The Young and the Restless

Half Moon Bay Weyr - [TP] Library
A haven for all seeking a moment's peace, the library is tranquil, quiet, comfortable, a space to escape the chaotic bustle of weyr life. Half Moon colors prevail here, unsubtle but tasteful and eked out by dark, polished wood, flickers of white fabric, and a dazzling array of chandeliers. Rows of false stained glass windows line the room's far wall, giving the room an open, airy feel without risking climate damage to books, scrolls, and hides, of which the weyr has plenty. Rows upon rows of recessed shelves climb one upon the other along the left wall, reaching towards a high ceiling and accessible only by book ladders that have been cleverly angled to allow use of them all simultaneously.
Smaller free-standing bookcases crawl through the rest of the space, some low-slung and tucked up against bannisters and raised platforms, others standing freely back to back to best make use of the space given. Chairs and couches are woven betwixt and between, sometimes standalone, sometimes accompanied by endstands or low-slung tables, plush rugs breaking up the polished grey tile of the floor. Most furnishings are of a dark purple or teal, accented by ebony woodwork and white and gold pillows.
One corner has been dedicated to more serious studies, circular tables and wooden chairs clustered about one another, rigidity and quiet camaraderie meant to encourage focus rather than comfort. A mobile server tucked against this wall features a small pot of klah, hot water for tea, and finger-foods to keep minds stimulated, all carefully watched over by the librarian, whose desk looms nearby. The other corner features two computers, neither terribly fast or efficient in the way of such public things, but available for free use for those in need nonetheless.


It could be any time of the day, down here. The library is always the same: quiet, temperate, lit in warm shades with brighter pools for those doing their reading. It could be any time, but it's not. It's late. Not abominably late, but late nonetheless, and yet the smell of strong klah takes over the smell of old paper and well-curated books. While there's a perfectly serviceable records room, and even an office, Citayla is here — she's more comfortable, here, and who's going to guess she's here? Nobody who would think to bother her, anyways. Forsaking her usual couch, the goldrider is perched at a table, going over a missive with studious attention. Maybe this isn't her field, it's still studying, and that is Cita's jam. She looks pretty happy, even, pausing occasionally to take a massive drink of klah as she scribbles something on a scrap paper off to the side. Estani lurks, eternal and possibly sleepless, but her favored healer-weyrwoman seems to have pretty reasonable free reign. Perks of being teacher's pet, yo.

Nobody, Cita? Are you sure. Because here comes at least one somebody with clear intent to join if not distract the busy goldrider. Well. Technically there are two somebodies, but one of them is awake only out of sheer stubbornness, and it's not Heryn. "Look, here's Auntie Cita," the bronzerider murmurs into Kiric's hair, the rumpled six-turn-old squint-frowning in Citayla's direction before harrumphing and burying her face back against R'hyn's chest. The rider merely laughs and adjusts her weight as he hears the junior's table, setting down his own books and notebooks and workerly detritus before sliding a chair over with a hook of his foot. "We're not feeling it tonight," he says, as much commentary to Kiric as it is explanation for Cita as he uses his newly-freed hand to pull his niece's blanket up around her shoulders before fixing klah, missives, notes, all with an amused look. "Just working late, or in it for the long haul?"

R'hyn isn't a bother, he's — well, okay, sometimes he is. Possibly right now. Not that she looks it, glancing up from her work to beam sunnily, stretching both arms out wide. "Hiya, Kiric. You want some klah? If you're going to be up, you might as well do it right. You can help me organize my notes." The healer singsongs, waggling her mug and taking a drink. She's probably kidding. Actually — no, she's probably not kidding in the slightest. Klah not really something you give to six turn olds? Who gives a wherry's assfeathers. Not Citayla. "I'm not feeling it either." She confides, leaning close a little and humming under her breath. The harrumphing and hiding doesn't seem to bother her, and the rider leans back in her chair a little, lifting both eyebrows at R'hyn and smiling lazily. "I won't be advancing any more in my craft, so you don't have to worry about that." Cita makes an amused noise. "Just working late. Is everything…okay?" She phrases the question lightly, but her expression is more concerned, eyebrows drawn in a little.

Singsong words earn another squint from the Kiric-camp, precious little face scrooching up with an over-the-top expression of her displeasure. "No." No she doesn't want klah? To help with paperwork? Possibly all - up come small hands to grab the edges of her blanket, jerk it down over her head and— thump. Again she headbutts R'hyn's chest, this time earning a quiet 'oof' from the bronzerider along with a huff of laughter, shooting Citayla a look that's one part longsuffering, one part chiding, all parts amused. "Who is feeling it, honestly," he mock-gripes, scoot-scooting his chair to sit closer to Cita, even if the action might make Kiric 'hmf!' and angle further and further across his body with the movement, tiny-belligerent to the last. "Cita, it was never your craft," R'hyn argues because the mood is catching, but the old, familiar argument lacks any real heat - he's just doing it for the sake of doing it. "It's always been you and your Faranth-forsaken work ethic. I both admire and loathe it." Still, he accepts the reassurance it's just a late night, nodding absently as he sets up his own work, sliding notebooks to appropriate writing-spaces and propping one of his books up on hers. For a long minute it's almost like he hasn't heard her question, thumbing through dog-eared pages before finding the one he's looking for, eyes reading words without actually understanding them before he cuts a look her way. Down at Kiric. Back at her. "Just bad dreams." As though there's any such thing as 'just', but for her? For him? Perhaps the latter, considering the continuation of, "Gets me jumpy. Makes me overthink. It's nice to have something productive to focus on, especially on the nights Ila actually gets to sleep." No mention of if that's tonight, though perhaps it's implied by his lack of presence. "So we thought we'd take a spin for some fresh air, huh, sweetheart?" A pat of Kiric-blankets, earning another disgruntled 'mrf' that he tries to meet with as much amusement as the previous two times. "What've they got you working on?" Presto, subject-change-o!

That's an expression Cita mimics — scrunched up and wretched, because Cita is an ass, and also has siblings not a lot older than Kiric. It's instincts, the assholery. "Okaaaaaay." The goldrider draws out the word, woebegone, into a note only bats (does pern have bats? does it matter.) or possibly dogs can hear around the end. Tiny-belligerent is adorable, and she might be melting on the inside, but she keeps her face scrunched up as she continues talking all the same. "Not us. I'm going to drink my Klah, though. It's delicious." She might not be chugging it like she chugged the nearest booze, the first few days post-graduation, but the klah is still cradled protectively, lovingly. Good klah. Comforting klah. The old argument gets a massive roll of Cita's eyes, but her expression un-scrunches into fond, lips quirking up wryly. "You hear that, Kiric? Uncle Ryn admires me." She starts the argument wrong, but settles into it easily enough on the next. "You're one to talk." She puts roughly the expected amount of half-sincere exasperation into it, too, letting her head fall to the side, shoulders easy. Arguing away the wee hours; not just for Xermiltoth! Her own work is abandoned, for the moment, the klah holding most of her attention for a long moment. Or well, the klah and Ryn's shifting eyes. Citayla nods, once, lips pressing a little thin as she tries a smile. "Hard to sleep." Understanding, quiet. Concerned, for all that she keeps her voice light, healer-cadence patter. "Natural. Just tonight?" Her expression does more talking that she won't, with Kiric not-asleep: you need a hug? and why didn't you wake Ila up don't you two Distract each other with sex, which, one might think would be hard to read from an expression. WRONG. "I suppose he does need his sleep." Is what she says aloud, fond, eyes sliding back to Kiric with a faint brow-quirk. "Kiric, if you ask Xermi, I bet he'd tell you a story. Or sing you a song." She suggests, expression briefly distant — "He's good at that. Ily, too." A quiet hum, and she's back on track, allowing the distraction with a smirk. "I'm studying the records on past relationships with holds around the planet. I wanted to know why I have to kiss Ogren's Lady's ass, but…it's complicated."

It's instincts that bid Kiric continue to pull the blanket over her head, as though the action might do more to block Citayla's screech of the damned, rather than merely expose the back of her shirt. It amuses R'hyn, though; he shifts the blanket back to status quo despite muffled protests, patpatting Kiric gently with a low, "She's… tired." There's a piped 'am not' from in there somewhere that earns a glittering of blue-grey eyes, but the bronzer wisely doesn't fight like an asshole. Instead he shoots Citayla a sideways glance, warm and amused. "Of course I admire Auntie Cita. She's a brave, intelligent, capable woman. She's just also a massive blanketty-blank-blank-blank and a pain in my blank-blankitty," he says with a sassy tip of his head for each of the repetitions, tongue pushing out past his lips to 'thhbt' at the end. "Yeah, yeah." Her argument gets waved away with one hand. "Do as I say, not as I do, ain't that how that goes?" Twinkle, one that dies even as he tries to play along, gaze fixing somewhere over Cita's shoulder, unseeing, contemplating. "No," he says, going for honesty even though it puts a real try on his tone, "it comes and goes, but when it comes, it sometimes stays." There's a glint of mirth for those things she leaves unsaid, dark and flinty, even as he answers her with a drop of his gaze and a raised shoulder. "If it gets bad enough," then he seeks Ila for mutual sharing of emotions the contents of which are none of your business Citayzleat (except they are a little bit because helloooo stone walls that are never quite solid enough). "This one was just walking through the jungle." Unsaid, but perhaps visible on features: endlessly, anxiously, just as unsuccessfully as in real life. It's Kiric that reels him back in from a revisitation of imagery, a petulant 'Nooooo!!' offered to Cita's attempts at providing ideas, rejected point-blank in a manner that intimates she'd likely have been turned down even if the goldrider had offered ice cream and cake and a party with ponies. "Hang on a second," R'hyn sighs, rising to take Kiric to a couch, to reason through fussing and an eventual woe-begotten planting of face to a pillow to contain little lady sniffles. "I'll be right over here," the bronzer says when a small shoulder is jerked out from under the hand rubbing soothing circles on her back, earning him a feisty noise for the trouble that he accepts with a twisty smile that stays complicated even when he meanders back to Cita. "You don't," said of kissing a Lady's ass, "though they kind of frown upon it if you don't try. Does funny things to your brain, I think, inheritance." Putting it kindly in his opinion, or so a dashing of brows seems to imply.

Cita grins, big and a little on the goofy side, for her success in irritating the poor kid — rude, but you know. The expression softens a little for the patpatting and explanation, and she hums, refraining from further commenting; Kiric is TOTALLY not tired. No. Absolutely not. Eyes roll for the compliment, but she doesn't stop cow-eyesing, even for the amused huff of air. "He thinks you don't know what swears he's using." The rider explains, stage-whispered, then snorts. "I'm a grown-ass goldrider." Translate: I Do What I Want And You Can't Tell Me No, Ha Ha Ha. Like she didn't do that anyways, before. Psh. The teasing settles back into that gentler look after a moment, lips tugged up on one side in a wistful half-smile as she taps a finger on the outside of her mug, thoughtful. "Gets stuck in a feedback loop." She murmurs, nodding thoughtfully. "Take a few days off. Both of you come to Xanadu with me when I take Ilyscaeth." The healer suggests, grinning. "I'm sure the Weyrwoman wouldn't mind." Riiiight. THAT'S not presumptive or anything. Cita doesn't seem to notice, or care, whether it is or not; which doesn't really bode SO well for her diplomatic training, but you know. The explanation of the content of the dreams flattens Citayla's expression — completely blank for a moment, then grim acceptance, head nodding slowly. While he takes the cranky 'brat over to the couch, the goldrider rolls her shoulders and neck, easing some of the tension there. It works, for the most part, and by the time he returns she's wearing that half-smile again. "I hope she sleeps. It's late for her to be up." She murmurs, this time actually quiet, enough to not carry out of their immediate circle. Some thought or other crosses the rider's mind, and she huffs, shaking her head ruefully. It's not shared, instead shaken off in favor of leaning forward, elbows balanced on knees, expression serious. "Ily can help with the dreams, I think. She…does for me." Cita admits, wobbling the mug back and forth absently. "If you don't mind dreams like you accidentally drank a bad batch of that clear 'Reaches liquor, anyways. Giant talking trees and floating ships and all. Better than the alternative."

"I'm not gonna risk her momma's wrath coming down on me if she repeats them," R'hyn stage-whispers right back, his tones gone a little sing-song, sarcasm contained within emphasized by comically over-widened eyes. Kiltara: not somebody you want mad at you. "Been and done, don't care to go there again." He likewise snorts for the goldrider assertion, eyes wheeling ceilingwards. "Faranth, how did I know that'd be come the newest excuse. I told myself, I did: if that woman ever impresses, gold or otherwise, she'll use it as a reason for every-damn-thing, but mostly to do more work." Smirk. "If it hadn't been because you were a goldrider, it'd've been because it was Xermiltoth's dragonchild, and on and on." The joking makes it easier to resume lighthearted tones, eyes lifting to meet Citayla's again. "That's not a bad idea. Syn's offered to let us stay at her aunt's place before. Says it'll be an experience, which… alarms me, but. It'd be good to get a change of scenery, see Risali." Kadesh has totally got this without them! For sure! And maybe it's her expression as much as Kiric's fussiness that drives him up and out of his seat, for though he doesn't avoid the topic once he returns, it gives him time to recompose. "She will. Kit's kids are kipping on the couches, I think she just heard me get up and wouldn't take no for an answer without waking the whole weyr." There's a sharp, curious for that thought Cita lets go unsaid, but R'hyn isn't one to pry, especially when the goldrider makes offers that have him going just as somber. There's a beat of eye contact, two, and then it's tearing away as is habitual, instead focusing on hands that move to wrap around hers around the mug of klah. "I know Ily's not shy about sharing herself, but I don't know if it'd work for me quite as well as it would for you. She's-" Hands recede that one thumb might press between his eyebrows. "Fuck, Cita, I'd like to say she's welcome to try but I don't even know if I want her in there with some of the shit I've-" Seen? Done? Experienced? Dreamt about? He can't find the words to finish it off, so he changes tack again. "We… cope in our own ways. Not sayin' I'm not grateful for the offer, I am." And really he is, it's written all over a face that's mobile for her and Ila'den but few others. "Some days, I do wish for anything else, but I just…" Head shake. Gear shift. A focus on something she's said. "… Talking trees? Really? What do they say?" Quiet, reaching for a different subject.

Honestly, that's fair; the agreeable tip of Citayla's head is sincere enough. Yeah, risking Kiltara's wrath is maybe not anybody's wisest choice. The grin that spreads across the rider's face is slow and remarkably shit-eating, just about as smug as you could possibly get. "Faranth won't help you, Heryn, it's your own fault no matter which way you look at it. You have only yourself to blame," A beat. "Ila, too." Serenely, she leans back in her chair, crossing ankles in front of her and arms on her stomach. Her expression remains smug as he contemplates the wiseness of staying with Syn's relatives — with her little brother, for all that she doesn't know it. Cita tips her head back and forth a little, contemplative. "If they have the room, why not? It's probably better than the guest weyrs. Last time I stayed in a guest weyr, a visiting greenrider got surprised by his dragon and I was the only one embarrassed, I think." She grumbles the last, pulling a rueful face. It smooths out as the rider wanders over to Kiric, replaced by thoughtful contemplation. The expression remains as she keeps her peace, arms uncrossing to allow her to fiddle with the hem of her top, eyes downcast. Her brow crumples a little, shoulders round; she leans forward, concerned, but she's not going to say so out loud — neither of them would do well on that front, probably. After a moment, the healer chuffs a noise neither a laugh or really a scoff, but a denial all the same — "She's stronger than she seems." Comes out before she can stop it, an automatic kind of defense not typical of Cita. She pauses, then shrugs, unwilling to take it back. Ily might exasperate her from time to time, but she's got the dragon's back. "I know. It won't expire." The gratefulness is accepted with warmth, an equal amount of open affection, as she stands. It's not a smooth motion; she's been sitting for a while, and kind of lurches a little, nose wrinkling. "Come on. My butt's numb. Sit on the couch with me and I'll tell you about the trees. They were looking for feline kits and flamethrowers." Not…really a request, and she'll pull him right along with her if he doesn't follow her to the couches.

R'hyn, longsuffering. "It's true. We did bring this on ourselves," he agrees, sotto voce, expression wry on a grimace in response to her smugness. It's all for show - he couldn't be happier for her, with the results - but somebody's gotta throw some shade around here so it might as well be him. "Maybe that'll teach Ila not to just sling people over his shoulder and haul 'em off when he wants them to do something - sometimes it just goes too right." Unlikely, though, and he knows it - affectionate mirth takes the edge off his features for a moment, emphasized by a soft snort. "It does stop being so embarrassing after the first time or five," promised with a snicker. "Still, you've a good point. Less likely to wind up staying clear 'til Leirith's eggs hatch, too, tempting as it'd be. It'd feel more like imposition." He contemplates it further, perhaps too far, gaze going out into the middle distance and parking there just past what's normal. It's only Citayla's fiddling that pulls him in, motion bringing eyes back into the present, leaning to cup one hand around her nearest elbow, pull it away, her attention up. "I know," said at length, at a volume that only just makes it past audible, "Between the two of you, I don't know who's stronger, more willful, more capable. But there's a difference between hearing about it and seeing it done. I don't even want to be in my dreams." Admitted with a single huffed laugh, mirthless. Strain eases back towards gratefulness for her willingness to seize upon the change of subject, suspicious, perhaps, for her desire to move to the couches, but no less a willing participant. He allows himself to be led, curls himself onto one leg to wait for her to settle before tilting sideways into her lap in what might've been a comfortable sprawl, if only one too-big hand didn't tighten over one of her knees, a fleeting application of pressure to encapsulate so much anxiety and unspoken thanks. It's brief, hand loosening to drape at the wrist with a quickness, but there nevertheless as he shifts the rest of himself into the picture of affected ease, content to let himself drift (and, just perhaps, drift off) as she tells him all about the Wonderland-quality of her Ilyscaeth-dreams.


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