as he abandons that reach for water in favor of observing the little spat as it unfolds. Jarvais' drawl of 'what now' is echoed silently by the thinning of his lips as they press upon one another in that prim look of disapproval that would serve him well if ever he were to become a teacher. The lips remain set as they are, his observation a silent and attentive one.

"Perhaps later would be good," Sinopa murmurs to her bronzerider companion. "As much as I would hate to leave the dance," for it is well-known how much Sinopa enjoys being seen, "Sometimes it is good to take a little break from all the dancing." Though no more on that is said on that subject as Sinopa gives in to that urge to rubberneck and sneak another glance at the commotion before she leads R'vain on until the edge of the dance floor is reached.

Jarvais' arms lift, crossing over his chest. But they cannot stay idle so easily, and in a moment one hand raises, the back of his thumb going to his mouth. He hangs the knuckle over his lower lip, too rapt in watching to chew, the wine in his other hand forgotten in a glass angled just below his opposite elbow. "Never knew," he says after a while, and then a long while passes before he gets on to adding, "there's guards in Weyrs."

The girls are happy to be lead away, the one not in the thick of things over a bruised rear. They flutter a lot at D'ven's friends and seem willing to be damsels in distress. The fight is still localized for the moment, but it sure is local. Ginella is given a front row seat. To watch a couple of men punch each other. One goes down and the other looks about and spies D'ven. Oh, right. The Bendenite and potential weyrleader. Well, we'll show him what we think of that, yes? Were he more sober he'd be thinking, 'Oh, maybe I shouldn't hit my potential future boss.' Alas for the both of them, and Ginella's wine if she is not quick, there is a fist heading right for D'ven now.

Although the healer's face remains pointed at the scene, his eyes slip to one side, viewing Jarvais surreptitiously. "It is an exception and an embarrassment that High Reaches requires them. But you can see that they are occasionally necessary," Neiran informs the other, gaze returning to the scene after it's lingered on the man from Greenfields for a few moments. After having managed to be still for so long, as if triggered by Jarvais' thumb going to his mouth, he lifts a hand of his own and tucks his loose hair behind his ears. It creates a feeble illusion of having his hair back, but its evidently better than nothing in the healer's mind. Seeing the disruption spread out has the corners of his mouth turning downward once again. "As you can also see, they are not always effective."

"Oh, they were arguing about who would make a better Weyrwoman." D'ven comments to Ginella. "You should move back, Tiv would kill me if anything happened to you. And I would have joined in, but..." But what will never be known, as that fist catches him right across the face. There's a sharp intake of breath, and the bronzerider's hands instinctively ball up for a reply. Managing to hold himself back for the moment, D'ven snarls his assailant. "If you do that again, I will drop you like a stone."

"Sometimes it's good t'take a break-- " But whatever R'vain would have said next, whatever wit might have led him and his companion into their first dance, will remain unknown. What comes instead is his hand suddenly over her fingers, and a low, rough word, commanding. Never is he commanding, with Sinopa. "Wait." And he doesn't aim to leave her side, not yet-- but her rubbernecking is all too welcome, now, while he's squinting narrow-eyed toward the commotion slowly progressing, and at, quite specifically, D'ven's part in it.

Well, this is just swell. Tannum is hauling his catch out towards the bowl despite cursing and kicking and attempted headbutts, and a quick twist of the man's pinned arm has him yelping and then proceeding quietly. Borser and two others arrive as the punches spread outwards and, as the whole thing is remaining local, there are more grabs for those throwing punches, hopefully before those punches can be reciproacted. Morley even manages to grunt out, as he lunges for the one that just nailed D'ven, "Beg pardon, weyrwoman," towards Ginella.

On the other side of the living cavern things are heating up. A pair of residents are taking exception to something they are being told. And so there is a smaller commotion starting in a corner.

"Really?" Ginella asks, sounding incredulous, "That's what they're fighting over?" She shakes her head a bit, then chuckles at his words, "True, he would, I'll--" She gets cut off as D'ven is hit and she is jostled, slopping wine up out of her glass and onto her chest. She groans and swipes at it angrily, wiping as much off as possible as she turns a look towards D'ven: "Are you all right?"

Jarvais flicks a gaze over at Neiran, distracted by the movement of the hair, and he shakes his head a little bit at something even as he returns his attention to the brawl-in-the-making that the guards are involved in. He drops his hand away from his mouth long enough to begin, "Is this what," but has the hand back up across the back of his neck with the elbow sort of hanging akimbo by the time the long, long pause goes by and he continues, "uh, what they're here for? Little brawls?"

It's hard for Vanya to miss D'ven getting a fist in the face, and she's on her feet before she realizes it. A step or two is taken toward the bronzerider, then is forced to dodge another person coming forward. She's quick on her feet, but there's a cloak and a train on her dress which impedes her progress. Snarling, she reaches and grabs the back of her dress, trying to walk without tripping. She's just about at Ginella and D'ven when the wine is splashed onto the goldrider. That causes her to pause, which is likely a bad thing to do so close to a fight. Especially when her attention isn't on her surroundings. This could be bad. Yes, it could.

The man who hit D'ven seems willing to throw another but Morley makes a lunge for him and so he has to deal with that. The guard is nearly sidestepped, but drunken muscles move slower than sober ones and he will be caught. All he can manage is to aim a kick for D'ven.

Little brawls? Little? Jarvais will see little as a couple who have been eyeing each other angrily all night erupt into a fight right in front of where him and Neiran stand. "And I said I saw what you were trying to do to her. And I am not going to stand for that." She slaps the man, sending his wine glass flying from his hand and onto someone nearby. For her trouble she gets slapped back and someone else takes exception to the woman being hit. The two caucus students had best step back soon.

Behind Issa, a short, dark-haired greenrider takes offense to the mutterings of one such vocal Caucus student, issuing staccato fighting words while stepping into his challenge. The Smith youth, although he trumps the rider in bulk and brawn both, grows a little wide-eyed; he doesn't step down, however, and simply returns with a witty quip. Before the greenrider can heave out another fiery response, though, Issa leans in, separating herself from Reyce though she doesn't drift past the reach of his arm. "Seems to me, L'trin," she begins, restraining her voice to the quietly condescending tone used with disobedient children, "that you'd do better to bother with the wandering eye of that beau of yours rather than starting something with this snot-nosed brat that can't keep his boorish mouth shut. If the guards break it up, well, we both know how you hate extra sweeps and all." Saccarine tones overtake her insults while a smile spreads sweetly one step behind them. Both of them spare her a withering glance, but the L'trin soon stalks off muttering, leaving only the Smith kid's look. She doesn't bother herself with it, though, and steps back in to Reyce. For all her trouble, she gets a voiced curse tossed at her back, and only then does the Smith angrily stalk off with his cronies. Eyes now riveted back on the much larger scene being caused, she tugs at the side of Reyce's jacket. "Let's get out of the way," she urges, when she sees D'ven's been pulled into it.