Cha'el, Hannah


The aftermath of the flight where realizations are met.


It is late night of the twenty-second day of the first month of the second turn of the 12th pass.


Stores, Southern Weyr

OOC Date


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A vast and sprawling cavern, the main storage area of the weyr is well-tended by the loving and stern hands of those who oversee the bounty stored within. Depending on the time of day, it is a place of illuminated neatness, stacks of dry goods and foodstuffs labeled clearly… or it is a place of werelight and stygian darkness that taunts those who would dare challenge the depths thereof.

Timor: moon6.jpg
Belior: moon5.jpg

-- On Pern --
It is 9:29 AM where you are.
It is late night of the twenty-second day of the first month of the second turn of the 12th pass.
In Southern:
It is the eighty-second day of Summer and 105 degrees. It is sunny and bright. The skies are clear.

In a haze of lust and death, Cha'el would have found Hannah in the storerooms of Southern Weyr, waiting for him to catch her in the same way Sikorth caught Dhiammarath. It's not long, this frenetic moment between the bronze and goldrider that now rule Southern Weyr, that garners the quick shred of clothing, buttons and seams tearing as their dragons drive to that final moment of copulation. Despite everything that happened above, this moment is about them and their dragons, and the expenditure of energy between the pair of them leaves sleep to fall upon them in the heat of gasping breath and the slide of slippery, sweat-soaked bodies. Some point in the deeper hours of night — not quite the smaller, wee candlemarks — Hannah rouses, sprawled across an unfamiliar chest, pale hair like a curtain of moonlight that catches the light of the glows. "Mmmph. Faranth. Th'seus. It's your turn to get the baby." This is what's stated when the goldrider slooooowly comes back to life, complete with the jab of finger to the 'ribs' of the male body beneath her. "C'mon. I got him last." Maybe she dreams of such mundane things as home life, though she gives a languorous stretch as she does so. In that moment, she freezes. Wait. This is not normal.

Spent. Physically and mentally finished, sleep is quick to stalk Southern's new Weyrleader drawing him down into inky oblivion. Ardstelle will probably have a lot say about the state of the kitchen and the particular wobble this table's legs now have to it but that is the very last thing on his mind when Cha'el is stirred from sleep by a poke in the ribs. "Quit it, Ksenia." The brownrider grumbles and lifts a hand that feels like it weighs a ton to bat at the woman's hand jabbing into his side. But something is wrong. Its not the wood at his back or even the odd smells of food clinging to the air that rings an alarm bell. It's the feminine form sprawled across him. Shorter, daintier, wrongly proportioned. Cracking an eyelid, he catches a flash of pale gold glinting in glowlight and as Hannah does, Cha'el freezes. Shit!! Ever so slowly lids lifts and then flutter in a double blink. "Fuuuuck." Comes the low groan as slivers of the hours before flicker in and out of memory.

"Ks-what?" Hannah props her head up, about to rail into Th'seus for another woman's name on his lips when she comes face to face with Cha'el. Emerald green eyes widen briefly, but then something settles around her. Some of that feral darkness doesn't leave the goldrider, now Senior Weyrwoman, as the mantle of responsibility is a permanent change. "Interesting reaction," this is not the same woman that threw up on the brownrider the last time he caught. This is a woman who's coming into a power she now possesses, and it is with a smooth motion that has her pulling her slight body off of his chest. She is like spun moonlight, fragile and delicate. Yet something steely lingers beneath. She affixes a stare upon Cha'el, weighty and deep from where she now crouches beside him. "Weyrleader." A title given to him, bestowed upon him, by her. And then, she reaches for her dress. The liquid grace of flight's lust is still with her, even with the aching stretch of muscles used.
In these places are these people:

As soon as Hannah moves, he tenses. This is a joke, right? Someone slipped something into his drink and they're going to come busting into the kitchen laughing it up. But one look at the goldrider's face, the hint of steel latticed beneath delicate features and the pit of Cha'el's stomach falls away. Swallowing slowly he pushes up onto his elbows and then rolls up into a sitting position and stares back at her. Not ogling. Not leering. Not even really seeing the dainty creamy proportions of her figure. Nope. He's too busy trying to wrap his brain around the title bestowed upon him by his lifemate's ambitions and her proclamation. "I don't want it." A low mumble as he shakes a bleary head and sweeps their immediate vicinity for his pants. Ah there. Thrown over the pile of tubers waiting to be peeled. "Sikorth is brown." Juuust in case Dhiammarath is color blind or something.

Eyes narrow dangerously just before she tosses the dress over her head and fluffs her hair out to spread like a shawl around her shoulders. The thin straps slip down the points of her shoulders where they were torn in the aftermath. "You," her voice is dark pitched to midnight graveyards, "don't get a choice, Weyrleader." Heavy is her tone, leveled upon him without giving him succor. "If you didn't want it, if Sikorth didn't want it, you wouldn't have flown." She leans in from where she stands, small enough to make it possible when he sits up. A whisper, threaded with import, "Stop lying to yourself. Color means nothing when it is the dragon that catches. Some part of you, him, her and I wanted this." She pulls back and regards Cha'el, her eyes holding very little for him to read except a dark strength.

Pausing before standing, Cha'el narrows an intent look onto the petite goldrider, now Senior Weyrwoman. "No. And neither did I get any time to prepare for anything like this." The brownriding Weyrleader comes back with. "Sikorth would also like to sire gold but we both know that's never going to happen. You, on the other hand…" Bare feet to rock, he straightens to his full height, edges around Hannah and retrieves his pants. "Were trained for this from the moment Dhiammarath hatched. Always knowing it was a possibility so excuse me if I need a moment here to…catch up." Yanking pliant leather up about lean hips, Cha'el pauses in refastening them even although only two of the four remain in place with the other two possibly mixed in with the bowl of chopped nuts and the flour ready for the morning fair of nutty buns. Hands drop to his sides and then lift to palm from bearded chin and up over his face, flattening dark hair in need of a trim to his skull. Quiet for a long time, he exhales a long sigh and fixes her with an intent look. "Sikorth and I will do our best by you and Southern. But I'm going to need a day or two to straighten things back ho…back in Igen."

"You are a brownriding male," Hannah's voice is a whisper in the intimate darkness of the store rooms. "This was always a possibility." Still, she still has a heart, a softness within her. It's just now getting surrounded by the mantle of responsibility and the stonework to shield against the world. "Of course," this she concedes, with the barest hint of a smile before she ducks her head and tucks the pale strands behind her ears. "You wouldn't have won if you were not ready," is what she puts upon him, finally, in possible ease of his transition. "Weyrsecond is only one step down from Weyrleader, after all." A touch pointed but, nevertheless true. She reaches out to briefly lay a hand on his arm. "Truly." Is it comfort she offers? It is hard to tell, because as much as she tries to act confident, she's got her own issues to deal with. Senior is no easier to wear than Weyrleader, and a hint of that vulnerability shows.

Cha'el has no idea where his shirt went to but he's distracted from looking for it by that soft touch of hand to his arm and words of reassurance that Hannah offers. There's a faint nod of head, hair dried from recent exertions curling in lopsided whorls here and there. So much to process, the enormity of Sikorth's win settles in dribs and drabs. The knuckles of a hand hurt, the side of his jaw has a dull ache to it and a muscle in his lower back all serve reminder that in the moment, he'd fought just as hard as his dragon had. Little by little a veneer of confidence slots into place. Blue eyes take on a grim determination and the brownrider's jaw sets when broad shoulders square. A quick smile emerges and spying his shirt hanging off the top of a cupboard, Cha'el steps into Hannah's sphere of personal space on his way to get it. His words are quiet and delivered with a solemn edge of solidarity. "I won't tell, if you don't." A pause, a twitch of hand toward one of those broken straps but it falls back to his side. "We can do this." That resolve growing ever stronger settles deeper. "Together."

Hannah lifts her eyes to meet her new Weyrleader's, swallowing hard before another smile slips free. "Deal." This deal of theirs cements at least the first foundation of how they'll work together. "Of course we can," the steel hidden beneath all of her delicacy comes out with a playful edge dipped in determination. "Our dragons wouldn't let us down, would they?" Don't answer that. "Take care of your," battle, "wounds, too. Human bites are notoriously fester-y." Hey, he might have a few scratches from her somewhere on his body. Who knows? The night has been filled hazy memories. "Together." Solidarity, before she starts towards the kitchens. "Now, I've got someone to go soothe and a baby to take care of and a bath to be had," she wrinkles her nose, "I smell like tubers." And sex, but who's counting that? "You'll have to be stronger than they are," is her parting comment, as she starts to make her way out. Hannah rather expects him to follow as perhaps there's a bit of strategy to take place on their way out of there.

His shirt retrieved, pulled back over his head and a grimace given for the tear in it where a thing leather thong had laced down the front had once been, Cha'el does what he can to make it look halfway decent. There's a twitch of shoulders and a flicker across dark brows when scratches and yes, a bite mark brush against fabric. Those are going to take some explaining when he gets back to Igen. Brought into stark reminder when Hannah remarks on wounds. A frown drops down. "Shit." Flat. "Aye, and Ksenia's probably thrown the rest of my shit off the ledge because I'm so late." Socks are pulled on and boots shoved into place. With a bit of tugging and pulling at clothing and a poor attempt to scrub at his hair - yes, everyone knows what they've been up to but no point in looking like something the cat dragged in (Ha!) - Cha'el is right there with Hannah when she exits the kitchens. Solidarity shown from the get-go in this first 'public appearance'. "We can handle them." Firm. And so, the newly dragon elected Southern Weyrleaders quietly leave with as much dignity in place as possible and for now, go their separate ways.

Hannah might give Cha'el a really weird look for that last comment, but by the time the public's eye is upon them, her expression is schooled into one of neutrality and distance. The now Senior Weyrwoman holds herself aloof, as they walk out together to go their separate ways. Hannah to deal with — find out what happened with the death of Taodath and Cha'el to attend his duties in Igen. Hey, at least he didn't get a knife to his back!
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