Jennet and the Weyr Welcome Wagon

Half Moon Bay Weyr - Rooftop Garden
Soft grasses form a lawn central to this open air garden, producing a pleasant picnic space. Surrounding this greenery is a sanded and bordered path that wends around it and continues toward the front of the roof, where the pleasant aromas of cultivated herbs waft on the breeze. Rock gardens and low-hanging tropical trees form shelter from the elements, combined with an overhanging jut of the caldera wall, underneath which benches and sun chairs have been arrayed, rather like a natural gazebo.


It's a beautiful day — breezy, but not gusty, puffy white clouds occasionally passing over the sun for spells of shade, enough warmth to make every High Reachian passionately jealous. Sprawled on a blanket beneath a low tree, the Weyrwoman looks, well, mainly content. Sure, she's currently in possession of two infants and there are the shrieks of toddlers not far off, and she's got her radio and paperwork in-hand, but well. Such is life. The former healer is at least enjoying scanning her paperwork out in the sun, one foot rocking a portable bassinet, absentmindedly eating from a bowl of fruit. It's probably Ila and R'hyn chasing those toddlers back and forth across the fields behind her, but if they're out here, and she's out here, who's watching the Weyr…? Isn't that why there's an administrative wing, though? And headwomen. Stewards. Somebody's probably on it. In theory.

Beautiful days, make for excellent naps. Except for the part where squealing giggling children interrupt the otherwise quiet. Of course the nice shady spot concealed in the bushes where a particular dolphineer has decided to nap serves mostly to conceal her, and it’s only the rough husky voice and the other male voice chasing said children that has the dolphineer crawling out of the bush like a hare sneaking away as to avoid being spotted by said adults. Perhaps someone hasn’t quite recovered from a particularly awkward if sparkly encounter. Of course this does leave Tanit crawling on all fours directly in front of the weyrwoman’s blanket and and when she realizes this error, sea green eyes lift, taking note of the two younger infants. Boldness over caution then. “Just – how many children exactly do the three of you have in that weyr?”
It almost looks like Citayla might be of the same mind, that naps are what days like this are made for, heavy-lidded eyes and humming that seems to be doing a lot to put her to sleep anyways. So the all-fours crawling thing Tanit's got going on, at first, earns only the kind of nonplussed look one might give a vision that interrupts the start of a dream. Weird, for sure, but not super concerning. A beat, though, and — "Tanit, aren't you a little old for crawling?" Cita asks, mildly, a little groggy but starting to grin, slow and mischievous. She's probably not going to let that one down. "Whatcha doin'?" The Weyrwoman drawls, affecting some of R'hyn's occasional drawl, batting her eyes lke she Just Can't Fathom, Honest. The act stays up for not-long, though, before she's laughing, tossing messy hair and glancing back around at her little brood. "Only four, most of the time." Only, Cita? Only? Really. "There are plenty more that are older, though." And hers, too, obviously.

“Probably.” The dolphineer’s sheepish answer comes, “But one is never too old to try to preserve what little dignity they have left.” A wide grin stretching over her mouth, as she moves to plop at the edge of the blanket. “I was trying to avoid seeing Mr. Abs and the Piano man, given that the last encounter had me nearly walking off the edge of a cliff. Please tell Ilyscaeth thank you for me. I’m fairly sure if it weren’t for the dragons I really would have fallen off that cliff.” The dolphineer chuckling softly. “You’d fit right in the islands then, though some might wonder at why you hadn’t quite reached seven yet.”

Cita snickers under her breath, eyes scrunching up with amusement as she regards the dolphineer with a grin. "Aw, dignity. Too bad there's not a lot of that, 'round here. It was hard for me, for a while, but once you've been through the candidate barracks, well…it's hard to keep it up." The goldrider nods, rueful, lips twisting comically. She's seen things, okay, and not just since being Weyrmated to those two. Absently gnawing on a bite of fruit — offering the bowl to the crafter, companionably — Cita hums, waggling a shoulder a little. "'Course. She was happy to help. I'm, uh, sorry about the. Innuendo. She thinks she's funny." Cita's wrong: Ily knows she's funny. Thinking and knowing are two entirely different things, but, well. "They are good-looking men, I'll give them that. They break wind like a hurricane, though, when they're sleeping. Smells you can only imagine." The Weyrwoman confides, sotto voice, completely deadpan. It only breaks when she laughs for the last, baring teeth in
a wild grin. "I'll get there eventually. It's nice, having them around."

“Thankfully that’s one indignity that I’ve not endured personally.” Tanit admits with a laugh of the barracks, reaching for and popping a bit of the cool sweet fruit into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “I felt more badly for you – it must be awkward for her sharing such things so – ah – openly.” Tanit laughs, and then snorts outright as Cita reveals the bodily secrets of her weyrmates. Of children, sea green eyes shift to study the little ones. “They seem more fun when they belong to someone else.” The Dolphineer admits wryly, “You seem utterly content however… barring a strange addiction to nut butter.”

Cita hums, quiet, glancing towards a ledge above — where Ilyscaeth is, no doubt, though the angle's not great for an actual sight on her. "It works out in the end, sometimes." The goldrider murmurs, more or less to herself, on a ridiculously soppy look that a fair number of dragonriders don't even realize they're doing. Gross. Shaking her head, dispelling mental cobwebs and also making her hair even more a tragedy, Cita considers the next for a moment, tapping a finger on the edge of the bowl. "Yesterday, Heribly told Master Purlise that I told R'hyn I was going to gut him like a fish the other day, while I was, ah. Incapacitated." Is that what we're calling wildly proddy and out for blood, now? "Ily…well, if I told her to stop, she probably would." The rider relays, fondly. With a foot, she scoots Yzaelia's cradle towards the crafter, waggling her eyebrows playfully and angling the scoot so she doesn't awaken the sleeping Ciardyn. "Have at it." An easy invite, just as easily shrugged off on an actual shrug for the last, glancing towards the shouting toddlers and laughing men. "I am," Simple, truthful, and: "Tanit, I just grew an entire other person, I need the protein." The healer grins, broadly, glancing mournfully at the long-abandoned picnic basket. No nut butter in there. "Are you content, here? Other than being accosted by attractive, mostly-naked people on a regular basis." Grin!

“You – what did he do?” Tanit queries suspiciously perhaps not understanding that incapacitated means parody. “She is – chatty.” Stifling a smile. “I wasn’t judging just – not used to seeing someone eat it straight from the jar. It was – endearing.” The last has Tanit nearly choking on a chunk of grape, she manages to recover enough to glare at Cita, though the look holds no real malice. “You joke, but it really is an issue of being able to think clearly and not gibber when a bunch of them are together and nude.” Serious face is serious, but it fades to an easy smile. “Speaking of which I better sneak off before R’hyn spots me and thinks up some horrible punishment for the beard and glittermate.” And with that the dolphineer is slipping off.

"I say unfortunate things, when Ily sets to glowing." Cita relays solemnly, but can't keep the face up for too long, snickering to herself. "It's best that way." Right. Obviously, come on, how else are you supposed to partake of it…? The glare only ratchets the grin up, blinding and sunny and warm, even possibly a little sympathetic, there on the end. "I understand," She calls after the departing dolphineer, laughing to herself. "Go through the banana trees! They won't let the girls in there." It's probably not trap-advice, anyways. They were out on the grass, right? Right?


Half Moon Bay Weyr - Rooftop Patio
This roof patio extends over the part of the living caverns that juts out into the bowl. A set of stairs has been carefully hewn from the rock, leading up to a flat expanse that is covered with normal dirt and topsoil. Trees and flowers grow in this section of the created gardens turn-round, all carefully trimmed and cultivated by the weyr staff. There are several benches scattered about, each secluded and private due to the surrounding foliage. A stone path winds through the expanse, leading to the other parts of the gardens.


Gorgeous weather persists, skies a brilliant blue daubed with painterly renditions of cloudwork, the shrieks of children - for now - quieted or perhaps absent altogether. R'hyn is a solitary figure, parked on the edge of the pathway, long legs extended outwards with little attention paid to how much he might be interrupting flow of traffic, his usual entourage of weyrmates and children very suspiciously absent. It's only the company of a single feline that he is keeping, or rather, that is keeping with him, a tiny grey thing with large green eyes whose chin he has taken to scratching in the attempts to elicit a rumbling purr. He has a satchel that very likely contains food, and perhaps is en route back to a certain goldrider on a certain blanket with it, but he has… stopped. For reasons. Nefarious reasons? Likely. It's a trap.

Curse you Cita! TRAP! It is always a trap. Well, this time at least there is considerably more clothing and no hot pink towels. Given that there is only one way out of the patio she could try sneaking, but. “If you take it home your Weyrmate is likely to drop it off the ledge.” The dolphineer notes, a resigned but easy smile spreading over her lips, sea-green eyes glittering in amusement.

Somewhere in the distant gardens, Cita is likely humming a smug hum to herself whilst she rock-a-byes a baby, but here, now, there's just R'hyn sliding a sly look up at Tanit, matching smile for smile with an impish flash of teeth. "Good thing kittens always land on their feet, hmm? Kittens and fish, apparently," added with a particularly mischievous nose-wrinkle as he pulls the little grey cat into his lap, hands running over and over her back. "Fortunately, Ila gave me this one, so she's in little danger. Though. That was before he knew she'd be coming right back into his weyr. Hmm." He squints into the distance for that, amused by his weyrmate's bad luck perhaps before he focuses in on Tanit again. "Irony is a delightful thing when it works in your favor instead of against you." Twinkle. "Speaking of, how are you today? Glitterless, I hope." OR ELSE, that playful look says.

“Owed to your lifemates’ rather than my own ability to stay on my feet. Please give them my thanks.” Tanit replies somewhat formally, in chagrin. “Glitterless, for the moment. The prices for the stuff are absolutely exorbitant for the time being.” Twinkle? Warning Tanit. WARNING. Still, it’s R’hyn. What is the absolute worst that could happen. “You do realize, as soon as you resend that silly embargo – people will stop using glitter to play pranks. I will happily revert to limes.” She grins, “Speaking of which, when you get the chance, someone invented a lovely new drink you ought to try.”

Somewhere in the distant gardens, Cita is likely humming a smug hum to herself whilst she rock-a-byes a baby, but here, now, there's just R'hyn sliding a sly look up at Tanit, matching smile for smile with an impish flash of teeth. "Good thing kittens always land on their feet, hmm? Kittens and fish, apparently," added with a particularly mischievous nose-wrinkle as he pulls the little grey cat into his lap, hands running over and over her back. "Fortunately, Ila gave me this one, so she's in little danger. Though. That was before he knew she'd be coming right back into his weyr. Hmm." He squints into the distance for that, amused by his weyrmate's bad luck perhaps before he focuses in on Tanit again. "Irony is a delightful thing when it works in your favor instead of against you." Twinkle. "Speaking of, how are you today? Glitterless, I hope." OR ELSE, that playful look says.

“Owed to your lifemates’ rather than my own ability to stay on my feet. Please give them my thanks.” Tanit replies somewhat formally, in chagrin. “Glitterless, for the moment. The prices for the stuff are absolutely exorbitant for the time being.” Twinkle? Warning Tanit. WARNING. Still, it’s R’hyn. What is the absolute worst that could happen. “You do realize, as soon as you resend that silly embargo – people will stop using glitter to play pranks. I will happily revert to limes.” She grins, “Speaking of which, when you get the chance, someone invented a lovely new drink you ought to try.”

"I'll be sure to pass it on. Xermiltoth will likely insist on giving his reply in person," R'hyn adds in warning, bracing her for a future invasion of the dragon's booming tenor and sunbright heat. She's spared for now, though - instead of draconic invasion, there's a whipcrack of laughter for her being glitterless, grin switching to tug up one side of his mouth. "Well, there's good news. Maybe it'll drive so high this ridiculous business will grind to a screeching halt and we can go back to normalcy." A heaving sigh. "I wish it were that easy. Do you know how hard it is to repeal a law? Especially one so meaningless that people have better things to do? Besides. People seem to be having fun at my expense. There are worse things, I guess." Begrudging A.F., but there's another squinty glare pointed in her direction, effectiveness rendered null by the threat of a smirk at the corner of his mouth as he releases a squirming Sibila to freedom. "If it has been named after any single part of my body, I'm not interested."

“Are all dragons so –“ Tanit purses her lips searching for a word before deciding on, “Chatty?” Preparing herself none the less for another round of loud, embarrassing and possibly obnoxious mental invasion. “You sound like a man issuing a challenge he has no idea he is issuing.” Tanit answers wryly. As for the drink, her eyes glitter with suppressed laughter, “Well – not a body part exactly – unless you want to count playing hide the lime. Then Death by Lime, takes on a rather – double meaning?”

"No," comes R'hyn's vastly-amused reply, gaze glittering with ample amusement. "In fact, few dragons bespeak other humans at all. I don't know whether it's his own twisted morals or he just doesn't care, but Xermiltoth is… special," spoken in a particular tone to emphasize just how special he is, brows bobbing in time with the word. "If you don't like it, I can tell him to stop, though." Ah! So there is some control over the harlequinned bronze's indeed obnoxious mind, if only in retrospect. As for glitter: "I… Am… Not?" Upticked into a question at the end as he considers his words, his stance, and, "Am I? Maybe I am." Yeah. YEAH. "Maybe I am. They're still scrubbing it out of the offices - we still don't have clearance to go back in, something about uninhabitable conditions - so really, what's the worst that you or anybody else can do at this point?" Gauntlet thrown. Poor R'hyn. He has no idea what kind of fire he's playing with, evidenced by choking laughter and a delicate splay of pink over his cheeks that he'll deny as he casts his gaze anywhere but at Tanit for reminder of that particular game. One, two, three, and testament to the man with which he lives his life, he swings his gaze back down to meet the dolphineer eye to eye, one brow lifting with a drawled, "Are you even old enough to be discussing small death with me, Tanit?" Cue hissy laughter. "Still. I like lime in my alcohol, so this has promise. What else is in it?"

R’hyn’s explanation draws a very odd look from the dolphineer, “He’s not the only who does it.” Tanit admits with her mouth slanting, “Used to freak me out when I first moved here, but now?” She shrugs, the hazards of weyr life. Right up there with attractive naked people. The challenge – not challenge earns a curve of both brows and a twist of her smile. “Famous last words, when they put death by glitter on your memorial stone – just remember you asked for it.” Dun dunnn dunnnnnnnnn! As to the question, he’s clothed so she manages quite sensibly, “Old enough to deal with the consequences of it, so – yes.” Tanit smirks, “Tequila, lime juice, ice and the nectar from the plant they use to make tequila from.”

Her odd look begets more laughter, head tilting at an ever-so-slight angle. "Who else dares breach your mental sanctity?" He has his guesses, but… "Who knows. Maybe it's just you they like." Poor, poor Tanit, if that's the case, cursed to a life of dragon-brain prodding and overly-muscular half-nudity. "Mmm," is conceded on discussion of glitter, "though it is generally my goal to one day leave this job with more notoriety than my weyrmate, so. If death by sparkle is what I must suffer to get there, so be it," he says with a twisted, scrunched-nose grin. "And I didn't ask for it, I demanded it. Get it right." RIP Heryn, thinking he's working some reverse-psychology angle. Destroy him, Tanit. Destroy him. Him and that wicked low laughter when she actually answers his question, brow peaking even higher as he asks, "The consequences of it alone, or the consequences of discussing it with me?" He winks like the rude man he is, but seems to mean little by it, relaxing back onto his palms with a thoughtful noise. "Tequila is dangerous, but that sounds excellent. I might actually try it. Tiki Lounge?" His gaze wanders in that general direction as though tempted, as though it weren't midday. Honestly, Heryn.

“Lerith, Catwin’s blue, there was a green a while back who did it. And now Ily and your bronze are added to the list.” The dolphineer puffs, but the comment earns a strange look from Tanit, “Do you really want to be as infamous as Ila?” Tanit clearly disapproves, mostly in jest. “Oh dear sweet Faranth, not you too.” When R’hyn falls on the Ila-esque innuendo. “I’m not drunk enough to deal with fake flirting yet. I think the Tiki makes it too.” Finding a tree to lean against not really wanting to sit down.”

It's a balmy, lovely day and rather than attending to duties, it seems as though R'hyn has trapped a certain Tanit from sneaking off by mere presence alone, her settling in against a tree, him seated on the low wall defining the path from patio to gardens. "Ah, Leirith," R'hyn sighs dramatically, eyes rolling skywards with a grin he can't quite keep at bay, "I was hoping it'd be mostly Xermiltoth's progeny so I could prove a point. This is all Risali's fault, somehow." He squints, an expression that lingers when he looks back Tanit's way, gaze flicking over her as though guaging what kind of answer to give, and apparently settles on the honest one: "I hope to be half the man Ila is one day." He flashes a smile to cover any potential sentimentality. "And since I can't be as ugly as him, I'll just have to settle for achieving his infamy. How am I doing so far?," he teases in the face of her disapproval of his aspirations and mock-flirting, amusement running and undercurrent in his words. Blue-grey eyes watch her lean against bark, shifting so his own legs don't stick out into the pathway quite so much, elbows settling in on his knees that his chin might rest into the curves of hands. "Too? Where did you have to wander to to find it, then?," curiously inquired.
Half Moon has a lot of things to recommend it as a new posting. The climate which creates balmy, lovely days; the exquisite views; its pristine beaches and rich volcanic soil. And now the full (but weighty) list of cons: its welcome wagon. There's a low commotion in the distance, what sounds like a woman trying to yell but not making a very good show of it— and around the time Ila'den reaches the stairs, yelling becomes impossible anyway. This is due to his shoulder being driven into Jennet's solar plexus with every step, because the Healer has been thrown over his shoulder fireman carry style. What escapes her, vocally, seals away any hope of arriving in the Weyr with dignity: every upwards step drives more air out of her lungs in a series of whooshes and whoofs and one very unladylike grunt, which is punctuated by the sound of a fist connecting with a leather-clad back. The thump is ineffective. Say farefull to her pride.

The comment somehow earns a smile from the dolphineer, “I think you do just fine on your own. Aside from very poorly decided bans on craft substances.” The corners of Tanit’s mouth twitching with the effort of suppressing a broad grin. “And Ila isn’t ugly. But if it is infamy you want I can see what is to be done.” She waves a hand, “Went to the smith hall to get my dive tanks repaired recently.” Of course, if you speak of the devil, he’s bound to appear, and it is with wide sea-green eyes that the dolphineer watches the arrival of one Ila’den and a woman she does not recognize. Without missing a beat, “Ila’den, if you keep kidnapping nubile young women, the holds and halls are going to come after us with torches and pitchforks.”

"If you keep telling people I'm not ugly, little fish, I might start to think that you like me." The problem here is that while that might have normally been Ila'den's way of announcing himself on the scene, the warning that he was incoming came long before. It's punctuated by the sounds of indignity and indignance being dragged across the weyr, punctuated by the arrival of a man who looks too damn feral to be allowed with new blood on his shoulders, and none of it can mute Ila'den's amusement as he just keeps coming forward. "So let them come." There's something wolfish in that expression before it gives way to husky, rumbling laughter that's as short-lived as Jennet's shoulder-bound kidnapping is. The bronzerider leans to the side to set the Journeyman on her feet before walls and R'hyn, shifts towards the tree where he rests his elbow and curls his arm in above where Tanit sits because yes, that grey eye is seeking out his weyrmate's face and holding. Heryn. HE.RYN. EXHILE THIS MAN. "Journeyman Jennet," comes that husky growl, a hint of his burr bleeding into the words. "Half Moon Bay Weyr's illustrious Weyrleader, R'hyn. I'm sure he'd be overjoyed to hear your grievances." Wicked, wicked man. "She asked me if I was the Weyrleader; I figured that meant I should introduce her proper." And he doesn't. look. away. Not even when he asks, "Alright, little fish?" as way of belated greeting to Tanit.

"It was an accident," R'hyn emphasizes for what is likely the five-millionth time since the glitter embargo was enacted, voice pitched in that particular whine inherent to the defeated, "but I guess I…" But whatever R'hyn is or might have been is lost when the commotion from the weyr beyond reaches his ears, and the bronzerider's eyes fix somewhere just over Tanit's shoulder, face settling into perfectly blank zen. "Tanit," he says in an oddly detatched voice as yelling descends into wooshed oofing grunts, "please tell me that isn't my weyrmate carrying a woman up the stairs." But it is. He knows it is, even before the dolphineer speaks Ila's name, before husky laughter punctuates daring words, before Jennet is literally deposited before him, because who else would it even be? Seven turns of knowing this man has eyes sliding closed, has words rushing out in a low, "Bythefirstegg, Ila'den, ifyoudon'tputthatgirldown, Iamgoingto— Hiiii," that last part his for Jennet herself, eyes flicking back open to fix the poor woman with a smile, a hesitation, and then queried, "Welcome to Half Moon Bay?" Queried because all of this is just so questionable. Does she even feel welcomed? Does she? And yet despite apparent vexation, R'hyn's gaze slides towards Ila'den with slow inevitability, taking him in with a gaze that can't help but twinkle despite the appearance of reproof, lips unable to keep from twitching into a small smile despite the slow shaking of his head. "What's the next step up from torches and pitchforks? Flamethrowers and battering rams?" Back to Tanit. "I take it back, about the infamy. I don't think I'll make it."
There's no coming back from this sort of entrance. Jennet knows this. Which isn't to say she won't /try/. There's a sway and a scramble to put distance between herself and Ila'den. There's some (pointless) brushing back of her hair (because it just springs up as it was before, naturally cheerful). But try as she might to scrub at her darkened cheeks, or rub at the sore spot in her belly, there's no help for it. This happened and no amount of drawing herself taller (ineffective) or squaring her shoulders (unimpressive) will do a damned thing about it. The pose is right for dignity but the quick flick of her gaze from face to face— gauging reactions— and the wince which follows is not.

But, y'know, that just means Jennet has to try to roll with it and that she goes for with gusto, finally fixing her attention upon the fellow named as Weyrleader. Tanit receives a polite dip of head but R'hyn gets a formal, "Sir," while she continues to rub her poor, poor sore stomach. Look at how abused she's been, R'hyn. "…I was telling that… man there that the area near the lagoon is perfectly situated for new gardens. For the infirmary. Two dragonlengths to each side would be sufficient." This is the price of smiling and twinkles, Weyrleader sir.

“I can’t do that R’hyn.” In her clear, strangely monotone alto reminiscent of the computer alerts aboard the dawn sisters. Sans one glowy red eye interface. “You asked to be infamous, welcome to your infamy. Be careful what you wish for?” Her clear alto bubbles in throaty laughter. As to Ila, The dolphineer smirks, “I do like you.” Most of the time. “I think you should just be happy she isn’t a master and maybe pray that she doesn’t file a complaint?” The request earns a look from the dolphineer, “Aren’t you worried about the summer storms that roll through here, not to mention what the constant exposure to salt water might do?” Genuinely curious.

You can see it when R'hyn looks Ila'den's way, the subtle change, the inexorable pull that Ila'den doesn't try to fight - not anymore. It's in the way stormy hues go soft even as something unerringly primal - heat, and want, and need - turns his attention hard. There's something quiet, something more, something so at war with everything Ila'den is when blue-grey meets grey and the older bronzerider fixates on that twitch of lips, on that shake of head, on the way his weyrmate — ILA NO. So Ila'den forces himself to look away, down to Tanit who gets a raise of brows and another slow smile with husky laughter as Ila'den rumbles a gruff, "Now I just think that you need a mindhealer, little fish." Because Ila'den. Have you met him? But he looks away, back to Jennet and R'hyn even while he dips his chin to make it clear his attention is still on Tanit. "And what it is that you think filing a complaint is going to do, Tanit? It won't be the first time they've put me in jail, it won't be the first time an angry man has seen fit to punch me," WAS THAT AN ACCUSE TOWARDS R'HYN? "and it certainly will not be the pivotal moment of realization when I learn to care about the opinions of others and their structured social mores." Welp, that's probably some of his past speaking, even if he tempers reality with humor. "Besides, I bet R'hyn made the best face." AND THERE'S THAT WOLFISH SMILE, too many teeth and threat to devour as Jennet refers to him as 'that man' and Ila'den waits for the Weyrleader's response because… well… he just wouldn't be Ila'den if he didn't find the entire thing inappropriately funny, now would he? "I will just steal all of their women, husband. What good are their pitchforks and torches then?"

"What good are you," R'hyn replies to Tanit in that flat sotto voce, but it wobbles this time, unable to keep up the charade in the face of ample mirth. "Is it too late to specify political infamy? You've got to give me something, here." Resigned eyes settle on Ila'den, watching subtle changes at work, crook at the corner of his mouth deepening with some kind of private knowledge that gets encapsulated, shared in a wink flicked his weyrmate's way before his attention drags back to Jennet, watching her attempt to straighten herself with ill-disguised amusement. "It's just R'hyn," he corrects that sir in pleasant tones, "and 'that man' is my weyrmate, Ila'den, who deserved every single time I've laid my hands on him, I am sure," drawled right back because EN GARDE ILA'DEN, "our regretting-her-life-choices why-is-she-even-friends-with-us companion is Tanit," and, introductions complete, he flicks a vaguely-apologetic look towards her stomach before tilting his head towards Tanit's inquiries. "Regardless, I'm sure if the healers need more garden space, we can provide some. Is there something we don't already have, or is it insufficient?" Likewise curious, with a liking to know what goes on in his weyr despite relative informality - informality that manifests itself in a childish face he pulls at Ila'den, all scrooched features and pushed-out tongue, because best face his left hindquarter. "Just don't look at them too hard. Women left too long in your presence seem to mysteriously wind up bearing our children." Fingers point from his eyes to Tanit's, a warning belied by bubbly laughter that he can no longer contain. "Faranth, but you're both ridiculous." With friends like these…

“R’hyn, I’m pretty sure I exist only to amuse. And I’d agree with you on the mindhealer Ila – It’s the only thing that would explain my ridiculous attraction to glittery men.” Utterly deadpan. But there’s no real displeasure in it, the indignant healer then gets her attention with a shrug. “Jungles yes, but largely vegetation that has adapted to flex during major storms.” The dolphineer notes thoughtfully, “I’m not questioning your ability to plant them and balance the soil, just – wouldn’t near the freshwater lake in the bowl be better? You have the mountain for shelter against storms, and it would be less work overall. An expansion of the existing garden if you really need that much more space.” The implications are regarded with a curve of the dolphineer’s mouth as sea-green eyes take their measure of the woman as though trying to decide something about her. Tanit says, “Ista is lovely this time of year."”

Heryn. Do not encourage Ila'den. That wink earns a growl, a shift in the former renegade's posture that might suggest agitation or thinly veiled violence to anybody else. Still, Ila'den manages to offer a salute that's not completely mocking for Jennet when R'hyn finally does what Ila'den should have done a long time ago and introduces him. Then makes a face. And Ila'den. Ila'den. He uses that grey eye to rake, delineating tattooed flesh, and muscle, and every single line he knows despite the hindrances of clothing to keep the rest of the world in the proverbial dark. "I have good use for that tongue, husband." All around the kind of smile that's not allowed, all diminishing into dark humor for comments of babies and warnings to Tanit that have the bronzerider looking down to the dolphincrafter. And then Ila'den is sinking down into a crouch again, much too close as he reaches out to pull Tanit in against his body, as he tilts his head and tucks his cheek in against hers to drag I-couldn't-be-bothered-to-shave-yesterday-and-probably-not-the-day-before-either stubble against her jaw. For what it's worth, he only pursues the uncharacteristic contact for a heartbeat or two before he lets her go and stares pointedly TOWARDS HER MIDDLE. IS SHE PREGNANT YET? "Ah well," he drawls, a hint of humor curling his lips even as he feigns disappointment towards his weyrmate. "I don't think it worked. It's probably something to do with you." Or dragons, but Ila'den's tousling Tanit's hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head for ENDURING HIM as he rises back out of that crouch and moves towards the wall with another raise of brows and quick humor for Jennet. "I'm afraid any demands you might want to make of my weyrmate will have to wait, little bird. I'll be sure to pen you in on his schedule." A beat, and Ila'den is already catching at R'hyn's knees from where he's seated on the wall to pull him forward with a sharp jerk of movement. "For now, it's his turn to wash the dishes, and I'm not going to let him skirt his domestic duties this time." ILA STEALING HIS WEYRMATE. In a fireman carry. 'Cause he rude.

"To be fair, you're the one that made us glittery, so I'm not sure who the joke's on here," Ryn deadpans right back at Tanit, lips curving up in a smile that lingers even when he focuses his attention back on Jennet. Eyes lose some of their mirth, going curious instead, reviewing her person anew before offering a more earnest grin. "A fellow Istan. Well met. So long as you don't come after me with needlethorns and endless physicals like the rest of them, you can have whatever location you want. If the lagoon shore pleases you, so be it, but if you'd prefer a piece of the gardens where the soil's already fertile, we can take a walk of the area, see what suits you best. The weyrwoman used to be a healer, I'm sure she'd be willing to consult as well." See! He can be a reasonable man under all of the ridiculousness. It just takes a little demand-wrangling, apparently. The words she leaves unspoken lends a sharper, more amused edge to his grin, that bubbling-over of low laughter pervading with a roll of his shoulders, a not-quite-apology, not-quite-dismissal of concerns regarding the bronzerider's behavior. 'Sorry,' that shrugs says, but also, 'he is who he is' and it's part of his charm, honest it is! It just takes endurance, and acceptance, and friendly abuse the likes of which is currently being foisted upon Tanit, though not before R'hyn can drawl a sing-song, "Promises, promises," for raking eyes and dark words. A hard snort rises up on Ryn's throat, choked off by would-be laughter that never quite manifests, watching Ila attempt osmosis-impregnation through bearded face-smushing with quivering shoulders and soft, nasal huffs of amusement. "Ten children deep and you still don't know how babies work. Amazing. Tanit says she's versed in consequences, maybe she should teach you a— now come on, Ila," he changes tacks because he knows that look, that look that means his dignity is about to go the way of Jennet's, which is to say right out the window in a very public way as his weyrmate approaches. "You already carried one person, what will they say when you go tromping back past with me." Clearly unsuccessful, as knees are cupped and drug. "Twenty-six. That's the number of turns I have carried myself on my own two legs. Twenty-six, and here I am, one sack of tubers to be carried off at his whim." Oh, he's talking to the ladies now as he's hefted, chin propped to hand comfortably as though this happens all the time. Let's be real. It probably does. There's a slight manifestation of interest for mention of dishes, a subtle perking tensing of his form, but he buries it beneath an aggrieved sigh. "This would all be so much more interesting if you'd actually go for the sexy carrying, you know. Then it would be like oh dishes, yes, but no, this is what I get. Well, bye then," accompanied by a glum but somehow cheerful wave back towards Tanit and Jennet as he gets hauled off. "Good seeing you. Nice meeting you. We should do this again someti—" Nope. He's gone. Finally cut off by virtue of being out of sight. Bless.

"Except you are questioning my ability by questioning the choice of location," Jennet says with a dip of her head to Tanit. The nod is a polite gesture, and the Healer's voice remains calm, level. None of the squeaking, whooshing, or fluster of moments ago. Back in control! All it took was for Ila'den's shoulder to be aimed elsewhere. "The ideal location wasn't the point of the exercise but you have made yours," and this, this quiet summation, collects them all in intended response. The plural you, addressed in a sweep of green eyes as she takes a breath and draws herself up again. A visible expression of tattered pride being scraped together again, her eyes cut aside. "Well then. Thank you for your hospitality. Weyrleader. Ila'den. It was nice meeting you, Tanit." Alas, a sweeping exit is not to be— there's no breezing past a bronzerider-laden…bronzerider. She'll have to wait her turn at the stairs before navigating to her quarters.

To be fair, the whole movement is so out of character for the bronzerider, at least in Tanit’s experience, that she doesn’t react until the STUBBLE is sandpapered across her cheek, which does earn a squirm and an “ACK”. But as her hair is tousled and her head kissed, she just sighs. And then R’hyn is saying things that have Tanit flushing darkly, and shooting such a look. OH DEATH SWEET GLITTERY DEATH. THY NAME SHALL BE R’HYN. But the fireman carry earns a look to Jennet and a gesture that says ‘see perfectly normal greeting for the barbarian.’ Tanit eyes the healer then at the little outburst, “I really just don’t want to have to smell numbweed every day where I work.” The dolphineer is happy to admit, But there’s a shrug and a strong impression formed, And a nod of departure. Leaving Tanit alone, time to go find barrels of glitter.


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