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Safe As Houses


Date:  February 21, 2005
Place:  Telgar Weyr's Workroom
Game:  PernMUSH
Copyright Info:  The World of Pern is copyright(c) to Anne McCaffrey 
l967. The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.

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Kassi's Note:  V'lano was *trying* to lead a simple life for awhile, but 
as time passes, it starts looking more and more like he's just traded 
one set of complications in for another.  He came home from High Reaches 
only to have a Weyrsecond's knot thrown at him, and so it's little 
wonder if he seems a bit stressed these days.  It would seem, though, 
that perhaps his latest cause for concern is less tied to his new work 
than something else entirely.

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The Log:

Lysseth> Volath backwings for a landing.

Lysseth> From out of evening comes a thrill of frost, swept by waterfall
wings as Volath appears from between. Already veering toward the bowl, so
certain of his home airspace he doesn't trouble to find bearings once free
of the void, the bronze soars low between the high-rising rocks of Telgar
to find a place to land nearby. This is, of course, pure happenstance, and
his rider, who snorts softly as he hands himself down off the bronze's neck
to the ground, certainly believes as much.

Lysseth> Lysseth has chosen an odd place in the Bowl to set herself, in a
way: rather than in the lee of any stone, or cavern, or form of shelter,
she's decided to be out in that strong wind, letting it ripple her
wingsails and gust against the gloss of fresh-oiled hide. Those sails are
even partially extended, taking in as much of the air as she possibly can,
and she would seem to be enjoying herself--although like as not, her warble
to greet this bronze would be just as sweet in any circumstance. The
difference is that in others, his rider might not also receive a
good-natured rumble of his own.

Lysseth> "And hello to you too," V'lano murmurs Lyssethward from his last
perch before ground level, atop Volath's outstretched foreleg. From there
the bronze's rider leaps to the rock floor of the bowl, then squints up at
the green as if her windsail wings and braced embrace of the chill might
tell secrets he's of a mind to know; perhaps they do, since after a moment
he nods, turns his back to the dragons, and trots off toward one of the
cavern entrances as if he knows exactly the way to - whatever.

Lysseth> V'lano slides down from Volath.

V'lano comes into the workroom from the bowl.

Rather than seated at any table, Kassima's standing next to one, working on
a reasonably impressive house of dragonpoker cards three tiers high. It's a
simplistic construction as such things go, but judging by the chipper way
she's singing softly to herself, odds are she's pleased with it. "...are
from Benden Weyr; we can, we can, we can, we can demolish forty beers.
Drink rum, drink rum, drink rum all day and come along with us, 'cause we
don't give a shard for any old man who don't give a shard for us!" Odd
choice for card-house-building, if not for the card-house-builder.

[Editor's Note:  Kassi's singing an excerpt of the Benden 
Weyr Drinking Song there, as written by Journeyman Mikkal. :) ]

Lysseth> Lysseth would not seem troubled by such scrutiny, as she only
stretches her wings a fraction wider--if he can read secrets there, let him
partake of their wisdom, and be welcome. Once he has departed, she leaves
them there a bare moment; perhaps Volath would wish to partake of wisdom
too... or perhaps she's only striking a pose for his benefit, and the
display has as little to do with the knowledge of the ages as it does with
shielding her from the wind.

"Only forty?" It's a low-posed rumble of a thought, possibly lost among the
rest of the tune, but V'lano treats it as adequate remark on the musical
selection and wends his way around the tables nearer the bowl-opening to
come up near, if not wholly behind, the greenrider - trying to be visible
from that awkward approach so as not to startle her. At least not to
startle her -too- much.

He picked a fair time for it: although Kassi looks over in quick surprise,
which might suggest that a certain green is not feeling particularly
talkative with her rider tonight, her card is poised a distance from the
house, and it doesn't fall. "Well, in one evening," she answers back, low,
amused, and with a wide grin for him. "Or mayhaps one hour.... someday we
should test it. Vel, how are you?" An impish, almost devilish gleam enters
her eyes. "Should I be saluting?"

Lysseth> Volath rumbles thoughtfully at the pose, though he does not admire
as flatteringly as once he would have. That adoring search for beauty is
instead touched on with a rustling note of a thought, like a leaf tumbling
dry over autumn runnerpaths. For Lysseth there is instead provided a
different admiration, that one related to swift hunts and enjoyable kills,
to clever flying and earnest labor - things a dragon, or this dragon, takes
pride in, a pride partially taught by the green to whom he's moving a bit
closer, perhaps less refreshed by the cold than she.

"Depends on how many Bendenites, I think," V'lano remarks, and seeing the
card stayed in her hand and the house steady on the table, he moves -
slowly - a bit closer to her side. A twist turns a smile sour on his mouth,
but the underlying grin wins out before he's even explaining: "No. You know
better, Kassima; haven't you taught enough people what's a wing-moment and
what's a rider-moment to know this - " A gesture at the house is
abbreviated by his own quick recollection of its fragility. Unwilling to
send drafts its way, he tucks both hands in his jacket pockets for
safekeeping. "This isn't even a rider-moment," he chuckles, plainly
somewhat awed. "Where'd this come from?"

Lysseth> Lysseth lets a moment pass before she tucks those wings away.
There's a moment's wistful sigh--perhaps she misses it, to some degree,
that other adoration; but there's virtue too in this, perhaps moreso than
the other. She thrums a low note to mirror his charge of fine flying... and
sidesteps, just a bit. Sure, she's enjoying the cold, but that's a warm
bronze over there.

"One," Kassima laughs, setting her card down and extending the hand that
had held it to him: offer of a half-hug, perhaps, should he choose to take
it. Of course, she does take the precaution of a step back from the table
first. No use taking chances. "Truth, I don't tend t'be saluting much of
any one at any time," she admits, "unless it seems full formal. I'm nay
going t'start with you. This?" Green eyes flick towards the cards. "I made
it. If'n you can credit it. I took up the building as a hobby... a terribly
frustrating one, such steady hands as it requires. But knife-throwing
requires a steady hand, too."

V'lano sidesteps into the half-hug, only daring to slip the hand nearer her
out of its pocket and around her once close enough to Kassima that the
motion's possible tiny disruptions of air molecules will be dampened by her
frame before they reach the card-tower. "It wins you a certain rank of
respect," he muses, "that I can't accomplish with whatever castoff knots
I'm collecting in my weyr. - A steady hand, sure. But endless hours, looks
like to me, unless there's secret glue along the edges - " And he bends
ever so slightly forward, as if he might look closer, but remains unlikely
to get too close to the structure and the curl of his mouth will give away
his jest anyhow.

Kassima would appear less concerned about it, since she wraps her arm
firmly around him and gives him a quick squeeze, happy enough it would seem
to see him. "If'n it falls, I can build another," she points out, but her
smile is a pleased one for his consideration. "What does? The salute? The
card tower? There are better things t'be respected for. Like that which won
you those cast-off knots... you can look if'n you like, m'dear; 'twill just
make you rebuild the thing if it topples," which has the sound of pure tease.

V'lano, for some reason, shudders in Kassima's sideways embrace - not with
aversion or fear, but as if muscles kept long tense beg to be unwound like
ribbons from packages, and begin - unbidden - to do so, now safe at Telgar,
among familiar things. A little anxiety remains in his posture, but it's
just the at-attention of someone trying not to stir up much in the way of
air pressure around a house of cards. This minor tension does not stop him
from giggling softly. "The sparing use of salutes," he replies with a
slight nudge of his body closer to hers, pointedly. "And how many beers has
this - artwork cost you, that I'd have to attempt if I were to make it over
again?" Tease for tease, in a merry voice that belies a level of comfort
his body hasn't yet accepted.

An afterthought, a guess, teasing even more: "Forty?"

Kassima's head tips at that felt shudder, the look she gives him silently
inquisitive. Yet she must be able to guess at its nature, since her elbow
crooks to shift her hand up between his shoulderblades, where it can rub
gently at tensed muscle there and perchance do something to soothe it. "Oh,
well then," she murmurs on a laugh, aiming a bump of her hip back at his:
retaliation. "True. Ah, now, you're accusing me of drunkenness! For shame,
Vel, for shame. I'm as sober as the day 'twas born--'twill leave for you
t'be figuring out how much that is. But shall we say," she suggests with a
flash of teeth in a grin, "forty-two, for the fun of it; only if'n you're
very, very good, 'twill help you demolish that number rather than ask you
t'take it *all* on yourself." She slides into seriousness after a moment,
just long enough to wonder, "Truth, Vel. Are you doing all right with the
weight of it?" Probably easy enough to guess what 'it' she means.

V'lano makes a soft, low noise and leans a smidgin farther forward as
Kassima's fingers find the muscles responsible for his apparent stiffness
of posture, and those muscles twitch beneath her touch before submitting.
"I would never accuse you of - " Either feigned or real, a soft grunt
interrupts his words, inspired by a twinge as another stretch of
musculature lets go its death-grip on a nerve. "Sobriety," he finishes,
through a tooth-gritted grin. Slowly, as the state of his upper back
improves, he straightens by increments. "Let's just say I don't care to
flatten your little card-hold." And while that ought to be an answer about
drinking forty-two beers, it stands alone, as if it's also the answer
regarding weight, and he turns his head halfway toward her to offer,
sidelong, a weary, anxious, and burdened - yet pleased, even fulfilled -
smile. Acres in those eyes, novels in the twitch of a muscle at the corner
of his mouth, much ground to cover. He bounds most of it in a leap of logic
to explain, "Visited Reaches today."

Without a word, Kassi steps around and shifts position until she's standing
more behind him, so that she can take to working at his back and shoulders
with both hands. She knows what she's doing, at least somewhat; her fingers
seek out knots, and tease them out as best they may. "Sweet Faranth, I
should hope nay," she retorts. He can't see her grin now, but he can
probably hear it in her voice. "You know me better than that! Oh, feh.
What's the world coming to, when a man doesn't even want t'drink twenty
beers--" She slides her arms around his waist, though, in a brief hug to
take the sting out, and so is well able to see the smile. She offers one
back to him that has concern, understanding, and pleasure for his pleasure
all in it. "There's much to it," she surmises. "Did you? T'be seeing the
dragonets?"

"Twenty-one!" The man's tone is a little tight from the greenrider's
ministrations, but there's a laugh in his mathematical protestation just
the same. He leans back a bit into her hug, then, if her hands stay still
long enough, turns around inside that half-embrace to return it with arms
newly revived by the massage. It is his greatest motion thus far in the
room: card-hold, watch out. Of that knot which, with its burden, might
attenuate the stress in his shoulders, he says nothing more - but of
Reaches he smiles warily, shaking his head. His hands find places on her
back should she let him, and his chin tips down to share more quietly his
findings: "They're hardly dragonets anymore. Just - smaller than full
dragons. Volath - " But he thinks better of that after a moment, and tacks
against the sails. "I saw Josilina. I - uh - I imagine you had an idea.
About her. I did not." This falls barely short of being a question, what
with the upraised brows and all.

"I could drink twenty-two and spare you the extra," Kassima offers, all
magnanimity incarnate. She loosens her arms enough to facilitate this turn,
firming her hold again as she leans in against him. The card hold weebles,
wobbles... and falls down with a quiet clatter followed by an equally quiet
chuckle from the greenrider. She'd not seem to mind. "Mmm," she says,
acknowledgment both of his hands and his words. "Did he recognize 'em? Was
he proud of 'em?" She draws her head back enough to look at him, check his
expression--then grins and agrees, "I did. By virtue of overheard
conjecture in the Caverns, once--while 'tweren't at the table, come
t'think--and then I asked her, while 'twas seeing her on an errand for
M'rek. That is if'n you're referring to her pregnancy and nay t'her
sprouting three extra heads and a wing. I deny any knowledge of the latter."

The bronzer flicks a fretful gaze over his shoulder at the scattered
remains of a glorious hold, then turns his head back to lower lips to the
greenrider's hair for a kiss that's almost more soft exhalation of warmth
than the touch of a mouth at all. "He recognized the one he saw, but only
on scent, and maybe with a little help out of my head. But they've grown so
much, for him to know them at all - " He draws back too, to eye her, and
shrugs as he does so. A crooked grin sets his mouth askew. "I knew about
the heads and wing," he remarks, gamely. "She's showing the baby now, is
all, even to my eyes," and the sparkle in those dark eyes suggest he's
perfectly aware it's possible a woman could get clear to the babe in her
arms suckling before he, V'lano, were conscious of it. "What did she say
about it?"

Kassima turns her head and dips it enough to return the favor with a kiss
pressed over his heart, her mouth curved in a soft smile. "On scent? What
d'you know. Was it the first time he's--you've--seen them, since they
wandered around the Sands, wet and wailing?" She takes a turn at eyeing
that grin; says, "Ah, well, you're more up on the gossip than me after all
then--that makes sense, that she'd nigh have t'be. Even," tease tease,
"t'you. Say? Nay so much. Seemed surprised that there'd been any
speculation at all--d'you know, methinks she thought people wouldn't talk
of it? She didn't seem displeased exactly. What did she say t'you?"

"On scent," V'lano affirms with an affectionate eyeroll - for the dragon
out there with Lysseth, not for Kassima's kiss, which earns merely a fond
look. "Yes. First time since. I meant to visit much more, to be there for
some of their classes, to see them test firestone the first time and
everything - but I've had training of my own to do," he explains, voice
turning very soft after the hesitation. His head shakes, then, and he
loosens his grip on the greenrider, only to turn a bit and eye the mess
made of the cards. "Speculation," he echoes, thoughtfully. "Talk. - No, she
didn't say anything," he replies, as if the Thunderbolt 'leader had asked a
yes-or-no question. "At all. I sort of tried to open the topic, but she was
a bit chilly about it, and then she had a meeting to go to that she'd
forgotten until then." Which is a development that makes the bronzerider
frown at those cards, his dark brows knitting. His breath pauses, as if
he'd say something else, but instead he just turns back to her, leaving the
cards for now ignored.

"You couldn't just be expected t'slip back into the Wing or into a new
position without some training," Kassima agrees, squeezing him to her again
for just an instant. "It happens. Mayhaps you can see their first rope
drill, still--they aren't old enough for that?--or graduation... 'tis a
Weyr. Speculation and talk would have t'run rife." Amusement there.
"Chilly--interesting. I wonder why she wouldn't want people t'be knowing?
Unless she thinks 'twill tease her. I don't see why 'twould. For her and
R'sel t'have a babe is all to the good if'n they both want it, and she
didn't seem miserable in the condition either. At least when I saw her. Did
she--?" Her brows lift in a silent prompt to him: she's curious, clearly,
about what he didn't say, though she leaves it up to him whether to say it
now.

"I'll try to see the drill. I'd like to drop ropes," he mutters, something
not entirely pleasant about his smile over those words, or about the way
his eyes slip off to the side, into the distance; but they come back, and
the smile evens out, and he echoes, "Graduation," with a wistfulness as
much for his own as for the marvel of that possible future. He clears it
all from his head with a shake and, after a feint that would land another
kiss in her hair should she hold for it, strays a step away from the
greenrider, then bends to the table to begin sorting and stacking the cards
his earlier turnabout scattered. "I don't know. Maybe I approached it wrong
and offended her." A little eased, it seems, his voice is still low. "I
can't tell how close she might be. She had her legs propped up." A faint
smile on his lips makes that sound both fond and wry.

Just call Kassima psychic: she wonders with a low and slightly dark
amusement, "On any Weyrlings in particular?" A hand comes up to cup his
cheek a moment, her thumb running over the skin there; she bows her head to
accept the kiss, and lets him go, turning to watch. "Hard t'be saying. I
don't know her very well. Only spoken with her a handful of times... and
heard rumors a'course that she and Is don't get on. Odd, that. But she
never seemed t'be minding you?"

V'lano eases a bit, chuckling at the called - well, it wasn't a bluff,
really, was it. He bends to scoop up the cards that lifted into the air and
sailed to chairs and floor, adding them to the rest in a neat pile on the
table - which he then splits and begins to shuffle, against the wood like
an amateur, but well enough for play. "Oh, we went back and forth a few
times. She was less than thrilled to find out that morning that I wasn't
even a tapped wingrider as yet, but I think she's been less mortified about
her queen's catch every time she's seen me since." His eyes sparkle a bit
for this, though his shoulder stay rounded, almost slumped, and he keeps
his focus on that pile of cards beneath his fingers for a moment, frozen.
After that interlude, brief, he folds the shuffled stack into itself and
leaves it there, returning to the greenrider to cup hands around her
shoulders should she let him. "R'sel - I didn't see much of. I couldn't
assume. But she mentioned him, when you asked?" It's not pleading - not quite.

One black brow arching at the shuffling, Kassi takes a step closer to the
table; hitches herself up to a half-seat on it, after a moment, one foot
still on the floor. "As if'n that sort of thing matters," she scoffs, but
with a wry grin that might suggest some understanding. "I'truth, it
doesn't, but it could nonplus one who didn't know much about you beyond
that. You're nay anyone t'be ashamed of, Vel." Her gaze tries to find
his--keen, as if she'd will him, for all her light tone, to believe this.
Of course she allows him to hold her shoulders so; her arms curve under
his, resting on the ribs just beneath. "I didn't ask," she says. "I didn't
have to. Vel, the timing's all wrong for it t'be a flight-child."

"It - well, I think she was mostly - thinking of my age," the bronzerider
replies - and as what he -wants- to hear comes out, he exhales a rush of
even more words, loosely strung. "See," he grins, "I don't know these
things." But his mouth curves wildly, his shoulders lighten, and the ribs
beneath Kassima's fingers seem suddenly ticklish, as he winces over a
suppressed chortle. Josilina's state, all but immediately, is yesterday's
news. "That's why I need your careful instruction," he points out, and the
words do carry a little bit of the undercurrent of sensuality their
repartee so regularly does - only to be rolled up in a request, bid along
with the release of her shoulders and the return of his hands to his
pockets. "Which reminds me. Sometime I would like to talk to you about - "
Apparently many words come to mind here, and it seems as if the one he
fixes on is plucked almost at random. "M'rek." A wave of his hand. "Nothing
big; just - sometime."

"You're nay any *age* t'be ashamed of, either," Kassima retorts, fingers
tightening around his ribs. "Believe it. If'n you'd been one of these
fourteen-Turn-old bronzers--well, then I'd probably have t'side with her on
that; but you, V'lano, are a man." The smile that graces her mouth is
knowing, reminiscent, and more than a touch suggestive. "You poor thing!
You did think--nay, nay, and I don't think she's the sort who'd nay have
*told* you by now. You," she promises, fond taunt, "are quite safe." Ah,
there's that smile again, along with a promise of, "My instruction is ever
yours for the having... careful or nay. About--*M'rek*?" That would not
seem to be what she was expecting. After a blink, she agrees, "All right.
Gladly. Volath can always find me through Lyss--and you're welcome t'stop
by the weyr any time, y'know, so long as Lyss doesn't warn of company."

V'lano's cheeks take on a faint flush over the remarks on his age - though
his eyes widen just a fraction at the very notion of fourteen-turn-old
bronzeriders. The rest earns just a smile, a nod, gratitude - "Thank you,
Kassi. I appreciate it." And he stands there for a moment, slightly
awkward, before at last he decides the best part of this impending farewell
would be to lean forward and offer a kiss; if taken, he'll savor it, but
afterward, pat the card deck and note, "Maybe some time at the lounge, with
-one- beer - I'll give this rebuild a try, hm? You can have the other
forty-one."

Kassima's, "Any time, Vel," is cliche, but sincere for all of that, and
accompanied by a brief smile that's not only warm, but sweet. She'll take
that kiss for all it's worth, of course; linger in it as long as he allows,
and sigh softly when it ends. "'Twill take you up on that," she warns,
winking. "Trust me on that. Only you have t'promise t'be carrying me home
if'n I do manage forty-one, and nay leaving me collapsed in the Lounge and
making off with m'boots."

He's going once the kiss is defeated - but laughing, as her words carry
after, and in the entryway to the bowl he halts to turn half back and, amid
laughter, note, "You think I'd settle for just the boots?" - on which, wry
and wicked, he flees.

V'lano leaves the workroom and heads out into the bowl.