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Save the Last Dance


Date:  March 30, 2005
Place:  Telgar Weyr Living Cavern
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:  I was disappointed when it was announced that Candidate
introductions would be left out of this group's welcoming dinner, but
as it turns out, Eilidh's idea of dancing made the event memorable in 
its own different, fun way. :)  It was an interesting celebration.  
Not exactly a *good* one for Kassi, most of it--watching Vel pay court 
to Breena takes some of the shine off the evening--but it improves
considerably at the end.  It's hard for her to regret any night that 
finds her on the dance floor with her bronzerider too terribly.

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The Log:

You walk past the lintel and into the wide living cavern.

Pierron humphs thoughtfully as the Wingleader of Thunderbolt arrives.

[Editor's Note:  I'm leaving Pierron's rumors in, just for
fun:]


---

Pierron looks up from his cooking to expound to you his opinions on the
latest news.
"Deplorable rumors, in my opinion. One of these days, I keep thinking that
woman will realize she has *enough* children and stop... which woman? The
Thunderbolt Wingleader, who else? Seems she's expecting again, if you can
credit it; I haven't heard her give the father's name, but I haven't heard
anyone asking, either. Probably they figure it's too obvious. Did you see
that little bluerider git, M'tri, acting the mother wherry over that
weyrmate of his the past few days? I heard from someone that was there that
she surprised him with a bit of news by the Lake--seems he's put Lanisa in
the family way! Who'd have thought he had it in him? His Wing's running a
pool, I hear, on exactly how many pieces he'll be left in once I'sai finds
out. Is the Thunderbolt Wingleader ever at home anymore? She's been leading
drills just as always, but she's not been in here for breakfast more than
once in the past sevenday. One of her Wingmates swore she's been seen at
Harper Hall; another said she's spending her time drinking with some bald
bronzerider... but the one thing they were able to agree on is that she's
often at High Reaches. Makes you wonder whether she's still giving that
mentee of hers lessons in something, eh?  Have you heard of these new
writing sticks woodcraft has developed? Technology is moving too fast for
my taste."

---


Kassima and Maidil enter in step together, having some sort of intense
debate--overheard snatches might include phrases like 'Wing dynamic' and
'far left flanking position' and 'S'cot couldn't have found that tangle
with both hands, forty-thousand fire-lizards, and an acre of glows,' which
are a somewhat surreal match with the long skirts and finery that each
woman sports. "You," the greenrider at length tells her Wingmate, "are
letting your personal problems with S'cot interfere with your judgment of
his performance, methinks. It only would've taken ten fire-lizards and
*half* an acre. I'm half of a mind t'make you sit next to him tonight, as
penance."

Some of Pierron's assistants are putting the finishing touches on the
evening's feast as the first of the attendees put in an appearance, while
the moustache-whirling gentleman looks on. Breena makes a beeline for them
when she first enters, exchanging some quiet words with one of the serving
girls. Once the Candidates start arriving, she waves them to one of the
tables. "Sit, sit--and welcome. No chores tonight!"

Riadur slinks into the living cavern with a decidedly mournful expression
to go with his sober dress. More so than usual, he's dressed up neatly,
alternating between tugging at the stiff collar of his blue shirt and
fiddling with the buckle of his belt. As Breena waves him and a group of
his fellow candidates forward to a seat, however, Riadur manages a small
smile. "The decorations turned out very nice in the end," he remarks.

Eilidh enters from the Bowl.

Eilidh slips in, catching the latter half of Breena's comment, and hovers
somewhat expectantly over the candidates. "Ah, do they have evening chores
in general?" For a moment she looks confused, brows slanting down and
inwards as she peers from each candidate to the next. Finally, she spies
out Riadur and winks, "Remember, dancing and skits. I hope you're
prepared." She smooths down the folds of her dress and takes in a sigh,
looking at the strings of leaves that have been strewn in a rather tasteful
fashion to decorate the tables. "Do you think they look ok?" her fret,
while sent towards the other coordinator, can be heard to those in their
vicinity.

Kassima lets Maidil go, the younger bluerider looking rather discomfited by
the entire conversation; she watches, and shakes her head, and after a beat
moves to follow suit. "G'deve, Riadur," she cheerfully hails the Candidate
she recognizes. "You're looking well--I like the blue. G'deve, all."
Reaching her chair, she pulls it out and settles in. Her fingers caress the
familiar, time-scarred armrests as she cranes her neck to look over these
mentioned decorations with interest. "I like 'em, Eilidh, for whatever 'tis
worth. Very autumnal."

To the blonde brownrider's immediate side, a tall, bulky looking candidate
accidentally jostles her elbow, and immediately looks chagrinned, his
apologies effusive. "Hey," he mutters to Riadur, who he magically turns up
near, "Think we can get out of here before they make us dance and stuff?"

K'ran walks in from the bowl.

Pierron eyes the Weyrleader suspiciously for a moment before grunting a
greeting.

Tarien walks in from the bowl.

Pierron smiles brightly and bows at the Weyrwoman.

Breena grins at Eilidh, spares a glance for those Candidates with
firelizards and puppies, which might explain the next comment she makes.
"Some do, if other things keep them occupied for longer than they should.
The decorations are nice--did...er. Did I miss that? I was busy..." The
rest of her comment is lost in the bustle of the latest arrivals, and she
waves at both Candidates and Weyrleaders alike.

Eilidh's countenance lightens, and she turns to catch who called out her
name, recognising the wingleader from the short distance that separates
them. A hand lifts to begin her usual, very exuberant wave, and then
stills, opting for something a little more sedate. She is desperately
trying to seem more grown up, it's clear. "Thanks, thank you! I tried to
make it look pretty and special and stuff. /He/," she turns from Kassima to
glower in her own fashion at Pierron, "Was not very pleased. I think. But
maybe he always looks like that all the time." She pauses and wrinkles her
nose at Breena, "I just had some time earlier today. I'm not a wingsecond,
or wingleader, or weyrleader, or weyrlingmaster and so.. after drills,
well...," she shrugs, "Some of them helped, but it was a lot of children
effort."

Claret walks in from the bowl.

"But you said--" Riadur's eyes widen at Eilidh's words, paling beneath the
slight tan recent outdoor chores have given him. He mutters something dire
under his breath, looking downward; when his eyes return to the brownrider,
he notes reassuringly, "They look wonderful, all of them. And... Thank you,
m--Kassima." He glances toward the wingleader then, and a pleased blush
rises to his cheeks. This, though, fades once his attention is tugged away
by the candidate now at his side. "I don't know," he murmurs a dubious
reply. "I doubt it, and... I'd hate to get in trouble for it or something."
He shrugs, frowning thoughtfully.

M'tri makes his entrance quietly, his hands slipped mildly into his
pockets, his attention focused on the candidates filing in and those worth
noticing in general. On that list is certainly the Weyrlingmaster, who
earns at least a little flicker of a wave, maybe one not even worth
noticing, before the Thunderbolt rider finds himself looking for members of
his own wing to gallivant and fraternize with. It doesn't take long until
he finds the wing's fearless leader -- and, also, coincidentally, the
master of carousing -- and trots his way right on over to her, bantering,
"Always parties to attend! I'm running out of things to -wear-!"

K'ran's still straightening his collar as he drifts into the living cavern
alongside Tarien, and he stops just inside to make quick survey of the
place. "Good crowd already; hope all of them got the message that evening
chores got cancelled," he says to his partner, and offers her his arm.

"I don't dance." Stubien says flatly, "I don't skit. I don't dance." The
repetition is said more gruffly, and he fidgets in what appears to be his
own dress attire. "You're that boy from Southern, arencha? Far from home,
little kid. Juss stick by me, and we'll be able t'get outta here 'fore any
of them know it." His beady little black eyes narrow on the weyrlingmaster
and blonde bubblehead, "Juss you wait'n see."

Kassima grins and lifts a hand to wiggle fingers back to Eilidh. "Like
what," she asks, so helpfully, "constipated? *I* think he does. Or like
somebody stuck a tuber... well, better nay t'talk about that in front of
the C-A-N-etceteras. They'll find out about his mad tuber-lust soon
enough." This is a good time for her to flutter eyelashes at the cook in
question, who is undoubtedly, as he so often is, stonily ignoring her.
"You're welcome!" she returns to Riadur. "Are you all right? I thought
'twere looking a bit peaked for a second there... Trii, Trii, this is why
you need t'be a better gambler. You aren't making *any* progress on the
whole 'win all m'fancy gowns' thing, else you'd *have* more finery. Mind
you, if'n I'd known I could've lent you something; isn't much left that
fits me now, anyway."


Kassima:
	Kassima is a woman gifted magnanimously by genetics: one would likely
guess her to be younger than her actual age thanks to high cheekbones and a
brow lines dare not touch, and she's been dealt a good hand in her
usually-slender 5'10" build. Her fine-boned features are framed by a black
river left free on this occasion, spilling down her back and threatening,
in the case of the wayward forelock, to obscure canted eyes the color of
emeralds in shadow. A shrewd glint lightens these even when mirth does not,
and the well-shaped brows above lend eloquence through their mobility. 
	Kassi seems to be in reasonably good health and condition: she is 
strong and fit, though as pale in complexion as Telgar's snows, and there's 
a radiance to her frequent grins that makes up for the shadows beneath her
eyes. She's chosen to wear a long, elegant gown of rusty russet, cut low at
the neck and loose in the waist to make the most of her
four-months-pregnant figure; the soft cotton velvet of the skirt has been
slashed in front to let the black sisal underskirt peek through. Low sable
slippers complete the ensemble, while the darkly flashing garnets that
dangle from her ears and throat provide a touch of extra ornament. 
	She has, for the moment, abandoned her riding jacket with its 
insignia of rank, but those who have spent much time at Telgar might know 
her to be green Lysseth's rider and Thunderbolt's Wingleader.


M'tri:
While having always been characterized by boyish charm in both physique and
countenance, M'tri seems to be relinquishing hold of that allure in favor
of a more distinct handsomeness, the sort that comes only with age and
maturity, if only in appearance. Of just marginal height, perhaps a few
fingerlengths beneath six feet, M'tri reads of fit stamina from his years
as a rider, as few as they may be. He's obviously in his prime. With work
and play alike, M'tri has taken on a lean, hungry look in every line of his
form. Even with that sinewy frame, M'tri is obviously healthy, and it's
unlikely that he'd bypass any meal offered him, ever. Cords of muscle, taut
as the rope on a ship's sail, trace languid paths over his shoulders, back
and arms, flexing arbitrarily with each of his movements, beneath skin that
only resists the traditional paleness of Telgari's because of genetics.
	In countenance, M'tri has managed a look that seems camped between 
wolfish and fox-sly. Chartruese eyes rest upon cheekbones that are high and
chiseled, changing with hard-drawn lines into a solid chin. His nose is
slender and the softest feature on his face, flicked up slightly at the
tip, no hard lines to be seen on it. His hair is short cropped, tight curls
against his head in the constricting length.
	A long-sleeved undershirt of navy threads is fitted across this young
bluerider's torso. At her wrists are wide cuffs, buttoned down with small
ovals of cream coloration and intricately decorated with black thread in a
weaving design across the edges. Overlying this is a sleeveless longvest of
midnight coloration, covering the tucked in tails of the main colored
shirt. His pants are loose and comfortable, secured with a black belt
sporting a shined buckle of gilded impression. His boots are lack and
polished, shined to a fault.


Stavren walks here from the Inner Cavern.

Riadur gives Stubien a quick, worried look. "I am," he answers quietly,
nodding. "It's--it is a long way. Are you sure about... that?" Silence
reigns as he contents himself with peering about the group of riders
crowding about, interspersed with quick, not-quite-discrete glances at the
bigger youth next to him. Hastily cutting his eyes back to Kassima as she
addresses him, he tells her, "Oh, no. I'm fine. Really. Fine." He tugs on
his collar again, shifting.

Claret enters the living cavern rather unobtrusively, the crowd of people
forcing her to take extra care with her steps. So it's in relative silence
that she makes her way to Icewind's table, though she has a bright wave for
any whose path she crosses. Folding herself into a seat with an ungraceful
thunk, she gives a general "Hullo!" to nobody in particular.

"I'm sure the word spread like wildfire," Tarien comments, amused, as she
tucks her hand into the crook of the offered arm. Then, a generic,
"Evening," is made by way of greeting -- a warm smile for those who catch
her eye. "I believe I'm underdressed, I hope they won't mind."

Eilidh blinks, once again turned to eye Thunderbolt's wingleader intently.
"Candidates can't spell?" This turns her gaze to stare, with piercing
ineptness at the row of starch and pressed kids. "You guys know how to
read'n write, right? I mean, I know how to read'n write sorta, I think.
Right?" But it's a question that doesn't call for an answer as her
attention shifts quickly back to Lysseth's rider. "Maybe he just needs to
go to the bathroom more often, someone needs to take over his job."
Claret's arrival is noted with a big grin for her wingmate, and the blonde
trips along to also find herself a seat, calling back behind her, "Unless
you want to really dance and skit, you should sit cause," she flashes a
sweet, kind of ugly but unique in that ugliness, smile, "I'm hungry."

Stavren has, for this festive occasion, made a real effort to neaten his
rather worn clothing and look passable. He's neat, clean, and attending a
formal dinner. Somebody save him. He enters the cavern with several other
Candidates, visibly fighting the urge to just head for the food. He grins
at Riadur, and answers Claret's random greeting with a slightly hesitant,
but friendly "Hello," of his own.

Stubien mutters, watching the candidate coordinators carefully and tries to
nudge Riadur's shoulder. "C'mon, let's go sit. Faster we eat, faster we can
run off, right? I got..." Here, his eyes go shifty, swinging back and forth
and his words die off. "Well, no matter. C'mon."

Mischief floods K'ran's expression for the 'underdressed' remark, but he
says nothing, and instead makes toward one of the banquet tables while
booming a pleasant, "Evening," to the living cavern generally.

M'tri looks himself up and down, jutting his lower lip in a pout and making
his eyes water slightly. As though he may just cry on account of, "You
don't like my outfit? I thought it was worth the money I didn't spend at
Boll's auction." Just for her, he does a fancy little turn, ending it with
a rather amusing looking curtsy. M'tri regards Kassima quietly, assuring,
"You're not that bad. I mean, you're not fat yet. And when you are, rest
assured, I'll tell you." He says this with a wolfish grin and a wink.

Grinning, Breena comments to the non-dancers, "I bet we could come up with
sufficient ways to encourage you to at least *try*. Everyone should--it's
really fun, and if everyone's doing it, then no one looks stupid." Makes
complete sense to her. She waves to Claret, then trails after Eilidh to
find a seat.

"Most of them do...." But Kassi's glance is thoughtful as it lingers on the
Candidates in question. "Methinks. 'Twouldn't be the first time some have
had t'have teaching during Weyrlinghood, if'n 'tis nay so. There was J'len
last time, as I recall it--hah, y'know, I'd love t'see someone tell him
that. 'Heyla, Pierron; I'm here t'take over so you can finally go pee.' He
might turn colors. Always a worthwhile sight," at least for someone with a
deathwish. "Well," she says to Riadur then, dubiously, "so long as you're
sure. You should relax, aye? 'Twill be a good evening. These things usually
are, and your Coordinators have put some effort into it by the looks of
things. There'll probably be good food. Heyla, Claret!" she adds with a
merry wave to her once-mentee. Stavren and the Weyrleaders get waves too,
before she turns back to M'tri and gives a quick, vigorous headshake.
"Actually, I do like. Blue suits you. As you bloody well know, but if'n you
want t'do that turn again t'prove it, I won't complain." Dryly, "I daresay
'twill. Tell me, how's Lani?"

Riadur opens his mouth to reply to Stubien, but just as quickly closes it
again, an odd expression crossing his face. With a sigh, he nods and sets
off for a seat, offering Stavren a fleeting smile as he catches sight of
the other candidate. "Will these do?" he asks Stubien after a moment,
lingering behind a pair of empty chairs uncertainly. Kassima, again,
receives a nod; Riadur notes, "Yes, m--Kassima. I'll do my best."

Stavren overhears Kassi, and stifles a laugh. Mostly. "If there's going to
be dancing, I don't think there's a chance in /between/ I'll relax," he
tells the Wingleader. "Though if you're going to make Pierron turn purple,
I'll participate in that with a will."

Bully is as bully does, though for one of those lunkheads, Stubien doesn't
seem /too/ bad. "Thass fine." Those beady eyes widen (though it's
definitely hard to tell with how small they are on a normal basis), when
Stavren comes over. "Dancin'll make him turn purple? It's so on." And
that's that, the decision is made for him at least, whatever he has
secreted away forgotten in his redirection of attention to Pierron.

Claret sends a sunny smile to those whose greetings she has the presence of
mind to notice, adding an extra wave for Stavren. "Hullo! Didn't see you
there. Must have just appeared!" But her attention is quickly distracted by
a longing glance at the serving tables-- and random threads in the
conversation. "Everybody's going to start dancing? That's going to be a
disaster," she observes.

M'tri shakes his head, saying, "You're always dashing, Kassi. I wouldn't
have married you otherwise." That statement said, he does obligingly turn
-- hipswish -- for her, and then face her again, sticking his hands in his
pockets. The young rider turns to regard Stavren amusement and says, "If
you don't want to dance, I'm sure we could find some interesting songs to
play." With that, Trii starts humming a tune that sounds suspiciously like
Moreta's Ride. "Pierron purple? More power to you, just make sure I'm not
here."

Kassima's nod to Riadur is distinctly encouraging--probably for that whole
M-skipping thing. "You can do it. Even if'n there *is* t'be dancing. I
didn't know that m'self," she admits, half to him and half to Stavren, with
a grin for the latter. "Mayhaps another eve? 'Tis probably ill manners
t'torment the poor man on special occasions, and you have t'be *polite*
when it comes t'torment. First rule there is. Mind you, if'n you and he,"
with a glance for Stubien, "do dance, and it does make him purple? 'Twill
applaud. A lot. You're looking good tonight. What, Claret, think they'll
knock the tables over?" She might've said more, but then she's laughing at
M'tri--covering her mouth to stifle it, but poorly--and nudging out a chair
at the table for him. "Oh, sit down a'fore you have 'em singing about you.
*Again*."

Pierron's staff has, indeed, gone all out--the tables are laid out banquet
style and are filled with all manner of dishes, both local and foreign,
bland and spicy, and everything in between. Notably absent is any kind of
dessert tray, but from the occasional whispers of rumor that pass through
the cavern, it sounds like it'll be something spectacular. Stacks of plates
are made ready, and finally, the rest of the serving girls step out of the
way, one of whom waves a nearby Candidate toward the table. "Shoo, go fill
your plate, it's time to eat!" 

Eilidh snickers, catching a bit of Claret's last remarks before plopping
into a seat, and then getting up just as quickly, "Do we get to eat yet?"
her voice lowers towards the other coordinator, uncertainty caught in her
eager voice. "And dancing, is something I started to tease one of them, and
now I guess there might be if the Weyrharper'd oblige us with a tune or
so." She beams, "Let's eat!" And off she bounds towards the serving tables,
hesitating only long enough to see if the ranking riders want to go first.
Fidgetfidget.

Talk of dancing provokes a grimace from the Weyrleader, albeit one quickly
hidden. "You do remember that I'm likely to trip and crush someone," he
mutters to Tarien. "Hey -- Stavren!" He pitches his voice to reach that
Candidate. "You can dance, right? Be a stand-in for me, if need be?"

Darbey walks here from the Inner Cavern.

Riadur protests weakly to Stavren and Stubien, "But Pierron's not really so
bad. I mean, he's... er, well. He's never done anything to me." The last
words are muttered quietly, as Riadur's eyes drop toward the table. He
takes a seat quickly. Then: "I do hope they're not serious about this
dancing thing," he ventures

Gerand walks here from the Inner Cavern.

Gerand wanders into the cavern, looking around quietly as he does so.

Claret isn't far behind Eilidh, unfolding herself from her seat just as
promptly as she settled, attaching herself impatiently to the end of the
line. "I certainly -hope- it's time for eating, because I'm famished."
Wrinkling her nose, she sends Kassi a definitive nod. "I just bet they
would. Although I'd be much more concerned about bruised feet. Particularly
if we -all- have to dance. I should be worse than about everybody, I'm sure."

"You heard the Weyrlingmaster, didn't you?" Tarien teases, remaining behind
that chair while the others are encouraged forward to the tables. "But, if
you insist, I'll take my dances elsewhere." With a glance for the
Candidates, she adds, "I've never seen such a shy group -- I'd think they'd
all be famished, as busy as they're kept."

Stubien looks resolute and turns his dark glare onto Riadur, "Don't be such
a wuss. And maybe we won't really have to dance, but we can make it look
like we are and Pierron might explode." He sounds particularly gleeful at
that, the bulky 15 turn old that he is. "Time to eat." He ambles towards
the otherside of the serving tables, completely gentle in his dealings with
a shorter female candidate who tosses her head to one side when she passes
him.

Stavren is torn between respect for the Weyrleader, and an instinctive urge
to flee, and flee now. "Dance? No. Kind of. But not really. Brijana says I
nearly broke her foot. You don't want me to dance. Oh look, food." The
serving tables are probably safe, and he offers Pierron an apologetic smile
as he dodges toward them.

Kassima doesn't really need more than one call to a meal, goodness knows,
and rises from her seat with all due alacrity to drift over towards the
serving tables. A large plate is shanghaied and put to use in holding
food--samples of almost all the spicy stuff find their way on, and
otherwise it's a reasonably healthy, cheese-intensive mishmash. "I doubt
there's any escaping it at this point," she asides to Riadur. Such a master
of reassurance. And assurance: "I," she tells Claret, "am nay dancing. Nay
anyone wants severed, splintered toes smeared all over the Caverns floor.
'Twill sit and watch, and drink toasts to the brave, and try nay t'laugh
*too* loudly."


Claret:
Claret has the form of a young woman of about twenty turns who has achieved
almost full growth. She stands about three inches under six feet, with long
slender limbs that fold gracefully when she sits, an effect that is quite
at odds with her habit of hastily and unceremoniously arranging her form in
whatever awkward position seems most expedient. Her fingers have the slim
dexterity of one accustomed to precise handwork and her muscles are toned
from active lifestyle and employment. Yet her movement manages never to be
quite fluid, frequently enough taking a roundabout path into large objects
when she simply cannot spare the attention to watch where she's going.
Lightly waved hair so dark brown as to be almost black falls in thick
abundance down her back when loose, framing a face of naturally tanned skin
and mercurial black eyes. 

Claret wears a dark red dress of finely woven material. The skirt is wide
and flows freely to a tapered bodice tailored particularly to fit Claret's
form. The neckline dips down in a circular fashion, leaving the neck open,
bare of all but an intricately worked wooden locket, gilded and shaped as a
rose. The sleeves flow to the wrists and open several inches. The hem of
the skirt and sleeves are worked with embroidery of foliage the same color
as the dress. Her hair flows loose down her back, with hair from the front
of her face pulled back, tied and threaded through with a dark red ribbon.
Beneath the long folds of the skirt matching red slippers are just visible,
and the knot of a Telgar Weyr greenrider has been pinned on her shoulder.


Gerand looks a little awkward as he tries to gauge whether or not he's
walked in on anything more than the typical evening meal, but steps over to
the hearth to get a mug of klah. The Apprentice Harper tucks a package he's
been carrying under one arm, and moves to find someplace to sit out of the
way for a short time.

M'tri makes his trip to the serving tables before taking Kassi's offered
seat. He comes back with a plate stacked high with everything he could fit,
and accepts that knocked out chair obligingly, dropping into it beside
Kassi and fixing at his sleeves. As he re-checks the buttons, he intones,
"I don't believe you for a moment. I bet you know how to dance."

With an exaggerated sigh and a faux look of resignation, K'ran allows, "I
guess I'm stuck," even as he nods toward the serving tables. "You'd think,"
he agrees, there. "Maybe they're so tired their feet aren't working
properly. Here, I'll help set an example. What can I get for you?"

Sitting quietly a moment in the wake of Stubien's criticism, Riadur
eventually stands and trails over to the serving tables to prepare his
meal. "You've danced before, though, right?" he asks Stavren, eyes widening
slightly. "That's better than, well, me, for example."

Eilidh isn't quite first in line, but she's pretty close, and the glee that
runs in her shoulders is very noticeable. A tic-like gesture, where she
bounces on the balls of her feet which makes her head bobble a bit
continues while she loads up a plate with an indecent portion of food.
Stubien, and his criticisms is eyed carefully, the look including Riadur
and Stavren after a moment. "Hmm," she sounds quizzical, but moves on
gamely as food, for now, takes precendent over candidates. She leans
towards the greenriding Claret and flashes a quick grin, "Are you gonna sit
at Icewind's table or think we can pretend to be candidates tonight somehow?"

Darbey makes something of a point of following the Riadur, Stubien, Stavern
trio over to the food tables, seeming to pay attention in particular to
Riadur's words as he selects a plate and waits him turn in the now lengthy
candidate-food-fray. "You haven't before, then?" Darbey interjects, "Then
find a lass who likes to lead," he flashes a quick smile.

Breena lingers next to Eilidh, eyeing the banquet tables, fidgeting with
the skirt of her dress. "The music will be after, right? Though I thought
maybe there'd be ome sooner--for atmosphere or something. Aw." She looks
somewhat disappointed at Stavren's comment, and flashes him a winning
smile. "You wouldn't dance even if I asked nicely?"

Stavren winces as he adds a large scoop of something cheese-covered and
creamy to his plate. "It was at my sister's wedding. Everybody seemed to
think I had to dance with my other sisters. But I'm at least a foot taller
than all of them, so there were toes stepped upon and backwards twirls, and
I was called a wherry-headed nincompoop twice..." Breena's charming
question almost makes him drop a redfruit. "I--er--you'd be taking your
life in your hands if you did. But--" He regains a modicum of manners, and
some of his sense of humor, "--if you did ask, I'd never be so rude as to
turn a lady down."

Kassima pauses on her way back to her Wing's table to look over Claret's
dress and tell the other greenrider, with a wide grin, "I do love the
outfit--'tis of a good color; I can think of a rider or two who likely
wishes 'twas here t'be seeing it. And, hey. If'n you do dance, and kill
anyone dancing, the blood won't show." Looking on the bright side must be
an addictive habit since she's soon noting to the nearby Riadur, "It sounds
as if'n there's dancing, almost *everybody's* going t'look like a complete
git, so there's that--seriously, you'll be fine." Back to her table she
goes after flashing a reassuring smile, settling in with a sigh: "Trii,
trust me, I'm the worst dancer ever born. Harpers snicker wildly at
m'efforts and forget their music. People are crippled. Men flee, women
scream. All very tragic."

Gerand rests his arms atop the table he's found for the time being, and
simply listens idly to the conversations as they cross the room between
sips of the klah he'd gotten for himself.

Claret wastes no time in filling up her plate, balancing it precariously in
her hand as she turns a thoughtful squint towards the tables. "I think we
could pass for candidates. If nobody's looking?" she suggests in a hopeful
tone. "That'd be much more interesting." At Kassi's comment she blushes,
but hastily trying to cover it up, she agrees blithely, "That's just
exactly why I picked this color. That way, if toe murderers run rampant,
myself included, it won't trouble me in the least. And thanks," she tacks on.

M'tri glances over his shoulder to watch the Candidates, for once giving
the meal time to settle in and feel safe on the plate before he shovels it
mercilessly into his mouth. This wait lasts a good while while he regards
Stavren and Breena, deciding, "Ah, that's what I told Lani. Well, that and,
'I never knock a woman off her mount,' won her over immediately." He
chuckles nevertheless, "I imagine no one will be dancing if everyone's so
stubborn. I promise not to scream or flee."

Glancing around as Darbey speaks to him, Riadur blushes again. "It's not a
particularly useful skill at my hold," he admits. He takes a great amount
of care in filling his plate. "Not comforting," he mutters upon Kassima's
'reassurances'. Looking to Stavren, he adds, "There was a bit of dancing at
both my sisters' weddings, but I stayed out of it." He shrugs.

Tarien relents with an easy smile and a wave of her hand, "If you're sure
-- oh... you know what I like, anything will do. Nothing too spicy, though;
I think I've escaped Mirrath for the evening, I'd like to make sure I get a
good night's rest. I'll come with you," is added, and with that, she steps
into line. Listening to the various conversation that pass by, she remarks,
laughing, "Perhaps we should ask the Harpers for dancing lessons."

>From the back a hoot and catcall goes up for the Weyrleaders, "Dance. Dance!"

Darbey is rather persistant as the line moves him gradually closer to the
food, "So really, it isn't as if you're as bad as some of the folks around
here sound," he reasons with the uncomfortable looking Riadur, most likely
with his fellow candidates back as he's speaking to others, "You could be a
natural and not even know it, having never tried." He's so reasonable.

Kassima flicks an amused look back to Riadur that may put just how
comforting she was trying to be in doubt. But there's no more
commentary--for now; she gives Claret a most grave nod instead and agrees,
"The launderers will love you. Me, too, mayhaps, since rust also hides
blood well. Such luck. Always welcome--" A couple of bites of
cheese-noodles later, she snorts and aims a light nudge of her foot at
Trii's leg under the table. "He's fishing in the wrong pond if'n 'tis so,
all things considered, but methinks he's just being polite. Unlike, y'know,
you. So will you be dancing, then?"

"Oh, jays," mutters K'ran, with a glance toward the source of that noise.
"Probably we're not going to get any peace 'til we do, so we might as well,
after dinner..." He falls into line behind Tarien, and supposes, "Might not
be a bad plan. Though they might give up in frustration where I'm
concerned. Hey, Breena -- are we going to have them all introduce
themselves, once they all get food?"

Eilidh turns to watch Breena's seeming ease with chitchat with Stavren and
giggles. The fork she takes up is waved around like a harper's baton, as if
she is singlehandedly conducting the orchestra of chatter. "Isn't it?" she
hisses softly, as if her words weren't already heard by all and sundry, "I
didn't wear my knot today for a reason." Never mind it clashes with her
simple blue skirt. Food in hand, she saunters over and tries to slip into a
seat. "Hi, I'm Eilidh, from Igen Weyr." Yeah, sure she can fit in, but the
attempt at least is made.

Stavren says rather plaintively in the Weyrleader's direction, "I'm going
to have to dance, then stand up and introduce myself? How about I just hide
under a table now and save everyone some time?"

Laughing, Breena shakes her head. "Sounds like you've had the wrong dancing
partners, Stavren--besides, they're you're siblings, I wouldn't believe any
names they called you." She shrugs at Eilidh's look, her smile in return
all innocence. Halfway seated as the Weyrleader asks his question, she
coughs and shakes her head. "I...well, some of us really didn't like
putting ourselves on the spot like that last time. We thought maybe we
could do without the formal introductions and let people introduce
themselves to one another over dinner as they happen to meet."

Riadur gives Darbey an uncertain look. "I doubt it," he answers dubiously.
"It doesn't seem like something I'd be very good at--too much coordination.
And touching." He glances away and adds a little more something to his
plate. Then, he tells the other candidates nearby, "I'm, uh, going to go
get a seat now, I guess." And he does just that.

Gerand walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.

Lanisa walks in from the bowl.

Stubien piles food onto his plate, trailing after Riadur's lead slowly. He
has to move slowly, else his tower of cheesy mashed tubers'll topple over.
"You should ask her to dance," he suggests to Riadur, a nod towards the
Weyrwoman with a rather impish glint in his eyes. The hulk of a candidate
takes in Darbey and hails the other boy over, "Ahoy! We're over here when
you're done."

Darbey's final approach to the buffet table is made, and though he politely
waits his turn, the sheer amount of food he piles upon his plate is
testimony plenty to his state of hunger. Nevertheless, the plate is
well-balanced, physically if not nutritionally, and is therefore easily
carried back to the table on one palm while the other seizes a mug of juice
to wash it down with. Finding his way back to that last bastian of
candidate stronghold where Stubien summons, and makes it just in time to
overhear Eilidh, "From Igen, you say? What, recently?"

Telgar Weyr> Riadur says, "Augh. It's lightning, so I'm going to have to
bow out. Let's just say that Riadur has a nice, quiet meal. And if anybody
wants to claim to have danced with him, just drop me a +mail or something.
He'd be horribly embarrassed and not very good, but too nice to dream of
saying no. ;) Night, y'all. It's been fun, and I'm sorry I can't stay longer."

Telgar Weyr> M'tri wants to dance with him!

Telgar Weyr> Eilidh dances with Riadur. ;)

Telgar Weyr> Lanisa says, "You must have the storm that kept me at bay til
now. *waves* :)"

Telgar Weyr> Darbey will follow M'tri's lead...after all, can't disappoint
Daikoth...

Telgar Weyr> Riadur giggles. Night! :)

M'tri waves at Stavren, inviting, "You can hide under this table and I can
feed you food like I used to do when I was little and didn't want to finish
it." He makes an example by spearing a tuber and poking it under the table,
where hopefully nothing resides already. It doesn't take much for the
bluerider to overhear Breena's comment, and he frowns deeply at the
response the Weyrleader gets. "No introductions? They're too shy as it is,
they -have- to introduce themselves." There's a remark he would have never
said if I'sai were the weyrlingmaster making the suggestion, but he looks
quite perturbed. He goes slightly glassy-eyed for a moment, as a blue bird
outside tells him of a newer arrival, and it's quickly that he murmurs,
"Excuse me, Kassi," to get up and and try to find Lani in the group of
still filing in.

Claret doesn't make an effort to introduce herself in her new guise as
non-rider, beyond pulling her knot off of her shoulder and securing it out
of sight. Or so she thinks. Instead, it's safety in anonymity as she
clatters into a seat. She does momentarily betray her intention to be quiet
and unobtrusive by slipping back a comment to Kassima. "Rust is just as
good. Fits much better with the color of blood once it's dry. It would be
quite nice to have favor with the launderers for once."

Stavren smiles crookedly at Breena. "You're very wise and kind, not to
force introductions upon us. And I think your faith in my dancing skills is
misplaced, but thank you." He adds some mashed tubers to his plate. "My
sisters were quite insistent that I was hopeless and had no rhythm. It's
entirely possible that I might have developed some since Rishka's wedding,
though. It's been months."

Lucky for Darbey, Eilidh is just across the way, trying rather
unsuccessfully to blend in. It must've been her valiant attempts to meet
and greet each candidate that they are wise to her not so deviously obvious
ways. "Igen, well, four turns? Three turns? Something like that I forget,
but my ma's there, and I'm from there, and stuff like that, and oh wait,
are you one of the ones from Igen? Isn't it absolutely cold here?" She says
this in a tone most people would use with: It's absolutely divine, rather
than frigid. Her fork dives into the mashed tubers and brings up a large
scope that falls between the three prongs of her eating utensil.

Kassima, listening for the answer to K'ran's query, looks a bit
crestfallen. "That was always m'favorite part," she sighs to M'tri. "The
introductions. They'll just have t'be dancing now, t'make up for it. Nay
that the food and company don't make up for it in some part themselves--"
She flashes her Wingmate a wry grin then, but admits, "We don't want 'em
t'*combust* from blushing. I mean, blood and flesh-scraps everywhere, big
mess... a'course, a'course. D'you usually nay have favor with the
launderers?" she simply has to ask Claret. "And is the reason usually
bloodstains? Who exactly have you been killing?"

Lanisa's doing her best to make the unobtrusive entrance. Not that she's
hard to find when being sought out, but she's hanging back from those
filing towards the food in favor of catching her bearings in the gathering
anyway. She brushes a bit at the sleeve of her shirt as if trying to make
it more presentable and then shrugs as her hands slide instead into her
pockets to halt the prior gesture.

Breena is all smiles, apparently unaffected by M'tri's comments, and all
the frowning. "It just means you'll have to introduce yourself to them--or
have them do so for you when you come across them. It won't be so bad.
See?" she adds, as Stavren speaks. "Sounds like they'd prefer to avoid it,
as well." Her piece said, she begins to eat, quiet for now while she
listens to the conversation around her.

"Must've just missed you then," Darbey does rather make an effort to imbue
the statement with the proper amount of dismay, thought a smile plagues his
lips between banter and dining that rather undercuts the sentiment, "I've
been there...had been there," he corrects himself, "About two or three
turns when Daikoth found me on an after-duty swim. Life's been interesting
since then." His grin twitches wider as he adds in a tone mirroring
Eilidh's, "It /is/ absolutely cold. I'd missed it, you see. Grew up in
Reaches."

V'lano walks in from the bowl.

Pierron gives a respectful nod to the Weyrsecond.

"You grew up at the Reaches?" Eilidh leans forward, eyes rounding. She
blinks twice, owlish in looks if not in actual wisdom, and proceeds to
shovel forkfuls of food into her mouth with little care until she realises,
belatedly, she's eating too fast and swallows what she has. Little
lady-like bites are taken, her gaze sliding down the table to watch a
prissy candidate from Balen poke at the two root vegetables on her plate
and imitates, though in a non-mocking fashion. "Ah, I haven't been back
home but once lately. And Cay got all caught up in a green flight and then
decided he didn't care for her much. Personally," she shares leaning across
the table some more to faux whisper at Darbey, "I think he saw the other
dragons and knew hew ouldn't win. Yep." Outside, if one's listening hard
enough, the indignant bugle of said brown is heard.

"I'll speak to the Masterharper," Tarien says to K'ran, quick to fill her
plate and step out of the way, in favor of the others behind her. "Perhaps
we might be able to arrange something. No introductions?" is her next
comment, picking up on Breena's response, nodding at the reasoning behind
it. "Seems to make sense to me -- and it would encourage everyone to
mingle, which might be more beneficial than embarrassing them all into
standing up one by one."

M'tri shows a bit more displeasure with an eyeroll, but says little more in
favor of introductions. Instead, he finds Lani with ease and inquires, all
in the same breath, "How are you? Are you hungry? If you are, I've got a
plate over there, you can have it. Do you need anything?"

K'ran shakes his head minutely, a bit disappointed, but concedes, "That's
probably true, there," to Tarien. "So maybe we should hurry up and eat, so
we can mingle." He'll next cast a look toward the crowd, the source of that
early exhortation to dance. "And dance." By now he's larded a plate with
tastes of most of the dishes available, and trails behind her back toward
their table. "Maybe instead we can all take off our knots and let them ask
us questions, or something."

Claret's eyes widen. "Killing people? Me? I don't think Avrieth would
approve. It doesn't seem quite the thing, don't you think?" Peering down at
her dress, she shakes her head woefully. "No, it's dirt and ash and things.
And food." Hearing Eilidh's introduction at the fringes of her attention,
Claret changes tactics and pipes up to the general vicinity, "I'm from
where it's quite warm. The cold is just dreadful!" she remarks insincerely.

Stavren is somewhere between the chatting Candidates and a pretty
greenrider. It's not a bad place to be, but the knowledge of what's to come
won't let him relax, poor thing. "If they'd prefer to hide it, they hide
/that/ fairly well," he mutters before digging

Darbey tsks softly at his cross-table conversational companion, "Is that
any way to talk about your lifemate?" he teases between forkfuls of fluffy
cheesy tubers, "What kind of impression is that going to give us wide-eyed
innocents here of rider-dom?" His eyes sparkle in amusement.

Something about the coinciding ideas of 'Masterharper' and 'dancing
lessons' causes Kassi to duck her head over her food, grinning, and
preoccupy herself with it for awhile. "Still the best part," she murmurs a
little mournfully into her cider mug. "Mayhaps next time... well, probably
nay, Claret, since you'd surely be caught at it. You're the one who said
anyone would know if'n 'twere faking a thing, aye? And you'd have t'fake
innocence quite a bit. I really can't picture you as the next Fax or aught
like that." How does she say these things with a straight face? It must be
a gift. She spots Lani, waves to her; keeps one eye on the Candidate table,
and covers a laugh at the faintly-overheard brown bugle.

V'lano is not fashionably late. He's just late. And in no hurry - he tips a
nod to someone passing near the cavern entrance before shedding his jacket
onto a hook and moving farther toward festivities-central, taking a plate
into his hands in place of the leather discarded by the entrance and moving
smoothly enough into the traffic flow of food acquisition. First up on his
dinner plan: meat selections. Go figure.

Lanisa finds Trii, just as he finds her, or maybe a fraction before as she
asks before she answers, "What's wrong? Or don't I want to know?" She
smiles however, before she answers with a quick grin, "Tired, but fine. Not
too much, we could share? Just somewhere to sit? Tisiath kept waking me up
and going on about me missing dinner." Kassi's wave gets one in return,
before she's asking, "Where were you sitting, Trii?"

Stavren digs into his food, imitating Breena by listening to all the
different conversations, and waiting for one he can join. Claret, Eilidh,
and Darbey all comisserating about the weather makes his snicker.

"Oh, game! Let me guess," Eilidh turns to seek out Claret's face somewhere
at the candidate's table. "You're from... Boll! I bet, warm. Mm, beaches,
good drinks. With funny little decorations to make them all cute." Wait,
she blinks, "Killing?" It takes a feet of Faranth, or just Darbey's voice
interrupting for her to turn to him, still looking a bit emptyheaded.
"Well, he's 'teresting. Amelliane'll tell you. He's.. a character. I think
my weyrlingmaster called him. Dragons aren't all the same y'know."

Stubien darts Stavren a look, "Huh? Hide what?"

Brows raised, Tarien glances at the table full of Candidates, musing, "Do
you think that would work? I've tried removing my knot in the past, but it
didn't work terribly well..." This time, the frown's hers, pensive as she
looks over some of the riders assembled, but she shakes her head, smiling
up at K'ran. "It might be more effective if we join them at their table."

Scattered throughout the living caverns, more riders and residents take
seats, intermingling at all the wrong tables, though there are few intrepid
enough to actually seat themselves amongst the candidates. Many seem to be
indulgent. In the corner, a small group of weyrharpers start tuning their
instruments to provide a gentle cadence of background noise. While it's not
heard well, the sound, when it /is/ heard, is soothing enough. Nothing fast
paced or danceable yet.

"Ooo." K'ran's expression resolves into a grin that's all mischief. "I like
that idea." And instead of diverting back toward *their* table, he makes
for the candidates', and attempts to lay claim to a pair of chairs situated
just slightly east of Stavren and Darbey.

M'tri shakes his head for Lani, assuring, "Nothing big at all, just a bit
disappointed. There won't be any introductions tonight, but..." he shrugs
for himself, then offers his arm to her, Mr. I Never Knock a Woman Off Her
Mount, gallant as ever. "You are missing dinner, but I would have brought
you some up if you wanted to rest." After Lanisa's wave to Kassima, the
bluerider comments, "Over there," and proceeds back to the Thunderbolt
table, where his chair is still half-pulled out. He offers it to Lani as he
pulls another for himself.

"The Weyrwoman. She's a looker, doncha think?" Stubien asks of Stavren,
just as K'ran comes. Instantly clamming up, the dark eyes squint at the
Weyrleader. "Lotsa nice looking, easy on the eyes women here."

"Don't think I won't ask her," Darbey cautions Eilidh, "I'm sure you'll
make a fine morning klah conversation-piece tomorrow morning," before
allowing his attention to drift where the brownrider's had. "Somewhere hot,
eh? Northern or Southern, you've got to give at least that much," he
coaxes, not really having noticed the arrival of the latest 'candidate' -
K'ran.

Kassima shifts her chair a bit when that music starts up--not facing away
from her Wing table, not with her plate still half-full, but turned enough
so that she can get a better look at the center of the room--where any
prospective dancing might take place. This allows her to spy a certain
familiar bronzerider, and lift her glass of cider to him although it's
questionable whether he'll see from this angle. "Heyla, Lani," she asides
to the bluerider, smiling. "You might be in luck. Methinks there's going
t'be dancing, which means we get t'sit back and watch and applaud the
efforts of the valiant. I'm tempted t'lay wagers on how many Candidates
will *be* valiant. A thirty-second says that young man will--" The glass is
waved vaguely in Darbey's direction.

Claret nods mournfully, telling Kassima, "I'd make an awful Fax. And it's
be dreadful, trying to pretend all the time and being found out just like
that." Claret snaps her fingers, immediately brightening. "But it's all
very convenient, really, because I shouldn't like to kill anybody."
Steepling her fingers together, Claret gives her head a shake, telling
Eilidh, "Not Boll. Although it is nice there, isn't it? Guess again!"

"Hide what?" Breena asks, interest sharpening at Stavren's comment.
"Something you want to tell us?" She bites back a snicker at Stubien's
remark, especially as the Weyrleaders seem to be approaching the very table
they're all gathered at. Thus far, she's missed V'lano's entrance--and
quite a bit of the other goings on--as intently as she's been paying
attention to the Candidates. "Where *are* you from, anyway...Stubien, right?"

Stavren's mouth is full, but he can nod without earning the Weyrleader's
wrath. He hopes. "All the ladies present look lovely tonight," he says
after he swallows, displaying true diplomacy. And so deftly avoiding that
hiding question. Very smooth. "/If/ I were dancing, which will only happen
by direct command from someone much higher-ranked than myself, I couldn't
pick just one." That may not have come out right, and he busies himself
with more food. K'ran gets a glance, and an amused mutter "Funny, you don't
/look/ like a Candidate..."

"No introductions? Really? Huh." Lani replies, but she seems to set that
aside in difference to the offered arm. And tonight, the gallant knight's
lady is played by a mischievous strawberry blonde? Well, stranger things
have been known to happen, "Or I can rest after I eat and he'll stop
nagging. I'm tempted to get someone to dump mud on him so he'll have to
take a bath and stop fussing." Table reached, she slides easily into the
chair, "Heya Kassi. Dinner and dancing? I'll take that wager, sure. Why
not. Any others you have an eye on to do or don't?" And since Claret is
nearby, she gets a nod and a grin as well, while Lani looks over the others
on hand.

Pausing long enough to tuck the knot on her shoulder into her pocket,
Tarien follows K'ran to the table of Candidates and Coordinators, and if
she hears Stubien's comment, she gives no indication. Happenstance finds
her claiming the chair nearest Darbey, and she smiles warmly at him.
"Evening, there -- how are you enjoying dinner so far?"

Attentive, Eilidh turns to the greenrider at her elbow and slants her face
to Breena, "Is the food agreeing with you? Do you want seconds?" She's
finished her own meal, her look expectant on the array of desserts. This
puts her in line of sight with Telgar's younger weyrsecond, and her eyes
narrow. "Wait one second," she murmurs to those closest, including Claret,
Darbey and Breena. "Hey, you," her call over is piercing, and definitely
not adultish or lady like at all. "You owe me dinner." She'd stomp if she
was standing, as is, she's seated and so nods firmly. "You, weyrsecond.
Sir." As if there's anyone else she would be yelling like that to.

Meat, fluffy cheese tubers, desserts. With his plate free of green things
and indeed mostly free of roughage of any suit, V'lano turns from the
spread, sweeping up a glass of something he hasn't looked very carefully at
in the same motion that begins a sweeping regard of the cavern's seating
tables. Standing there like that he's in the way of other people, but
paying enough attention to raise a wave back toward the Thunderbolt
wingleader and take a step that way - but Eilidh's voice can be, uh,
persuasive, and her accusation must be correct since the Weyrsecond hunches
a shoulder, squints an eye, and looks entirely caught for a moment. He has
the trip toward the candidate table to resolve himself into a more gathered
expression, and even has a winning smile for the candidates - and
brownrider - once he gets there. And the Weyrlingmaster, too, in fact.
Winning smile. Very. "Good evening indeed," he remarks, then starts a path
'round the table to hunt an empty chair.

K'ran has apparently mastered the parental skill of mysteriously managing
to overhear things young adults hope they're saying out of earshot. "Why,
yes," he answers Stubien, sunnily. "Yes she is." And he'll hold out a chair
for her, to sit. "What was your name again? Stubien? I'm K'ran."

Stubien watches K'ran sit. "Funny, you don't.. what he said. What cot d'ya
have?" The question is posed arrogantly, the boy already acting like he
knows the answer. To Stavren, he snorts and watches Tarien's arrival.
"Looker, like I said. There's a greenriding wingleader too, not bad, not
bad at all. And man, you're right, all the women here tonight are lovely
folk." Suddenly agreeable, the hulking candidate buries his fork into his
food and begins to shovel more scoopfuls into his mouth rendering him
silent for at least a moment. Because he can't speak, all K'ran gets is an
eyeful of envy.

Kassima consoles Claret, or tries: "You could be... Fax's misused, tragic
right-hand man, secretly a force for good and tortured inside by the evil
acts he must commit? Methinks you could pull that off quite well. Y'know,
T'bay said something--back in the gardens, you remember? A'fore you got
there, he was mentioning reenactments of the Fax saga that his home used
t'be doing." Where exactly she was going with that is lost as she quips to
Lani after popping a bit of roll into her mouth, "I'm fair sure I'm going
t'win. 'Twill put a thirty-second on someone pulling Stavren out for it,
too, if'n you're of a mind t'take that." All the talk of gambling has
brightened her spirits quite well; they falter a bit, perhaps, at Eilidh's
call, but she smiles a bit, shrugs it off, and turns back to her food.

Breena murmurs something quiet to Eilidh, but once the brownrider has drawn
attention to it, although it *looks* like the Weyrlingmaster has been
eating, most of the food she dished out for herself is still on her plate.
Her attention drawn to V'lano by Eilidh's shout, she looks over his way,
then looks away quickly, focusing somewhere else. "That," she tells
Stavren, grinning, "can be arranged." Once the music starts, her shoulders
relax somewhat, but it appears as though she's chosen to remain mostly quiet.

Darbey is unaware of Kassima's speculations involving him, despite the fact
that he'll probably earn her that 1/32 mark for her wagers. Shame. No
commission. As he continues to make conversation with those closest to him,
blinking a time or two at Eilidh's abrupt change of mood, Darbey finds
himself addressed by a rather new entrant into the table of chaos, "Though
I doubt you're its chef, I'll still tell you everything exceeds all
expectations," he quips back to Tarien, "How do you find it?"

M'tri shrugs, doing what he can as he heads over to fetch another fork and
return to thier table. It's a task that takes some time, with people up and
about mingling together now, not to mention the few quick-eating candidates
and riders who are up getting seconds. Eventually, though, the bluerider
returns in time to say, "I'm not betting with you lot. But, if you up that
bet on Stavren, I'll go put on a dress and dance with him. Just like I
promised when -I- was a candidate. You remember? I'll wear a dress one day?
If I had just known..." Poking his fork into the nearest thing to him on
the plate -- a bit of salad -- Daikoth's rider chews pensively, turning in
his seat as well, saying, "I'd dance with you two, too, if I wasn't busy
stuffing my face."

Stavren is trapped. Nothing to do but make the best of it. "At your
command, oh Weyrlingmaster, ma'am, who holds my very life in her hands--or
will in a couple of months, if everything follows through." Winking at
Breena, he turns a mildly disbelieving eye on Stubien's obtuseness. This is
too good not to go along with. "That one?" he asks, tilting his head at
K'ran. "Heard he was a Trader or something like that."

"I don't know if you heard me before," Eilidh begins, "But I wanted to let
you know that I'm agreeable to whatever." Sunny smile turns to focus to
Claret, another guess on her lips, "Oh, oh. Hmm. Tillek? Shipfish Island?
Do people even live on that island? It'd be a nice place to live, and
there's no Thread to eat us up and stuff." A hand slides to pat Breena's
hand gently, though her neck still strains to try and glimpse the desserts.
"I dance, kind of. A candidate taught me at Ista, and so I can dance
without stepping on someone's toes, definitely."

Waving her fork at V'lano, Tarien turns a pensive look on the Weyrsecond
and the Weyrlingmaster, but her expression, as she does so, is carefully
blank. "No, indeed," she says to Darbey, laughing, "I am most certainly not
responsible for the cooking of it, but I am glad to hear that you're
enjoying it so much. It's good -- it always is, Pierron and the rest of his
staff do a wonderful job."

"Someone in particular? Or just someone?" Lani seeks to clarify from Kassi
in M'tri's absence. Then a beat later, "Are we going to be seeing Fax
reenactments too then?" She gives M'tri a good looking over on his return
and suggests, "You could wear mine. Might fit you better than me just now."
Which could argue for why she's not in one, maybe, "Or maybe Kassi has one
instead?" She drops a dryly amused tone with a teasing grin and quieter as
she picks at the plate now too, "Ahh, well. There are other dances. Food
first, no?"

Claret considers Kassima's suggestion duly, pausing in her meal long enough
to tap her nose thoughtfully. "I could be," she draws out. "But the trouble
with that is 'secretly at force'. I can keep secrets all right, but if any
Fax-like sort were to watch me closely, I'm sure I'd get found out."
Wherever Kassi was going with a story of Fax re-enactments, Claret's
distracted from the topic just as easily, returning Lani's greeting with a
finger wiggle of her own, announcing, "Shipfish Island. I used to live
there almost all by myself."

"Thank you," V'lano tells Eilidh, and passes by her seeking that elusive
empty chair, then past Breena next to her. "And good evening here as well."
But he does not quite catch the patting of hands and moves on past the
riders of green and brown to find, two candidates past them, his seat. He
pulls it out with a toe and leans past it to settle his glass and plate on
the table, leaving a hand free to return Tarien's greeting. "We - " The
syllable doesn't even complete, the bronzerider's eyes sliding sideways to
Stubien. No: let him roast in his own juices. "Good evening," V'lano says
again. Repetitively. And sits.

"If'n I up that bet on Stavren and you go put on a dress," Kassima says,
dry as dust, "you'll scare him out of dancing with *anyone* and 'twill
lose--which I'm betting you're counting on. Schemer that you are. What
about...." Her eyes find Stubien in the lot. She must be unaware that he's
spoken of her; she's not blushing. Pointing her fork towards him, she
suggests, "Him. Put a dress on and dance with him instead. Shells, Trii,
don't worry about me--I don't dance." She flicks a wry smile. "Remember?"
Then, "Anyone, Lani, anyone at all, and I personally think it might be fun.
Naught official, mind. But can't you imagine it? T'bay as Fax. Claret as
his right-hand--true, Claret, true, you do have a point in that. Mayhaps
you'd do better as T'bay's Lady Gemma. I could be the right-hand man; I
have a good maniacal cackle."

K'ran's attention, contra that of Tarien, is more on Candidates than fellow
riders, and so perhaps it's not much surprise that he nods to confirm
Stavren's guess. "That's right," he says. "My family dealt in fabric and
runners between here and Bitra, and then out over to Fort Weyr. My uncle's
sort of retired and lives at Bitra, and I think my mum and da are going to
join him there in another season or three. I suspect it was more romantic
and adventurous when I was *doing* it, than now, as I look back on it. What
about you? Refresh my memory."

Breena's smile for Eilidh is forced, but doesn't wobble, at least, until
Stavren's comment makes her grin. "You'd do well to remember that--crossing
the Weyrlingmaster before one Impresses is not a good id..ea..." Pause.
"Good evening." That for V'lano as he passes by, quiet and polite. It's
just as well that she misses Tarien's look, too--instead, she focuses on
another of the Candidates, a dark-haired young woman, who she tries, rather
unsuccessfully, to draw out in conversation.

Telgar Weyr> Darbey says, "Hey folks, sorry to be such a nudge, but I gotta
get up early in the morning....so I've gotta head out. Consider Dar a most
willing dance partner to any of the lovely ladies. Dance early, dance
often, his motto."

Telgar Weyr> Eilidh steals a dance. :)

Telgar Weyr> Breena too! :)

Telgar Weyr> V'lano waits for it -

Telgar Weyr> K'ran says, "Thanks for coming out, Darbey. :)"

Telgar Weyr> Lanisa waves :)

Telgar Weyr> Darbey hides his swoons at his almighty luck behind his
swaggering bravado and departs

"I was a Smith," Stavren says, eyeing the hole Stubien's digging himself.
"As if the lingering scent of burning doesn't give it away." Breena's
reaction to V'lano makes him visibly curious, but he doesn't ask. He
wouldn't in public, anyway. He hears his name mentioned by Kassima, and
cranes his neck over to give the Wingleader a suspicious look. "Am I being
betted on?"

"Don't even think about it," says Tarien to V'lano for that unfinished
word, "or I will have you scrubbing records room from top to bottom for the
next two sevendays." Though the threat sounds serious, it's difficult for
her to keep a straight face while she says it. Stavren's comment catches
her attention and, wry, she comments, "In this crowd, it's always a safe
assumption that -some-one is making a wager on you, of some kind or another."

"Darn," M'tri says, swallowing the bite he has and picking at something
else. "You found me out. You're smarter at betting than I ever suspected,
even after the Turns I've known you." That's faux-disappointment written
across the bluerider's face. He seems content enough to be sitting where he
is, just watching for the time being. "Your loss, Kassi," he remarks wryly.
"I'm telling you, this is why our marraige is collapsing." He doesn't seem
all that broken up about it, honestly. After reflection on Kassi's role as
Fax's right hand, Trii agrees, "Yeah...I think you'd be good in that part.
Fax's right hand. I'll confirm that your cackle is fearsome."

Claret's dinner is starting to get cold now, only half-finished, what with
all the busy thinking she's doing. Tilting her head to the side, she nods
dubitably. "I -could- be Lady Gemma, although I'd have to practice being
dignified. That, at least, would be easier than practicing being a tortured
good person. Or is it the other way around?" Shrugging her shoulders, she
agrees readily, "You'd be an excellent maniacal right hand man. Although I
don't think I've heard you cackle."

"I wouldn't think it possible to be all by one's self at shipfish. Seems
there's always someone heading off that way." Lanisa remarks with a grin,
then nods sagely, "I see. And this isn't just part of the world conquest
game, I'm guessing?" She turns an innocent look Kassi's way as she remarks,
"All's fair, is it not?" But she'll follows the direction the fork will
point, "That one, hmm? Don't think I know him. I'm losing track, I admit."

As some of the diners conclude their meals, the music that has lingered in
the background starts to increase in tempo. Some of the empty tables are
cleared away, to make space for some of the braver souls who step out into
the now-empty space and start to dance. It's a simple country reel to
start, and though there are occasional bursts of pained laughter as toes
are stepped on and elbows are thrown, the few people who've started so far
seem to be enjoying themselves.

Kassima is quite shameless about confirming for Stavren, "You are,
naturally enough--I've got a thirty-second saying someone drags you out
t'dance, will-you nil-you. But I'm telling Trii that he shouldn't put on a
dress and make you try t'dance with *him*, because then you'll be scared
off dancing forever. Am I right?" Quite as if there were any other
possibility. A low chuckle issues from her throat, then. "I thought 'twas
your cadre of bronzeriders that caused that. Nay, Trii, you're kind, but I
don't want t'be maiming you. And--which, Lani? Claret at Shipfish or Trii
in a dress? Claret at Shipfish *could* be a part. Kichevio was supposed
t'rule Shipfish for me," she explains for Claret's benefit, "but I'm
wondering if'n she mightn't rather rule Igen or something--what say you?
Want t'be m'warder over the region when I'm Lady of the World? I can let
you hear the cackle... mayhaps another time. 'Twould clash somewhat with
the music."

"It wasn't even a thought," V'lano courteously defends through a smile,
lifting a hand to fend off the danger of records-room-scrubbing from
Tarien. He leans forward to catch a glimpse of the candidate to whom the
Weyrwoman's speaking, and of course Breena as well in visual periphery
along the line. "Especially with a candidate's knot. Expect this won't be
the last event you're carrying someone's marks on your shoulders, either."
The bronzerider subsides for a moment, looking longly upon the
Weyrlingmaster - she gets a smile still, even, though there's something
wary in his eyes. Then he speaks past her, for Eilidh: "So did you decide
-where-?"

Stavren opens and shuts his mouth for a few seconds--Kassi's answer was
rather more than he expected. Then his brain kicks back in, and he can
riposte. "Kassi, I'm flattered, but I would never dance with M'tri. He's
/yours/. It would break you two apart, and I couldn't live with the guilt.
No matter how ravishing me might look in a dress." Stav's ears are
/flaming/ by the time he finishes, but he's grinning.

M'tri barks a laugh at Stavren's response to Kassi. He turns around to look
the Candidate over, and the points his fork at him saying, "I like him.
Smart man, that one."

"Well, that's for me to know, and you to find out." Eilidh isn't coy often,
and she's not very adept at that either, however, she smiles at the
bronzerider, reassuring him with that pleasant look. She waves flippantly
at the table, and glees in delight when the music picks up pace, picking
herself out from the table and over towards a nominally shy brownrider from
Icewind, tugging at his arm to lead him out onto the floor. Once he's out
there, the shyness seems to melt away and the two begin a clumsy attempt at
dancing. It's interspersed with giggles and an exuberant wave towards the
candidate table, and then another wave towards Thunderbolt.

K'ran's managed, throughout this conversation, to make at least a bit of a
dent in his meal, yet without preamble gets to his feet, pushes in his
chair, and extends a hand to Tarien. "Shall we get it out of the way?" he
asks, with a smile -- but then pauses, to dart a look over to Stavren. "Or,
hey. Where's your sister?" Mischief floods his eyes.

"Ach, Stavren, are you kidding? This little tramp," Kassima informs, aiming
her thumb back over her shoulder to indicate M'tri, "has been 'dancing,'
wink wink, nudge nudge, with half the Weyr entire. What's the latest name
for your nextborn child, Trii? Kalanitrisaivelbayreklen?" The nonsense
syllables are spoken with ease. "We should add a 'Stav' in there somewhere
now, mayhaps. But you're a sweet man, Stavren, indeed you are, t'think more
of m'feelings than *he* ever does." She affects a wounded look for
M'tri--but it's brief. She's laughing soon, and waving back to Eilidh and
her hapless partner, even setting her utensils down to clap along with the
beat.

"Either." Lani remarks to Kassima with a grin and then she too is laughing,
"Aye. Best to not get between the man and his wife. A smart man indeed."
M'tri is given a wink then before she selectively snitches something else
from his plate. She rolls her eyes and next mutters, with still a trace of
amusement, "A far better name at least than Latrine."

Stavren's glower switches on. It's quite a sight, really. "If you trifle
with my sister, I'll..." Well, shardit, there's no viable way to threaten
the Weyrleader.

Claret flounders for a moment at Lani's remark, searching for something
plausible. "Well... I lived in a hidden hut and never saw anybody else, but
for once in a while." Or perhaps implausible. Although she's ready enough
to dip her chin in a bright nod. "I think I should like to be warder when
you're Lady of the World. It would be very exciting. And there aren't half
enough people there to make a muddle of things." As for the cackle, she
gives a sigh of regret, but turns back to her food.

Telgar Weyr> Stavren must choose between fun RP now and the living death of
sleeplessness at work tomorrow. :( Please excuse me. And yes, Kassi won her
bet, Stavren danced several times, apologizing for his big clumsy feet
every minute.

Telgar Weyr> Eilidh giggles.

Telgar Weyr> Kassima grins. It's been a profitable evening. ;)

"Good idea," Breena asides to Stavren. "If you step on people's feet
dancing in regular clothes, being in a dress would be worse." Eilidh's
departure has her looking momentarily bereft, but she gives up all pretense
of finishing dinner at that point, pushing the plate away. She returns the
various smiles offered her way, and she finally gets to her feet, tapping
the shoulder of another of those too-quiet tablemates, dragging him with
her as she, too, approaches the dance floor.

Telgar Weyr> M'tri says, "Did he dance with Trii? Hmmmmm? :)"

Telgar Weyr> Stavren wants a cut, or I /will/ dance with M'tri.

Telgar Weyr> Lanisa grins and never actually took her up on that one. ;)

Telgar Weyr> Lanisa snugs though :)

Telgar Weyr> Kassima thinks Kassi might pay another 1/32 to see that, sure. ;)

Telgar Weyr> M'tri laughs. Nighty Stavren.

"You'll have to take my word that K'ran wouldn't trifle," V'lano puts in,
between bites, for Stavren's benefit. After that he turns, only to watch -
as Breena takes to the floor. Smiling. Still.

Round and round about Eilidh goes, being spun expertly. Well, no, not
expertly. But at least her partner looks breathlessly pleased at his
skills. "Dizzy." Out on the dance floor that she is, she doesn't hear
conversations or really spy out gestures towards her. They're all a
complete blur.

Stavren walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.

M'tri feigns hurt, putting his head on Lanisa's shoulder and pretending to
sob a couple times. "I'm no tramp," he asserts lamely, but trails away in
favor of watching Stavren and K'ran sidelong. That only lasts a couple
seconds at best, before M'tri reclines back in his chair, fork abandoned,
to watch the couples heading to the floor to dance.

Tarien opens her mouth to make a reply, but her eyes glaze over instead,
and once she's back to herself, she grins wryly at K'ran. "Saved by my
demanding lifemate -- I'll have to claim that dance some other time, she
wants to see me before I go to bed. I'll try to come back, if she'll let
me. Thanks for the lovely dinner, ladies," she adds, for the dancing Breena
and Eilidh, and for Claret. "Have a wonderful evening, everyone."

Two children, up way past their bed time, sway cutely to the side. "Look,
mommy!" Their watchful parents aren't far away, picking at the remnants of
their meal, an indulgent nod by both mothers for the little boy and girl.

Telgar Weyr> Tarien must also take her leave in anticipation of work
tomorrow.:) "Good night, and thank you!"

Telgar Weyr> Eilidh says, "Night! :)"

Kassima points to Claret and announces, "There *is* a hut sort of thing on
Shipfish; I bet I've seen it--I didn't know 'tis where *you* lived, Claret,
goodness. A bit of fixing up and I wager 'twould make a fine base of
operations when you're m'warder. We'll put up some tapestries or something.
And 'twill have t'build a watchtower, for the skulls of those who opposed
the regime t'roll around on." A bit over-fond of this image is Kassima. And
why not? It distracts her from sneaking more than a glance or two towards
yon Weyrsecond. Better to watch the dancing, and she does. "You're a total
tramp," she tells M'tri. "And 'tis why I love you. Why don't you two join
them out there?"

"I'll have to thank her," says K'ran, though he does appear to be at least
a bit disappointed at the prospect of losing Tarien for now. "I'll come
along, in a bit, if you're not back yet, alright?" Sans dance partner, he
simply leans back against his chair to watch the others.

Tarien walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.

"There's more than the one hut?" Lani asks Claret now, curious. "I knew of
the one. Played there once when I was little." Ahh but the distraction of a
sobbing weyrmate, feigned or no has her murmuring, "Of course your not,
dear. You only grant your favors on the harem, your good husband and the
exception to the rule." And let those that don't keep up sort that out, as
she turns back to filch another bite from the plate, "Hmm? Dance?" Almost
as if it a foreign concept.

V'lano turns back to the table to query after a pale-haired candidate's
homeland, exchanging with her his contrasting stories of an utterly
unshared background between bits and sips of dinner. An interruptive burst
of laughter from further down the table distracts them both - and in the
moment provided, the Weyrsecond nudges his chair past some of those vacated
by candidates and their coordinators to be within speaking distance of
K'ran. He turns the chair to face the dancing and gazes out as if he too
watches. "I'd say you should have eaten faster," he remarks, "Except that's
no good for dancing either."

The music continues, repeated requests for just one slow song denied thus
far. Upbeat, the tunes spin easily from one to the next, and as more of the
gathered attendees complete their dinner, more of the tables are moved
aside to give the dancers room.

*That* pulls a snicker from the Weyrleader, and he's agreeing, "Wouldn't do
to have me spitting up dinner all over the dance floor. Nasty, smelly, and
slippery. But, enh -- there'll be other times, and I know how Mirrath gets.
This is our third time, did you know?" He hitches one shoulder up in a
shrug. "What about you, though? Still digesting? Or looking for just the
right moment to cut in?"

"This hut," Claret specifies, "Was very well hidden. An extra special hut,
you see. It would make an excellent base of operations, particularly
because enemies couldn't find it. Although a watchtower would rather
detract from that. But," she adds in hastily, "In the preliminary days,
when opposition still stands, a secret base would be useful."

Though Breena's partner isn't as energetic with the spinning and twirling,
she does have to remind her Candidate partner to keep his hands away from
places they shouldn't be. It works, for awhile, until she gives up with an
exasperated sigh and a smile. "Keep that up and you'll be on latrine duties
til the eggs hatch. Now go find someone else to dance with." She weaves her
way through the dancers and back to her now sparsely populated table.

As a few dances end, Eilidh relinquishes her partner with a grin. "Thanks!"
she says effusively, wiggling fingers. Quick steps take her from the floor
back to the candidate table, where she survey sthe damage, dwindling
numbers with a fond smile, "They didn't last long, did they? Can't wait to
see them figure out weyrlinghood trials when they come up."

"You should dance." That wry smile of Kassima's is back, but there's warmth
in it, too, for her friends. "You'd make a good pair of it... and if'n
Trii's suggesting he'll put on dresses and dance with Candidates, well, you
*know* he must want t'dance with you." She makes a couple of shooing
motions with her hands, as if she could send them out onto the floor that
way. "--We could build the watchtower some ways off," she speculates, head
tilting to one side in thought. "As a decoy of sorts. And fill it with
deadly traps of some kind, or something else truly nasty, like a bunch of
Harpers who haven't had any wine in five Turns."

K'ran's younger 'second pops up a brow, the eye below it narrowing at the
'leader's - vivid - description. "Third time missing a dance?" But V'lano
surely doesn't -mean- that precisely, smirky as his tone might be. "No, I
didn't know. I would have thought more, actually, if you don't mind my
saying so with the lady absent." Probably the only good time to say it,
too. The younger rider manages to reform that smile as Breena returns,
tossing from the corner of his mouth: "Waiting." And then he puts up a hand
toward the greenrider - she could ignore it, but it might be harder when he
says, "Energy enough for another?"

M'tri's look towards Kassi is completely innocent. "Dancing? Oh..." He
glances at Lani, then shrugs, taking a piece of a roll and returning to
watching. He'll let her decide if she wants to dance or not, and until
then, he'll proceed to stuff his face even more.

Telgar Weyr> M'tri is really sick, so is going to head out. Trii'll
just....lurk.

Telgar Weyr> Lanisa snugs Trii.

Telgar Weyr> K'ran says, "Hiding. In the shadows. Ready to pounce. :) Hope
you feel better, M'tri."

Telgar Weyr> Eilidh slides over some thin mints. Feel better.

Telgar Weyr> V'lano sends toast and tea!

Telgar Weyr> Kassima says, "G'night, Trii."

Telgar Weyr> M'tri takes all the virtual gifts and shuffles out. Nighty
Telgar!

Another shrug from K'ran, and he's demurring, "Well. Mirrath's a wonder,
but she's not *that* prolific," for all that he's clearly taken V'lano's
words as complimentary, rather than derogatory. When his Weyrsecond invites
Breena to dance, though, K'ran simply tips a nod to the greenrider, and
observes, "Looked good out there."

Claret finishes her cold food with a small grimace and slides the plate
away from her, watching the dancers with interest, though she doesn't look
particularly keen on moving herself. "Are harpers who haven't had wine for
five years really that dangerous?" she inquires curiously. "If so, I'll
just bet it would make a splendid decoy, so the invaders wouldn't even have
time to look for the hidden hut."

Breena grins at Eilidh's comment, shakes her head. "I don't know, but I
guess we'll find out--I'm almost afraid to think about it, though. The
first few weeks are going to be..." She doesn't finish the sentence, she's
too busy eyeing the offered hand instead. "I...oh. Er. Yes--oh! Thank you,
sir. Lots of practice at home."

Lanisa leans over and says something quietly to Trii. Either a promise for
later, or perhaps one for a lot later. For the moment she just turns back
with a grin for Kassi. "After dinner, we'll see." She pauses as she catches
sight of V'lano asking Breena, and shoots a glance at Kassi before she
looks away from both to Claret to remark with a perfectly straight face.
"Harpers, I find, are generally dangerous."

But for all her big words, the bubbly blonde looks completely wiped as
well. Shy brownriders are deadly creatures on the dance floor. Eilidh wipes
beads of sweat off her forehead and turns back to Claret. "So I was really
right about Shipfish? Shards! I should've bet on it." She beams at the
greenrider, and flashes another quick grin at Kassima and Lanisa. "I'm
tired," she states, for Breena's benefit, since her face turns quickly
towards the greenrider, oblivious of most anything in her
self-centeredness. "Good night!" she calls out cheerfully and skips out --
she has enough energy for that, but perceptive folk will see shoulders
slump just as she enters that tunnel out and a weary pull at the corner of
her eyes.

Eilidh walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.

Telgar Weyr> Eilidh falls over.

V'lano's brows both go up now. "For a dance, if I might?" The hand remains
there, for hers to go into, for him to stand, for them to dance - if she'll
have any of that nonsense. But Breena will have to hold up under the big
guns, because V'lano's tipped his chin down and his eyelids up and regards
the Weyrlingmaster from beneath those ladylike lashes of his. No smiling
now, just waiting. "If you have time?"

"Terribly dangerous. It puts 'em in a frenzy, y'see," Kassima blithely lies
away. "They tear out their hair--gibber--you can just imagine it. And
they're *Harpers*, so their howls could be heard for leagues and would
provide further distraction." She pauses. "Though 'twould mean you could
hear 'em too, in the secret base. I'd guess it might drive you a bit mad
after awhile. *That* might nay be ideal." She looks to Lanisa when the
bluerider speaks again, and so catches that glance. Her head turns away;
one shoulder hitches up, drops.

"Perhaps something could be arranged to keep them quiet?" Claret suggests
doubtfully. "Or there are always ear plugs. I suppose it's a matter of
choosing the lesser evil: mad Harpers or evil intruders." Shaking her head,
she remarks to herself, "Who would have thought it. Harpers dangerous!" And
waving to Eilidh as she goes, she pauses only a moment before assuring the
departing brownrider, "Yes, you were quite right."

Blushing faintly, Breena murmurs a quiet, "Um, sorry. I...yes. Yes, that'd
be fine." Eilidh's departure distracts her for a moment, and she frowns a
bit spotting that, but quickly looks quickly back to V'lano, putting her
hand in the one he offers. "Dance. Right. Okay."

"Ahh, well. You should have seen the ones I had to wrestle with growing up.
Weyr Harpers are the worst of the lot." Lanisa confides. But then, she
-did- provoke them. Kassi's actions earn a mild frown, and her clutchsibs
another glace, followed by the shake of her head as Lani pointedly looks
back to her plate.

Kassima's turn to sound doubtful: "If'n 'twere very *good* earplugs. We'd
have t'be careful t'keep the Harpers in the tower so they didn't *become*
evil intruders; that'd be double the evil, wouldn't it just. And doubling
the evil is only a good thing when the evil is turned towards the
enemy--nay us. But, aye." A flickered grin. "Harpers can be exceptionally
dangerous when they want t'be. Lani--do tell me," she pleads, glancing
back, "that you didn't *actually wrestle* with the Weyrharpers."

"You honor me," V'lano replies, suddenly as cheery as any lad might be upon
the young woman's hand going into his. "I promise not to keep you from
anyone?" He nods sideways toward the Weyrleader, as if in gratitude. After
that he stands - provides the lead to the floor, provides the lead to the
dance. And if his lean in toward Breena's ear just before they begin might
be words just for her, well, they're no doubt better made by a chance to
speak quietly among louder sounds.

With V'lano now occupied, K'ran straightens and flashes a quick grin back
toward those who remain -- Claret, Kassima, Lanisa. "I liked the dress a
lot, too, Claret. No doubt turned a lot of heads, tonight. I think I'm
going to head out; g'night, all of you."

Claret blinks at Kassima in confusion as she slides herself out of her
chair in an ungainly fashion, collecting her plate. "Well," she says,
trying to pretend she understand what the wingleader said, "That's quite
true. At any rate, I shall have to be particularly careful of Harpers in
the future." At K'ran's compliment, Claret replies with a sunny smile,
trying not to blush. "Thanks." And she too readies to head out, saying
woefully, "Avrieth wants me. I think she's decided it's time for bed." With
a little wave to those still assembled, she heads out of the living cavern.

"Define wrestle." Lani replies in turn with as innocent an expression as
she can muster at the moment. K'ran is given a nod in passing as he heads
out, and Claret as well, "G'night. Both of you."

Claret walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.

"Hey, wait up!" K'ran calls after his wingmate, and follows Claret out.

K'ran walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.

"G'night," Kassima agreeably bids the Weyrleader; and Claret, too:
"G'night. Best of luck, with the Harpers, and with cultivating Lady
Gemma-ness." She turns back to Lanisa. "Wrestle as in tackle to the ground,
pin, generally beat up on--admittedly a hard thing t'picture a small child
managing, but we are talking about you here."

"You're not," Breena murmurs in quiet response. "Keeping me from anyone, I
mean--I don't think anyone will notice." While the other departures are
noted, her attention remains chiefly on following V'lano in the dance, on
listening to whatever quiet comment he's offering.

Lanisa leans back in her chair, any desire she might have had to dance,
it's postponed in favor of conversation just then. "True. This is me. And
if I would admit to at least doing one of those three?"

V'lano can, as long as it's simple in time, dance fairly well, even while
making every effort to make of the opportunity a moment to talk. But after
his softer remark he pulls back his head, her demurral heard but not
ruining his expression, and he replies quite in sequitur, "Your friend? Or
was she meant to save you from any more dancing?" This makes his eyes a bit
merry, his mouth smirky - plainly a tease, no deeper ideas in it.

Kassima quietly suggests, "If'n you'd like t'dance, Lani--" With a gesture
towards the floor accompanying it. "Don't let me be keeping, aye? I don't
know that I've ever seen you dance. Or him, come t'think on it. If'n you'd
admit... I can't imagine what I could do about it, save try and guess
*which*. Was it the tackling?"

Breena moves smoothly from step to step, with the ease of aforementioned
long practice. The lack of change in his expression is met with a smile
that borders on apologetic, then she's distracted by the question. "Hmm?
Eilidh? No, not to save me from more dancing, she just surprised me, that's
all." Once the next song comes to an end, she reclaims her hands and steps
away. "I have to be up early, I have some things I need to work on. I'll be
in my office tomorrow, though." Another smile, but she doesn't wait for a
response, only pausing to wave to those who remain on her way out.

Breena walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.

Lanisa considers for a moment, and skips over one part to reply to another.
"You haven't. Ever seen me dance that is. No ever has," Then she hedges,
"Exactly." She dips a shoulder in a shrug then and grins with the next, "I
might tell you, if you guess true."

"Of course," V'lano murmurs, and withdraws his own hand from Breena's. It
is a hard thing, generally, to look normal when one's dance partner leaves
one on the floor at the end of a song not to turn to another partner, but
to flee the festivities wholly; but again, the bronzerider's expression
doesn't really change. The smile is fixed, medium of brilliance, satisfied
but not smug, not now. He winds among other dancers as another reel begins
with faster steps, sliding toward, at last, Thunderbolt's table.

"You realize that having dropped the 'exactly' in there, you're going
t'have t'be clarifying it, or 'twill nag for the story from now 'til a
seventh seventhday," Kassima cautions, grinning briefly at the bluerider.
"Whether I guess true or nay. I still think the tackling, but failing that,
it has t'be the beating up on. If'n you'd been caught *pinning* any
Harpers, your Da probably would've had much t'say." No kidding. She has
not, most definitely has not, been watching the dancing for some time now;
has been actively avoiding doing so, and so she's slow to notice the
Weyrsecond's approach. It may be the sudden fall of silence over some of
her chattier table- and Wingmates that gives him away. She looks up, and
over; and after a moment's pause, inclines her head to him. "Good evening,
V'lano."

Lanisa sighs as if it might be a hardship to tell the tale, and then she
pauses, grins, explains, "Well. No one was watching us when we did. And its
not like a person can really watch themselves dance." She chuckles then,
"Dad would have skinned me if I'd been pinning them. Shards. I'd..." And
there she cuts off. Adding to the silence that descends around the table as
she too looks up.

"Pinning Harpers?" That little remark, which makes V'lano at last sport a
broader grin and an upraised brow - something about it, he seems to find
absolutely merry - might also be part of what gave his approach, and then
his waiting presence at the table's unoccupied edge - away. Kassima's
greeting makes his expression soften, however, and considerably mollified,
he replies, "Good evening." A pause. "Getting better all the time." He
turns a smile on the greenrider's conversation partner and adds, "Lani! No
dancing from you yet?"

"I daresay that it is." Kassima's tone isn't... cold, precisely, but
distant, seeking to give no more away than opaque eyes do. "I'm certain
that your dance went well." Another inclination of her head, as if to
acknowledge it. Her tone shifts a little closer to her norm for, "I told
Lani that she should go and dance--the secret's in mirrors, Lani,
full-length, if'n you should truly want t'see. Although your perspective
would be narrow. So I'm right that 'tis nay pinning."

"Not likely to happen, even now." Lani assures V'lano. "Now days I'd be apt
to do it by tossing a knife to stake one down. And I rather expect my da
wouldn't be the only one skinning me, even if I didn't so much as cause a
scratch." Always a problem, that. "Your right it wasn't pinning, aye." She
agrees, then adds to both, "Too tired to dance tonight. But maybe I'll see
about a mirror sometime. Only I never much cared what we looked like if it
was just the two of us there. Still, for curiosities sake."

"Don't be so certain," V'lano replies to Kassima, simply, eyes suddenly
baleful a moment upon the Thunderbolt wingleader. He holds the look long
enough for her to catch it - then shifts an artfully arranged expression of
dismayed disbelief for Lanisa. "Talk of knives and of not scratching
harpers and of pinning or not - and the secret of dancing is in mirrors?" A
check back at Kassima, perhaps for her confirmation of this unlikely
interpretation of what was said. It provides a moment in which he can
interject - and lean inward over the table, making himself either welcome
or a nuisance to their wingmates, to offer a hand along with the words -
"Just a -little- bit, won't you? In front of people, this time?"

Kassima will catch it; catch it, and return it with one of hurt mixed with
sudden anger--misinterpreting, perhaps, what he means, or what the look is
for; or then again, perhaps she has it quite right. It's gone almost as
quickly, anyway. Certainly before her Wingmates might see. "Depending on
the Harper, I imagine there might be many and myriad thinking t'skin you,"
she can agree readily enough with Lani, even finding a moment's wan grin
somewhere. "And... aye, I understand that. The nay caring." Back to V'lano,
at which point the grin becomes a sickly thing before dropping entirely.
"Lanisa has a thing against Harpers, 'twould seem, and the secret of
watching yourself dance is in mirrors." Her eyes drop to his hand and
linger there. One of hers creeps up over the table's edge, as if she'd
take... only.... "I'm thinking the lady you wanted t'dance with has left,"
she murmurs. "I don't make much of a substitute."

Lanisa's glance from one to the other is appraising, narrowing her focus to
just these two of those left in the room, even if responding mildly enough,
"Aye. Of knives. Though I'm reminded often enough I should only throw them
at straw. And aye again. I suspect there are any number of Harpers that
would still love to flay me or at least see me earn what they think my
due." Wether it is or isn't? "We have a long history, Harpers and I..."

"I would prefer not to have any Harpers wanting to skin me," V'lano remarks
casually enough while waiting for Kassima's answer - and then he has it,
and lets the moment in which it would have been easiest to reply go past
without remark. But his hand stays there, see, and his other climbs atop
the table to support his lean, bent in among Thunderbolt riders who might
be thinking it good about now to nudge their chairs this way or that - to
be out of the way, maybe, or just for a better view. The bronzerider turns
his head toward Lanisa: "Do you? All the better to come here, then, and
find Tisiath. But why -flaying-? Were you -that- bad a student?" Teasing a
bit - it prepares him, perhaps, for his next part. He turns his gaze back
toward the wingleader, curls shifting around his ears with the motion. The
words have been, in the time that passed unspoken, prepared, and he offers
them plainly: "One of them, and with no substitute. Will the other, for
whom there is no substitute, consider a dance?"

Probably a better view, this being after all Thunderbolt--although a few,
those longer in the Wing and closer to their Wingleader, seem less prone to
watch the spectacle and more to excuse themselves entirely with
uncomfortable, muttered words probably going unheard. "M'tri would have
*their* hides did they think it," Kassima answers Lanisa, truthfully enough
if without once looking up from his hand; "Especially now." There's a
stretch of silence after. It might be long enough to make him or anyone
still watching doubt that she'll accept, and certainly it's tense. But at
length, at long length, her slender hand slips into his. Softly, "She will
consider. Although--" Not finished, that thought. "She'll consider."

"Come here?" Lani questions, then corrects in the next heartbeat, "Born
here. Remember? Shards, my ma's even in Dawnslight. And let's not get into
the fact that my Gran..." She smiles a might toothily, "Let's just say with
my breeding, the weyr is lucky it still is standing, shall we? Between that
side and I'sai's." And so fear the coming spawn all the more? "I was fine,
as a student, when I wanted to be." And for Kassi she smiles as well, but
this more relaxed, "He would. That's true enough." The silence then she
keeps also -- As she joined it before.

"Stay here, then. Far from ill-wishing harpers. And close to defenders."
V'lano's distracted; forgive him, so says his weak smile flashed at Lanisa,
weaker apology still for his poor memory. But Kassima's hand in his wins a
little relaxing of his shoulders, and he slips around the corner of the
table to the wingleader's side. His arm moves as if separate from him,
elbow bending to allow his hand yet to support hers, palm turning beneath
her fingers. "Come on. There are people who'd never believe I got you to
dance unless they saw it." And with fewer people to see with every passing
moment, certainly -that's- his concern. "And I did, didn't I? It would be a
shame never to be able to again."

"I could tell a story or three... thousand about her Gran," Kassima murmurs
with some real humor. "Such as Mr. Flibble." It's not the time for stories,
though. Lanisa gets a slightly apologetic glance from her, too, for
perceived if temporary abandonment; gratitude too in that, an odd
combination. "There aren't so many people left t'be seeing," she observes,
quiet again, "including some of those whom I wish had seen--as they saw the
other dance." Or danced it. She can't be mistaken for happy, however much
dignity she draws about herself. But she rises from her chair regardless,
soundlessly, with her hand still in his and her skirts slipping down from
the seat in a soft slither. "The lead is yours, Vel."

"Stay here, as do they, really." Lani replies. "Never truly lived away."
Yet she waves off anything more, not quite relaxing herself as she falls
back on quiet observer. "Aye, you could." She does say to Kassi, then wave
her on, settling in to at least be one observer that will stay.

"Mister... Flibble." Mute repetition, and another glance flicked at Lanisa.
"I won't ask," V'lano grins. Then a darker gaze - smoky, perhaps, but
measured in its depths, for Kassima, and he does draw her toward the dance
floor, saying as he goes, "Am I such a sight, then, with you, that people
need to see? You'd think there's talk enough that they -hear- plenty." And
little complaint on his behalf, if the pleased curve of his mouth counts.
It increases as he teases: "Or perhaps you've practiced with - oh, with -
let's see. I'sai. No, how about M'rgan. Oh! M'tri! - Anyway, you've
practiced, and want to show off with me?" And he leads on as music begins -
not too deep in among those who still dance, unless she should direct him
otherwise. He seeks instead a spot they can claim for their own, untroubled
by the more serious dancers still out there.

"Mayhaps. K'ran speaks of her as if'n she's your only one," Kassima
answers, very soft as she steps alongside him; she waits until they're out
of earshot for it, and keeps her voice pitched so that other dancers
mightn't hear. "Methinks I know what he wants for you. And--when they see
you, and me, and her all here, and only her, *only* her receiving your
attention from the time you see her until she's gone. When I see that, and
nay for the first time. What should we think, Vel?" Little surprise that
there's no pleased curve to *her* lips. For all of that, it's hard for her
not to relax a trifle for his words. To lean in against him, in their
semi-private dancing, still pleased by contact whatever her distress. "Nay
practice with any other since our last, I fear. I may nay cut much figure
out here." Maybe not--but she's not stumbling or stepping on his feet,
either. Moving with him is something she can do.

Lanisa smirks, if faintly so, "Safer that way." She murmurs, even if not so
it's heard, though it might be as they move away. And she then, will find
Trii's hand as he returns, and they at least watch for awhile, before they
slip out at last.

"We should think whatever we like," V'lano replies, brows lifting. Her
somber reply robs him well enough of his pleased look - but he dances, and
his hands find their places upon her, the one beneath her hand and the one
just tucked behind her waist, palm light above her hip. They turn, and he
speaks more, but what he says is little for the ears of others, his voice
lowered; and into his words some ways, he leans forward enough to speak
more lowly still. There, as they turn again, might be glimpsed a faint
smile, recovered, before even more of Thunderbolt has slipped away into the
long evening.

"I don't much like what I think," Kassima mutters in return, with edgy
humor nonetheless in the rue. It's harder for her to hold onto the hurt
thus, an arm curved around him to rest its hand on the small of his back:
where it belongs, in the dance, even at such a time. She leans in more to
hear his words, keeping grave eyes on him as they're spoken. And at
length... smiles, a little bit as she answers. Let the Wingmates who linger
see that, and wonder.