Who

Bailey, Hannah

What

Meanwhile, while K'ane and Cha'el are negotiating, Hannah and Bailey deal with a problem in the weyr… in the most explosive way possible. Really, this does not end well.

Mild girl stripping.

When

It is evening of the first day of the seventh month of the second turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Administrative Offices, Southern Weyr

OOC Date

 

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"We could consider it… a controlled burn."



Administrative Offices

Here is a place of tidiness, a small section separate from the offices of weyrwomen and headmen, for the communal area-heads of Southern to do work. There are little niches for privacy, and a big table in the middle, almost conference-room style except for the fact that most everyone uses it to catch working lunches on. Hidework waits for no (wo)man… but neither does lunch!


Timor: moon2.jpg
Belior: moon3.jpg

-- On Pern --
It is 8:49 AM where you are.
It is evening of the first day of the seventh month of the second turn of the 12th pass.
In Igen:
It is the sixty-first day of Summer and 107 degrees. Mercilessly bright, Rukbat's light heats the desert as a small dark cloud appears on the horizon.
In Southern:
It is the sixty-first day of Winter and 37 degrees. Still dark and overcast, the winter rain has picked up and become heavier, albeit still pleasant.
In Southern Mountains:
It is the sixty-first day of Winter and 0 degrees. It's really damn cold out.



The clash of elements is inevitable, iced iron cold and harsh against the redolent serenity of sand and soft light. Unseelie as Khalyssrielth is, there shant be any question of the mercurial humor that wafts as frigid thermals, twining about delicate icicles of something much like reserved consternation. Bailey, of course, her concerns showing through as crackling jade lightning entrapped forever in an iced-over snowglobe. « Mine, » silibant whisper slithers as sleek as her composition, rich with honeyed amusement and spiced with her typical cruelty, « Requests the presence of yours in the administrative offices. » (From Khalyssrielth)

Dhiammarath thinks to you, « I bespoke Khalyssrielth with: Pliant sands and soft light hue a mindscape deceptively gentle, with lanterns that flicker with finger-sized fires to cast golden highlights and umber shadows across the starkness of the serenity of a zen garden. Mercurial humor is noted, and even appreciated, though her own response is as exacting as a Lady's. « Mine will be along shortly. » Lemongrass wafts the senses, a wash of jade stealing across the twilight skies, casting everything to ethereal hue. In contrast to the sibilant whisper, hers is the flame of the sun: vibrant, bright, and hot to burn away the shadows of the unseelie cruelty… insofar as she bothers to, that is. »



So listen, when Hannah comes around to the offices, she may be warned in advance that SOMETHING IS AMISS… because there's nobody around. NOBODY, in this typically-bustling side-corridor, except for the discreetest of guards slouching against the wall close to where one turns off. It's Rhiex, and he's in off-duty clothes, paring an orange idly.

It is not long after that summons, that Hannah arrives with her own guards in discrete tow as well as what might be a messenger girl — they dissipate when they see the sight of Rhiex paring an orange. Dressed sharply in a long-sleeved ruby-red dress that brings to mind all the pale fairness of her hair and skin, the senior takes amoment of pause as the clatter of sharp-soled heels fall to a soft silence. "What's going on?" This question is asked of Rhiex, although quickly does she turn to the girl and scribble something onto the hide that might be a note and signature. Yes, she lingers for a response from Rhiex.

"Oh, I haven't a clue, weyrwoman." Rhiex is milking this appearance of off-duty-ness, still lounging against the wall with his orange. "I'm just hanging out." He's not CAPABLE of hanging out. It's so far past his normal behavioral repertoire it's not even funny. "Do you need me to do something?" He is damnably good at concealing emotion, his expression guileless that lifts to catch against Hannah's. The only hint of something amiss comes from the crook at the corner of his mouth, as if he can't quite dismiss a lingering amusement.

Immediately thereafter, a muffled sound comes from down the hall — it rises, asymmetrical and staccato, before abruptly being silenced.

Pale brows draw inward as emerald green eyes stare long into Rhiex's before Hannah presses her lips together in utter confusion and turns to walk towards the offices. The messenger girl salutes and melts away, but not before giving the guard the waggle lift of brows. Hey baby, call me maybe? Rather than the sharp-clack of heels to stone, Hannah's stance changes slightly and so it is on silent feet that she ducks into the offices. Helllloooooooooo Baileeeeeey? Mouth opens as the tiny goldrider seems about to call out her junior's name, but possibly waiting to see what she finds FIRST.

Rhiex can be heard to dryly chuckle after Hannah starts walking down the hall. Not creepy at all, right? The price of discretion is personality, or so it would seem.

Oh, the glorious CHAOS that Hannah stumbles upon once she peeks into the offices. For one, there is icing EVERYWHERE, most likely because there was a cake settled on the scarred surface of the skybroom table that has long lasted within this room. It looks like it was once an awesome cake, too, a wedding cake perhaps, tiered and gorgeously adorned: obviously only the work of one brilliant baker residing within the kitchens of Southern. Except… except. It looks like someone has taken half of that cake by FISTFULS and THROWN it at every available surface. To make matters worse, Ardstelle can be seen slumped in the farthest chair, her outrageous blue eyeshadow streaked and running down her face. She's been crying, that much is obvious, but by the half-emptied vodka bottle on the table, she must be EXTREMELY FUCKING DRUNK. Bailey is standing next to her, talking intently.

"B-b-b-but I thought he L-L-L-LOVED ME," comes the drunk-crying-hiccuped wail.

Hannah's greeting dies on her lips when she sees the sight that graces the Administrative offices. At first, all she sees is a mess that graces every surface with icing, and then she sees the woman — the cook — slumped in a chair and a sudden fury flushes pale cheeks and widen's eyes. "What in Faranth's name happened here?!" Ire rises in cold, sepulcher tones as eyes sweep through the carnage to finally land on Bailey. The woman's words only cause a brief stumble as Hannah wraps the weight of the responsibility of Senior Werywoman around her shoulder. "Bailey, what in shards is going on?" The cook is eyed like she's going to start throwing cake EVERYWHERE.

Ardstelle's eyes go alarmingly wide at Hannah's cracking ire, and then the silver-haired baker just puts her face down on the table, heedless of the icing that streaks the surface, and starts into another round of hiccuping sobs. Bailey looks momentarily annoyed, then turns a look of relief to Hannah. "Apparently our good Head Cook was set to be handfasted yesterday," she lightly states, long strides taking her to Hannah. With an eyeballing over to where Ardstelle unashamedly weeps, she lowers her voice to talk to Hannah in quick, urgent tones.

You overhear Bailey mutter, "… didn't … … The whole … … … … cruel … … … got … feet, … … drunk … a … She … … … … here … … … … seen her, but … need … keep … … … if … … … to … her …" to Hannah.

As soon as Bailey starts muttering, Hannah's eyes clear of the initial ire as everything snaps into place. "Faranth's sake, Bailey," she hisses, from where she's been drawn away. Her expression is one-part sympathetic and one-part (okay the largest part) annoyed. "If it's a cruel joke, we'll get to the bottom of it," that level of cruelty draws deeper the voice into the shadows of the crypt as no one, no one wants to see Hannah drawn to the killing edge and on the war path of destruction. A soft murmur is given back to her junior with thin-pressed lips and intensity of expression that's focused directly on Ardstelle.

You overhear Hannah mutter, "… let's … this cake out of here. Have … move it. … … just have to … this … … saying there's … … fire. Not even Renalde can know. That … … going … … … hefty dunking into a cold … … right … … … sober … up. … … best … to discretely … … … … … … … so help me, Bailey. … I … out this … a … joke, I … make … example … them … stringing … … by their BALLS!" to Bailey.

Ardstelle yet cries on the table. Bailey obviously has a softer moment than Hannah's annoyance, her expression landing on the poor woman with obvious pity. She's just so SAD, man, crying in the remains of her wedding cake. She side-eyes her weyrwoman for a long moment at the words Hannah issues, then purses her lips slightly. She murmurs something back and then her eyes turn flinty cold at the end: "If it's a joke, I will kill him myself." She probably said that too loud, because Ardstelle's crying takes a turn for the worst. As in, hyperventilating worst.

You overhear Bailey mutter, "… don't … … … … … … going to sober … up, Hannah. … … … … … … … … … … not … how she's not … … … … … … … … … … going … … … … up … cake, … we want … … … … into …" to Hannah.

Hannah is not without sympathy for the woman — anyone who would be without sympathy would be a cold-hearted bastard — but it's just that the sympathy lurks beneath the surface, softening the edges of her features and bringing something sharp to her eyes and nose. The woman's louder sobs do pluck at heartstrings, but those heartstrings have been carefully tucked away behind the facade of leadership, a practice needed around others not Bailey. With Bailey… "I just wish she hadn't tossed her cake everywhere." Because yes, they are going to have to clean this up. "All right, well." Ardstelle is eyed. Walking over towards the plump cook, Hannah settles a light hand on the woman's shoulder and allows the natural goodness to soften features and push back the feral ferocity of emerald eyes. "It'll be okay, but just… don't move." As in, this chair is yours, Ardstelle. There are many like it, but this one is yours. "We'll clean this up and then we'll get you bathed and settled in bed." A side-glance is given to Bailey. "Looks like it's mops and buckets for us." And this, she's in her good dress with all the ploofy skirts.

Oh, it's easy to see the disgust filter back into Bailey's face when she observes the MOMEUNTOUS MESS they are now afflicted with. "Yes, I think… ugh, when I get my hands on who did this…" She doesn't mean Ardstelle, likely. The drunk woman is finally starting to at least hiccup down to a mere face-crumbled cry rather than her earlier squalling. Bailey takes it upon herself to pour the dredges of the klah mug into a cup and put it in front of the woman before taking a brief step outside, likely to communicate with Rhiex. She's gone for a moment — probably to set up a blockade due to the 'fire' — and in the meanwhile Ardstelle looks up with great bloodshot eyes and a blubbery, "I'm so sorry, Hannah. I'm so sorry. I d-d-didn't m-m-m-mean for it t-t-to happen like…" Her 'this' is more of a teakettle noise of pain, and there she goes SLIDING RIGHT BACK INTO TEARS.

"Come on, then," Hannah says when Bailey returns and pours the klah into the mug in front of Ardstelle. "Help me out of this dress." She can't exactly get down to cleaning all trussed up like a turnover turkey, now can she. And given that the stays on the thing are all tiny and delicate in rows of pretty pearly buttons down the BACK, the only way Hannah's getting out of it herself is either by someone undoing them all or ripping herself out of the garment, which so isn't happening. She shoots a glance a Bailey, then Ardstelle who's fallen to tears again, and mutters on a sigh something that won't get the woman back to making dying whale sounds.

You overhear Hannah mutter, "I wish … could … her into … cone … … … … … … sling … everwhere?? … … be bad of … to … want … … a … … just … it burn … … … Because… … Bailey. …" to Bailey.

Listen, you shouldn't SAY these things. Bailey leans back and STARES SPECULATIVELY. "You know, that's not a half-bad idea," she slowly, slowly says. Is that a pyromaniac gleam? "They would wonder about it if we didn't burn at least something." And why not burn all of the cake. WHY NOT Hannah. "We could consider it… a controlled burn." Oh god Hannah this is why you are in charge, isn't it.

"Riiiiiight?" Hannah glances at Bailey from over her shoulder while waiting for her fellow goldrider to help her out of the dress that tightly binds her in all it's trappings. "If we're careful, and only let it burn up this area…" she gestures to the cake, a gleam come to emerald eyes. "We could even be trickier about it and not tell Rhiex. A little oopsie, right?" She shrugs her shoulders in nonchalance. "Only you, me and Ardstelle will know and she's too far gone to even remember. Why look, she's about to pass out." Half-turning, tiny fists clutched into the skirts of her dress, she drops her voice and tilts her head up to Bailey's. "I don't want to clean cake. Do you want to clean cake?" Sometimes, Hannah being in charge is as mercurial as Khalyssrielth's unseelie self. Doesn't anyone remember all of Hannah's, ah, adventures? Who'll gainsay her now? NO ONE.

NO ONE. And you have Bailey here to throw tinder on the fire. Oh, come on, lets face it, Bailey is here to throw GALLONS OF GASOLINE on the fire. "I don't want to clean cake," she states, lifting her hands. "I just got my nails done." Because that totally is reason enough to commit arson in the admin offices. "I can call Jameson. He's a fuckin' fire junkie. He'd set this table on fire, stat." She eyes it. "We could even smash the vodka bottle!" Her voice is bright. The weyr is stone, anyhow — it's not like they could do LASTING damage… uh… right?

"No, no. It's got to be just us. When we set the fire, we let the cake burn and the other stuff…" Hannah gestures to some cake-spattered bits of the office, "… and then call for the guard. Ardstelle passes out from smoke after having been found sick," to cover her drunken ass, "and tomorrow, when she's sober, we will have a very, very frank talk with her." Taking a few steps towards the cake, she dips a finger in it and tastes it. Hey, it's masterwork. Might as well have a slice of despair and tears before it goes up in flames, literally. "Just… it's our secret. The fewer people who know, the better. I will go get a lantern from the stores. And some booze. You start pouring the vodka on the … well. Everything." Marching orders given, Hannah makes to swoop out and get this bad boy done! Nothing can go wrong, right?! (Something's totally going to go wrong.)

"Jameson's my firelizard," Bailey absently comments. "It'd be just us." Unless you count the possibility of a firelizard broadcasting PYROMANIC thoughts to the whole weyr… but eh, that could never happen, right? No matter, Hannah's sweeping to the exit. Unwilling to go without, Bailey reaches forwards to pinch off a piece of cake-and-icing together and almost melts. "Faranth," it sounds more holy than anything Bailey's ever said, "This tastes like…" Ardstelle at this point in time has decided to be cognizant of her surroundings and wails, "Happiness. It tastes like HAPPINESS," before her face crumples and, of all unforeseen things, she passes out on the table. THUNK. She's not dead… is she? "Uh."

Hannah's stopped before she can leave when Bailey clears up who Jameson is. "Oh. Well that's easier. Maybe we won't need more alcohol than the vodka, not if we use some of these non-important papers and books." They can sacrifice some nonessential stuff for the sake of keeping such a secret, right? Rather than opening the door, she leans over to haul up a stack of books and start laying them out near the cake. "She's just passed out. But maybe we should move her away from where," pause, "you know, the fire will be." Hannah eyes Bailey. Bailey is the taller of the two and the one probably with more muscles given that Bailey's the one that does the sparring. Ardstelle is a two-woman job, though. "Think your Jameson can light all this on fire?"

As if on CUE, here comes the little bronzen devil, dark and ugly and chattering excessively at the thought of being able to LIGHT SOMETHING LEGIT on fire. FIRE FIRE FIRE! Ahem. Bailey uncorks the vodka and starts slowly pouring the liquid over the books and the table. And, mournfully, the cake. (She steals another pinch, though.) "Too bad we can't take some of this to go," she muses, but that's way too much evidence. Anyhow. Bailey eyes the woman and SIGHS loudly. "No, no, I think I've got her. I'll take her chair with her." Way easier to drag a chair with a body than to just drag a body. Even then, Bailey has to put some ASS into it, flexing those hard-won muscles as the SCREEEEE of chair-legs against stone rings out. At one point, "Hey, could you push her back into the chair a little?" Since she's kind of SLIDING OUT OF IT thanks to Bailey's efforts.

Hey. Hannah wants a pinch of that vodka too. Before it all goes to waste on that beautiful cake. "It is sad, but we can have another bite of it before we light it on fire." It's cake… flambee, right? She watches Bailey manhandle the chair and plump woman atop it before scurrying over to push at Ardstelle's soft stomach and flanks to get the woman better situated. All in all, this room isn't exactly like a cathedral. And they are surrounded by flammable things. The potential for this to end badly is pretty, hilariously, probably high. "Okay. I think we're read. Wait!" Hannah stalls herself by tossing a boring treatise upon the cake-pyre. "I never liked that one anyway." Pause. "Think we should hang a little further back? It'll be a slow burn, right?" HAHAHAHA. C'mon. It's going to go up in FLAMES.

"I would think so. I mean, a little poof at first," Bailey has failed in the typicall smart-person way, thinking that she could do anything with a little bit of basics known. Engineering? Pfft come on she's been a fire engineer all her life! THINK OF THE FLAME THROWERS! A little bitty bronze firelizard's flame? Can't be bad at all. She pulls Ardstelle a little bit further and then stalls Jameson once more: "Wait I really want another piece." Of cake. She darts over to scoop a vodka-smeared piece right from the top and cheerfully bounces back towards where Hannah and Passed_Out!Ardstelle abide. "Are you ready?" Bailey sounds so cheerful! This couldn't possibly end horribly!

When Bailey goes in for another piece, so does Hannah. Her hands are getting smeared with cake as she shoves a rather large piece into her mouth. "If I didn't know better, I'd think I was pregnant given how much of this sharding thing I want." But she's very firmly not pregnant, kthx. "It's just so damn good." Licking the frosting off of tiny fingers, the senior weyrwoman sidles closer to Bailey's side while eyes gleam with intent. "Yes. Let's get this party started." Beat. "Light her up!!" Luckily, the walls are thick enough that Rhiex can't just hear them.

There could be odes written about the fire that spreads the moment Jameson belts out a little flame towards the table. A thousand words couldn't even being to express the moment: the sickly-sweet scent of icing caramelizing then burning, cake charring, wood roasting and pages crackling. But see, all of that comes after the near-sonic-boom that shakes the undercaverns. There was a lot of vodka in that bottle: enough to shake Jameson ::between:: automatically. A thousand words couldn't begin to describe that calamity, but one word is all one really needs to visualize the air closing in with the sudden torrent of flame that licks high: FWOOSH.

That moment hangs on a precipice: Jameson's little body shooting that little flame. Hannah's fingers dig into the ploofy skirts of her dress — a bad wardrobe decision in hindsight — as she draws in a breath as she eagerly awaits that cake to go up in flame. When it does, Southern's senior weyrwoman is momentarily taken aback, pushed into Bailey by the force of that single torrent of flame that sucks all of the oxygen from the room and fills it with the sudden, heated burn of smoke and ash. Blindly, small hands grapple with the other goldrider as she manages to cough out, "Bailey, Bailey… is that supposed to happen — FARANTH MY SKIRT!" See, Bailey. Now would be the time to start ripping dresses. C'mon, you know you wanna, because otherwise, all that silk's gonna go up in flames.

"WHAT THE FUCK." Bailey wasn't non-affected either: and JUST as her hair was starting to grow back, DAMMIT, there singes a good handful on the left side of her face.. and the most of one of her eyebrows. WHOOPS. Ardstelle shatters awake about now and starts screaming "FIRE! FIRE!" before that transforms into "MY CAKE! MY BEAUTIFUL CAKE!" Maybe she forgot she destroyed it. In RUSHES Rhiex… right in time to catch Bailey SHREDDING Hannah's dress off her, singed face set in grim lines. "UHHH." He eyes the three of them, throws Ardstelle over a shoulder — no mean feat, let's face it — and books it for the door. "COME ON BEFORE IT SPREADS!" he shouts, his voice already rough from the smoke. Oh the smoke. It's EVERYWHERE, a roiling black cloud.

Rhiex is treated to the slim, tiny lines of Hannah just in one of those chemisole things that women wear under their dresses. All that pale, moonlight colored hair is hanging aorund her face and colored in hints of soot and ash. "Do you — " Excuse her while a momentary flicker of awe crosses her features at the sight of the guard carting the rather plump cook away over his shoulder. "Did you SEE that, Bailey?!" But then the women really need to get a move on as smoke roils around them, the flames getting hotter as it eats through the cake, the table, the books, the papers and migrates straight into the storemaster's offices. Wood pops, flames reach higher, and if they're not careful, they'll be consumed entirely. "C'mon, Bailey!" Little hand grasps her fellow sister-in-arms and she runs towards the door. "Faranth, how did this happen?!" Because, they have a ruse to protect, see. Their only saving grace is that the flash-fire BOOM and FWOOOOOOSH cosumed the evidence of their accelerant.

< Southern Weyr > Dhiammarath senses that: Southern's senior queen's touch is a rolling sense of heat that spreads outwards, touching all of the minds of those within her domain. The flicker-fire of lantern light flares to blinding brilliance as the dark spike of sudden emotion is wound through the soft senses of sand and romantic light. Gone is the sweetgrass and lemon as it is consumed from the outside in, leaving little to be misconstrued. « Fire. » The clarion bell of alarm is driven into each draconic mind she touches, driving them to push a desire those tethered to them to aid the weyr. « Mine and Khalyssrielth's risk death. » Perhaps melodramatic, but there's a sense of two women — one short and one tall — fleeing the choking smoke of the depths of the weyr while fire threatens. With a lone guard struggling beneath the weight of a plump woman. « Fire. » (Dhiammarath)

<Southern Weyr> Dhiammarath senses that: Sikorth thinks « In an instant, that sentinel presence idling in the skies just outside of the Weyr, snaps to attention in a thunderous BOOM of canon fire. « We come!! » That is it. Nothing more. Over and out. Seconds later the wingleaders of the various wings are rallied with clipped instructions conveyed via the draconic grapevine to set up a water line of buckets. »


Good thing Pern doesn't have fire marshals. "Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeit son!" because her eyes are as big as Hannah's, momentarily awed by Rhiex's show of strength. What? Then she's scrabbling for the door, dragging and being dragged along by Hannah. Come ON fellow cake-drunk love monkey, let us GET OUT OF HERE… while the getting's good.

<Southern Weyr> Dhiammarath senses that: Now is not the time to dally - Desmeth flings his bourbon to one side, slips off his house coat and into his cape. « Mine is close! She comes! She… wonders if anyone brought corn? » Desmeth. Over and out. Confused. (Desmeth)



Good thing, indeed! "Run, run!" Down the hall they run, feet pattering as Rhiex manages to save the lives of both of Southern's weyrwomen. C'mon, bragging rights… right? The roar caused by her lifemate gets a little bit of a groan, but the fire itself seems to have a life of its own. It'll take a team of people to put out and when it is all said and done? There's nothing left of the original incident (which will go down as their secret forevermore), but there's also little left of the administrative offices and the storemaster's offices. Seems like Southern might be in for a tricky winter… only time will TELL.
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