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Settle My Mind


Date:  March 5, 2005
Place:  Lysseth and Kassima's Weyr
Game:  PernMUSH
Copyright Info:  The World of Pern is copyright(c) to Anne McCaffrey 
l967. The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.

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Kassi's Note:  In this second log of our trilogy in selective 
understanding, V'lano comes to see Kassi with a sack full of ulterior
motives.  It turns out, however, to be an odd time for the declaration
he'd meant to make--they have the business of her talk with M'rek to 
get through first, which has led her mind down paths that esteemed 
bronzerider likely didn't intend.  This is one of the sweetest, most
delightfully poignant scenes I've had the privelege of playing. :)  
Since the third log in the trilogy didn't have Kassi in it, I won't 
likely be linking to it, but those who'd like to see Vel's 
confrontation with M'rek a few days after this would do well to look
to his archive. ;)

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The Log:

Perhaps the bronze's rider already knows the answer, since when Volath
intrudes to ask Lysseth, << Is yours available? Mine would like to see 
her, >> he's already swirling lower in the bowl, skating on spanned and 
canted wings a wide arc around the face which contains the wingleader's 
weyr. Perhaps keen eyes, dragon's and rider's alike, have already 
determined somehow - watching in wait? - that there's no company to intrude 
upon there, this unusually warm of Telgar evenings. Perhaps many things, 
but it's definitely a request, even if it seems that dragon and rider have
assumed it will be granted; there's not a trace of urgency about it.
Instead, what ripples in the light-scattered void of Volath's mind is more
like excitement, the thrill of life.

With a span of that ledge taken up by Lysseth's indolent lounge, the green
must stir herself from her leisurely appreciation of the limited warmth and
lack of snow that Telgar summers offer to leave room for landing; that she
does so might answer the question even before her mindtouch does, warm and
brightly crystalline and shimmering with welcome that's worded only as an
afterthought. << Of course; we have no company, >> perhaps the only reason
that either rider or dragon might refuse such request. She might be
intrigued by the reason, but is either too well-mannered or too lazy
to--yet--voice it. Once landed, one might see that the entrance curtain is
open already. And should one peer through, it might be possible to see
Kassi in her armchair, one leg curled beneath her and a silver set of
multiple pipes in her hands. She's playing these. The tune is a lament of
some kind, entirely in a minor key and comprised of long, slow notes that
echo less than they would were the weyr not so relatively stuffed with
furniture. But Lyss is kind, and warns her, and she breaks off the song
mid-note to look towards the ledge with commingled surprise and pleasure.

Volath finishes a second arc, this one designed to recover half of the
first and stop short, curving to a landing at Lysseth's side. << He thinks
that a pity, >> the bronze volunteers, the vast chasm between repeating
something -said- and something -thought- emphasized with a brilliant
flicker of white light. Even though the bronze is then obliged to bend his
neck low to facilitate the dropoff of a rider - unencumbered by the heavier
leathers meant for flights which might take them between, but in turn
weighed down by that carisak, which this time bounces less lightly against
his shoulderblades. He's grinning as he climbs to foreleg, then leaps to
the ledge, standing in the space between the dragons; he looks up at each
briefly, a wryness in his smile as if to say 'behave yourselves,' but he's
seen the shape of the greenrider within, heard her song and its stop, and
sets off for the space where the curtain would fall if it weren't pulled.
There he stops, out of the way of sprawling dragons - as Volath's already
looking for the best way for two dragons to melt into flat, contented
puddles on that ledge - to make sonorous, low-spoken remark. "You needn't
stop."

Lysseth's query isn't spoken outright, but makes itself clear in an
inquisitive thought--<< ? >>--all rippling with brighter blues among the
river's slate. She greets rider first for once, with an aimed nuzzling at
his hair made the warmer by her breath. Only when that is done and he's
safely down does she curve her neck to touch that same muzzle to Volath's,
her rumble to him so smooth that it nearly sounds more a hum. Puddle-dom,
here she comes! "I don't anticipate the need t'play laments, while you're
here," Kassima answers with a grin across the distance all for him.
"Particularly nay given Volath's mood, as Lyss tells it--will you come in?
I could give you the chair."

Volath watches the nuzzle - and the breath - make his rider's curls tangle
and reform in a slightly altered shape along the crown of his head, then
raises his own nose for that rumbling touch from the green. He makes no
reply, though perhaps there's draconic mischief in the facets of his
slow-whorling eyes, and when his replying murmur of a rumble comes it's
broken into parts, as if by laughter. "Good," V'lano replies in his own
turn, lifting a hand to comb fingers through the misplaced curls, putting
them not quite back as they were, but at least away from trails across his
forehead. He ventures in, making an indirect path for the greenrider's
side. His hand, the one not holding the straps of that bag, trails over the
arm of the chair, over which he then bends to aim a kiss for her cheek, a
tidy hello. While there he murmurs, "It's a lovely chair, but I don't need
it." A pause for his mouth to curve a dry smile, threatening laughter,
promising tease: "I have -some- furniture." He straightens, but only, it
would seem, to cast a glance toward the curtained-off portion of the weyr,
then drops to a crouch. "So what makes you play such a song tonight?"

Hrmph. Wicked bronzes. It's perhaps as well for him that Lysseth has a
taste for them, since otherwise she might be indignant enough to refrain
from puddledom. Wouldn't that be a shame? But tonight that's no worry: even
if curiosity fairly crawls along her hide, pervasive as electricity, she'll
still wrap herself up with him and wait, tingling, to learn. "Mayhaps
'tisn't only Volath who's in a fair mood," Kassima speculates as she tilts
her head to receive that kiss and answer it with one of her brighter
smiles. "I meant to *sit* in, you reprobate--but fine, then, all the more
chair for me." Not to mention that with him crouching, there's all the more
access to his hair, through which she combs her own fingers in merry
affection. "I do seem t'recall that you've the most important kinds... the
children aren't here," because she saw that glance. "Practice only. I like
the minor key, for pipes. They suit it well... as does nighttime, I find,
at least when it isn't being made brighter. My turn: what has you visiting
me? And with a *sack*."

The bronze is, patently, not wicked. How could he be, so flattened and
curled as he's stretching out to be, next to and around the green on whose
ledge he's landed? His eyes are even free of gleam now, but perhaps that's
because of the closing, each by each, of sets of eyelids. He can feel,
though, where hide meets hide, Lysseth's curiousity, and perhaps she can
feel in his a smugness. Whatever's up, he has little investment in it,
plainly planning to puddle right on through it, but he -knows-, and that's
good enough for now if it makes that green charged so. He'll luxuriate in
her tingle. Inside, V'lano's head darts back in feigned affront, his grin
too merry for real offense, and after that he bends his neck forward - the
better to offer his hair to her hand. "I do, don't I," he rumbles, as
softly as Volath in proportion. "I like to visit," he tells the armchair's
arm through that grin that won't seem to leave his mouth. "Can't I visit?
Can't I bring a sack?"

Perhaps by virtue of his color and gender alone? Ah, no, not tonight; not
now, not here, in such circumstance as these. Not curled around Lysseth so.
Not while his neck is so conveniently there for her to rest her chin on,
gently, nor while his hide is wonderfully warm. For this she can endure
smug. It may be that in some corner of herself she'd deny if asked, she
enjoys his enjoyment, even if it be of her frustration. And speaking of joy
in joy--Kassima laughs softly, turning more in the chair so as to be able
to pay his hair proper attention and continue to stroke fingers through it.
Not quite so playful, or not in the same way--the gesture, now, has the
definite tenor of a caress. "You," she tells him, "can always visit--or
nigh always. I like t'have you here. Hopefully I've shown you as much a
time or two. You can also bring whatever sack you please... but let me just
tell you now that if'n there are a bunch of dead tunnelsnakes in that? I'm
going t'be somewhat nonplussed."

V'lano raises his head, not so much as to displace her fingers, but enough
to seek emerald eyes with earthen ones. "Nigh always," he teases
needlessly, then shifts the fingers twined around the narrow tethers of the
sack-straps so the sack itself tumbles off of his shoulder, swinging around
to the space between his bent knee and the chair. It brushes the chair in
trajectory, sounding a soft thump and, perhaps to keen ears, another,
softer noise too. "I would never bring you dead tunnelsnakes," he chuckles,
working with arms propped on his knees to loosen the mouth of the bag. His
head bends again, deeper now, baring the curls along the nape of his neck
and allowing him to squint at the drawstrings. "At least, not just in a
sack. Cast in silver, maybe. Ah - " While the rider pulls forth a small
flask shining with something clear but flecked with spots of gold, a
bronzen shape that only mostly resembles Volath - by benefit of not being
able to completely turn his bones to mush - rumbles contentedly, sending a
soft vibration through the green's chin.

"Unless you'd want t'visit while I've other company--" Kassima's rarely
other than shameless in tease, nor now; but she does append, with a smile
and warmth, "Which I know 'twouldn't. Fear nay. Wouldn't you, now...." So
much of her attention is on the mystery sack that it's highly unlikely she
missed the mysterious noise. With his head bowed thus, he might not see
however how her brows jump, curiosity only heightened--but he surely can't
help but notice that not even the sack is full distraction from black curls
and a temptingly-bared neck, as feather-light fingers are soon gliding
among them, not quite tickling yet, but teasing the sensitive skin beneath.
"Oh, I *see*. You'd present your tunnelsnakes with class. That," deadpan,
"speaks well of you." Indeed it does. Outside, a certain green sighs softly
in a way that wants to be exasperated for the show of it, yet simply cannot
manage. Inside, a certain greenrider lights eyes on the flask and wonders,
"Now what is that, since 'tis certes nay a 'snake of any variety?"

"That depends on how your company would be spending time," the bronzerider
replies, eyes still distracted by the flask, the sack, and trying to get
both settled - for now the flask he lifts to the chair's arm, setting it
there where his hand had begun, and the sack he crumples. "I think we could
stand drinks or something, if your -company- was willing." He's grinning
yet, but there's something serious about the curve of his lips now. After a
moment, head yet bent, to savor the sensation of her fingers, he stands,
turning half aside to toss the crumpled bag to a point a few steps inside
and aside from the entrance, against an upturned box. "But for now, just
drinks for us. And don't swear it's not a snake until you've seen me try
it," he laughs, flicking a glance down at the flask. "Because I've only
tasted, not -drunk- from it. Now my turn, and this isn't what I came for,
but if I don't ask I'll think of it at some -better- time: Did you get your
other runners settled?"

Kassima scoots over in the chair before speaking, and gestures to the space
left. "If'n you don't mind it being a bit cozy, there might be room for
both of us on this thing--" It's a pretty large chair, although what she
proposes would still be a squeeze. "M'most regular company tends t'spend
part if'n nay all of the evening in the way you'd expect," she says. "If'n
'twere just drinks, now--" The words break off to give her time to think.
"If'n you and he wouldn't find it awkward... although I might find it
awkward... well, mayhaps someday we'll find out. Nay way t'know but try.
Should I get us glasses, or shall we both swig freely?" Talk of the drink
being a 'snake doesn't daunt her much. If anything, it intensifies the
anticipation that gleams in her eyes, lurks in the curve of her own grin.
"Shells forfend you think of it at a better time? I haven't, nay yet. I
need to. I did get t'Ista--" This time, though, the broken thought is not
finished. "Still Bitra left, and still Igen. Was speaking with Sria and
Josilina about them any help t'you?"

"I have a talent for thinking at better times," the bronzerider notes, dry.
"I suppose it was some help. Not nearly as much as I need; my head swam a
bit, in it all. I'd be better helped by Ista myself, I suspect." His mouth
twists, but can't quite go wholly sour, not even thinking of anything - or
anyone - at Ista, and soon he's grinning again, toothy this time. "You have
the idea, somehow, that you being a little -awkward- is going to daunt me?"
While he speaks, V'lano moves around from the arm of the chair to consider
the squeeze the greenrider's proposed - but not to sit yet. Instead he
leans down to put his arms such that she might lift her back against one
hand and her leg into the other. Bent so, he might lift her clear of the
seatcushion and sit - and likely dominate the chair, too, if she'll let 
him - but she'd have his lap then, likely as not, and perhaps that's his
proposal in turn. "Besides, it's wonderful what the right drink might do
for awkward. - Don't mind glasses. If we take from it straight it won't
show how little of it I can manage."

"You intrigue me. Does that imply," Kassima asks him, peering up through
half-lowered lashes with decided mischief in her eyes, "that, this nay
being a better time, you aren't thinking now? M'offer of answering
questions does still hold, if'n and when that can be of use. But, aye,
Ista--" Again with the breaking off. It's like the Weyr's name is some sort
of cue. And though it's not usually she who might look pensive at thoughts
of the island, she spends a moment doing just that, looking off into space,
and it takes his grin to draw her back to herself. "Daunt *me*, more like,"
she retorts. But laughing. His next move is a surprise for her, as her
expression makes momentarily clear--her grinning makes it likewise clear
that it's a pleasant one, even if her willing assent in the form of moving
to be lifted as neatly as if they'd practiced the gesture did not do so. It
might be possible that they could squish into the chair side-by-side, but
that's an avenue she seems disinclined to explore while there's a lap
available. "True enough. Are you anticipating a need for curing awkward
tonight, with such a drink? I'd guess nay--oh-ho, I *see*, an ulterior
motive. Well, far be it from me t'protest. Particularly when protesting
would mean moving."

"Don't ever assume I'm thinking, Kassi, it's not safe. As one who's assumed
the same so many times, I can assure you." But he's merry-eyed still, and
glad to hold steady to let her find the best seat she can make of him, then
curl an arm around her back. Her expression over the distant, warmer Weyr
gets a moment's study from him, but then he puts his other hand out to take
up the flask and offer it to her for unstoppering. "Perhaps, or maybe when
I saw such stuff I just thought of you. I warn you, it's sweet." He dips
his head to find a spot along her shoulder to plant a soft kiss on, then
looks up again - her the taller by a hair, perhaps, with the advantage of a
higher perch - to murmur, incrementally more serious, "I am full of
ulterior motives. Now what's in your head about Ista, Kassi?"

Kassima can't help but grin at him, whatever her other thoughts. "What use
a life that's always *safe*? I might just prefer dancing on the edge of
danger now and then. Imagining all sorts of wheels turning behind those
eyes of yours." Her head tips to find his shoulder as a resting place for
her cheek. To brush a kiss against his neck, too, wench that she is, before
she accepts the flask from him and sets to the serious business of working
its stopper free. "Sweet, and strong enough that you don't think you can
manage much, and glittering with gold." It brings a soft smile to her face.
"Methinks I've just been complimented." Despite a pause to shiver
pleasantly for the touch of his lips, even through cloth, she does manage
to open the flask and take--mindful of his cautions--a single if healthy
mouthful. She rolls this about, actually daring to taste it; she gulps, and
closes her eyes, and announces, "Apparently something that kicks one
straight in the brain makes you think of me." Her eyes find his, sparkling.
"So very flattering, sweet man. Your turn for drinking. And for telling of
ulterior motives, after. Ista." A pause. "It isn't... 'tisn't properly
business. I mean, that's what I went for, but 'tisn't what I ended up
speaking much with him about. I don't know whether you'd want t'be
hearing--" Not ominous, not in a tone of warning, but a more innocent if no
less genuine hesitance.

"You might just," V'lano murmurs, tilting his head the better to take that
kiss - wanton beneath a wench's lips, then, if that's how they are - then
to watch the unstoppering. "And you have been." He bends again to kiss her
shoulder while she mulls the mouthful, then straightens his neck to laugh
outright, a bit loudly in his startlement, at her pronouncement of the
drink's nature. Putting his hand up for the flask, he finds words after a
moment's stammering suppressed by softer laughter. "There's much about it
that brings you to mind, Kassi, but perhaps that's included." His ears
redden a bit, and to chase the hue away he puts the neck of the bottle to
his mouth, tilting a much lesser portion in - which he rolls as she did
while his eyes stick to her during her remarks on the Istan visit. He
swallows, which would leave him clear to speak, but instead of doing so he
only nods, gesturing with the liquor for her to continue, and perhaps to
take the flask as well.

"Mmm. Nor found much that hasn't delighted me on that edge, either,"
Kassima informs him in a voice as low as his--and she no less wanton,
leaning her head away so that it's no impediment to reaching her shoulder.
Shameless. Fingers brushing fingers as she passes it back, she slants him a
smile. "Tell me what else," she suggests, "that brings the blush, won't you
please?" It's probably not anticipation of whatever she might hear from him
that calls her to take the flask back and down a second swallow,
fortification, no less hearty than the first but taken somewhat more
quickly. She picks her way through words very carefully. "The subject came
up of whether Rodric or you would mind if'n he went t'bed with me. The
subject came up of whether both--either--of you should. What it means that
the answer's probably nay. What constitutes 'settling.' Whether--" She
can't continue, not even after another sip from the flask. Her head shakes,
once, but whatever thought she's denying doesn't seem to want to leave her,
and she looks back to him with eyes gone almost desperate. "Vel, am I fair
t'you? Do I--d'you ever feel cheated? Or... I don't know. Shells."

"Sweet," V'lano replies early on, tipping his head again - this time it's a
turning to try to hide his ears, perhaps, a feat made impossible by the
fact there's two of them. He watches while she drinks again, brows
furrowing - and as she starts, he's soon repeating voicelessly bits and
pieces of what she says, mouth forming the words as if it's easier to
navigate them that way. He's just beginning to clear the sea of confusion
and enter into a bay of borderline horror, lashes flying wide to leave his
eyes wide and deep, when she drinks again and, perhaps sensing pain, he
stifles all remark but one of those mouthed echoes, this one with voice in
it. "He." So her final question gets safe home without being run aground,
and he's forced to put off the former to address the more important 
latter - his arm curling tighter around her, almost clinging in response to 
that hint of desperation. "You've been fairer," he manages, rasping a bit, 
"than I deserve. I feel -treated-, Kassi; and I've not made the best of it, 
but you've been good to me just the same." Only then does one brow creep
upward, the other steadily furrowed, and a little bit of irritation creep
into his eyes. He keeps that sharpness carefully from his voice, but
there's effort in it. "I'd like to know how, if he's of a mind to lie with
you, he thought he'd start by putting something like that in your head." A
beat. "Tell me he didn't."

For all that she's become rather distracted from the topic of the drink,
some things cannot pass without winning a smile--a real one, surprised out
of her, although at other times and in other conversations it would
doubtless be less wan. Wordlessly, she offers him the flask. "M'rek." Not
that it really needed to be clarified. Softer--less anxious, maybe, for
such reassurance, but her eyes on his still aren't at all sanguine--"I
haven't been what you deserve. I always thought if'n I ever did find a man
I--cared for," slight, stuttering pause before that term, "who'd be with
me, that I'd be true and faithful. I never doubted that. Only there's two
of you. And I haven't really been true to either of you, aye? I should be,
only I can't be, nay t'both," and by the last she's almost reached a
whisper. The hint of edge about him startles her from the path of broody
self-angst. "I don't think he had any intention of making me think these
things," she says, quite honestly, and probably quite correctly too. "So he
did, but 'twasn't intentional--" Then the alternative interpretation comes
to her. "Or d'you mean--? He didn't, nay. We didn't."

He nods at first, for the confirmation; by the time he mouthed the
question, he no longer needed its answer. He takes the answer just the
same, eyes gentled despite the identification, and he lowers his head to
kiss her shoulder again. This time, he keeps his gaze uplifted, though,
both brows rising more to lessen the shadow thrown over his eyes as he
watches her, his mouth breathing affection through the fabric while his
mind's plainly with her words. When he settles back against the seatback, a
sigh escapes him. "I didn't mean," he begins, a wan smile on that. "I'd
like to know what he did have intention of making you think - but wait a
moment." He shifts a little beneath her, but only to try to draw her
closer, his arm behind her nestling in the hollow of her back, palm seeking
the curve of her hip. "I always thought that if I married - and before
Volath, Kassi, I thought I would, and soon - I'd be true and faithful." His
other arm finds the chair's, elbow draped up onto it; his hand creeps for a
spot on her knee if she'll have it. Beneath her weight, he's eased
somewhat, tension already draining, but his eyes are serious yet. "But I
can't marry. - I think I might manage true - that's a matter of the heart,
isn't it? S'how I always thought of it. Faithful's what you do; true's what
you feel. You can feel for so many people." He tilts his head a bit, eyes
darkening, but warm. Serious. "I like true better."

Doing so, he can likely feel how tense her shoulder is. It's probably not
news--all of her is tense, and in such close proximity it'd be hard if not
impossible to miss it, especially given how foreign such a level of tension
in her usually is to the times when they're together. She looks to him now
and again as she speaks; brief glances, unable to hold eyes to eyes. "He
meant only well by me, I think," she murmurs as she's drawn against him.
She curls in a little, seeking comfort quite unconsciously in the warm
solidness of him. "We... most of m'life, y'know, I wanted--I stopped
thinking I'd *have*, or tried t'stop thinking it, but I wanted--the love
that's the partnership, y'know? Where you love someone so much, and they
love you, that neither of you would ever want anyone else. You just want
t'be together and be there for each other. Love, fight, raise children,
grow old, support and be supported by, laugh and cry and everything. Part
of me still does. Only even if'n you'd give me that, or he would, the price
is too high, now." She sounds, in this moment, ashamed of that. Of herself.
She curls in a little tighter for it, turning her head so that her face is
pressed against his shoulder for a moment. Muffled, "I do feel for you,
Vel. And Rodric. I *do*, and truly."

His hand slides up from her hip to her back, finding a place between her
shoulderblades to describe gentle circles with fingertips, an effort to be
soothing. "And do you and he - Roddy - not have a partnership?" But he
listens to it all, nodding, smiling even, still serious - and he squeezes
her knee, claimed beneath his palm, with insistent warmth when shame curls
her tone, her body. "I know what it is to want that. But I think we might
have a lot of it - in parts, but the parts make a whole." His hand raises
from her knee to touch her shoulder as she tightens to him, as she puts her
face to his shoulder, and he even murmurs a wordless note of comfort
somewhere in his throat like a dragon's rumble. "Kassi, I can't live
thinking that what we have - all of us, any of us - " A sweep of that hand,
lifted from her knee for the gesture, encompasses perhaps every connection
among them, and the connectins in turn among those people, and so forth. 
"-is second best. It's love, as far as I'm concerned, and no less for being
many."

Kassima doesn't speak for some time. When she does, the quietly
not-entirely-happy quality of the words might explain why, while she is
relaxing under such a caring touch as his, it's still only slowly. "I...
don't.... Nay, 'tisn't that I don't think so, quite. I don't know. He loves
me; I'm special t'him; he says it and I don't doubt it, but partners?" A
nod against his shoulder does come at length, slow and slight. "Can many
add up to the one," she murmurs, more to herself; not really a question. "I
can't--we don't see it the same way, Vel, I know that. We talked about that
long ago. I can't take being *just* one of many. I don't think I could be
happy being with someone I loved if'n 'twere nay more t'them than any other
woman--I want t'be special." She draws back, now, to look at him with
rather dark eyes. "Mayhaps someday that's going t'cause problems. Still and
all. What I do know is that I love him and you, and you make me happy; and
I want t'make you happy, both. Nor do aught t'hurt you. And how I feel
about either of you doesn't seem t'change what I feel about the other."

He senses it, indeed, and watches her closely - her head, when she nods,
her face when she draws back, but more, from the intensity of his gaze, to
read carefully into what she says. And he lets her say all of it before
putting anything in, waiting for almost as long a pause as hers was, just
breathing, his arm around her a little more loosely but there just the
same, his hand on her knee. "We don't see it the same, I'm sure," he sighs,
but the sigh smiles, even if it's a tired smile. "But you're not 'just' one
of many. First, it's not many. I don't think I could be Rodric if I tried.
And second, you're astounding, Kassi; you -are- special. I think I've come
across women who wouldn't be." And his eyes are dark a moment, shameless,
but not quite free of the weight of guilt. "And maybe there'll be women for
me who aren't. But you're not among them. That's - sort of like what I came
here to say." The corner of his lower lip tucks in, apparently caught by
thoughtful teeth, but he stops there, helpfully.

Kassima studies him during the silence, and it's impossible to tell from
her expression what she thinks--hopes? Dreads?--he might say. Perhaps she
doesn't guess; perhaps she just waits and lets the answer come in its time.
"I know you aren't," she murmurs, bringing up a hand to rest its fingertips
against his cheek. "Any more than he's you. I didn't mean that only for
you; 'twas a generality. I want t'be honest with you." She didn't laugh for
the idea of him trying to be Rodric, as she might've in a less serious
time--but at being called 'astounding'... that finally gets a smile from
her, slow and warm and wondering. "Takes one t'know one, Vel. I've known--"
A thoughtful sort of pause. "That might be part of the difference. I have
known men who can be special t'me this way. Just nay *many* of them; and
more than one at one time is bizarre for me. More like you that way than
Roddy, I suspect, although even he... there's love and there's love." Her
hand turns, then, so that the back of her fingers can stroke his cheek--as
soothing a touch in intention as his to her shoulders before. "I did get us
off track, didn't I," with a soft, crooked smile. "What did you come t'be
saying?"

He shakes his head a bit, smiling, but the notion of V'lano as Rodric gets
no more play with him than that. "He adores you, Kassi," he remarks
instead, likely needlessly, moving fluidly and without haste into, "As do
I." He lifts his hand from her knee to her hand at his face, seeking to
twine his fingers between hers for a loose embrace, palm to palm. "I love
you; I want you to be happy. I came here to tell you that, and to say I'd
like to invest in that." He draws a breath, somewhat shuddering, but
through a weak smile; the concern that's made his eyes dark has deepened to
a richer shade of worry. "We're both busy, and there's our others. But I
came to ask if we might be able to set some time aside. Our time; not
dragons'." Which might be an obscure reference, but the heat comes back
into his ears to serve as clarification.

"Aye. And it only took me nigh a Turn after he first said it t'really
believe he nay only thought he did, but did i'truth." Gentle self-mockery
and a hint of lingering wonder both register in Kassi's tone there, and
amusement comes back into her eyes to chase away some of the shadows. Her
fingers hug his as easily as if that's their natural place, and threaded
through his is their natural and right position. "I'm going t'have a bit
more faith this time." She tugs on their joined hands to attempt to draw
them--specifically his--to her lips, to press a kiss against them with her
gaze not leaving his. Worry for his worry is there, maybe. The greenrider
can't help though but smile, and sweetly, as sweetly and warm as that
gold-spangled liquor he brought her. "I love you, V'lano, bronze Volath's,"
she murmurs into his fingers. "I'd like t'make you half as happy as you've
made me, saying so. Hopefully 'twill have plenty of time t'do it. A'course
we can set time aside--our time. Most definitely." Obscure or not, Kassi
understands at once, even before there's that tell-tale blush--undeniably
the latter that makes her eyes gleam so, though. "Did you have," with just
a hint of arch humor, "any particular time in mind?"

"I doubt he misestimates himself that often," V'lano chuckles, then lowers
his lashes as if in demurral for her next remark - but the smile on his
mouth curves more honestly, as if there's flattery in what she's said. When
her lips make contact with his hand, he opens his eyes once more upon her,
bemusement in them for the form of address. "I am happy when I'm with you,
Kassi, at least when we're with each other." Which is different than the
first thing he said, it seems. "As for time - I think any time which we're
likely always to be free, not drills, nor hides - nor, outside of drinks,
otherwise scheduled." He's not quite cowed by her tone, though he does
defend himself with the slightest of shrugs. "I don't mean it to be our
-only- time. But some time we can look forward to that's always, dragons
notwithstanding, waiting for us."

Nothing particularly important or cryptic was meant by it, if her
expression's anything to go by: warmth and affection, and lingering joy,
openly there to be read with the clouds of their earlier discussion fading
into the distance. "I, likewise. Most of the time. Even when I'm nay
exactly happy, I'm happy--" A strange statement; Kassi grins wryly, and
squeezes his hand. "Mayhaps you know what I mean. Like parts of tonight,
aye? Even when what we discuss isn't delightful, or even when I'm worrying
that I've said the wrong thing t'you--or you t'me, it sometimes seems--I'm
still happy being with you." The woman gives a low chuckle, feeling that
shrug as much as seeing it. "Dubiously timed tease on m'part, in which the
implicit question was meant t'be, 'such as tonight'? I do like the idea. It
seems t'work well. Dragons, children, and emergencies naywithstanding...
sometime late in the day would be best, I'm thinking; is there a day--other
than fifthday--particularly good for you?"

He grins at her, nodding understanding. "Sometimes we have to talk about
these things. I think when I've said something wrong - or might have -
that's the worst." But he grins on anyway, because this isn't one of those
moments; it's a guiltless sharing. His fingertips on her back resume the
gentle circles, a little pressure in his palm inviting her to lean into him
once more. "Tonight is nice," he adds with a short, soft laugh that deepens
into an almost smug chortle, satisfied, before dipping into the rest:
"Secondday, perhaps?" He untangles his fingers from hers, albeit slowly,
drawing his fingertips along the spaces between hers and over the palm of
her hand as they descend, then tucks his hand into the curve of her waist,
half an embrace made with arms partway around.

Indeed; Kassima returns understanding for understanding, and grin for grin,
agreeing with fervor, "Exactly--the worst for me, too, is when I've
misspoken; particularly when I'm nay sure *how*." She can chuckle at her
folly at such a time as this. Particularly when she does lean against him,
one of her hands still holding his and the other slipping between him and
the back of the chair, looping around his waist. "Oh, we can do better than
nice," she promises him in a very promising murmur. Likely hard for him to
see her grin at this angle, but he might sense in her tone something of a
feline who's gotten the cream. "Secondday," she adds as her eyes follow the
glide of his fingers, as her hand finds a new place to rest just over his
heart once their caress has been savored, "'twill be." And she seeks a kiss
to seal it.