Day 21 of Month 2 of Turn 2715
Half Moon Bay Weyr - Hearth Nook
This smaller room is separated off the main living cavern. The focal point is a big stone hearth, which always has a couple pots of stew and klah bubbling over it. Thick carpet lines the entire space and the room is has several cushy chairs and sofas spread around. There are no electric lights here, only glow baskets to keep the cosy effect.
Early afternoon finds R'hyn not in the offices, but tucked into the hearth nook instead, occupying the majority of one of the room's couches. Pillows have been filched from somewhere - likely the near-distant storage closet - and are currently propping the bronzerider's shoulders up just enough to see what he's doing. Blue-grey eyes skim back and forth across lines of text, brow alternately notching and easing, taking time to scratch things out and make notes in margins before returning to reading again. In moments between writing, his hand settles on the back of the dozing toddler taking up more of his chest than he'd like to admit (THEY'RE NOT GROWING, YOU'RE GROWI— wait), soothing soft circles between tiny shoulder blades. A soup bowl and plate have been abandoned, the latter half-full of mushed up food Heribly couldn't quite manage to finish before konking out.
Early afternoon would usually be a time for work, or at least quiet contemplation of a hundred complicated issues. But the junior weyrwoman is hungry. The goldrider must be fed, lest she turn into something other than the obscenely chipper nutbar she's been for the past few months. "Heryn!" Singsong comes the voice approaching from the direction of the kitchens (where she has certainly not been terrorizing the cooks, thank you), and the Citayla that sprawls across from the Weyrleader is still pretty chipper, eyeing Heribly with a happy kind of smile. "I took a break to find some food." Unecessarily, she explains, setting down a tray full of a vast array of food not typically seen in the Half Moon area and tucking in immediately. "Is that the Sykan thing? If Senellzon summons me one more time, I might deck him." The junior hums, cheerily, around a mouthful of salad.
Hasn't she been terrorizing the cooks? HASN'T SHE. R'hyn's judgmental face as she settles her array of exotic-type foodstuffs on the table says otherwise, suspiciously slotted eyes drifting from tray to goldrider and back with a huff. Or maybe that's a laugh. It's hard to tell, brief as it is, but the bronzerider's gaze warms nevertheless, unable to stay serious for long in the face of all this cheer. "I can see that," he comments, droll, instead of calling her out, blue-greys rising skywards for mention of Senellzon before making their way around to her again. "No, thank Faranth. I don't have the time to give a flying fuck about his 'needs,' or the paperwork that'd follow that up," though the mental image of Cita decking the man brings a twinkle to his eye. "No, this is a proposal for the Yokohama event. Whether to send guards instead of wingleaders, at what point is that Star Craft's problem even though we're the ones hosting, and so on. It's… dry." Dry as his tone, and likely the reason he's abandoning it to favor her with an amused look. "Having a hard time imagining anyone summoning you, anyways. Especially right now. Eaten any candidates today?" Another - infinitely more playfully suspicious - look at her food before his eyes flick back up to her, expectant.
CERTAINLY NOT says the prim look Cita tosses R'hyn, chin raised, hair-flipping and all. Toss-toss. She's certainly not been harassing them on the subject of importing different fruits, and trading services for different spices, noooo. "Good, you're not all-blind. Check that off of the quarterly physical." The goldrider deadpans, smiling blandly as she takes a massive (and maybe slightly pointed) bite of the spicy-dressed salad. As for Senellzon, she laughs, flipping her hair again; this time defiantly, huffing. "He's taken to flying in daily. Why he thinks he needs a watchrider, I'm uncertain. Isn't the wher enough?" She sighs, dramatically, shifting in the seat and taking a long drink of whatever foul-smelling tea she's come up with for today. It's healthy, though. She doesn't even make a face at the taste, the heathen. "Ah." The Yokohama event. This gets a vague kind of nod, eyes cast up automatically. "That sounds…" Yeah, no, she can't humor that. "Awful." Nose-wrinkle. Still: "Where the man gets the marks to hire out dragons every day, I don't know. Or care. I wish I was back in the infirmary. It's simple, there." Cita sighs, wistful, but her eyes are bright. She's not too upset. Can't get her down! Not even talk of candidates! "Why would I do that. They're behaving." …yeah, uh. It's probably best that they behave.
BULLSHIT, R'hyn's face reads right back, the weyrleader totally unimpressed with her hair tosses and attempt to distract him with mention of physicals. He will not be cowed by your tongue-in-cheek threa— "Quarterly? I thought we'd agreed on once a turn, Cita. I get scrutinized enough without needing a healer on the other end of it." Beat. A sideways glance in her direction. "Well. More than one." And then she's pointedly chomping at that salad and his eyes roll up in his head again, though whether that's for her or Senellzon's persistence is anyone's guess. Probably both. "That's bullshit. We know it. He knows it. I might well say it to his face if he does show up this afternoon. You give one hold a watchrider and suddenly you've got to give one to everyone. Suddenly you've got backwater holds asking if they're less important and threatening tithes and— No." He drops the open frustration as well as his volume, eyeing Heribly with some concern as she fusses and shifts. Carefully he sits up guiding the toddler to take the place he's left behind, tucking her blanket back up around her before moving to plop next to Citayla, heedless of her smelly tea. Fingers go into her food, filching something meaty off that salad and popping it into his mouth with a slight wince. "Didn't know you liked spice," he says, muffled around the morsel, snorting quietly for her wish to return to the infirmary. "The bar was even simpler. What're we doing withourselves, Cita? What's keeping us from telling those kids to run for their lives while they still can?" It's… not meant in earnest, judging by the crooked nature of his grin.
CHOMP. The way Cita rips the wing-nubbin off of the tiny roasted wherry next to the salad is…probably also pointed. Faranth knows what kind of threat it is, but it's probably a severe one. "We'll see. I suppose it depends, doesn't it." On how swiftly her supplies are delivered to her face? Something else? Faranth only knows. "Exactly that. I wish I didn't know that, but here we are. If I have to know it," RIP. CHOMP. "So does he." But she's smiling, still, sunshine practically bursting from her pores. Maybe threatening makes her happy. (Lets be real: obviously it does.) The healer-rider raises her eyebrows at the tone stirring Heribly, humming something amused under her breath as R'hyn visibly calms himself. "Wake her up, and we'll both be sad. Everybody else, too." Them's just facts, served with a side of raised eyebrows for the bold theft of her food. She'll let it pass this time, but the way her eyes follow his fingers like she might like to bite them off is possibly unsettling. You know. Just in general. "Well," As for the spice, which is pretty pungent. "I do now. This is from High Reaches, I think. Nerat?" Cita trails into silence for a moment, brows furrowed, but give it up in favor of shaking her head and huffing. "What's to stop us from running for our sharding lives." She counters, matching grins.
It's a fucking weird threat, but it hits home; R'hyn has the good grace to look nervous, and it's still as hilariously expressed in his six-and-a-quarter frame as it was the first time. Men like R'hyn aren't made to look small, but damn if he doesn't try. "Don't make me make rash hiring-firing decisions just because you're in a mood," he cautions with a child's petulance, an attempted smile shifting around the edges of his mouth before he schools it back into a sulk again. "It doesn't become one of your stature." WAS THAT A JOKE ABOUT HER HEIGHT? Probably, considering he finally straightens his shoulders back out, boldly thieving from her again. "Faranth. If you weren't so bent on blowing sunshine out your ass lately, I might give him the 'rider just to save him from you," the weyrleader says, loosing that grin before he pops a shred of wherry skin into his mouth. His gaze tracks back to Heribly for talk of her, happy ease settling into the creases around his eyes, belying his world-weary sigh. "She is a tiny terror if she doesn't get the full nap," agreed, either feigning obliviousness to bitey intentions as he steals a carrot. "Much like her aunt Cita for that." It crunches as he points a crooked, smugly knowing look down at her for liking spice now, very carefully not saying a damn thing because he's running risks enough as is, but his shoulder just might bump hers as he grins ridiculously around the last of the vegetable. "I can think of one or two or twelve things," he says, off-hand, curving one arm around her side to pull her against him in a lopsided hug. "So alas, we must be magnanimous, give them a chance to save themselves."
Weird threat or no, Cita smiles like the sun, wiggling her shoulders a lttle with pride. She's still got it. Maybe more than ever! It's a good place to be, happily gnawing your way through food that doesn't smell like Actual Literal Death, threatening a weyrmate with…dismemberment? "Don't make me make you." She rejoins, nonsensically, still wholly pleasant as she takes another drink of the noxious-smelling tea. Maybe it's the sulking. "I'll show you stature. You don't really need your kneecaps." Oh! We're blatantly threatening now! Well, at least she's still smiling, humming happily around another massive bite of wherry. It's a good thing that her mouth is full too, because this time the thievin' gets a narrower look. Still, it is a vegetable, so he can take it. FOR NOW. "I'd hate for her to spend the rest of the day angry. I ordered a new book from Ierne, it should be delivered later." Her sunshiney nonsense doesn't even dim for the knowing look or the knock on her nap-crabby — that, at least, is a verifiable fact. For the best that they KNOW IT, too. The goldrider bumps shoulders, then leans a little sideways, rolling her eyes affectionately. "Don't choke on the carrot." The affectionate 'idiot' is, kindly, left silent. Look at her, being nice and everything, jostling the bronzerider with an elbow. "I suppose." Sigh. "If that brat from Nabol pantses Caniell again, though, I'll have him scrubbing every sharding bedpan in the infirmary until he's old and grey, though." You know. While they're on the subject of candidates.
It's true. Nothing quite lets you get away with murder like being preggers; neveryoumind that Cita can put the fear of god into R'hyn no matter what. A good beating or two with a shoe will do that to a guy. The bronzer in question scrunches his face for her rejoinder, as though pondering whether or not it makes sense. It must, since he replies with a head-waggled, "Don't make me make you make me, then." There's sass in that man's tone, but his hands shift none-too-subtly to settle on his kneecaps in a protective cup, because even if she doesn't take his legs off, they're still damn ticklish knees and that's the last thing we need right now, thank. "Then who'll carry you up the stairs to the galleries when you're out to here?" That handgesture around his stomach is so large it's almost rude. "Gotta think of the long-term ramifications here, Cita." His smirky little grin goes plastic for mention of a book, eyes sliding her way crookedwards, the arm around her shoulder tightening in threat of a good noogie. "What kind of book would that be? Surely a nice, pretty, illustrated one for Ibsy and Heri?" If not, here comes the fist! That elbow-dig doesn't dissuade him in the slightest, but latent affection does bid him drop his arm, looping loosely like a warm boa again. "Alas, family. Alas, eggs. Those times were simpler too." But judging by the press of his cheek to her temple and the disgusting quantity of fondness encapsulated in his tone, that isn't something he'd trade no matter the bargain or the simplicity gained. "Ila's already threatened him, I'm pretty sure. Or was that his twin? I still can't tell them apart." Aggrieved. "I can't tell if I want them to impress so that I can, or if I don't want them to so they'll fuck back to the dark hole from whence they came."
Cita: bringer of THE FEAR. It's a good title to have, on top of the various others that she's somehow managed to gather over the turns. "Make me not make you make me." She sasses right back, sunny as can sharding be, eyeing the kneecap-rubbing with a little smirk maybe a little bit on the mean side. Or possibly just amused. We'll go with amused. Sure. "Ila." Simply provided, if a little gloating — look, what good is having two weyrmates if you can't have both of them drag you up the stairs when you're — "HEY," Proddybrain hasn't got anything on pregnantbrain, which took a moment to catch up with the exaggerated gesturing. "You better hope I don't get that big, Heryn, unless you want a litter underfoot. Do you?" …that's a stupid question, and she knows it as soon as she's said it, shoulders slumping and eyes a'rollin'. SIGH. "Don't answer that." But she laughs, weakly, turning around to present an expression of such pristine innocence that it really doesn't bode well. "Of course it's for them. It's by a harper acquaintance." Say nothing about the rest of the order, which. Well. They'll get to that later, if those gleefully twinkling eyes have anything to say. She won't be saying anything on the subject just yet, instead smugly waiting for what noogies might come. BRING. IT. "Hrmph." As for before eggs and before family; she probably wouldn't trade it either, pain in the ass men or no. Not that she'll likely say anything of the sort, except to hum happily, snorting under her breath. "Good. He deserved it. Shells, does it even matter? I think they both probably deserve it. I…" Eyes narrow. "If they Impress, it'll be a sharding mess."
It has a ring to it. Cita: Bringer of Fear. R'hyn: Bringer of Sass. Ila'den: Bringer of Preggo Citayzleats. "Ugh," Heryn sighs, not because he forgot Ila in this weird pregnant-math going on here, but because he'd hoped she would. "Well, that'd be a sight to see, at any rate. Very well, he can carry you, and I'll watch." And laugh, if the mirth already filtering through his tone is anything to judge by. His twisty little grin only deepens for that admittedly kinda-stupid question, and though he complies and does not provide her with an immediate verbal response, the answer is written all over his face anyways: Yes. Yes he does. Twinkling blue-greys watch her expressions morph, attentive, droll, doing his best to maintain silence until he just can't manage any longer. "The more, the merrier, no matter how much Ila might fight me on that front," he murmurs at length, and perhaps it's for the best they've wandered off onto this tangent: he plumb forgets to follow up on threats and noogie poor Cita, settling for gently jostling her instead. "Why don't I believe you," sotto voce, aiming another reproof-filled look her way before he finally pulls back. "That is the hazard of courting chaos, you know. Sometimes you're stuck with them." Using the candidates as a metaphor for their weyr? PROBABLY, those eyes gone way too soft to be talking about just candidates. "Guess we'll just have to see, hmm?" Head tilt. "C'mon. If you're about done with this, I'm going to put her down to a proper nap and try my hand at baking those little cakes again. I think I finally figured out what made them explode last time." His used dishes are gathered and deposited, daughter carefully shifted and lifted, head lolling comically before it settles against his shoulder, laughter tamped down as he picks up his paperwork and tucks it between her and his chest before offering Cita a gallant arm, should she choose to accompany him weyr-wards.
Cita: Bringer of Fear grins maybe a little mockingly, eyes still bright. "Fine. You can bring the bags, then." The bags of food, if her ravenous appetite has anything to say about it. She's mostly through, now, but it's a messy process, and did she really need so many spices strong enough to make noses run? Maybe. Maybe not. Who's to say. Not the goldrider, who's downed it all with aplomb, and takes another long drink of tea as R'hyn does respond, drawing a huff of laughter that's maybe a little devious. "It's two against one." She whispers, beaming again and waggling with the jostling with another laugh. She's mum on the subject of what nefarious books she might also have found more off (he'll see those soon enough), finishing off the last of the salad with doe-eyed innocence that probably isn't in the least convincing. "Mmmmhm." Agreement on the subject of being stuck with the chaos, because honestly. Who could really complain too much, except for Cita when she has to sanitize the KITCHEN COUNTERS for the THIRD TIME IN A SEVENDAY, R'HYN. It's not said, thankfully, not even implied beyond a mournful kind of nosewrinkle, humming again in assent. "Was the problem me?" The baking problem. It probably was. "If you burn down the weyr, where are we going to live." She doesn't disagree with the notion of baking, though — more's the pity, probably. She does feather a kiss on top of Heribly's head in passing, though, because it's right there and unkissed, before taking the gallant arm. "Let's go before they catch us." FLEE, R'HYN.