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Midday In the Garden of Good and Evil


Date:  March 15, 2005
Place:  Telgar Weyr's Weyrgardens
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:  Vel asked, when I sent him this log, which of Vel and 
Kassi is the good and which the evil.  I leave that up to the reader
to decide. ;)  Separate errands cause the lovers' paths to cross in 
the Weyrgardens, where they quickly abandon all thoughts of errantry
in favor of backrubs and mint and bathing chambers, oh my. 0:)  This
could also be considered a follow-up of sorts to the M'rek-talk 
trilogy of logs, since V'lano tells Kassima about his own visit to 
the bronzerider--and other recent happenings at High Reaches, too.

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The Log:

As relatively lush and abundant as the gardens are, green and flowering
under the summer sunlight and imbuing the air with the mingled sents of
herbs and flowers, perhaps Kassima can be excused for not knowing where the
plants she desires are. That would at least be the most obvious reason for
her to wandering about, checking this shelf and that and murmuring to
herself; prodding a leaf, stroking a flower, and turning away to another,
unsatisfied. Lysseth is a distant length of dark dragonhide, wings and body
alike stretched out to bask in all the warmth of the season.

It's one of the waterways along which V'lano comes trodding, free of
Volath's shadow for now; it seems he's come on foot, breath a little heavy
from the hike. Even so his step is swift enough that his goal is plainly
the gardens, not just an afternoon stroll. Though the thin mountain air is
crisp even in the bright sun, he's shucked his jacket and, by chance, the
knot that almost lives upon it, its thin tassel bouncing against the
leather draped over his arm. Once he's reached the bottommost terrace of
the garden proper, he'll be close enough that his breath can be heard in
place of the footfalls audible quite a bit before that, and it will be
plain - should she turn and see him - that there's a tiny flower stuck in
his hair right above his ear, pink, pale, and not very likely to have grown
at Telgar. Other than that, he looks perfectly sober, bending to run
fingers through the fronds of a streamside plant as if he, too, seeks
something.

Nor is she jacket-burdened: blouse and trousers have been deemed enough,
and riding gear left entirely behind--even the distant dragon is
unencumbered, as perhaps befits their semi-vacationing status. Kassima is
sufficiently absorbed in her quest that the first footfalls aren't
particularly noted. Closer steps, now; and breathing beyond that, those can
and do catch her ear, so that she straightens from inspection of small,
leafy things to see who goes hither. "You've mentioned wanting t'see
flowers in m'hair," she observes, taking in the bloom with a slow grin. "I
hadn't ever thought t'see them in yours. It suits you, although a darker
red might just be better." What he's looking for is not asked outright. She
apparently prefers to investigate for herself: watch his fingers comb
through, see if they come away intact.

Here's hoping. He finishes the first riffle of foliage and moves to a
second one, pausing between, still bent, to cant his head up and grin at
her, unsurprised enough that he may be assumed to have seen her there, and
not yet wished to interrupt her task. "Can't crush it if it's there," he
observes, matter-of-factly, though a redness -does- blossom at the tops of
his ears - just not one born of flower petals. Head back down he checks the
second plant. If her attention is keen she may note how he lifts between
two fingertips the buds, not yet ready to blossom, of the plant, examining
its preparation for flowers before moving onto the next greenery in line to
make a similar check. Wild-growing all of them, borderline weeds, he seems
disgruntled with what he's not found, and straightens with hands on knees
at first to assist the motion. An amiable grunt signals completion of his
inspection of the stuff by the stream, after which he ascends the nearest
path leading into the terraces. "What brings you here?" His question's
accompanied by an easy grin, maybe a little too easy, as if it's perfectly
reasonable for him to be nosing around in the flowers, but her presence is
curious. A smirk in his eyes knows slightly better, perhaps.

Kassima slides her eyes from the plant to his, when they look at her; she's
grinning already, but it brightens a notch automatically. "Crush it," she
muses, studying the small flower. "Is it precious t'you? I'm nay sure how
much luck you might have finding others t'go with it--" Perhaps she did
notice the bud-survey. She stoops to one knee, still an easy gesture;
caresses the leaves of the rejected plant, almost as though to console it
in its indubitable heartbreak. "You do realize you're nay going t'get away
with asking that without being asked the same." She slants him a sparkling
look: they both know better than that. "Mint. I'm out of sticks, and the
Healers have hidden them somewhere good this time. They swear they'll nay
let me have any more until I swear on m'honor t'drink *two more cups* of
milk a day." Horrors! "There has t'be some way t'talk 'em around. In the
meanwhile, chewing leaves might be better than naught 'tall."

"Precious?" He picks it out from behind his ear and eyes it with a smile
which might, indeed, suggest some fondness, but the expression does not
last - at least not for the flower. He returns to the streamside, to her
side, to bend and hold the blossom out to the greenrider for her
inspection, shrugging. "It was given to me, but it's a flower; it will die.
I wondered if it came from here, so in a way - to answer your question - "
Which, with grinning mouth and sparkling eyes, V'lano plainly knows she
hasn't asked yet - "I am looking for others, to see if it's a match." The
rejected plant is most certainly not minty, though it has a lush,
tiny-leaved appearance not wholly unlike mint-moss. "I've had mint in milk,
when I was smaller. And sweetener, and fruit-nectar, and anything else my
father could put in it to tempt me short of beer. Have you tried those?"
He's teasing now, plainly, knowingly.

"Who gave it t'you?" Kassi, naturally enough between look and explanation,
wants to know, while accepting the tiny flower to get a good look at it.
Murmured, "Poor little thing. They do all die, and sooner more than later.
You could press it if'n you wish t'be keeping it--'twill nay be as lovely,
a'course, but 'twill hold color fair well, and scent if there is any,"
which she bends her head forward to investigate, by means of a delicate
sniff. The bloom is offered back to him, no worse for her gentle wear.
"If'n you're thinking 'twas from here, then I'm guessing someone local.
Only it doesn't look like the sort of thing I oft see in the gardens. I do
nay think they'd approve me of putting *sweetener* in it, either--" which
sentiment she follows up with a raspberry for him, but that in turn is
followed by a laugh; "And nay even mint could make it palatable. Nay a
favorite of yours either, is it?"

"Good guess," he murmurs after her deduction of the giver's location,
grinning rather dryly as he takes the blossom back, tucking it behind his
ear again with an easy motion which suggests at some point, he must have
kept things there quite a lot. Presumably not small pink flowers. "But you
could guess better, and now that you've asked, I can too." Upon which the
bronzer's a bit wicked in the eyes. The answer's presented casually,
though, as if he didn't really suspect Kassi whole-heartedly. "I think
Breena. There are others, too. But that's the thing - I don't really think
it -is- from here, and I don't know flowers well enough to have a better
guess." He shrugs and straightens again, casting about as if looking for
something; perhaps not the flower's mates now, but something just the same.
He laughs while looking, then tilts his chin down and offers the woman a
hand should she wish to stand too, explaining dually, "Oh, I can stand a
glass of it if I have to. Hot with klah, it's not bad either, but I bet
that's a no-go for you also? Want to sit with me a bit, or shall I go
hunting mint for you?" Teasing, still, though serious enough to take either
answer.

Kassima starts to nod, unsurprised, at this confirmation of what she'd
expected; only it isn't quite confirmation, and when that registers, her
lashes sweep in a slow blink to him. "Someone left you flowers," she
surmises. "Without leaving a name? I'd be thinking Breena--mayhaps I should
worry if'n 'tis nay Breena--" There's humor in that, though, and tease for
him. "If'n you've a secret admirer somewhere. 'Tis a pretty gesture,
whomever 'tis from." Her pause in taking the hand is explained by the way
his scan of the grounds touches off one by her, delaying her realization of
his offer. When her eyes return, she smiles, slides her hand into his, and
pulls herself up with such help. "'Tis, and I don't care for the stuff
anyway--usually--save as a last resort against sleep. The lack's far easier
t'take than that of wine. Sit?" Her fingers hug his, a brief, light
squeeze. "We can seek mint together soon enough, mayhaps. I'sai would have
it," she quips, watching him for reaction with the threat of a grin on
mouth-corners, "that I should teach you its importance."

"Well, there was a ribbon with them. I think it's Breena's. I just can't
-prove- it is all." And V'lano's a little pink for her teasing, and for
relating the information at all, so he just nods mutely in agreeing
appreciation for the gesture itself. He's still somewhat nonplussed when
she hesitates to put her hand in his, but then she does and the muscles
down the length of his arm, even in tensing to hold steady for her
uprising, seem somehow to ease. "Too bad I can't trade you. I'd miss wine,
but you must be absolutely heartbroken, my sodden beauty," which is sheer
obnoxiousness on his behalf, but adoringly meant and accompanied by one of
his canine-eyed, smitten smiles. "Where," he's asking, of places to take
repose and share the sunshine together. A twitch of the arm that holds the
jacket sends it a handspan into the air so he may catch the leather in his
hand, shaking it out, perhaps to prepare it as cushion. A second question
defers the first, however, a brow coming up in query as his eyes seek out
hers anew: "It's -importance?- From I'sai?" Whatever notion he has about
the content is not matching up with the source of the advice, and his
half-curious, half-icked expression betrays it.

"Are you going t'be asking her? Or just wearing the flower when you see her
next," Kassima half-wonders, half-suggests, "and seeing how she reacts to
it? It tempts me, almost, t'send you flowers one day--roses, methinks. Dark
red ones, long-stemmed and thorned. And you could come down to the Living
Cavern with one between your teeth, and we could dance some scandalous
dance around the room, then exit, leaving everyone thoroughly befuddled."
As much laughter lights voice as eyes, describing this rather unlikely
scenario, and her hand is warm in his. Once standing, she turns to face him
and seek to wrap the other briefly around his waist: a greeting-hug,
belayed until now. "I shall surely pine away and perish for the loss," she
murmurs in his ear before drawing back, nose wrinkling playfully at him but
her eyes having their own certain starry quality for all of that. She
sweeps out her again-free arm to gesture towards a place where the grass is
relatively thick, near a space of stone wall to rest backs against: "There?
Or there's a bench... its importance. Aye. Pregnant women need lots and
lots of mint-sticks." So solemn, her intonation. So gleaming, her eyes.
"Particularly if'n their name starts with 'K' and ends in 'A' and has an
'Assim' in between. I'm just dying t'know what 'twere *thinking*, from the
look on your face."

"I don't know. Perhaps I'll just let her see them, or the ribbon if she's
not by soon enough, and see what she says." V'lano grins, no more or less
fond of getting himself in trouble there than anywhere else, perhaps, but
laughs at the notion she suggests next. "And I hate to think what Pierron
would make of that." He embraces her in return, squeezing a little too
tenderly for all he's merry enough, perhaps for the subject of 
conversation - or perhaps for a soreness in his neck, evidenced by a severe 
tilt of his head one way after the hug as if he could make the joints 
crack. They don't choose to obey the effort, but gamely enough he leads 
toward the grassy spot, especially once his manner's eased by her reply. 
"Thinking. Ah, just thinking. About mint. Not I'sai." It's a poorly-made 
answer, strung together of beads of thought as he can get them out, through 
a pretty severe filter and a crookedly grinning mouth. "So I'm meant to 
ensure you have lots of mint sticks." That should be a safe remark!

"Well, if'n they aren't from her, you can tell her they aren't from
me--if'n she'd want t'hear that. Alas that I hadn't the idea." Kassima
abandons the hesitation that marked her first statement in favor of a
delighted chortle, made against the cloth over his shoulder as she hugs
him: "We might make his eyes pop at least a little bit. If'n I could dance
worth a shell, m'love, 'twould suggest we actually do it, only for that."
There's a little trace of concerned frown, for a bare moment; her only
remark for his stiffness just yet, but once they're at the place she
indicated, she points to a spot two feet or so in front of that stone wall.
"There," she instructs. "And 'twill rub out your neck while we speak. What
about mint--or, if'n 'tis more germane, what *nay* about I'sai?" Like she
was really going to let that go, particularly with beads perhaps yet
remaining on that thought-necklace; she squeezes his hand again though,
before letting hers fall away for the sole purpose of sitting just behind
where she indicated he should. "Methinks that's the idea. Roddy, too; don't
fear that he's escaped this thought of Is's."

"I don't think she'd mind if they were. She doesn't seem to mind this." The
bronzerider only has to lift his left hand, overturn it and turn it again,
then let it fall again to his side to let the heavy subtlety of the dark
stone there suck up a little daylight. The motion is easy, warmed by
affectionate gratitude. "You dance wonderfully," V'lano muses while
walking, as if he's totally serious, and goes on, "As long as we're in
private." Such serious words, such earnest flattery, such wicked eyes. And
he thinks with that small fete he'll have blown over -her- question, and
thus ignores it, save for the red in his ears, complementing the bloom on
that one side. He's not quite quick enough for her, but after she sits he
does as well, offering the shaken jacket without comment upon it. "Maybe I
should learn how to -make- mint sticks. Wonder if I could get the girl at
Reaches who helped me with quiche to help me on that, too. If she knows.
Who makes mint sticks here?" His understanding of the stuff might leave a
little to be desired. His helpfulness with her offer to rub his neck does
too - he's more of a mind to lean back, chin tilted high, mouth poised if
she'll oblige him.

The smile she flicks towards him is the brighter for it, dark stone
bringing light to green eyes. Not that it's the only source. Her cheeks
warming, Kassi's eyes nevertheless tell him of her appreciation for such
wickedness; amused, and lit by just a bare touch of a different kind of
warmth. "Part of that is m'partner," she points out, low and merrily
suggestive--and, "With whom 'twill dance any time." So gallant. Behold the
slight curtsey she dips him before sinking to that seat, before accepting
his jacket with a new smile and rising enough to spread it out beneath
her--nudging him in invitation to lever up enough to let her slide some of
its cushion beneath him too, should he wish. "I'sai did once make a mint
stick. Is that what 'twere wondering?" Too deadpan for him to think she
truly believes it. "I don't know that he took it up as a lasting art. I
suppose that the Bakers do it, but it could be one of the Healers come
t'that." She tries, she truly does try, to fix a chiding look on him, but
it's one of her more futile attempts and lasts perhaps all of two seconds
before she's sliding her hands around to fold across his waist and dipping
her head to oblige indeed, assuming that it was a long--and deep, after the
first gentle moments--kiss that he desired. Rather than, say, a mint stick.
He might be disappointed if he was after a mint stick.

V'lano warms his throat with a murmur of appreciation for her appreciation
in turn, and picks himself up to make the most of what's available of his
jacket, which some leather-specializing laundress will surely appreciate
the treatment of later - riders! "It wasn't," he admits, half-hopeful that
will kill the subject, half-hopeful that it won't, and murmurs more
gladness for the stroke of her hands around him and the touch of her mouth
to his. Then there's no murmuring for a while. He props himself with one
elbow on the jacket near her knees, the other hand coming around to clasp
hers against his stomach, the muscles of which, tightened, might tremble a
bit from the position held. He'll hold it, though, as long as the kiss
lasts, and only then straighten, a grin certain sign of no disappointment.
Finally his neck is offered, his head tilting far forward to counteract the
latest, unregrettable strain. "Well, if Bakers do it, maybe she'd tell me
how. Or tell me who would tell me how. I'm sure not asking Pierron." On
which he giggles, softly, into the fabric of his shirt.

Kassima makes a soft sound against his mouth when his hand covers hers,
certainly no protest; her fingers splay out a bit, futile attempt to soothe
such trembling, but that's more instinctive than intentional with her
attention decidedly elsewhere. Her smile meets his grin at its ending, her
cheeks warmed for reasons other than blushery now. Before she answers, her
hands gently disengage from his--catch it, a moment, in a hold--then glide
up and around until they're curving over his shoulder. She drops another
brush of lips to the nape of his neck before her thumbs find the skin there
and begin to work at the first tense places, digging into muscle, though
not enough to cause pain. "Just tell me," she suggests, with a grin he can
likely hear. "Nay t'say I don't appreciate your distraction methods, mind
you. She did give you good tips on the pie. Tubers are m'nemesis, and yet
I'd still have t'admit--if'n only t'you!--that I liked it; all the peppers
helped... and it might be she could do even better things for a mint
stick." Soft laughter. "Oh, ask him. Ask him. After we do our
rose-intensive dance. That way, he's *certain* t'think you mad."

He makes a low noise for her thumbs at his neck, wincing more in
anticipation than in the pain she's definitively avoiding causing. After
that the muscles begin to give way, slowly, from pebbles to mash beneath
her massage. "Something about mint. Breath, maybe," or maybe not, since
he's rather noncommittal on it. "Something I wouldn't really expect my
-weyrlingmaster- to have advised my lover to advise -me- upon." And he's
chuckling again, but she'll be able to see his ears well from this
perspective, and they say the chuckle's embarrassed for his thoughts. "Oh,
-I- thought there would be no dancing. With roses. In public." V'lano can
only tease so much, like this, with his arms over his knees and his head
bowed, but there's bemusement enough in his voice. "So anything minty
-besides- mint sticks, or just those?"

Kassima is slow in answering, and when she does, sounds distracted. More
likely than not, it's due to the focus of her attention being every spot
neck that seems to need attention; her fingers slide up from shoulders to
the sides of his neck, exploring the hinge of his jaw and the muscles that
bind neck to shoulders. "Oh--" After a beat, rich with amusement, "*Oh*."
Maybe it'd be better not to ask what *she's* now imagining. "I'sai being
I'sai, 'twould nay put it past him t'advise you about *aught*--only he'd
likely do it himself, nay require an intermediary. Whether lover or any
other kind." There's a warmth to her voice most audible on one particular
word: being referred to as his lover pleases her, it seems. "Anyway,
breath, sort of. But nay as methinks you're thinking. A mint stick's lovely
t'take the taste from your mouth after morning sickness," wryly said; it's
not the most pleasant topic to think about, "as well as being soothing in
general. Any blush-worthy uses of them have nay been discovered by me. As
yet." There's a thin little thread of wicked tease in that, beneath the
affable tone, likely emphasized by the way she leans forward to touch of
her lips to the edge of one reddened ear. Deliberate misunderstanding,
perhaps: "You'd rather our dancing with roses be private?" Her low chortle
tells that she knows better, and she settles back to get back to work and
behave herself. For the moment. "Aught with mint that isn't alcoholic or
the like might be welcome, if'n you happen t'come across it. You don't need
t'go too far out of your way, truly."

"Oh," he repeats, equally rich confirmation for her amused remark, and his
ears flare hot enough that even the back of his neck is warm beneath her
touch; perhaps they're thinking along similar lines. "Yes. Well. That's a
part of it; I'd expect he'd come right to me to share his wisdom. He's
never shied off from that before." It's fond resentment of student for
strict but appreciated instructor, and maybe a little more than that, in
V'lano's voice, and he lifts his hand to the back of his neck to still one
of her hands long enough to stroke her fingers, then slip his beneath and
stroke her palm. "Mint and roses and dancing in private. Sounds like
something that wants a bath-chamber for, don't you think?" Bold still, this
makes him blush less, and his neck cools. There's a long comfortable pause
after that, but as comfortable silences can often do, it might stretch a
bit too long toward the end, straying into pensiveness, unless she might
interrupt it.

This wins a ripple of outright laughter from her, and she leans forward to
rest her forehead against his shoulder until it's passed. Likely he can
feel her quivering with mirth through that point of contact--or through her
hands, which still rest on his skin for all that, for the moment, they're
stilled. "He told me he wouldn't terrorize you, when I told him about the
baby," Kassima says after awhile, lifting her head and softly kissing the
shoulder before her left hand moves to knead the muscles she was just
leaning against. "But if'n he doesn't keep his word--feel free t'banter
right back to him. He'd probably enjoy it." Her right hand is still there
for his to find, and she gives a soft murmur as the fingers reflexively
first stretch out into his touch, then curl in reaction to the caress of
sensitive palm. Whether she intends her shoulder-kneading hand to slow and
rub in a more sensuous than strictly helpful fashion or it's an unthinking
response can be one of the mysteries for the ages. "Warmth and steam t'go
with, mayhaps... oh, I like that well. And I've a candle that I've been
saving...." Her lapse into quiet may mark a temporary preoccupation with
the idea; chances are as great that she simply wants to savor the silence
and peace. So it takes her a span before asking quietly, "What're you
thinking of? And what has you so wound up that your muscles are this tense?"

"What, has he terrorized all of your other children's fathers? How about
Kisai's?" V'lano's almost giggling on this, his shoulders twitching as much
as her hands did. When her massage becomes more luxuriant, he straightens a
bit, revealing less of his musculature beneath the skin but making the
breadth of his back more available to sensual touch. "Candle and steam.
Wonder if anyone would mind us taking over the baths for our purposes -
again." The heartbeat between the sentence and the last word as amendment,
swift afterthought that it is, is a grinning one for him, and while his
ears don't flush again, his relaxation beneath her touch is warm enough.
The long time between chapters of the conversation ends with her question,
upon which he heaves a great sigh. "Talked to M'rek," he replies, shortly.
And for good measure: "Did Daikoth tell you?" It might sound as if these
two parts were meant to go together, but the former makes his shoulders
tense a moment, and the latter lets them relax - so perhaps not.

"Terrorized himself? Oh, probably. 'Twould nay put it past him. He was
regretting that he never got demoted back t'Weyrling while he was
Weyrlingmaster, so he could make himself run extra laps when he acted up--"
Kassima's amusement is somewhat to blame for the richness of her voice, but
not entirely. This change of posture only encourages her: not half a moment
after, her palms find his upper back and shoulderblades, running over them
none too quickly and with just the right amount of pressure. Her, "Mmm,"
might suggest that her mind isn't really on what's being said, but she gets
her brain in line before too long. "If'n Lysseth and Volath were willing
t'help us, one of 'em could guard the Inner Caverns entrance while the
other warned off any dragons. If'n we chose a time very late at night,
under stars--again--" Laughter there; maybe a little embarrassment too, but
how much can there be? And how much regret? The tone of the suggestion is
too genuine. "Daikoth?" she repeats when he's spoken again, openly
bewildered. "Tell me about M'rek? Nay. Was Trii there? Or, nay--wait, I
shouldn't even try t'guess. What happened?"

V'lano laughs softly, head shaking, curls sliding along the nape of his
neck where they are, for the person just discussed, perhaps a little too
long - but no one's making him cut them now. "Your touch - " he breathes
between that introduction and the flattery that comes next. "- is
fantastic. And they could, I suppose. Though I think there's more private
baths to be had - once you can travel." Which is wistful but not rueful,
nor regretted, and he turns his head so she may see, in profile, the curve
of his mouth, the light in his eyes. It is not wholly a light he's
comfortable with yet, but it's there, glad for her at least. After that he
faces forward again and moans softly, the pleasant part of it for her hands
on him and the unpleasant part for that Reachian bronzerider's name
interrupting his paradise -again.- "He wasn't there. Not for the talk I
mean. I... uh. I asked him about tracking. I think he told me that I ought
to track them if I want to - he implied I have resources. Resources! Can
you get over that?" For a moment, V'lano's totally distracted by the other
man's gall, and perhaps a bit tickled by the fact that he might be right on
this part. And then he sinks into himself again and sulkishly notes, "I
also asked him about what he said to you. You know. That day."

And to go by Kassi's impulsive nuzzling of those curls, the way she combs
fingers gently through them, she's probably not one who's going to
complain. "That's well," she assures, whispering and light. "Since I do
like touching you." One glide of the back of her fingers down his neck, and
then she's massaging again. Dutifully. Only you can't call it that, because
there's far too much relaxation and play in such to call it duty. "Should
you ever have a day off, or most of one, I still can fly straight.
Otherwise... just over a month t'be waiting, m'love," and the deep
affection with which she says that isn't likely inspired only by thoughts
of baths. Indeed, she murmurs, "Thankee, Vel," after a moment. And after
his moan. So it still might not be crystal clear what she's thanking for,
and she knows it; she grins where he can't see. "Huh. Then I wait with
bated breath t'find out how Daikoth comes into things. Tracking--oh.
Tracking runners! Your idea. He's trusting you to attend to that? You might
be flattered--" Wry amusement from the greenrider puts emphasis on 'might,'
where it belongs. "After a sense, I suppose you do. If'n K'ran consented
then you could put whole Wings on the task. Which is probably too many for
secrecy or discretion." She's thoughtful in that, or as thoughtful as she
can be while still stroking his shoulders. 'Thoughtful' is the wrong word
for the silence that follows. Try 'surprised' and then 'bordering on
aghast.' "Oh. Oh, shells, Vel. He didn't say... I mean. I might've made it
sound like he said something he didn't. What I asked about--"

"I can ask for a day. Maybe a day and a night. With Indrath on the sands -
well. I can ask." But V'lano does not sound entirely unhopeful, and lets
the issue lie there, lifting a hand to her knee to return massage with like
caress, seeking as much to feel a part of her beneath his palm as to find
and relax the little muscles around the joint. "Indeed," he mutters much
later, perhaps for whole wings being too many for the task, or perhaps for
what M'rek may have said. And cruel, though not intentionally so, the
bronzerider is quiet for a moment after that, breathing softly, head dipped
again over the one arm that's propped on his knee. "He said what he said,
Kassi. You - you made him sound good." That last word threatens to make his
voice break, so he pauses to recontrol it before going on, "As you'd have
wished to do, I believe. But I spoke to him, and I think he might have
listened. If he says more - " Dark locks shift again over the nape of his
neck as his head rises and turns, his eyes lit but not with glad glow this
time. This is the ember burning, which if blown on may release dire flame.
His words hint at an ability, slowly forming, to command, but the hint is
tempered by his much older talent for begging. "I want to know."

Kassima's fingers tighten, digging a little into muscle--still not enough
to be painful, but more of a squeeze, as if she were trying to hug his
shoulders. "Then if'n he says aye," she murmurs as promise, "'twill go with
you wherever you might like, t'spend that day and that night--and if'n
you'll bring the mint, 'twill bring the roses." She almost sighs this last
word, a side-effect of the way her knee melts under his touch. While not
tense beyond the pale, there's stiffness enough that the difference and the
good he does can be felt. As for quiet... she waits through it, listening
in the still. "He is, in many respects. In that--he--what he said was a
surprise t'me. I never meant t'*mention* it, but you caught me at the
fretting. 'Tisn't--relevant, entirely, because I have *nay* intention of
leaving you." Who the fierceness there is directed towards isn't
clear--him, to make him believe? The absent M'rek? She meets his eyes
square--cranes her head a little, even, to better do so--and reads what she
can read in the depths of near-black. It deepens her solemnity. "I would...
nay see you at odds, for this. But--" Closer to agreement than refusal, but
she still doesn't say it outright. Rather, voice quiet, "He angers you."

V'lano's hand tightens a bit on her knee, squeezing kindly for her
willingness to assent to this idea of a trip - and he dips his head,
breathing a soft bashful note for the deal as to who'll bring what. He's
quiet while she speaks after that, though he smiles faintly for her
fierceness and there's another squeeze for her knee before he removes his
hand and, using it against the ground to steady his motion, shrugs at her
hands only to warn that he's moving. And he moves then, turning around so
he's almost facing her. "He drives me about mad, Kassi, but that's all
right. I understand him better now." And the young Weyrsecond forces a
smile, one tight at the corners and unwilling to get into his eyes, yet
honest in all its earnestness. He understands too well, perhaps. "He tried
to get me - well, offered me - to hit him." The smile's a little more
natural for this, but so wry.

Kassima draws her hands back and leans away from him enough to facilitate
such motion, although before she does there's a caress of back in answer to
his squeezing--almost a conversation of affectionate gestures. Once he's
around, she'll catch one of his hands with hers, or try to. Draw it towards
herself so that she can clasp it in both, and massage the soft skin of back
and palm, on the off chance it might need it. "Meeting him does make
understanding easier than just hearing about him. I think," she appends. "I
once thought you and he might get on well enough if'n you knew each other.
Now... let's just say I'm nay precisely laying stakes on the likelihood."
Now there's regret, a little. But a tightening of her hands around his,
too. Looking from his hand to his eyes, she lets her brows jump up: "Did
he, now? I shouldn't be surprised. Did you?"

"Tried, Kassi, not succeeded!" But he's only a little bit offended, and
that bit might be false, and his gaze slides away from her to the stone
wall beyond and behind. "Anyway. S'done and done, and done," and then
V'lano's laughing a little and glad to look back to her, eyes merry again,
hand reaching for her knee again, then to her face if she'll have his
touch. "He had second thoughts, toward the end, on the tracking, but I
think he's liking the idea. We'll see. If I don't hear in a few days I'll
check in on him again. Maybe I'll take you along to stop me from accepting
his offer next time - because let me tell you, Kassi, I think if I took it
and he meant a full out brawl of it - well. That's a brawl I don't need."
Physically, anyway. There's a brilliance in his dark eyes that suggests he
might, at some level, feel otherwise.

"D'you think I'd have blamed you if'n you had, given that he offered? I've
offered t'let him hit me a'fore, and once he almost took me up on it,"
Kassi relays with a shrug more casual than the keen gaze she searches his
face with. "'Tis done. Glad I am that you did meet with him, if'n
nay--well, that it was more stressful than it might have been." She's so
seldom if ever one to refuse a touch from him. Now is no exception to that.
She grins at him, and turns her face into his touch--sets to kissing each
finger, one by one, or at least those she can reach. "Better t'bring him
here than take me along," she reminds with a little rue. "But if'n 'twould
do that, 'twill be there gladly; this sounds like a good thing t'me, the
tracking, and the brawl... it could be so. Your eyes are so lovely
*without* shiners." Green gleams into dark. "As much as I'm sure 'twould
enjoy kissing all your bruises t'make 'em better."

"One or the other," V'lano sighs, rueful for his forgetfulness - male
forgetfulness, perhaps, or the ability to bury one weight under so many
other, heavier, harder ones. But his fingers are kissed one by one, all of
them provided in turn for her attention, and though it's troubled eyes he
watches her with at first they soon seem deeper, more contemplative and
less turmoiled. "So Daikoth really didn't say anything?" He leans toward
her, dropping his hand from her lips to a place past her knee, near her
hip, to let her lean into him if she will - and fixes her with another wry
grin, renewed by the other spark his eyes can burn - the one that makes not
dire flame, but fire for the hearth of the heart.

Kassima smiles a little, though, into his fingers; shakes her head, just
fractionally. Not silent forgiveness, but indication that forgiveness isn't
needed. She's somewhat solemn in looking back to him--a little relieved as
well, maybe, for the easing of his trouble. She drops a last kiss onto
fingers before they fall. "I haven't heard aught from Daikoth since I
stopped leading the drills," she avers, even as she follows his cue and
comes to rest against him, utterly comfortable there. Sparks tend to fly
from place to place, and that spark in him finds plenty of tinder ready for
the kindling in her. Her soft, delighted laugh is more acknowledgment of it
than any relation to, "What should he have said?"

"Oh!" He winces, the wince that would go with a hand to his forehead, but
instead he bows his head to find her hair with his lips once she's settled
into him, chuckling softly and voicelessly there. "I should have realized.
It would be Yashira... then T'bay will know." Which does not, it seems,
make him entirely pleased, but the displeasure is more disgruntlement than
irritation, earning a soft sigh into her scalp. "Volath won Sionath. So I
was there a bit long... this time." As soon as he's spoken he's laughing
again, and the heat in his ears she'll feel also in his throat, perhaps
even in his chest through the fabric there. "And I might not mention it,
but - well. She was one of our - " Which he can't finish from grinning too
hard, and his hands try to find her opposite side so he can cling her tight
to him, and he might tickle too, unless she's found something in his words
to worry over. For final explanation, he exclaims softly, sheepish through
something not unlike awe, "Volath has a -talent!-" And a good thing he's
not present to preen over it.

Kassima sighs the moment his lips touch her hair, less sound than warm
breath he might feel through the cloth of his shirt; and decidedly,
decidedly pleased. "He might, but he might nay yet--if'n 'twere hoping t'be
the one t'tell him." Her eyes roll up towards his face, never mind that she
can't see it from here and he can't see the amusement in them. "They all
know that I'm grounded. The precise why, I haven't explained t'many.
Perhaps some have guessed. But if'n you hurry, then just maybe--" The news
doesn't exactly still her. It does get a twitch of surprise, and she
might've pulled back enough to look at him, only that soon-felt laughter
and its explanation leave her relaxed against him and easy prey for his
tickling whimsy: "Aigh! Fiend!" she yelps, wriggling in his hold and
laughing too. She tries to seek *his* ribs with *her* hands, but that's
just a losing fight when she's not only so closely held but decidedly
distracted. "Shells! Oh, shells. Did you doubt it, dear man, when he was
able t'catch Lysseth of all almighty greens?" Her chortle dares him to deny
it. "Does he have a thing for the greens who once instructed him, d'you
think?"

"Maybe - he's still keeping his nose out of my business a bit - " But
concern over his older friend's standoffishness rolls into thrill for her
closeness, and even more thrill for her exclamation and laughter - and oh,
he's not going to be -easy- to exact revenge on, no way. Not squirming
sideways just when she has a hand free, only to loosen his grip on her so
he can squeeze her -arm- along with the rest of her and pin it, the better
to twitch his fingers over her ribs. "He's lost several since Lysseth! Far
more than - well. Lots," and then V'lano's red, and the only escape from
redness he can find is to face it head-on with bold retort. "Does he? Does
-he?- Maybe it's his -instructors,- did you ever think of it that way?"
There's a pause in his tickling so she can properly hear and appreciate his
taunt - and when his hands move again it's in a decidedly different manner,
sliding over flesh with heat instead of tingle, rumpling fabric as they go
up one side of her and down the other, lascivious without having even to
seek out immodest territory. "Good weather we've got," he informs her,
making it somehow an offer, somehow a merry, tantalizing threat.

"After all this time?" That concerns Kassima as well, and she starts to say
something else, but--perhaps T'bay would forgive her for concern not lost
but postponed, in favor of a laughing and utterly useless, "Nay, nay--!"
when he pins her arm and nothing but helpless giggles and muted shrieks and
squirms for some time after that. "Only proves that Lyss has better taste
and sense than most," she retorts so breathlessly that it might not be
entirely coherent. "Oh--oh, blame us, now! You truly, truly think that 'tis
our ladies who want *him*?" There are layers to that entirely warm tease,
and it shines clear in her eyes that if one substitutes riders for
dragons... well, he might be on to something in just this one case. This
case that now shivers beneath his hand, and doesn't try to wriggle away
from *this* touch at all. "Very fine," she agrees as one of her hands
somehow finds itself on his thigh, to trace slow patterns there. "And I
haven't seen a single other person come by t'be enjoying it. I could almost
pity them." Oh, she could not. Liar. There's not the least pity in her
eyes, only a mingling of several unrelated things: delight, anticipation;
the flickers of desire; and a laughing, silent dare to act on what he
threatens.

Which he will then, simply enough, one of the hands sliding down far enough
to find a place where fabric tucks into fabric, then tucking in along with
it to find skin to heat with his palm. "Oh, I blame you," he breathes,
laughter still on his face but chased from his voice by a different
pleasure entirely - perhaps her squirming, if elicited through illicit
means, took a predictable toll on his distractability and fledged that fire
in his throat. The hand behind her, where fabric meets skin, slides up -
will slide up beneath the cloth if it can - to support her back, gentleman
he is, but only so he can lean and loom over, still smirking just for her.
"Well, if anyone -does- come by you'll have to tell me," he decides,
outright husky now, the fingers which need not offer support still
tempestuous over her skin, but straying for more sensitive parts. "If you
can keep your eyes open."

Skin already somewhat warm from all that ineffective squirming about
tingles the more for it, and challenge fades from Kassi's mien to leave
desire firmly in hold--although not only, simply that. Her love of him
compliments it, so that for a moment her regard on him is soft, even
tender, and her touch of fingers to his cheek speaks as much of one emotion
as the other. But of course, fire isn't an altogether gentle thing--her
smile turns to a grin, sultry, promising, the more his hand wanders and the
more she's looking up at him. With her fingers drifting away from cheek and
towards ear, and the other hand seeking fastenings of his shirt, she admits
in a throaty whisper, "That might be *somewhat*--difficult--" with her
voice catching at certain points. "And I don't intend t'leave you with
your sight--but I'm willing t'take chances if'n you are." Indeed she is. 
And like any gambler, she takes them enthusiastically.