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Go Directly To Questions


Date:  November 17, 2004
Places:  Telgar Weyr's Southern Bowl and Work Room
Game:  PernMUSH
Copyright Info:  The World of Pern is copyright(c) to Anne McCaffrey 
l967. The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.

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Kassi's Note:  V'lano isn't the only one living in interesting times 
these days, as it turns out.  Kassima's become confused on where things
stand between her and her erstwhile mentee since Lysseth's flight; and
along with her own wish to know cajoling her into asking Vel about 
matters, she also has a Masterharper, who desires the same knowledge 
for reasons of his own.  This was a great scene which I enjoyed very 
much, and one which promises to lead to yet more interesting things 
for Our Heroine. :)

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The Log:

You fly downwards towards the bowl.

You slide off of Lysseth's neck to land beside her easily. She rumbles,
cocking her head down at you, and you rub her eyeridges gratefully.

Lysseth allows her whimsy to take advantage of the strong spring breezes,
spiralling as might a fallen leaf in another season from above and landing
with as much delicacy as being a fragging enormous green thing allows. "Ah,
spring," Kassi quips, sliding down. "That lovely time of Turn when you
attempt t'nauseate me. Try at least five more circles next time; you
*might* make it." She grins and slaps her lifemate on the shoulder before
sauntering Workroom-wards, whistling.

You push aside the curtain and enter the workroom.

Lysseth> A midnight-forest eye opens halfway, innerlids hazy beneath the
main one. Through that narrow gateway to draconic soul Volath considers the
approach of a dragon, quite possibly Lysseth, before shutting the eye with
an almost audible snap. His tail twitches gamely, though, and once the
green's rider has departed, a faint wurr of contentment trembles in his
throat.

Lysseth> Lysseth huffs out the quietest of snorts in her rider's departing
wake, giving her wings one last long stretch under what starlight manages
to struggle through the clouds. Not a particularly long stretch--that eye,
after all, isn't watching--but one born more from exhileration in flight
than a desire to show off. That isn't to say she doesn't warble sweet
greeting after, however, thoughtfully made soft by respect for his somnolence.

You'd think - okay, someone somewhere might think - that being a rider
exempts V'lano from sharpening his old butchering knives. And, if not that,
it might at least exempt him from having need enough for them to bother
sharpening them. Nevertheless, he's taken down a strap and sits, knees
wide, in a corner with scraps made from what might have once been an apron
to protect one leg, running a good-sized jointing blade - narrow, long,
curved at the very tip - against the grain of the leather. Other knives of
other sorts wait or rest on the worktable surface, alongside a steaming mug
of unmysteriously apple-scented contents.

Enter Kassima, stage right, whistling, with thumbs hooked in her pockets
and her boot-heels clicking lightly against the floor. When she espies the
bronzerider, her expression registers surprise only for a minute: someone
else might indeed be more likely to think riders would never need to
sharpen knives; her reaction is more appreciative. "Good blade--should I
ask what you've been dismembering with it lately?" she teases, walking
close enough to get a better look. "Or whether there's any more of that
cider t'be had?"

"Huh?" World of his own. V'lano lifts his head with a shake that tosses
back some curls that have lengthened since weyrlinghood and which threaten
to stray well past his forehead against his heavy brows. Registering the
source of the questions comes first; the content of them takes a moment
longer, requiring him to stall. "Uh. Thanks. -- Oh, this?" He turns over
the jointing knife, lifting it from the strap to show it off to what
advantage it has, tucking the outermost knee in a bit to slacken the
leather spanned between them and make room for inspection. "Nothing. I
thought they should be in good shape to lie around cold, though." His brows
twitch, eyes troubled for a moment, which he covers by scanning around for
an elusive cider-pot: "Possibly? I don't even know where it came from. I
mean, the kitchens, I suppose, but - oh, look." The tip of the knife dips
just enough to point toward a pair of pots kept warm by the hearth. "One of
those, I think."

Kassima inspects indeed, drawn as ever by a knife of any kind as a vtol
might be drawn to flame. "Different from the knives I'm used t'seeing," she
comments with head tipped to consider it thoughtfully, hearthlight and
glowlight putting highlights into her hair. "D'you miss it? The butchering?
Got it--" She backs up a step and turns to walk over and examine the pots
in question, weeding the gold of cider from the dross of klah. "You can
scarce tell 'tis spring yet for all of me. Still too bloody cold."

"I think I caught a chill at 'Reaches and haven't shaken it. Ever." V'lano
follows the wingleader's progress toward the pots with a wry grin,
stretching a hand out to lay the knife on the table along with those set
aside from previous attention with the strap. He doubles the strap itself
against his leg and drapes it there over his thigh, then takes up his own
mug to let the cidery steam waft toward his nose. "I miss it. I miss being
good at something," he admits. "I'd just come out from under Alvaro's
shadow, just to start up at being a trainee in something else." The hand
with nothing to do rattles fingertips against the honing leather. "I guess
I've been thinking about handing them off to someone who needs them."

"That'd be the one place you'd be more apt to than here--I *think*; 'tis
probably arguable. Shells, but feeling under the weather that long?"
Kassima's long fingers hook a mug from the ever-present supply and fill it;
she gestures towards him with the pot and invites, "Want me t'top off your
cup while I've got it? I'd like t'know who's been telling you that you
aren't good at things. I can think of several things you're good at." She
deadpans this, but adds honestly after one of her fleeting grins, "Such as
being a dragonrider, nay incindentally. Don't know why you couldn't help
out the butchers here, though. When you've free time, if'n you want to. You
shouldn't have t'hang up the knives until you nay longer *want* them."

V'lano dismisses concern over his health with a flip of the tapping hand,
upturning the fingers for a vague wriggle before laying them down on the
edge of the table. "Sure, I - " Answering anything clever about his cider
beyond half-rising from his seat with the mug outstretched escapes him as
she goes on, though, and what she doesn't say burns the tips of his ears a
bit. He runs tongue over lips, stretching his jaw for a moment against a
smile, and makes no misstep by making no step at all. "When I've free
time," he points out on the safer topic. "I suppose I have enough of it to
do something with, but I'd feel I ought to take up a schedule they could
count on. And I can't seem to manage that."

Kassima may have been watching for just such a burn, since her grin as she
brings that pitcher over to fill his mug to brimming has a decidedly
cheshire category: one point for her. "Just so long as you don't overdo it,
if'n you're ill--I think," she adds, setting the pitcher down within easy
reach for now and reaching for the back of a seat, "that you'll have enough
free time *eventually*. Depending on whether you choose t'spend much of it
on other things... mind if'n I sit? I doubt they'll be holding it against
you. 'Tis an odd role, clutchsire. You aren't exactly obliged t'do aught
yet. But they're probably pleased of a chance t'get t'know you some a'fore
the eggs are there."

"I'm not ill." He grins, looking upward as he reseats into his chair, and
catching sight of her mission-achieved expression draws a little flush into
his cheeks as well. "Just, uh, getting cold in my bones. Or something my
father says like that. Please," as in, please, change the subject by asking
to sit, that would be lovely - "go ahead." He nods at the selected chair,
tugging his filled mug back toward himself. "I think I oblige myself," he
admits with a grin, the blush fading from his face sooner than his ears. "I
feel like I shouldn't've been there. Surprised none of their riders have
popped me in the head over dinner yet."

Which flush just doesn't lessen Kassi's grin at all, for some odd reason.
She accepts the invitation with a grateful nod, drawing out the chair and
sinking into it with her own steaming cider prize; but as far as changing
the subject goes, well.... "The topic does remind me that I'd wanted t'ask
you a thing or two when I saw you next," she admits, curling her hands
around the mug to warm them. "Starting with how things are going with you
and Breena." At least she doesn't seem to possess an intent towards evil,
since she asks this quite casually, almost in fact too much so. "Pshhh. You
can consider it fair trade for the last time Chezroth caught Herath if'n it
makes you feel any better--but aye, the only 'Reaches rider I know of who's
inclined t'pop people over the head is M'rek, and he's already shown he's
just fine with Volath's catch."

"He seemed less fine when we played cards," V'lano grins, but drops the
topic in favor of attending to the replacement of his mug on the table and
the folding of the leather honing strap from his lap. Dark eyes lowered to
this task, he offers answer of a sort in, "Things are... going. She seemed
pleased with the - with what I brought her." One shoulder upraises and
drops abruptly in as much as he makes of a shrug. "She'd worried I and
Josilina - well, like Gay and D'mon." This very thought improves his mood a
bit, and he laughs a low choke of a chortle upon it while putting the strap
aside on the next chair over. Drawing his own seat closer to the table, he
asks, "Why? You have advice for me?" There's a step of good-natured enough,
rueful woe in that.

"You brought her a thing?" Kassima murmurs the question in a tone of polite
interest, eyes on her cider mug and tracking the steam that curls upwards
from it. "Mmm. Aye, I did ask the same, you'll recall; you just never
know--although that laugh would have me betting against even if'n I didn't
know better," she allows with a flash of amusement of her own. It twists
into something wry at the last question, as does her grin, which is
accompanied by a shake of the head: "Nay exactly that. Though I might be
able t'dredge that up too when I've more of a clue. 'Tis more that--" Her
fingertips drum against the still-undrunk-from mug. Pity for her there's no
one else to ask to sit and change the subject, no? "I find m'self
uncertain," she finally settles for, "of if'n--or whether--or--" Sigh. She
licks her lips, tries again. "Where your interest lies these days?"

From V'lano, this is a common refrain: "She's a very busy woman."
Presumably, with the game tone in his voice that echoes the laugh, he means
Josilina, whose name doesn't come out again for specification. He
conveniently overlooks the question about the thing brought for Breena for
a while, content to lift his head and grin at the greenrider, his ears
paled to normal hue at last. The scraps of apron are set aside atop the
strap and finally, unencumbered by the tools and knives, he leans back into
his chair to listen. The muscles beneath his eyes tighten barely
perceptibly as that listening becomes more and more - careful-like. "Ah,"
he begins, or ends, since it seems for a long moment that the syllable was
provided only to assure he's heard the question. Or something like a
question. When he speaks again, his voice is low and a little thin. "By
interest... no. I think I know what you mean." It doesn't help him answer.
He swirls the cider and smiles in a faintly pensive way instead.

Kassima looks up long enough to offer him at least a flicker of grin,
though her own expression is... carefully maintained, perhaps not easy to
read. Nor is it long before she finds her cider oh-so-fascinating again.
She turns the mug around and around as she speaks, and when she does so,
appears at least to address it as much as him. "Trying t'be guessing has
only confused me," she confesses. The cider at least listens patiently as a
priest. "I think one thing; then I think another; then I thought, mayhaps I
should just ask it." Pause. The murmur drops lower yet, to the point where
it's barely audible. "I have the feeling I just made a fool of m'self."

"No." He straightens in the chair, then pushes forward in it, bringing it
along a few inches closer to the table. His own mug goes onto its surface;
then he hitches his arms up as well, leaning them against the edge so his
fingers can lace. "But you might be making a fool of me, and it might be I
deserve it." V'lano's tone is comfortable, even lazy, but his face is far
from eased when he tips his head to the side, peering at the other rider to
measure her own expression. "I'd like most to ask you what you want, but I
think that's not fair. I should answer before I start asking." And there's
a little humor in that to soften it. "So answering. Interest. Breena's
special to me; she's caught me by the throat since I first saw her, and I
haven't quite got off the hook. But - " He outright grins, eyes widening
and flashing against their own darkness with an idea, an inspiration. "You
fascinate me, and I always feel at home with you." Pause. "Except maybe
right now."

Kassima flicks another look up at that, momentarily unguarded enough that
it's easy enough to read uncertainty in her eyes, and something almost like
vulnerability, as if she were at this point expecting a firm 'yes' to that
last question. "Well," she rallies with a moment's half-grin, "at least
there's that, then. Making a fool of you really wasn't part of
m'intention." She gathers a deep breath and manages to settle back in her
seat to watch him rather than the ubiquitous cider, uncertain still but
slightly reassured. "Couldn't answer anyway--what I want depends too much
on what *you* want," she allows with a sudden, wryness-touched laugh.
"Which means we could possibly go around in circles for a very long time. I
figured that about Breena; 'tisn't news precisely. I just didn't know if'n
I was imagining aught else," and there's a vague, flapping gesture of her
hand, which utterly fails to illustrate what 'aught else' might mean. "I'm
glad if'n 'tis nay so, let me say that. It pleased me well enough when you
seemed... nay displeased, after she flew, even days later--oh, Faranth, I
know. This is awkward as aught, isn't it?" She finds a grin at that, a real
one, which curves the wider for inspiration's flash.

"Well, see, that's exactly it. I can interpret this 'interest' you asked
about depending on what you'd have." V'lano ducks his head a moment,
putting a hand out to draw his cider mug near, and for a moment - ears
darkening - it seems he's likely to bury his attention in the liquid as
Kassima did in hers. He makes himself look up instead and buys a moment's
time with a sip of the cider. Mouth pulling at one side from the strain of
a half-smile and pursing at the other, he cants his head and asks, "What?"
After a heavy sigh aborted before it reaches its draining end, he catches a
breath and goes on. "It is. And the more you say it's not is not is not - "
His dark eyes glitter now. "The worse it is. But I was pleased when you
didn't cut my hands off, or kick me out straight off, and - well. Since
then." Again he lifts and lowers a shoulder, the smile getting the better
of the shapes on his lips.

"What I'd have." Kassima exhales a long sigh. There's light in her eyes to
hint at a bit of amusement as she informs him, "What I'd have is what you'd
*like* t'give, which may be nay helpful answer at all. I don't excel at
being direct, but 'twill try. I like you. I like your company. When you
invited me t'come back t'your weyr with you, 'twas well-pleased--" She
breaks off, and more than a little rose-hue warms her cheekbones. Drolly,
"Which I actually meant a lot more innocently than it sounded." Doesn't she
always? She rolls her shoulders in answer to the question then, answering,
"Aught else meaning any interest in me t'speak of, I suppose. I didn't want
t'be assuming, especially given Breena. I don't think there's any way
t'make it *more* awkward--unless a'course we stood on the table and flapped
our arms like chickens while trying to discuss this," a mental image which
makes green eyes dance far, far too much. She settles for agreeing, "Since
then," in a warm tone and without any chicken-flapping or clucking however,
mirroring his smile.

"Don't excel at being direct!" It's choked out in laughing, unbelieving
shock, and V'lano thuds the mug of cider back down on the table to lean
forward in careful attention to what Kassima says next, perhaps assuming it
won't be direct. His ears follow the suit of her face in color, but he
makes an effort to reply. "Since then. I have an interest in you." He
coughs a low laugh, then cheers, "And I've said it without any flapping. So
I guess you don't mind my interest. But do you want some explanation of 
how - far it reaches?" He raises a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing 
there; the curls have lengthened enough to descend over the back of his 
hand and trail amongst his fingers. "I don't know if I even know. Being a 
rider's - having a dragon's - living in a Weyr's - " Restart. Deep breath. 
"It's all opened up so much, but made everything so strange. I'm not 
sure -how- I'm supposed to live." He blinks, and repeats, "live," although 
he pronounced it properly the first time. Just in case.

"If'n I excelled at it, mayhaps I could manage it without both of us
turning colors every few seconds," Kassima retorts, though she laughs
too--has to, after a moment, at the absurdity of everything. "That's
progress! And I can agree that I also have an interest in you, and I don't
*think* I'm blushing too badly," although it'd be hard to tell since she's
still red from the other, "so that's progress for me too." Ever one to look
on the bright side. She folds her arms on the table now, leaning forward
unconsciously, the cider pretty much entirely forgotten. "I understand.
'Tisn't as in the Holds; I'd have been expected t'marry someday and produce
plenty of heirs, and it took some doing, getting used to the idea that this
wasn't in the cards anymore. Although I still managed the heirs." No
kidding. She searches for words a moment or two before adding slowly, a
little more awkwardly, "I don't... mind, y'know, at least nay at the
moment, that you're interested in Breena too, if'n that's the way of
things. I mean, I guess I'm nay asking or suggesting that we aim for
exclusivity yet or something like that. Mayhaps just let things happen as
'twill, and figure it out as we go? If'n you'd want to, I mean."

V'lano leans more deeply inward, closing the table off with the shared body
language of wingleader and bronzerider. "So wait. You were a - " He jerks
his chin upward incrementally and shuts off the question, waiting a moment
to begin better with, "I'd like to. That all sounds good to me. I've no
idea if it'll sound good to her, but - " He tucks in his lower lip, the
corners of his mouth picking up with the unkept promise of a smile. "She'll
bring it up when she wants to." On this he sounds almost certain, almost
sure of himself. He stretches out some fingers and backhands his mug
farther away across the table's surface, clearing space between his
leaning-in spot and Kassima's. "But I do have a question."

"Holder?" Kassima supplies, her chin dipping in a nod. "M'father has a
Holding under Lord Greystones, aye; nay very large as such things go. 'Twas
a Hold-lass prior t'being Searched." She nods again, agreeable, thoughtful;
"If'n 'tisn't," she suggests quietly, "then we can talk about that and
figure out where t'go from there, I imagine. Nay use borrowing trouble
a'fore 'tis due. I do pity you though, if'n you've two people in your life
apt t'be bringing matters up directly." There's a note of tease in that,
and the flash of white teeth in a grin. One dark brow arcs at the clearing,
but she obligingly nudges her own mug out of the way as she suggests, "Go
ahead and shoot."

"Well, I came from a hold," V'lano affords, "But no one expected me to
marry and carry on a line." The implied supposition he's making is
suggested only by a flickering upward and back down of his dark brows. They
repeat the act as he responds in like, "Pity me? For having two people? 
But - " His head turns aside, his mouth quirking more at one corner than 
the other. Though he ungathers a hand from his arms on the table and 
stretches the fingers out toward Kassima, offering them on the table's 
surface, he steadies his voice for the question he's been bid ask. "Isn't 
there someone else you've - an interest in?"

Kassima inclines her head in acknowledgment and affirmation, perhaps, of
the supposition. "I've cousins enough who could inherit, but I'm the only
child of m'parents, so that's what they'd have wanted for me. Nay that our
line's got much Blood in it, but the Holding's been in the family for
generations. Da's eyeing m'eldest son as heir now since he's the only one
with the interest and the temperament." She holds up an index finger to
clarify, "Pity you for having two people being direct enough t'be making
you blush, if'n 'tis so. Though you do blush magnificently." Tease, tease.
She'll offer him a hand in turn, seek to thread her fingers through his,
but her expression--once surprise has finished flickering across--shades
slightly pensive. "In a fashion. 'Tisn't quite the same thing.
Rodric--Masterharper Rodric, I should say--has expressed an interest in
my... well, call it company." This admission loses her some ground in the
battle of the blushes. "Which I'd nay be entirely adverse t'providing. But
that's nay a case of seeing what happens; he and I could be
friends-with-benefits, but that's as far as it goes. He's interested in
just about every woman on Pern, as I understand it." A pause. "Truth be
told... I've already told him I won't go t'bed with him, though, if'n
'twould bother you."

V'lano grins, though it's a fainter one, at the explanation. The brief
smugness at having figured something out - admittedly, something he perhaps
should have figured out long ago - lasts only until being flattered for his
blushing causes more of it. He dips his head again, lifting the unheld hand
on a propping elbow to compulsively push curls past his left ear. The hand
stops cold as she gets to her answer, though, and drops silently and gently
back to its place once there's a name out. "Master - " He can't even get
the rest of it out. When he raises his head his eyes make clear in their
naive wideness he'd expected some other answer. Slowly he nods, absorbing
the impact. "I see," he responds at last. Then, grinning with increasing
broadness, he repeats, "I see. - No, it wouldn't. I think. Assuming you
didn't have cause to be upset about it after." Suppressed laughter flickers
over his features, and he exclaims, forcing his voice into a whisper that's
far from subtle, "You told him -NO?-"

Kassima permits herself an open appreciation of that blush, too--and if
doing so should cause that much more of it, bets on whether she'll
complain? "You were expecting mayhaps Pierron?" she wonders, amusement in
her voice but some genuine inquiry too; her head tips, forelock falling the
more to one side, and her eyes are quizzical. For a moment, anyway. It
takes her a beat or two to get the beginnings of a comprehending look, as
if she's at least made a guess at whom he might have thought, but she
doesn't retract the query--she says instead, with a grin for him and a
snicker she can't quite suppress, "Nay unless his reputation is very, very
inaccurate, I shouldn't think. 'Twill let him know. He just may be
pleased." That's a bit deadpan, just a bit. She throws her head back and
laughs then, clearly tickled beyond words. "Aye, aye, or at least 'nay
yet'--is that *so* hard t'believe?"

"No!" For Pierron's name, at which V'lano outright rolls his eyes, giving
the fingers laced in his a sharp squeeze at the very idea. As she starts
looking canny, though, he raises his free hand, trying to ward off the
words, the guessing, grinning all the while. "Don't, don't. You said you
weren't out to make me look like a fool!" The protest is weak and
good-natured, and eventually he subsides in low laughter, waiting out
Kassima's more rollicking amusement until he can reply, face red as much
from the fun as from double-entendres, "No. Not from you. But only you!" A
pause, and to adequately explain his take on the situation he's forced to
resort to dire means. "-I- wouldn't dare it!"

"Oh, good, then that means I can keep his and my tuber-laden lust a secret
for just a little while longer," Kassima teases, absolutely and
unrepentantly wicked, squeezing back gleefully. "--Ah, well, that's true
enough, so 'twill be kind and nay pry. But if'n you ever want t'ask, about
that or aught... go ahead and do. I can't promise t'be *able* t'answer any
question you'd pose me, but 'twill do m'best, I promise you." She uses her
free hand to pat vaguely at her hair as though to preen, a ridiculous
prospect given that it's braided. "I'm one of a kind!" she sunnily
announces. "Daring in the face of Masterharper wrath! Oh, dear, I really
didn't know you'd ever entertained the notion. Should I mention this t'him
when I see him next? Mayhaps I could get a proposition for you too," and
that, too, is more impishness on her part, probably not improved by,
"A'course, you might have t'disguise yourself as a woman...."

Telgar Weyr> T'bay eyes Vel.

Telgar Weyr> T'bay says, "Little Volaths. Fear."

Telgar Weyr> Yselle says, "Oh he upheld Telgar's glory and honour though."

Telgar Weyr> V'lano fears too.

Telgar Weyr> Kassima pokes T'bay. Where are the little T'bays and
Sareviths? You're in Thunderbolt, man! Get cracking! ;)

Telgar Weyr> Yselle says, "That makes two for two clutchdaddies for
Lhiannonth. Unless there's more than two."

Telgar Weyr> Yselle says, "Yeah, Psst, T'bay, Kassi's going to camp outside
your weyr soon."

Telgar Weyr> T'bay oh dears. :)

Telgar Weyr> Kassima says, "Hey, I said I'd give him two years! After two
years with no spawn, the entire Wing camps out on your ledge every morning
to watch hopefully for signs of a woman in residence."

Telgar Weyr> Kassima says, "(No, not really, but I confess to loving the
mental image. ;)"

Telgar Weyr> V'lano hopes you picked a big ledge...

Mention of tuber-laden lust only succeeds in making V'lano choke on more
laughter and squeeze Kassima's fingers a bit harder. "I better not ask," he
decides, "About tubers, or anything else I'm not hearing you telling me."
But his eyes carry through on the smile he's wearing, and when the
wingleader declares her uniqueness he admires her preening, then tugs up at
her hand, turning his fingers over to offer a ladylike perch for hers.
"Daring in the face of the Masterharper, period," he grins in reply. "And
no, I can pass on that note. We've not even met. I'd - uh... ah. Not be
improved by the disguise, unless you think I can carry it on my eyes
alone." And, with self-conscious and self-mocking verve, he flutters those
girlish lashes.

Telgar Weyr> V'lano says, "And, come to think of it, with the entire wing
on your ledge, you'd figure even if there was a woman in residence there
sure wouldn't be offspring! Unless T'bay's the performance type."

Telgar Weyr> Kassima says, "We'd certainly do our best to cheer him on. I
envision Kassi and a bunch of NPCs in cheerleader outfits, with pompoms,
chanting, "T'bay! T'bay! He's our man! If he can't sire spawn, no one can!""

Telgar Weyr> Yselle votes we camp outside Kassi's ledge and see if there
are any flight babies to be found.

Telgar Weyr> V'lano suddenly has no more funny remarks to contribute.

Telgar Weyr> T'bay grins, hey, that sounds like way more fun than hanging
out with boring old T'bay. XD

Telgar Weyr> Yselle says, "Although, you know, I'm thinking, Kassi, if that
doesn't work, with T'bay, you could always go to step B, and have them come
/inside/ and offer helpful advice."

Telgar Weyr> Kassima says, "Or worse yet, Kassi could start shoving female
Wingmates inside. "Go on! You haven't spawned enough lately either!""

Telgar Weyr> T'bay suddenly really really hopes Roberta isn't in Tbolt. XD

Kassima promises, "When your curiosity about the delights t'be found in
tuber love drives you mad, then you may change your mind, and ask, and
'twill still answer." She's a generous soul that way. She's also a
snickering soul. She unwraps her fingers from his as he changes position,
the better to rest them, feather-light, on that perch so generously
offered, the very picture in hand at least of as fine a Lady as you'd ever
like to meet. "I threw snow at his head on one occasion," she reminisces.
"And then stuffed more snow down his shirt. I know nay fear. Are you
certain? If'n you change your mind, y'know...." She lets that trail off
suggestively, with a wiggle of brows for good measure--the lashes win a
laugh, but she studies his eyes with a warm admiration that isn't purely
play. "You do have beautiful eyes that any woman would envy. Still, I just
don't think the *rest* of you has much womanly virtue... unless you grew
your hair out very long; that might help a wee bit. I'm sure Rodric would
just swoon at the sight of your curls."

Telgar Weyr> Kassima says, "Alas, no, but it's just as well. Kassi's
cruelty has limits. ;)"

"I'm thinking it's going to be a lot more turns passing and a lot more
flights won and lost before Pierron and tubers together give me any desire
to know more." V'lano shakes his head, then bows it to nip a vaguely
threatening kiss at the wingleader's fingers. Because that's what you do
when a Lady has her hand resting over yours, of course. Especially with the
low choking giggling into her knuckles as she goes on about snowballing
Rodric. "Please tell me he wasn't Masterharper at the time?" He picks up
his head and expands on the idea of feminizing himself with suggestions of,
"A little more hair in some places, and less elsewhere. And perhaps some
other details." It's adequate cover for a faint blush about his eyes, which
slip just a little sideways to avoid a meeting of gazes.

Kassima chortles her appreciation and vows, "For what 'tis worth, if'n you
should ever be flight-lost and Pierron and tubers start t'sound good, give
me a yell and 'twill do m'level best t'exorcise the thought from your
head." Her hand, bravely bold hand, does not retreat in the face of such
threat: it meets it valiantly, then lifts an index finger to attempt to
trace the curve of his lower lip before he can pull back too far. "Oh, nay,
he was. You should've seen it at Turnover. He and I ganged up and pelted a
Bitran Lady with snowballs for good measure. Someday I really must sit down
and figure out why the shards I'm still alive." Curling her fingers around
his without losing the ladylike hand posture, she offers these plans a
grin. "Other details. Oh, *perhaps*. I really don't think you're ever going
t'pass as a woman, Vel. Please note that this is nay a complaint."

The bronzerider pouts a little into Kassima's touch, then raises up his
head and straightens his shoulders. "Because you had the Masterharper on
your side," V'lano explains as if this is the obvious reason the
wingleader's lived through her experience. "How you got that to happen I'm
not sure I've figured. Being as you told him you wouldn't and all." But his
eyes sparkle and he gives the Fine Formal Lady's hand another, gentler,
more courtesanly squeeze before letting his fingers drift toward the table,
with or without those perched upon them. He slips a sidelong glance toward
his varied knives, then a wry one toward the raven-braided woman. "You
know, if you ever need a utilitarian knife - otherwise, I think I should
put these up until I've got time to make some use of them."

Kassima has to admit, "This was a'fore he asked, so a'fore the nay-yet--but
the snowballing him, that was after, and I lived through that *too*. The
mystery is... well. Mystifying. And I apparently live t'state the obvious."
She seems in no particular hurry to detach her fingers from his, certainly;
her only movement of hand is to shift her fingers so that she can trace
light patterns against the back of his. "Are you saying throwing knives
aren't utilitarian?" she asks with entirely mock-affront. "That might be
the wisest course... you *will* have the time eventually, mind. I don't
doubt it." Slanting the blades a considering look of her own, she mentions,
trying for 'offhand' and not quite getting there, "At some point, you
should come up and see m'knives, y'know. Nay that they're quite the same as
these, but you might approve of the hunting blades, at least."

"Is that what it is you live to do." It's murmured with more than a trace
of suggestiveness, his attention purpotedly on her fingers moving along his
hand. He waits clear through the rest of what she says, only looking up to
offer his dark eyes to her emerald ones and check for confirmation of the
affected nature of her affronted tone. "It depends what you intend to use
them for," he answers, and for a moment it might be uncertain what he's
answering. Then, clarifyingly, he overturns his hand to play his fingertips
against hers. "I can't claim to be a great eye for a blade with any purpose
other than butchering and carving - but I'd be happy to see them,
whenever's a good moment for you." His head lolls a little to one side and
he affects a slack-jawed smile reminiscent of Volath. "Do you hunt?"

Score him a point: Kassi's ear-tips take a turn at burning, but for all of
that her answering murmur is at least as suggestive if not moreso. "Among
other things...." Those eyes of hers gleam a deep green back at his. "Ah,
well, nay purpose t'which methinks you'd greatly object. Certes nay
butchering or carving of anyone you know," with a touch of tease there.
"What think you of tonight, then? 'Tis rather late, I know, but I'm fair
sure I've all the night free if'n you do--as t'that," amused, "nay as oft
as I should, mayhaps. The time when I'm most in the mood t'kill things is
the time I'm forbidden from leaving the premises, more's the pity for me."

Nothing like a few mutteredly subtle suggestions to work up to an
invitation to a stayover! V'lano chuckles over the lack of proposed
butchering of personal acquaintances, sliding his hand away from hers. He
turns in his chair toward the knives and puts both hands to work gathering
them up into the set-aside scraps of apron. "Tonight," he grins - at the
implements, mind, for the moment unable to turn his somewhat reddened face
back to her - "Would be great. I've no plans but to, you know, sleep. And
get up for drills tomorrow." After that he manages a quick look up. With
his work all gathered, he nudges the chair back and rises, picking up the
bundle in one hand and offering the other out. "Sometime," he adds, able to
seek her face again, "We should go hunting. You can teach me."

Kassima takes up her cider mug to down the long-cooled stuff in several
efficient swallows, as if to make it up to it for having been neglected all
this time. She spends the time he's using to gather implements to take
mug--or mugs--and pitcher back to roughly where they belong, returning to
the table in good time to first peek shamelessly to see whether his face is
red, at which she grins, and then to slide her hand into his. "Then that
sounds like an excellent plan. I'm sure sleep can be managed." Beat. Can
she resist? No, not even if it brings a last touch of color to her own
face. "Eventually. And methinks that could be arranged... am I ever," she
has to wonder, but the affectionate taunt of it makes it clear she doesn't
actually mind a whit, "going t'be finished teaching you?"

He looks a little mystified at her coming and going, the cider mugs and
their replacement escaping his attention, but his fingers hug hers as his
briefly-cooled ears flare again. Already blushing, the second jab can only
win from him a broad, cheek-rounding grin. "Not if I can help it," he
informs her, deadpan in tone if not in expression. "I'd have a much less
interesting life. And what would you do? You'd have to find a new mentee!"
For that he manages a horrified giggle. "I have to avoid that inevitability
as long as I can."

Kassima lets a low, wicked chortle escape her throat for all this blushery,
but her hand gently squeezes his all the same. "Goodness," she wonders in
wide-eyed, completely ineffectual pseudo-innocence, "I make your life
interesting, do I? I do hope that's a good thing. 'Twill make you a
promise, though: whatever mentees I'sai might in his dubious wisdom pair me
with in the future, you'll still be m'mentee nay less than ever. And who
knows? You might just be able t'cajole a few special lessons out of me that
the other mentees never got, if'n you try." With that last--for now--sally
in the Blush Wars, she squeezes his fingers again, waggles her brows like
the incorrigible creature she is, and heads out to where the dragons wait.