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The End of the Idyll


Dates:  February 1-2, 2005
Place:  High Reaches Weyr's 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.

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Kassi's Note:  This was such a wonderful scene.  It ranks, I think, 
among my favorite scenes that I've ever had with Kassi, and that's 
saying quite a lot. :)  Although we RPed this a few days after the 
Hatching and entirely in the Guest Weyr, ICly it's set on the night of
the Hatching and opens in the Living Caverns, at the Hatching feast.
Kassima and V'lano made plans after their breakfast to meet up and 
celebrate together on this night.  Those plans hold more than good.
What Kassi probably expected to be a bittersweet last evening has 
food, dancing, gifts, and a great many sweet things indeed, but not
a hint of bitterness at all.

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The Log:

So there's this feast. Freshly washed and pressed, damp curls clinging to
his forehead and the nape of his neck, V'lano loiters near the serving
table offering candied sweetroot and roast leg of caprine, picking at a
plate littered with the remnants of the latter and watching - warily, one
might suspect, though with a certain giddy anxiety that might better excuse
his flickering, unsettled glances about - for something or someone, or
somethings or someones. Abandoned by Josilina, whose duties as weyrwoman
might have included social circulation beyond the Telgari's comfort range,
he nevertheless occasionally interrupts eating to grin flatteredly and
demur compliments from the guardians of pleased newmade weyrlings, or to
roll his eyes over comments from the locals regarding chickens or the color
grey. Mostly, though, he eats, filling a dragonbelly hunger and fighting
off apparent nervousness.

Goodness only knows how much time passed between when Kassima exited to
hunt her quarry and when she realized that said quarry had returned to the
drinking pool, as 'twere; probably not so long as that, thanks to those
lovely and convenient creatures known as dragons. She is perhaps not quite
so spic-and-span as he, but her dress leathers and carefully braided hair
held up to Hatching and search well enough that she needn't be ashamed.
Whether she noticed him there or is just hungry is up for debate, but after
a laughing exchange or two with this person or that--gamblers all--she
threads her way through to the tables, eventually coming close enough to
catch those dark eyes on one such flickered glance and grin to them, to
him. "Hungry much, Vel?" she teases.

He's not startled to see her - more relieved, but he steals a scan around
and behind her just in case, as though he expects the Thunderbolt
wingleader is likely to have brought other company in tow. Without such
discovery he spares, after swallowing quickly a bite of the roast he'd only
just begun to chew, a grin for Kassima and retorts, "It's something about
coming out of the hot into the cold several times in a night - off the
sands, out of the baths - just makes my stomach a pit." That's adequate for
yes, but he lowers the plate to the edge of the nearest table with clear
space to leave his arms open to offer the other Telgari an
arm-around-waist, somewhat sideways hug. Not to block her view, perhaps, of
any other gamblers she's yet to settle with. "Couldn't find you in the
crowd," he admits, "Not that I've strayed far from here." A tilt of his
chin toward the food.

What other company Kassi might have is limited to the scattering of
fire-lizards that are almost always around somewhere; but they've found
perches of their own, where they can attempt to shamelessly beg for scraps
from hapless feast-goers, and so V'lano himself is spared such pleadings.
"And I'm sure the excitement of it all doesn't help with that," she agrees,
sliding into the hold offered her with no hesitation and curling her own
arm around him. She rests her head against his shoulder for a moment's
brief, smiling silence. It wouldn't take knowing her well to gather that
she's pleased to see him. "I left," she admits, wrinkling her nose at her
own folly, "t'see if'n I could go and find you, some time agone; I'd have
done better t'stay put. It looks as if'n you're enjoying yourself?"

It would be obvious to casual observers that V'lano's glad also to see
Kassima, for he bends his head just far enough to plant a kiss in her dark
hair; he does sneak one more glance past the crown of her head as he does
so, then visibly relaxes. "I told you I'd wash and come back," he chuckles
softly at her, bending slightly to ladle with his free hand a scoop of the
sweetroot, then pick up his plate. "Not near as much as I'd be if I could
make my head stop spinning," he grins, straightening enough to speak to her
rather than to her scalp. "I'd like to go take a tally of who wound up with
whom, but I think I'll let them settle in a few days before I make a
nuisance of myself."

Kassima smiles the more for it, and wraps her other arm about him too for a
true if still-sideways hug; no tension in it, or her, which might be
another answer for the question of whether anyone else is known to be
present for whom she too might watch--and more warily. She relinquishes him
enough to let him claim that plate, laughing quietly and willingly at her
own mistake. "You did. I've nay anyone but self t'blame. Is it bothering
you?" she wonders, concerned, though the grin alleviates some of that and
she matches it with one of her own. "I can provide you a few names. Watched
as well as I could, from the height--Amarie didn't, I noted that. And
a'course you saw," droll, droll, "who my unexpected forfeit chose."

"Bothering me? That you came looking?" V'lano ducks his head a bit to try a
-look- at her - eyes merry, but warning, a grin on his mouth teasing her
for such anxiety if it's there. He lets it go quickly, though, unwilling to
chase unknown tension, and decides she must have meant, "My head spinning.
Well, of course it bothers; if I'd had one of your little glasses of fire
and ice I wouldn't be concerned, but as it is I can't help thinking any
hatching I have anything personal to do with is going to leave me dizzy and
starved. I'm two for two so far." After a quick finger-lifted bite of
caprine he agrees, "Yeah, Amarie was there when we spoke. She didn't seem
utterly broken up - which I don't find surprising, she was the same at
Telgar, and -that- time she didn't have near the responsibility to go home
to." Pause, smirk. "I saw. Let's don't talk about that quite yet. The
forfeit itself is sweet enough; it needs no salt to bring out the flavor."
He winks, if she catches it, for that.

"Your *head*," Kassi clarifies with a laugh, shaking her head vigorously
enough to set blue highlights dancing in the black. That's not to say such
a look doesn't please her, or that she doesn't tighten the arm that remains
about him in a brief squeeze of thanks. "Exactly. I don't think you'd be
welcoming me so warmly if'n 'twere the cause. 'Dizzy and starved' are
certainly frequent enough with *Impression*; this time--might be because of
the heat and the wait and the nerves. Were you nervous, t'see Volath's
children?" Curiosity. Her nod for Amarie is not surprised: "'Tis what I
told her brother, that I didn't think he need worry. I thought she might
have gone t'see J'len. Sweet, is it--" Her laughter ripples forth, rich and
warm as dark mulled wine in firelight. "Well, I hope t'make it so. M'honor
is bound up in it. I owe you something as fine as the breakfast you made
me, twice over, and while that may be a trick t'be achieving, rest assured
I intend t'do m'best by you."

V'lano giggles scandalously at that emphatic clarification, then lets his
eyes roll upward and his head tilt precariously in a mocking of dizziness
made, perhaps, by the dazzling flashing of highlights and swooning motion
of the greenrider's shaking head. This performance does not stop him from
thereafter taking up another bite of the roast, though, and he returns her
squeeze with one of his own, followed by a caress of his warm palm on her
lower back. "Terrified," he deadpans. "For fear there'd be a chicken, and
mass carnage from its consumption - no. Really, it just wasn't entirely
real. I know I said that before the clutching, but after that they were
just real -eggs-. They weren't real -dragons- until - well." His shoulders
lift and fall. With interest he considers her while she describes her
determination regarding the ill-settled bet, then slyly queries, "You've a
plan, then?"

Kassima chortles and reaches for a small, bare plate to fan him with,
ineffective but terribly entertained. "Should I be braced t'catch you ere
you hit the floor?" she wonders, all mock-solicitation and eyes that laugh,
and dance just as much as those highlights did. The moreso for the roast,
before she leans in against him for the touch, murmuring something
wordless, but pleased. The hand that had rested against his ribs extends a
little more, so that its fingers might trace, light and feather-gentle,
along the arm opposite her. "Terrified of a chicken. You're never going
t'live that down, m'dear. 'Tis so with the birth of anything, methinks."
Her grin takes a warmly wry, knowing cast. "Was it so when you Stood, too?
I thought so. That the first dragon coming out was what made it all *real*.
I'd never seen a Hatching 'tall a'fore, but then there they were, red-eyed
and screeching." Of course, she doesn't miss that slyness. Her amusement
increased, she answers in a tone that overlays sultry with faux-innocent,
"That does depend on what prize you wish t'be having. If'n a true, literal
breakfast, I've an idea or two. Quite possibly involving poultry. Might
need t'take a day off for it, but I could feast you properly with a bit of
help. If'n you'd rather your winnings took another form, however...."

"Terrified of chickens?" This is teasing mock-request for clarification
about the birth of anything - and rhetorical, too, for he promptly follows
up with that propriety-inspired phrase synonomous with 'I have no idea,' "I
would imagine. -- No, not quite. When I stood, it wasn't so much about
dragons in general, but that -I- was there - and that I might go away
changed." A pause, thoughtful, and much lower he corrects himself, "That I
would go away changed." His tongue quickly darts over his lips to clear
them of grease from the roast, his eyes momentarily deeper and distant, but
then he's back with the greenrider at his side and leans to bump her hip
with his - a friendly nudge. "Alas, only a literal breakfast would do in
public," he chortles, a flush like that inspired by strong drink moving
upward from jawline to cheeks. "And public I'd ask for, to save my dignity!
After all, that bet was -heard,-" he jibes, eyes glittering. Again he leans
to set down the plate and disengages the sideways snuggle just enough to
face her, affecting stern features. "Fair to be fair I'd have asked you to
make two breakfasts, don't you think?"

Kassima shakes with sufficient laughter that she leans against him,
lightly, for support: "'Tis so that the birth of aught is what makes it
real," she rephrases. "Although, y'know, 'tis also so that a chicken being
born would always be a cause for terror, unless 'tis from a chicken egg. We
all of us leave the Sands changed." That's softer. "Even those who leave
alone, methinks. Leave with a dragon, and certainly. Yet you're still
yourself. I can see traces of the Candidate in the rider." All of this
thoughtful, sincere, but the serious moment is broken when she laughs anew
and returns the nudging favor. "In public--shells, then I should *hope* so.
Some talents are less for public display than others," she points out in
absolutely shameless, wicked, affectionate tease, green eyes gleaming at
him and daring him to deny this talent of his that she suggests. "Mayhaps
we should make our next wager in private, then." She loosens her hold and
turns about, though keeping her hand at the small of his back; she tilts
her head one way, then the other, making a great show of thinking. "It may
be so," she grants. "Two breakfasts, for two mornings. And t'be *truly*
matching forfeit t'forfeit, I must needs make you wait some sevendays on at
least one of them."

The bronzerider's steely, but trying not to laugh, through notes of
chickens and of talents not for public display - though at the latter his
face deepens a shade and his dark eyes fall, unable to keep hers while a
grin spreads over his mouth. It's the comment before that he echoes,
though, with curiousity: "Traces of the Candidate?" His lips twist against
another smile, a fondly shy one, and he finds the hand that's not at his
back with one of his own, raising it as if they might dance - although if
there's music at this particular post-hatching feast, it's played by shy
harpers indeed and drowned out by the general susurrus of crowd chatter.
"Maybe so," he agrees to one thing or another, a lively gleam in his eyes
fulfilling promise his solemn tone does not; then, more wickedly, "Or two
breakfasts in one morning? You've a rider in your wing I'm sure would be
glad to help me settle this matter to my satisfaction."

This turning away gives Kassi an excellent opportunity, to say nothing of
excuse, to seek to place a kiss on one of those blushing cheeks, just to
the side of that grinning mouth. By her soft chortle, it was the blush that
inspired it. A soft smile steals across her face as she threads her fingers
through his and draws in a little closer. Perhaps she doesn't need music.
"I liked Candidate Velano," she confirms, bobbing her head. "He could be
well-mannered and considerate, pulling out a chair for a woman, offering
her his arm when they crossed the Bowl. He could be terribly amusing and
clever, singing songs of trousseaus. And he once thought t'worry over a
fool Wingleader who got herself Threaded. I still see all of those things
in you." For a moment, at least, there's no laughter--only warmth, for this
truth. Yet she shifts easily enough back to banter, grinning and saying,
"Only if'n I get t'help you work up the appetite t'handle two--*do* tell me
more about how this Wingmate would help?"

V'lano pauses, his whole body frozen but far from stiff, to take that kiss
and to smile a little wider for its placement. As she twines her fingers
with his he finds the side of her waist with his other hand and, tuneless,
moves with her just a little bit, grinning like a game fool while she
describes his pre-Volath self. "You saw me on my best behaviour," he admits
softly, then shakes his head against flattery making his cheeks rosy again.
A clearing of his throat banishes that blend of abashedness and soft-spoken
reminiscence, leaving the way open for a wry reply. "Oh, I suppose you know
him well enough," he smirks, casting his eyes up and distant as if thinking
hard to recall the identity in question. "He stood with me, I believe,
might've come from Lemos - "

Kassima is not a good dancer; she may even have a reputation for it. But
this sort of dance, she can manage. More importantly, perhaps, even wishes
to manage. The smile she gives as she sways lightly along with him is at
least as silly--but it's doubtful she's thinking of how foolish she might
look, with the entire rest of the Cavern faded from her notice some time
ago. "So that song was your *best* behavior, was it?" she asks
oh-so-sweetly. Then laughs and answers her own question: "'Twas. Well. Be
that as it may, there's never been aught that's lowered m'opinion of you
from then 'til now. Nay as Weyrling; nay as rider. Nay as man." She leans
in against him a moment for unspoken emphasis. Drawing back only enough to
watch him again, she grins and speculates, "Orange-ish hair, has he? Good
sense of humor, a thing for a certain greenriding clutchmate--?"

V'lano -is- a good dancer, as long as you don't want to do anything but
waltz, so it's a miniaturized three-time box he leads her in, taking up
almost no floor and requiring little on her behalf other than to hold his
hand and shuffle her feet. "Oh, absolutely," he confirms, though his tone
and lowered gaze is purely humble demurral - outrageously affected, too,
and betrayed by a grin of satisfaction. "I suppose if that didn't lower
your opinion of me, there's little left that could. - and speaking of songs
about trousseaus, it's that same orange-haired fellow who's responsible for
most of those lyrics! I think we're thinking of the same guy." He lifts his
hand from her waist long enough to snap, sealing his certainty of their
agreement, then promptly puts it back in gentle caress, not to leave her
without its solid support in their strange little dance. "He'd do a
breakfast justice, don't you think? And be thrilled to tell his
wingleader'd cooked for him, I imagine," the bronzerider grins.

By some miracle, Kassi even does so without once stepping on his feet.
Maybe it's because the dance is such a simple one; maybe how comfortable
she is with him is more to credit, allowing her to move along with him
without so much anxiety about not stepping exactly right. Her low chuckle
is decidedly appreciative. "Now, now. You needn't look so modest. Such a
work of beauty and courage that was... and you mayhaps nay even knowing
then that 'twouldn't throw fruit at you for singing. Brave man!" Such a
tease. Her grin softens to smile again, and the hand at the small of his
back takes to rubbing slow, gentle circles there, matching the rhythm of
their dancing. "I imagine he's rarely met a breakfast he couldn't conquer.
Very well: breakfast for him and breakfast for you, on the morning of your
choice--and location of your choice. Living Cavern would be easiest," she
freely admits. "Or I could deliver it to another place--we could make a
picnic trip of it. Then, if'n you two get t'teasing each other and end up
throwing food, the Headwoman shan't be quite so miffed."

"I think there was actually some level of -hope- we'd have fruit thrown at
us - but the harpers were near, and they'd have not appreciated the
possible misses hitting their instruments," V'lano chuckles, looking more
bemused now than modest. He slows the pace of the little dance, drawing the
greenrider nearer for - if she'll let him steal it - a chaste enough kiss
for a hatching feast to see, then loosens his grip on her and leaves off
dancing. "That will settle nicely, I think," he informs her, tone solemn
and businesslike as if he's pleased with the weight of a cut of sparerib
for the coals, but belied by a certain light sparkling in his dark eyes.
"And we'll have to let you choose the venue. Cook's prerogative. I'm
inclined to agree about the cavern, though." A glance around confirms a
slightly dwindled, but increasingly loud crowd - composed largely of those
who've taken Reaches' hospitality firmly by the bottle and sipped - and the
bronzer grins back at Kassima to ask, "Have you even eaten tonight, or was
that before you went hunting for me?"

"Misses! You wrong me--but then, you didn't see me throw the knives at
M'rek, did you? I never miss," Kassima informs with mock-primness. No fear
that she's actually offended. She leaves off the pose a bare moment later
to grin at him, reassuring, before she meets that kiss with as much warmth
and willingness as befits their location. "M'pleasure 'twill be t'serve,"
she murmurs after, stepping back just enough to give him a small bow.
"Cavern, then. You'll let me know what things he likes t'be eating? I've
seen you at breakfast enough t'make guesses, for you." It's only now that
she seems to remember that there are other people in the room at all.
They'd been forgotten, loud or not. She laughs, realizing, and flashes a
grin to her companion. "I haven't had a thing besides K'tdan's wine. I
probably should partake of at least a bite or two, hmm?"

"Oh, no, the misses would have been from M'tri," V'lano grins, though the
grin - even with the bluerider named not present - is faintly uneasy around
the upcurled corners. He grins as Kassima puts on the bow and catches her
hand if it'll be caught as she straightens. "Sweets," grins the
bronzerider, eyes fully merry again, "Rolls and the like - for your
wingrider, for breakfast. -Real sustenance-," he suggests with mock-stern
emphasis, "for you, for now. -- But once you've picked a plate - or I'll
pick one for you? - we can go eat in peace, if you'd prefer. Unless you'd
like to dance again?" More wicked pleasure in his dark eyes, the first
suggestion he might be aware on more than an instinctive level of her
comfort with that particular recreational form.

Kassima's hands are never hard for him to catch, and this time is no
exception. Her fingers slip into his, nestling comfortably there. "Had you
heard that he and Lani are formally weyrmated now?" she wonders, so casual
that it's difficult if not impossible to tell whether it's his unease that
sparked the comment. "Sweets for him," she obediantly repeats, solemn as a
child in Harper's lessons save for the sparkling in eyes. "Real sustenance
for me. Aye, Vel. Choose for me? You spent longer looking it over,
methinks, t'know what's good--and peace sounds like nay bad thing." More
softly, "I'truth, I've brought a gift t'give you--" Pause. "A different
gift t'give you," with enough mischief in it to suggest the nature of that
*other* gift. Her laughter and the very light, fond poke she aims at his
ribs with her free hand tell that she's caught the reference, but still:
"With you, Vel, 'twill dance any time, although you take the health of your
feet into your own hands when you ask."

"Really?" And if he's eased by it, it's lost in the increasing casualness
with which he eyes the food table, plainly considering the possibilities of
things to force-feed an unsuppered greenrider with a dry half-smile. "That
explains their visit together, I suppose. I wonder if it's not easier to
settle with someone whose mate's the same color as your own; might make for
closer understanding." Although he sneaks a glance at Kassima and squeezes
her hand there, a reassurance against any deeper meaning in his idle
thinking aloud. After the squeeze he lets go, only to move to the tables
and take up a plate to load for the woman, meanwhile looking back at her
from the corners of his eyes: "Gift?" And maybe it's just that she'd think
of him that his ears redden, or maybe it's what she says also; either way,
he points out gladly, "You didn't have to - but thank you. Hey, don't make
me spill!" It's a fond admonishment for the poking fingers, a demonstration
of the plate, newly adorned with shoreline shrimp, which is actually pretty
firmly in his grasp.

"They've been a pair of sorts since Candidacy. Certes since
graduation--only now 'tis formal." Kassima slews him a look that might hold
amusement somewhere in it, but it's quick enough to be missed. "I hope you
don't mind that he's never been serious about the bronzeriders. Or me, for
that matter. It could be so; if'n the dragons don't mind sharing their
space, which I understand is less a problem if'n half the pair is green,
but they can never know what 'tis like t'win a flight together." She hugs
his hand with her own, taking the comment as it's meant and giving him a
smile. "I don't know if'n you'll like it. I meant t'show it t'T'bay first,
but the Hatching snuck up on me--'tis part for that, though... mostly a
mentor-mentee graduation gift, methinks. Belatedly. But 'twill confess that
'tis also in part just a gift from me t'you." She threatens another poke,
but doesn't actually try to land it; she clasps fingers behind her back,
appropriately chastened--if grinning--and eyes the plate with open
pleasure. "Oh, a good start. I approve of your taste so far."

"Well, I knew they were -seeing- each other," V'lano defends, and he
doesn't look back at Kassima after that, the note about bronzeriders
rolling off of him while he's distracted by intense interest in a selection
of steamed greens with porcine-butter. After adding a little of that to the
plate he moves down the table, trusting her to follow enough to hear him
murmur while selecting a still-reddish cut of herdbeast to flatter the
shrimp, "If it's from you, my lady, I'm sure I'll adore it. Whichever of
you and whichever of me it's to and from." Another stolen grin at her
sidelong, then on to add half of a roasted tuber double-stuffed and cooked
over with cheese in it. All of this he appears to be able to select without
her help, but must seemingly ask about, "Bread or a roll? Sweet or brown? -
And if you take this, I'll get you soup and something to drink. Should we
go back to the weyr - " And if that's a confusable question, wait for this
one - "Or is this gift somewhere else?" Merry, if incoherent.

Kassima nods her satisfaction at his knowledge. "Wouldn't necessarily be
telling," she admits, "given that I'd nay have pegged M'tri as the
monogamous sort. Came rather as a surprise. Probably came as a surprise
t'I'sai, too." Of course she follows, openly curious and interested in his
choices and murmuring bright approval of this or that, enough by which he
might guess that he's choosing well. "Well," she replies, and gives a soft
laugh. "Well, then. Since 'tis from all of me and t'all of you, m'lord,
that'll do quite well. A roll, and sweet, please? Unless they've
sourdough?" She liberates the plate from him even as she requests it.
"You'll have me stuffed to the gills. Nay that I'm protesting. The gift,"
with a glimmering grin, "is in m'pocket, if'n truth be known, and the 
weyr should quite suffice for that."

"That's what I thought. But I suppose he never seemed overly exultant about
the - other possibilities." Or perhaps V'lano has conveniently forgotten,
or through draconic eyes never saw, who else stood in the weyr when Lysseth
rose so soon after their graduation - or the wry tone in his voice stands
for something, and the teasing smile along with it. But he focuses on the
rolls, plucking two from the heaped basket. "Can't tell without 
smelling - " So the sweet one transfers from hand to hand to plate while 
the other's sniffed. The bronzerider grins. "A bit mild. I prefer for sour 
to knock me over, but I've touched it now - " So it goes on the plate too, 
next to the nut-adorned one. A brief interlude of pouring hard cider into 
one glass, then offering the pitcher for the greenrider's approval, 
precedes the smirky remark, "Your pocket can't possibly hold the weyr. 
Even the guest weyr."

"Ach. You wound me," Kassima retorts, not serious at all; she chuckles, and
inclines her head in acknowledgment of the point. "Mmm. Mild or nay, I
shan't complain, for it should go beautifully with the roast--thankee. A
feast that wouldn't shame a true Lady, this. Nor," she can't help but add
with a wink to him, "would one be shamed by the company." A peek into and
sniff of the pitcher is followed by a quick nod of wholehearted
appreciation: "Excellent, excellent," and she rebalances her plate to
accept the pitcher too. "Bring yourself a cup? True, true, I suppose it
couldn't; but 'tis the *object*-gift that's in there. Nay," she points out,
all innocence, "the gift that the guest weyr is truly needed for." Pause.
"Don't ask me how I'd keep that in m'pocket either, mind you. The mind
boggles."

"Oh, stop it," V'lano grins back, rolling his eyes for the lady business -
though, of course, he started it, so he'll take her jibes with good humour.
He blinks, but only laughs as Kassima takes the pitcher, and he points out,
"This is all I'm carrying, you know," raising the glass he'd already poured
for a sip and to indicate how free his hands are. He snorts a little over
the swallowing, blushing a bit, and tacks on, "I won't ask. The mind
-wanders,-" he corrects, sly, and puts his empty hand out to try to take
that pitcher back before leading off toward the bowl.

Kassima laughs and passes it back, not one to protest unduly: "But only,"
she lets him know, "so that I have a hand free." To rest on his elbow,
apparently, should he permit it, and make their exit in that frequent and
familiar way. "I'm tempted t'ask just where it wanders to," she points out
with high-lifted brows, "if'n only t'see whether you'd blush brighter
yet... or have some interesting ideas, which would be just as worthwhile."
She leaves the Cavern at his side, still grinning to herself for that
sally--and if any of those drinking lingerers have noted such comments, or
color, or exits, it would seem to trouble her not at all.

[Editor's Note:  Here's where we hit pause until the next 
day.  The scene resumes in the High Reaches Guest Weyr. :) ]

The guest weyr is starting to show signs of an imminent and important
change. V'lano's things are largely stowed away in the small trunk he
brought with him, while all of the dishes save one small cup belonging to
Reaches' kitchens have been returned, or at least removed from the cave.
The bedding could not be described as perfectly tidy, but it's far from
unpresentable to either new candidates or drudges coming in for one last
round, or to the greenrider who'll sup here tonight. Still there's a
starkness to it, a packing-up and going-away sense present, even in tiny
details like the low burn of the fire. 

V'lano holds back the drape for the greenrider at his side, his elbow
slipping out from beneath her fingers only once the curtain refalls. Even
then he only leaves her to set the pitcher on the low table, then scoot
back the lone chair for her to take. "I'll kind of miss this cave," he
muses in the silence following the end of their lovers' stroll through the
bowl. "I've almost forgotten what privacy was like." Rueful teasing in that
remark.

Kassima takes a moment to take in all these changes--she knows this weyr as
it has been during his occupation as well as anyone and perhaps better than
any other, save he. The small, rueful smile that flickers to life has a
wistful quality to it that brushes, lightly, against sadness. "Aye," she
says as she walks forward to set her plate on the table too, taking the
chair with the automatic and always grateful smile she gives him whenever
he pulls one out for her. "I, too. I do believe if'n you added up the
evenings, nights, and mornings, I've spent at least double the time here
that I ever have in the guest weyrs at Telgar, oddly enough. And I've
enjoyed all of it." She slips a hand into her right pocket as she speaks,
to produce a rather small, black-laquered and hinged wooden box, which she
sets on the table across from her with a gentle click. "Think you'll enjoy
having a weyr more t'yourself? I'm sure," she teases back, "that you'll
enjoy nay having t'worry about greenriders and chasers taking it over at
random."

"I have no way to tell you how glad I am you kept me company so much," he
murmurs, and leans to kiss the back of her neck should it stay put well
enough. He leans an arm around her and sets down the cider-cup, then
straightens and goes to collect the mug waiting on the mantle. "I'll enjoy
being up off the ground," he chuckles, "And nearer Volath too. But the
flights weren't so bad. Only one pair took over here - and they didn't know
this one had me in it," he grins, turning from the hearth after a brief
prodding at the fire to revive it. Coming back to join the greenrider at
the table, V'lano smirks, "I never expected to see so much of -any- guest
weyr. I know all its secrets now."

Kassima bends her head forward enough to make her neck the more accessible,
one of her hands stealing up behind her head to thread her fingers through
his dark curls. "I can't tell you what it means t'me that you wanted so
much of m'company," she answers, soft and low. "It's been so much my
pleasure, in every sense." She lets her hand fall when he moves, picking up
the cup to take a sip and give an appreciative sigh. Another sip, for good
measure. Apparently she's fond of cider. "I know what you mean. And for
what 'tis worth, Lyss will probably be glad t'have the chance t'canoodle
with him again from time t'time, if'n he's a mind to allow it--she's been
so woefully deprived of the warm bronze companionship that's only her just
due." This is accompanied by a long-suffering and loving roll of eyes:
*dragons*. Her free hand reaches to try and catch one of his when he's back
at the table, to raise to her lips so that she can press a kiss to its
back. Then, with no one else here to see, turn it about and drop a second
and more lingering kiss in the palm. "Mmm. Just goes t'show. But *secrets*,
is it? What kind of secrets?"

V'lano is fond of cider too, and pours a cup for himself while eyeing that
black box with wryly curious half-smile. "I imagine he'll be glad for the
affection. Not that he's been hurting - Lhiannonth's been warm enough to
him - " Which causes the young man a faint blushing, but he's not shy of it
and turns his reddened face toward Kassima for a dry grin. "I've had such a
nice break from being his personal record-keeper and reminder service while
she's held him in sway. His head's made of bubble-stone - it's a good thing
Lyss likes him for his wings." There's not an incremental, tiny pause just
before the naming of dragonsails - certainly not - and it doesn't add to
the pink in the bronzer's face, either. No. He watches her take his hand
and laughs lowly, awkward but pleased, at the touch of her lips. The other
hand sets down his cup, then steals to trace a secret fingertip swiftly
over the surface of the hinged box. "Well, there's the carving in one of
the glow-sconces," he muses. "Under the glow. I saw it when it went dead
and I pulled it out to see if I could make it... uh... not be dead." Not an
expert on glows, is V'lano.

"Just as well for them both," remarks Kassima, who wouldn't seem bothered.
She grins, in fact. "Bloody pain t'be stuck on the Sands with a lady who
gave you the cold shoulder, I imagine, or a male you couldn't tolerate.
He's nay so airbrained as that, surely--" Her defense of Volath is broken
by the need to laugh near-silently, head bowing over her plate. "His
wings," she repeats, delighted. "Certainly. Among other things. Tail, neck,
excellent taste in greens...." After a squeeze, she relaxes her hold of his
hand--not letting it fall, but making it easy for him to free it should he
wish--and exchanges cup for shrimp with the other, eyes lighting with
approval once she's taken a bite. "Oh, delicious. Did you try these?" she
asks, plucking another from the plate to hold out in offering in case he
had not. "A carving. I don't think you showed me that, but what a lovely
idea. Mayhaps you should carve something. You can open that, y'know,"
because she did notice his notice of the box, and amusement and
anticipation are mingled in the look she gives him. "'Tis yours. The
pocket-present." As opposed to the other.

"Well, I suppose some queens might not care for who catches them. Volath's
just young enough I doubt he could catch any dragon - queen or green either
one - who wasn't at least a little interested already," V'lano replies,
sport in twinkling eyes. He lifts his own cider with that hand - snatched
back from the wayward petting of the box for such purpose - and sips, then
returns the cup to the table and retrieves his other hand as well, only to
use it to wave off the little shrimp. "I had one," he notes, "but I don't
care much for them. You like seafood so well, I thought you might." His
grin turns satisfied with warmth in his eyes and a smug curling of his
mouth, sending those little traces of moustache into deep brackets around
his lips. Hitching his hip onto the table in a companionable,
best-use-of-lack-of-additional-chairs way, he reaches out to take up the
box in his palm. "It's just two characters and a little squiggle which I
think represents a pair of dragons - you know, twisted up - the letters
must stand for names, I figure. I guess that was a happy win." Curious
fingers nudge open the lid.

"So you're implying that Lyss was *interested* in him, and that's why he
caught." Kassima's eyes dance back at him over the shrimp. "On the one
hand, I'm inclined t'protest that you wrong him, because a'course only the
finest can catch the lady. But I certes can't say she didn't at least like
him; and as bronzes go, he's nay bad t'look at," and for all the truth of
this, there's a hint of tease too, as if she might not be speaking strictly
of green and bronze. "Well, and 'twere right. I can take or leave most
fish. But shrimp, spiderclaws, scallops, the like, that's different."
Evidently so, since she munches that poor declined shrimp with all evidence
of enjoyment, and after a comment of, "Must've been. Shells, that makes me
want t'hunt about in ours for similar signs now," sets to decimating a few
of its brethren for good measure. It's a distraction tactic for herself, to
try and keep the eyes that watch his face as he opens the gift from being
too anxious. Good luck with that one, Kassi.

Nestled within the small box, which is lined with black velvet, is a piece
of jewelry. The band of this ring is simple, mellow gold, wide enough to
suit a masculine hand and burnished to a muted shine. Three carats of
square-cut black diamond perch on its crest, gleaming darkly in a frame of
repeating Vs that chase each other all around the stone. Though heavy
enough for one to notice its presence, the opacity of the jewel keeps it
from being as flashy as some; and within the circle, where only the wearer
shall know of it, the words 'V'lano and Volath, Telgar Weyr' have been
painstakingly engraved.

"Of course she was," V'lano humbly retorts, though despite his smirk the
taunting smugness is only half-hearted. The rest of his attention's
expressed through wondering fingers, straying over the golden surface of
the ring just beside the diamond, as if afraid to stroke the smoky surface
of the gem itself. "I like spiderclaws," he numbly notes in a half-whisper,
then nudges his nail under the rim of the ring to pull it free of the
velvet. The box goes back to the table with care while the ring itself is
examined in the varied hues of light from flickering fire and cool
phosphorescent glows, and when he finds the engraving he can't help his
smile growing a bit wider, his eyes deepening with a little glisten at
their rims. He is silent for a seemingly long time, though not longer than
the span spent -between- - not even a strain to the lungs that, for those
moments, fail to draw breath. When he does breathe, it's to speak with
wonderment; what his words don't express, perhaps the tremble in his voice
does instead. "As a butcher I'd never have been able to wear such a thing."
But V'lano is no longer a butcher, and carefully he fits the ring to his
finger, the smile turning from awed to goofy in a heartbeat.

Unable to keep up even the pretext of eating, Kassi sets a shrimp down to
watch this reaction so carefully--and anxiously for all of that, not quite
daring to breathe--that she might as well be memorizing it, stowing each
detail away for some later recall. "I hoped 'twouldn't find it a bit much,"
she says, not much above a whisper herself. "You should have had a
graduation ring--and the stone... I liked the stone for you. I wanted
t'give you something you might like. That was meaningful." Now she's just
being inane, and she seems to realize it since she stops talking rather
abruptly. It finally seems to sink in for her that he's not quiet because
he isn't pleased. That he seems, in fact, to be very pleased. And that's
when the smile starts to dawn across her face, so unconsciously joyful that
one might even term it radiant, just as her eyes are. "You can take it off
whenever you feel the urge to joint a carcass," she suggests, half-laughing
in her relief. "I'm glad you like it, Vel. Shells... 'glad' isn't even the
word."

"It -is- too much," the bronzerider rebuffs, a little of that shaky vibrato
remaining in the lower range of his voice. Nevertheless he puts his hand
out a little ways to consider the ring on it, jet diamond against the
differing but complimentary golds of the band and his sun-bronzed skin, and
grins a bit more at the effect. "And you oughtn't have - but I'm glad you
did." He nudges himself down from the table and comes round behind
Kassima's chair to close arms around the greenrider's shoulders if she'll
have such display of affection, and if so that ring will be on the hand
that clasps his other arm on top, where she can see it on his finger in
ultra close-up if it pleases her; meanwhile he laughs softly, thrill in his
voice, and murmurs the inadequate but necessary words of "Thank you."

Kassima isn't dismayed by this as she might have been only moments before.
She gives a soft laugh and a headshake of wordless, simple denial for the
very thought, turning her head to follow him with her eyes as much as she
can; bringing her hands up to rest on the arms that soon enfold her, for
she's never one to protest such displays from him. She tilts her head down
to admire the shine of metal and stone, smiling, and bends her neck so that
she can rest her lips against that hand, near the ring, should he permit.
"You're welcome," she murmurs into skin. "Always welcome." After a beat she
straightens and attempts to turn in her chair without dislodging his arms
entirely, until she can seek to wrap her arms around him and inform him,
with perfect, quiet-spoken truth, "That it pleases you is the only thanks I
need--and then some."

His unadorned hand overturns to run fingers over the edge of hers, while
the other hand shifts just slightly to make the ring glint in the low
light. When she turns around into him, he loosens his grasp enough to
facilitate the effort and straightens to meet her, arms open and mouth
brilliant with a smile. "It reminds me of your hair," he says in a voice no
longer trembling, but still low, and now a little rough around the edges.
He regathers her to him once she's putting her arms around him, and
breathes warmly into her hair to savor its caress on his face, its color
and texture - then leans his head back to seek her eyes. "Thank you
anyway," he grins, obstinate, then leans forward again, seeking her lips
this time.

Kassima rises as she turns, so that they needn't have the chair between
them, and presses her cheek against his shoulder once she's both held and
holding. Her eyes close, blocking out all sensory input beyond the warmth
and scent and sound of him. "'Twas inspired more by your eyes," she admits
in a murmur. "But I'm going t'be selfish, and nay complain a whit about
that other." There's a suspiciously damp gleam in her eyes to match that
his earlier had, but her grin is very real and very brilliant, and that
kiss he seeks is willingly, even eagerly given. No chaste Caverns-kiss,
this. "Welcome," she draws back only barely enough to repeat, before
seeking to claim a second; and after, low-voiced, with a touch of mischief
and more than a touch of entirely other emotion, "Y'know, most of this food
would be just fine cold." Maybe that's true, maybe it's not, but three
guesses whether it'll bother her if she's wrong. "If'n you'd like t'be
receiving that other gift now?"

V'lano's hands seek warm places in the curve of the greenrider's back,
sliding over the muscles alongside her spine, one to the small of her back
and one to the place between the shoulder blades. Each for each they stay
for a moment, pressing her tight to him, expressing an unhurried urgency in
the intensity of his embrace. "Don't complain," he agrees softly, and plays
his part in those kisses with will; their power robs some of the pressure
from his arms about her, and after the riders' lips part a second time
perhaps breathing is eased for both, if heavier at least for the man.
"Yes," suits well enough for answer, and if there's more reply requested
his beringed hand will provide it, sliding away from her back around and
down her arm about him, to find her fingers and twine with them. By that
hand he leads or is led, a playful light in his eyes despite solemn
currents not far beneath.