--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Breakfast At Tiffany's


Date:  January 23, 2005
Places:  High Reaches Weyr's Living Cavern and Ground Level Guest Weyr
Game:  PernMUSH
Copyright Info:  The World of Pern is copyright(c) to Anne McCaffrey 
l967. The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kassi's Note:  This is not a light or fluffy scene.  Enjoyable, but 
not fluffy.  It opens in the Living Caverns, where Kassi is waiting 
with anticipation for the results of her and Vel's long-ago bet:  he
promised to cook and serve her breakfast if there was no queen egg in
Lhiannonth's clutch.  The food is excellent and things start out well
enough, but it's past time for certain sources of tension to be 
discussed... and V'lano and Kassima have a rather significant 
conversation about the future of their relationship.  Among other 
things.  It's not a scene untouched by bitterness, but there's a good
bit of sweet in it, too. :)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------


The Log:

By late morning, much of the breakfast spread provided for the people of
High Reaches has been reduced or cleared away. Public favorites - sticky
breads, certain fixings of eggs, and the sweetest of the juices - are
absent, their plates and pitchers either awaiting removal by the kitchen
drudges or already gone. The cavern experiences one of its "quiet" periods
now, where "quiet" may be defined as merely bustling with activity, the
background noise reduced to a lulling murmur of melded voices and utensils.
The kitchen, too, is relatively unpopulated - as it would have to be, to
allow for the habitation of an unlikely cook. That cook emerges at last,
burdened with a tray bearing a butcher's biased interpretation of the
morning meal: the steam from fresh red sausages and deep scent from roast
porcine slices attracts more than one firelizard for inspection, a green
even daring to touch down briefly on the Telgari bronzerider's shoulder for
a closer look. He hisses her off before moving toward a pre-selected table
- already laid with silver and glasses - with the little feast, poached
eggs and fire-toasted black bread alongside a suspiciously cheesy-looking
wedge of green- and red-speckled tuber pie rounding out its content.

That green might well have been one of the several looking to the woman who
already sits at that table, bright-eyed with anticipation and even bouncing
outright at the appearance of the awaited meal and meal-preparer. In all
likelihood she was chased from the kitchen once or twice by other
exasperated cooks if not him, but such has dimmed her curiosity not at all.
What could? And this is Kassima, so the meat-intensive quality of this
breakfast hardly causes dismay; once she can see--and smell--the feast for
herself, she absolutely beams at its bearer. "This might," she teases him,
"just might be worth all that waiting on 'afters' for. You really made all
of this yourself?"

"I had instructions for this," V'lano admits at the table's edge, bending
to descend the tray to the much-worn wooden surface with a dip of his chin
roughly toward the fat wedge of pie. "And a little advice as I went: 'less
of this, more of that, who's it for again?'" He grins. The sheer force of a
one-time butcher's and now-time rider's upper arms is involved in making
that descent slow enough that nothing clatters or even softly thumps; the
tray, apparently heavy from just a tad more food than two people are
probably going to make away with, finally rests. "It should be a little
fiery. That, I selected;" the porcine indicated with a point while the
other hand pulls back a chair, "that, I asked to have made, but cooked
myself." Sausage, on that remark. The eggs and toast get no explanation.
Using the space vacated by the chair to get closer to the table rather than
to sit down, he sets to pouring a pulpy juice from the lone pitcher on the
tray into the waiting glasses, asking as he does so, "Want klah? Trust me,
you don't want me to have tried to make -that- for you." Wry grin.

"I'm nay entirely surprised. I don't know as much about your pre-Candidacy
life as I might like, but 'twill confess that I somehow didn't imagine you
spending a *lot* of time cooking things that weren't meat--fiery," Kassima
assures with relish, watching the descent of the tray, "is all to the good.
So long as we've plenty of juice on hand, and we do. It smells fantastic,
Vel." She's sincere, and there's a grin to underline as much before she
shakes her head and answers, "I'm nay much of a klah person, so juice is
right on target anyway. Were the cooks so evil as you had feared?"

"There's not so much to know," V'lano demurs with a faintly shy, but
pleased, variation on that semi-permanently plastered grin. The pulled out
chair is drawn back now that klah's been dismissed, and the bronzer settles
into it with a pleased, low sigh. That relaxation lasts only a
split-second, however, and he pops back up. "Just a tick," he excuses
before dashing for plates (very helpful!) from the serving tables. Knives
and serving forks, at least he had already, and back at the table he takes
them up, setting a plate down at the side of the tray. From the latter he
transfers two eggs, one slab of toast, a generous half of the pie, a
sausage and two slices of the pinkly tender roast. "Suppose you might want
to -eat- this sometime today," he jests. "No, they weren't bad. Of course,
see, I managed to 'convince' a few of them not to be here today - you'll
have I'sai to thank for that." A cloud flickers in his eyes, but does not
last, and the plate is pushed toward the greenrider for her inspection.

Kassima shakes her head, denying demural: "Enough t'be worth knowing, and I
still want t'know it," she says, more promise than threat. For now. "That
'twere a butcher and butcher's son at Lemos Minehold I know, and that
'twere a friend of T'bay's especially, but also Yselle's and Enwi's, I'd
somehow managed t'gather; but I don't know so much else. Ah!" she says when
he returns, and laughs. "Plates might be useful." Like him, she's hardly
stopped smiling, but it widens a trace as he accepts the plate he made for
her. "Nay," she deadpans, grinning. "I just wanted you t'make it so I could
feast the eyes but starve the stomach. Thankee, Vel. You've outdone
yourself." Taking up a knife and fork, she sets to cutting meat, though she
doesn't start eating without him; she pauses to watch him a moment, puzzled
by that clouding. "I didn't know he'd visited. What trick did the trickster
teach you, then?"

The second plate is served while V'lano shakes his head, dismissing the
demural-denial with slightly abashed good cheer. "I thought so," he murmurs
of plates, tapping his own with a tine of the serving fork before finishing
up doling out his own portion of things - skimping a bit on the tuber pie,
heavy on the porcine. Finally the young man settles into the chair he's
claimed for good, grinning across the table and the partly-decimated tray
at the woman on the other side. "First of all, how to meet someone on
hostile ground," he chuckles. A dash of eyes side to side confirms no ears
listening - though the headknobs of certain firelizards are likely tempted
hopefully toward the as-yet unclaimed portions of the meal, listening to
the promising sounds of potential scraps way below human awareness. "He
brought me a little of Pierron's cooking, and a present - which I've some
of left, and will have to share a glass of with you later. Over some meal
not-breakfast. But he also said something about bribery - " V'lano's mouth
curves wryly and his cheeks take on a little hue of red. Apparently that's
the end of the sentence; he shrugs and cuts a bite of sausage, spearing it
on a fork.

Letting the topic of his past lie for the moment--though the gleam in green
eyes, should he catch it, may warn him that it shan't be so forever--Kassi
reaches for her glass of juice to raise to him in a toast once he's seated.
"To a fine breakfast with fine company, as good a prize as ever a wager's
won," and that last might be a bit of a tease, particularly followed by a
wink as it is. "Hah. See, this is why 'tis better t'take advice from him.
I'd probably have said something about knives. The liquid sort of present?
Far be it from me nay t'share, then, and thankee." She forks up a bite of
roast and egg, and for a moment is silent in blissful, appreciative
chewing. "M'compliments to the cook. Bribery, is it?" She'd have to ask,
after he colored so, but it and the glance that goes with it are light and
might not be hard to fend off.

"Oh, I'm sure you've had better wins," V'lano chuckles, but he meets the
toast and raises it: "To 'afters' and the patience of my betting partner."
He lowers the glass for a sip, finds the sip inspires thirst likely created
by the warm and work of cooking, and drinks deeply. He replaces the
quarter-drained glass on the table, looking a little self-startled at it.
"Yes, the liquid sort," he laughs, shaking his head in the negative to
confuse the subject. "I haven't really thought of trading favors that way.
And it hadn't occurred to me to try. It worked; that's good enough, isn't
it?" Ever hopeful, the bronzer steals a long-lashed look up at the
Thunderbolt wingleader before setting to breaking an egg yolk for
toast-dipping.

"Depending on your definition. In some respects, 'tis hard t'beat getting
fifteen marks from drunken sailors in a ridiculous bar bet," Kassima
confesses, after a less draining sip from her own glass; there's a twinkle
in her eyes for that thirst of his. "Still, I rather prefer your company to
theirs, and how many people have had a bronzerider and clutchfather cook
and serve them their breakfast? It makes a good story. We'll have t'gamble
again sometime." Her grin to him is mischievous. There's quiet from her
side of the table for a little while as she contentedly munches sausage;
long-lashed eyes meet long-lashed eyes, though, and she swallows to laugh.
"You'll note I'm nay complaining. So long as you haven't traded aught you
wouldn't want t'trade."

The bronzerider stops toast-egg-eating to laugh shortly. "Oh ho, you think
I've become a gambling man on this account?" Eyes merry, he shakes his head
at her. "No, I think I'll keep to watching the expert, if you don't mind."
His fork pushes a bite of sausage experimentally into the egg yolk; then,
chewing thoughtfully, he shakes his head. "Nothing the sort," he notes
after swallowing. "You worry too much about that." Resettling his fork on
the edge of the plate, he takes up the juice glass again, cradling it
between his palms with fingers twining around the sweat-beaded side of it,
making prints in the condensation. His jaw slacks, smile fading from his
mouth if not his eyes, then tightens again, words forming and being
discarded somewhere behind his lips. At last he notes, softly, "I've been
thinking." Terror! Flee!

Kassima wrinkles her nose at him, playful. "This account and your desire of
lessons. What d'you want me t'teach you for, if'n you don't intend t'do? I
don't mind, regardless; watch me as long as you like. Mayhaps 'twill go
t'Bitra some evening and you can watch me at the casino. I can always use
someone else wishing me luck on the Trader's Wheel." This experimentation
is watched and, after a moment, copied; and for good measure, she copies it
again in the next bite with tuber pie. The verdict: "That worked better
with the sausage. Delicious, all the same. All of it. As for worry--" One
shoulder lifts, her grin turning wry. "It may be so. I've had some cause."
Something about that expression of his causes her to pause in her eating,
setting fork and knife down in favor of claiming a swallow from her glass.
Fortification? Just as quietly, she invites, "Tell me of it?"

"Of course I'd send you luck. As for me - I'd just like to -have- the
skill, in case - you know - an irresistible good opportunity comes up."
V'lano tries for wry eyes there, succeeding only partially, a dim
foreboding making his expression muted. He, too, takes strength from a sip
of the thick-pulped juice, watching with somewhat improved humor the
dipping of the pie. He does come down to the point of discussion once he
lowers the glass, though, after a slow sigh. "Breena visited," he
confesses, and that it sounds like a confession may be inaptly telling.
"She... pointed out a few things which I've not done well at. I think she's
upset." One corner of his mouth peaks in a threat of a smirk, rueful at his
own statement. Lower yet, almost a whisper, and slightly sour, he adds, "I
didn't expect so much complication."

"Such as the chance," Kassima suggests with a brief resurfacing of humor,
"t'be scoring breakfast off a greenrider? Well. Naught wrong with that. So
long as you remember your teacher when it comes t'deciding who gets a cut
of the profit." Tease, open tease, and perhaps the last teasing there'll be
for awhile. She sets down her glass, but doesn't take up utensils again.
She rests her elbows on the table and weaves hands into a platform for chin
instead. It isn't the sort of conversation one eats through. "Did she." One
brow lifts. "And she's upset? So long t'visit, and 'tis you she says is nay
doing well at something, and *she's* upset?" Her voice stays quiet, even
calm, but one might just somehow get the impression that she finds this
somethwat odd. "Nor I, at this point. It's been over a Turn. I'd have
thought that if'n there'd be complications, they'd be when she found out,
if'n 'tall."

He takes the teasing with a fleet-fading grin. He watches the greenrider
closely at first, but after only a few words dips his chin low and closes
his eyes, a pained look appearing in the crease of his brow. He puts an
elbow on the table and rubs at his temple with two fingers. "Stop," he
pleads in a whisper, "Just... don't. She's right." Louder, he explains,
eyes opening to gaze through suddenly sad lashes across the table, "I
didn't invite her. I didn't write. I didn't think to ask Volath to send
word - she felt I'd forgotten her, and every right to." While the
conversation isn't the eating kind, he drops his hand from his head to his
fork, picking it up to fruitlessly push around a slice of porcine in the
juices from the pie. "It's not so much how I treat you, Kassi. It's how I
treated her. She's still adjusting - she says - to Lhiannonth and Volath -
to Josilina - " He shakes his head, unable to help being faintly bemused.
"Dragons make things so simple. I thought everyone would understand the same."

Kassima's eyes close, across the table, staying that way a beat before
opening again; it might be clear from the flash of frustration in them that
she doesn't agree, doesn't like it, and wants to dissent the point, but she
respects his wishes... mostly. "You didn't invite me, either," she murmurs,
her sole argument. It hasn't the tone of censure--not censure of him,
anyway. "Should I nay have come?" Food might be neglected, for the moment,
but another slow sip of juice is used to help maintain composure. "I don't
understand," she says at length, carefully, "what she means. Adjusting
t'what? You and Josilina aren't an item. 'Twill grant 'twas concerned about
that at first m'self--you remember--I can't fault that, only she has R'sel,
and you aren't D'mon. A won flight is a won flight. One night only. If'n
there's more to it than that, 'tis usually for other reasons." Pause. "Or
so I might hope, given givens."

The bronzerider just sits there looking at his breakfast companion for a
while, helplessness in his deep eyes, but the gears are turning and the
smoke's pouring as his expression becomes - as he might say - more and more
complex, blending anxiety, frustration, desperation and defense. "It's been
a long time since anyone would have called you Holdbound," V'lano finally
murmurs, a smile wan around the words. "I'd've - if we hadn't Impressed - "
But he can't quite come to telling Kassima what he'd have done, and settles
for, "Well. She and I would have been different, I think. If she'd been
willing." His gaze casts downward, taking in the shoved-around bit of
porcine, and with sudden self-awareness he lowers the fork to the edge of
the plate. "And there's Sonaith," he notes softly, adding no explanation. A
portentious breath swells his chest, and he looks up another time, lifting
a hand to shove back loose curls that, untrimmed since before the
clutching, would like to drop onto his forehead or in front of his ears.
"The thing is, I'm not sure how I see it - how dragons make it - is wrong.
It's simple, and simple's right." There's an almost dark certainty on that.
"If there -had- been - with Josi - well, would you feel it's too complex?"
Keen eyes seek green ones, there.

Which makes it her turn to look pained, more on his behalf than her own;
pained and frustrated still. Kassima lets a slight smile flicker to life as
she acknowledges his point with an inclining of her head. "Although still
one of the more prudish and traditional riders, by some standards. Much
might have been different. Had you nay Impressed." It takes an act of will
for her to pick up her own fork again, propping her head up now with the
other fist as resting place for her cheek, and take a slow, deliberate bite
of the roast. "Mayhaps then she'll realize how little flights mean," she
suggests, almost a mutter. "I don't know that I'd concur that simple's
always right or best. It depends on the person... feel it too complex?" Her
eyes find his, and rest there. The lack of anger in them might be
reassuring, but whether pensiveness is so much better a thing.... "I don't
think that's the word. 'Twill tell you truth--I'd nay have *liked* it much.
I...." She searches for words. "Listen. You're special t'me, aye? Hopefully
you've guessed as much. I don't like t'think that whatever you and I are,
is how 'twould be with any woman whose flight you'd won. I'd like t'be
special t'you too. If'n you and Josi had been something--I probably would
think that I wasn't. That 'twas just the way of things, after flights, for
you. I don't know if'n that makes sense."

V'lano grins despite himself over Kassima's self-description, but the smile
fades when she calls out the meaning of his mention of Breena's green. He
looks down and, idly, begins straightening things on the tray and his
plate, stacking empty plates and pushing the half-full ones closer together
to make room for the juice pitcher again. "Maybe that's how I differ," he
notes, but looks up - and is visibly assured - by the mildness in the
greenrider's eyes. He holds the pose, watching her while she explains, and
though an incremental shake of his head might warn of the perspective he's
going to share, he manages to wait for her to breathe and leave silence
meant for his response before cutting in. "How could you be less -
important - to me, based on someone else? How's it relevant? If there were
sixty eggs out there, would they be each less important than the sixteen?"
Though gentle, the tone's a devil's advocate's, driving toward a point.
"Dragons don't think that way - or Volath doesn't. I don't know if I can,
anymore, either." He pushes back the chair and half-rises from it, moving
his plate onto the tray and putting out a hand for the other one, should
she be willing to give it up, noting parenthetically, "Want to take the
rest to the weyr?"

Kassima seems to take inspiration or cue from this, since she sets her fork
down again and begins tidying up, in part while she speaks, and then in
part while she listens. "If'n you have a hundred marks," she counters, "is
a two-mark piece as precious t'you as 'tis to the man who has only that?
Which is better cherished--one treasure in a thousand, whose keeper
scarcely has time t'truly appreciate them all, or the one whose owner
polishes and admires it daily? I don't say I need t'be one-and-only... but
one amongst a multitude. Nay more special than the rest. That'd be
acceptable only if'n *you* were nay more special t'me than anyone else,
either. Those sixty dragons would all be important to you or to me or to
High Reaches Weyr... but only one really matters to its lifemate. Or for a
better analogy, only a select few will matter to whomever taps them in the
end." There's feeling in her argument, but not heat; not yet, at least, and
she gives her plate up to him. "It sounds a plan. I wouldn't," said with a
fleeting hint of smile, "want t'leave it."

V'lano pauses in his picking-up to listen as much with eyes as ears, a
rueful smile spreading on his mouth while he moves things from the table to
the tray. There's room enough, with the empty egg-bowl stacked on the toast
plate, for the glasses too, so he's got almost everything on there when he
straightens with it in his hands. "I understand what you mean," he replies
after a moment for almost-silent thought, the nudging in of his chair with
a foot creating the soft scraping sound that interrupts. He turns from the
table, and despite the tray crooks out an elbow that Kassima could put a
hand on, though not quite at the right level, and with or without that hand
begins to head for the bowl and the guest weyr out there. "What it seems to
me, I fear, is that I'm not able yet to discern a jewel from a pebble, and
I'm going to make -some- of my gems mighty angry fumbling around figuring
it out. It's more than my head can take."

Kassima might relax herself somewhat for that smile, rueful or not. She
rises, and leans to take the pitcher of juice from the tray should he allow
it--lighten his burden by that much, at least; claim that much of it for
herself. And it only takes one hand, so her other is free to steal out and
rest gently on the elbow offered her, and give a brief squeeze, in quiet
thanks. "That's a good analogy," she quips, wry humor coloring her voice,
"although this is me, nay commenting on whether I'd be a pebble or nay. I
hope t'be a gem that can handle at least some fumbling." It's not a bad
note to exit on.

V'lano wanders outside to the bowl.

You walk outside to the bowl.

V'lano goes up the stone steps onto the ledge of the ground level guest weyr.

You walk up the stone steps onto the ledge of the ground level guest weyr.

He does let the pitcher go, and flicks a smiling glance at the hand on his
arm. "I expect you can." It's almost admiring in tone, respectful and a
little bit awed, and he lets it suffice for the trip through the wintry
bowl and up the steps to the familiar little weyr, whereat he uses the tray
itself to push back the curtain for her entry. Only once inside does he
speak again, aiming a path toward the low table destined to take over the
task of holding up that tray. "I hope you won't mind a little more of it.
You're something else, Kassima - " He stutters a tiny laugh there, and does
not explain why - "You're incredible." That's more serious, and once the
tray's set down he looks up, checking on the greenrider's expression as
well as on the state of the cave - the glows, the fire, things that might
need tending. "When I come back to Telgar," he softly begins, unable to
seek her eyes now, "I would like to - just be me a bit. Well, with Volath.
I'd like to see you, spend time - " quick on that point, with a flick of a
hand to dismiss any chance of misinterpretation - and then, to clarify,
"But not carry on." He grins at himself for his own perhaps 'Holdbound'
speech. "And honestly, Breena the same - though I'll be surprised if she
wants even to spend time."

He might see the rose blush that marks her ears and cheeks, or the way she
ducks her head, but if he does then he's also bound to see the smile that
crosses her face. Either road, he'll certainly feel the second squeeze she
gives his arm. It's a familiar path, the one from Cavern to weyr, and save
for the additions of tray and pitcher perhaps a familiar way of entry.
"There are things worth enduring a little more for," she observes, setting
the pitcher down and turning a bit so she can better face him. Oh, the
blush he wins for that. It's quite a score in the blush wars. Softly,
"Thankee. I appreciate it particularly, that you think so, since I think
the same of you." Her smile might have a bit of a wry quirk to it, but it's
warm enough regardless; at least for that moment, before the rest is said.
"Well," she says, after a moment, trying for humor. "That does nix
m'suggestion for how we might celebrate the Hatching." She can't hold it,
for all that she tries, and folding her arms, she looks down to study the
tray. "That's your choice and right," she says, very quiet indeed. "If'n
you think it the best thing. Are you saying this is the ending?"

He does seem pleased to have caused her such expression, and knowing of the
rest of the conversation does not blush back - but there's a satisfied,
gentle smile afforded that betrays anything harsh he could have said. "I
don't have to go back to Telgar the very same day. I expect there'll be a
celebration here, unless nothing hatches but gray dragons." It's
soft-spoken, though, far from pushing. He moves away from the table to prod
uncleverly at one of the sconces whose glows seem to have outlived their
phosphorescence, turning the stuff over and over in an effort to get a more
lively side upward, but that edge of the weyr seems doomed to be a little
dimmer than the rest. Having failed with the glows, his hand finds his
pocket, fidgeting there. "No," he replies after a time, turning from the
sconce to study the woman sidelong. "Not an ending, unless you find someone
to weyrmate, or I do - " Though a wrinkle of nose on the latter strikes it
as an unlikely, and possibly in his mind, undesireable possibility. "But a
slowing. I'm so sorry, Kassi. I need to - be simple - for a while." His
lower lip tucks in for a little chewing on that.

How could Kassi not laugh at that? She does, briefly, even glancing up with
some genuine amusement in her eyes to brighten their current darkness. Yet
it fades into solemnity fast enough, and she doesn't answer yet while she
still watches him move and fidget so. She, for her part, is quite still. "I
don't think so," she says after it's all said. "I sometimes think Roddy
might almost like to, but--" The 'but' and the headshake with its hint of
regret may be all the close that sentence needs. Or not. "I... mayhaps can
live with that. Mayhaps. But, Vel, if'n what you really mean is that you
want t'step back and phase us both--or just me--out, call it a pause when
it's just a slower and more agonizing stop--I'd rather just know." She
sighs out a breath. "If'n 'tisn't... even if'n there are grey dragons,
there'll be something t'celebrate." Mischief lights her face a moment,
incongruous though it is. "And I'd nay be entirely adverse t'reminding you
of what you'll be missing, hmm? T'keep in mind."

The bronzerider turns a sly grin on the Thunderbolt wingleader at her
mention of the Masterharper. "And you told him no," he teases, a trace of
the same awe in his voice that he had the first time Kassima related that
particular thing. He moves toward the table again, approaching the
greenrider, hand still twitching in that pocket. "I do want to step back.
But I don't want to not know you, or not like you, or not find you
incredible. Not - yet." His mouth thins, but after a moment the thinness of
his lips tilts a little, touching on a smile. "I stink at predicting,
Kassi. I want our friendship - and no mistake, I want you too. I just can't
tell if I can treat a precious gem right." A wry grin. "Shining it and all.
Maybe I think too much like my dragon." The pocket-hand stills for a
moment, and his eyes slide sideways. "Can I ask you one more thing?"

The points are all going to him in their ongoing contest tonight, because
Kassima's ears flare red again even as she grins sheepishly for the tease.
"If'n the circumstances were the same, I'd do it again," she says. "Believe
it or nay." Her arms loosen and finally drop from their fold. She still
couldn't be called relaxed, but some measure of tension still departs, and
it's easier for her to smile back at him. A wan smile, but a real one. "I
want our friendship. Aye. And I want whatever we are--" She gestures
between them, vaguely. "Whatever that is. Something other than just
friendship, methinks. I want you, and I want that, and I don't want t'lose
either; if'n the most likely way of keeping it is t'let it lie dormant for
awhile... we can do that. Just let me know when you think you're ready. Or
if'n you'd like t'talk in the meanwhile, 'twill be there. And if'n Volath
loses a flight or something in the meanwhile--'twill be around, too." Like
his earlier comment on celebrations, that's devoid of pressure, and quieter
than the rest. "We'll figure something out. A'course you may ask."

V'lano's mouth moves, but does not produce words - the brain-to-mouth
filter is working - about the greenrider's relationship, as such, with
Rodric. He turns a half-step sideways, putting himself in profile to
Kassima, to lean against the table's edge, and while what she says is
somber, and he treats it as such, a creeping smile of slyness wants to
tweak up the edge of his mouth and put a near-dimple into the skin beneath
that camoflauging streak of mustache at the edge of his lips. "I appreciate
that," he notes, the tone rich enough with pleasant meaning to help
identify which part of the wingleader's little speech he's appreciating.
"And I wanted to ask about this." From the fidgeting pocket comes the
twitching hand around a tiny suede bag, drawstrung shut. "I'm still not
sure you'll like the color, considering. But I thought they'd be good with
your hair. Took me the longest time to get them - poor trader thought I was
stringing him along for about a sevenday - " Probably too much introduction
for a gift, so shutting up, he holds the little pouch out, strings between
fingertips, to drop into her hand or whatever else she might put out to
take it with. The other hand raises to the back of his neck to scratch
there, shyly. "Probably stupid of me to give it to you after what I've
said. I just - want to."

Kassima seems amused by this, and for one moment casts him a look with
laughter beneath it that just dares him to say what he's thinking, whatever
it may be. This state of affairs is not improved by that telltale twitch
that she's come to recognize. "I imagine that you do," she drawls in
response, and although she also nods a more formal acknowledgment,
formality doesn't match her voice at all. "And I imagine that 'twill, too."
Not quite a wink--but one eye does twitch as suspiciously as his mouth.
Whatever she was expecting his question to be, it wasn't this--he's caught
her flat-footed and surprised, as her face makes plain. But she extends
both hands almost automatically to receive the gift, and draws them back in
to wonder over the little bag, touching it gently with a fingertip. "It
isn't stupid," she softly demurs. "You didn't have t'get me aught, but
'tisn't stupid--" She looks up at him, and her eyes shine in firelight;
this without even seeing the gift yet, as if just that wanting, just the
giving, are a significant gift in themselves. "Far from stupid." On that
note, she gently tugs the drawstring to open the bag and see what's within.

V'lano gave you Tiny Pouch.


---

A bitty pouch, dwarfed even by a small hand cradled around it, of undyed
brushed suede with a simple black yarn tie. You could probably 'open pouch'
and see what's inside.

Within the pouch you find a pair of small, but brilliant, drop-style
earbobs. The gems are oval in shape and cut from a deep sapphire blue,
glinting from a multitude of facets. Set in silver and hung from fine,
narrow wires, they'll swing slightly from a single loop with a turning of
the head, allowing them to strike blue sparks reflecting the light.

---


"I've had them a while. And I know I didn't have to; I wanted to. It's just
been - odd, finding a time to hand them over." His eyes are a little merry
there, and he watches avidly, ears only a little reddened over both the
gift-giving and the discussion of flight-related comfort-availability in
which he barely took part. "I hope they match - something." Shutting up
now, so as not to spoil the surprise of what she finds.

Silver and sapphire blue spill out into Kassi's waiting hand, and she's
still a moment, breath caught. A turn of her hand makes the stones catch
blue fire. When she tears her eyes away to look up at him, those eyes are
brilliant too; and her grin is dazzling, edging on if not actually becoming
a truly foolish beam. "They're beautiful." Not the most original words in
the language, but heartfelt. "I love them. Believe me, they'll do." It
takes her just a moment to unhook the earrings she currently wears and
replace them, turning her head once she does to display them and ask, "Do
they suit?" But it's a silly question, because she doesn't wait for an
answer before closing the distance that remains between, to hug him in
wordless thanks, should he allow; and after a moment to seek a kiss, should
he allow that. It's safe to say she likes the gift very well.

[Editor's Note:  We wrapped up the scene with that. :) ]