“Loyalty”

Late night and most of the Weyr slumbers in the brief respite from summer’s brutal heat. Only a few souls wander at these hours and Divale is no stranger to them. It’s not patrols that lead her in to the inner caverns and tunnels of the Weyr, but a more personal matter; one she is still cautious to keep to the ‘off’ times between her duties and usual patterns to avoid curious suspicions. Her steps slow to a gradual stop not by some questionable establishment but the Weyr’s very own creche. The nanny on duty spies her lurking in the half shadows, familiar enough now by the Wingsecond’s silent approach not to be unsettled.

“He just finished feeding and isn’t settling as he ought. Would you like to see him?” the older woman offers, while the implied suggestion that she may comfort him is unspoken. Divale only nods and minutes later is settling in the farthest corner with the infant cradled against her. Briefly she marvels over how rapid the boy has already grown and wonders if Cascabel has noted the same when she visits her son on occasion.

As she sits there in the dimly lit room, Divale feels the usual surge of old memories and wounds surface whenever she lingers like this with Campion. She’ll allow her thoughts to race, but keeps most her heart hardened and emotionally detached.

It never occurred to her until now just how eerily parallel some recent events came to the past. How one she had loved would have had a child of her own by now, but they’re gone now. As were all their hopes and dreams, reduced to nothing but ash and dust. Maybe this time, it will be different, but Divale holds little hope. She wasn’t enough before and so far has failed to be enough for anyone here. The only thing binding her to this child is her promise to Cascabel and the unbearable guilt in what befell her sister that fuels it; she refuses to believe (or see) that it could be anything more.

As though picking up on her building negativity, Campion begins to fuss in her arms. Instinctively, Divale soothes him, but still he does not settle. Even before she realizes it, she has begun to hum and the words that follow are no more than a rusty, hushed whisper as she plucks bits and pieces from her dark thoughts.

“… hush child, the darkness will rise from the deep and carry you down into sleep. Guileless son, I’ll shape your belief and you’ll always know your father is a thief, and you won’t understand the cause of your grief, but you’ll always follow the voices beneath…”

The would-be lullabye does the trick. With the infant now asleep, Divale returns him to the care of the nanny, who wordlessly accepts him back.

As before and as she’ll continue to do, Divale leaves without a single word or glance back.

In a few days time, the scenario will repeat itself and the nanny will take quite note that each time extends by a small margin.

But she will keep this knowledge to herself.

OOC: Totally riffed the ‘lyrics’ from Mordred’s Lullaby by Heather Dale — https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ny7NZPfl0l4 because it somewhat suits (plus I like the melody)

“Weary”

He still can’t shake it off. That awful sickening lurch as he feels the world begin to tilt under the weight of the news sinking into his ever-stubborn thoughts. Even as he took the news to heart, his mind balked and refused to accept reality.

Why her?

Va’os had gone to her side the moment he could, if just to reassure himself that she wasn’t dead, but still very much alive (if terribly injured). Part of him wanted to leave everything on D’wane’s shoulders and he’d deal with the repercussions later but he didn’t.

He found he really didn’t like the sensation of feeling ripped in two between duty and his own personal life. Whispers of his past remind him that he’d been caught in a similar scenario before and only he knows how that turned out.

As he paced the confines of his cluttered weyr, he checked in again with Tsiroth and rudely interrupting the bronze’s current mental song. He’s rewarded with an exasperated sigh echoing in his head, while the music is turned ‘down’.

« Seriously, dude, you need to chill out. She’s asleep and we’ll tell you when she’s awake! Until then just find something… healthy to do? Because whatever ‘this’, is? Ain’t helping. »

Grimacing, Va’os doesn’t argue for once. This really isn’t helping him or anyone! Pausing by his desk (seriously, there is one under all of that junk), his fingers rest on a small box that is sorely out of place amongst everything else.

It’s a little something that’ll have to wait until later.

For now, he has a Weyrsecond to find instead and a plan to fully back and set into motion…

“Alive”

They never enjoyed being injured and it’s been happening more frequently of late.

First, that bad Threadfall. Now this! And they can’t even blame Thread on it, it was just recklessness on their part.

Miel sighs, as she works through a more complex routine of steps and moves. Dancing has always helped her in times like these; it was a way to ground herself. Ivaenth took some solace in it too, the green mentally correcting her ‘form’ whenever she felt like it.

At least the diagnosis was good, even if it meant another stretch of waiting and further check ups. That salve for Ivaenth’s wing has been a blessing. She’ll need to thank Erei and Doji sometime.

Flowing to some unheard rhythm, Miel goes to execute the next steps of her dance; one she has done countless times before and flawlessly. Instead, her side flares in a brief spark of pain as old damage tightens in stark reminder of her new limitations.

Miel accepts the warning and adjusts, finishing the last of the dance without so much as a fleeting grimace of discomfort. She’s not allowed it to slow her down, but she is still learning to cope. Taking a break, she’ll pour herself some water from the intricate ewer she has resting on a small wooden table; a gift from a client, from what feels like eons ago. Much of what she owns are ‘gifts’, lending to the rich eclecticness that no greenrider could afford on her own.

Glancing towards the entrance to her ground weyr, she notes the sunset hues of the sky outdoors. Sipping slowly at her cup, Miel considers visiting Maize early the next day, if other matters don’t take precedent first.

Until then, she needed to ready herself.

She has a ‘visitor’ to entertain tonight, after all.

“Calling”

Luciana never planned for her life to turn out as it has. She’d enjoyed the wild, unpredictable state of it before. Now? Now she’s cautious and wary and she wonders how that changed.

She’d be lying to herself if she didn’t hold some regret. There are several regrets, most hanging heavy on her shoulders and keeping her awake at night with the endless ‘what ifs’.

What if she hadn’t gone turncoat?
What if she hadn’t ever met D’ean?
What if she had never had her son or ever found Zavyr?

It was pointless to wonder on the past and so Luciana forged on ahead to the future. She went from being a pirate, to prisoner, to an assistant to the Weyrs weyrwomen and Weyrleader and now she is a merchant and independent trader.

Her chance at a decent life is right there in front of her.

Yet she finds herself caught in a thought.

What if she’s not too old to pick up some former habits?

Luciana smiles to herself, as she gazes out over the open, endless sea below her and the unending temptations it whispers constantly to her.

Maybe it’s not too late, after all.

“Determined”

One perk of their accomidations on the fireheights in Black Rock was that there was adequate space for Veena to practice.

The exercises were almost second nature by now, as she worked out the stiffness from her injured arm and side. Czrygeth slumbered on from his perch above, an intimating form even in sleep, as sunset’s glow began to fade over his granite blue marbled hide.

She’d heard of the recent Threadfalls in Southern and Veena felt each loss and serious injury as personal as her own. It’s begun to seed doubt in her mind that any Wingleader, let alone Lynx’s, would accept her now. Lowered numbers or not, they’d want whole riders to fill the gaps by those lost. She isn’t so certain now that Th’res’ confidence in her will be enough.

To most, she’ll come off as the next casualty waiting to happen.

Veena will just have to prove them all wrong.

Someday.

“Reputation”

Stepping away and pausing long enough to wipe at the sweat beading his forehead, Tzajal considers going right for the Cantina… but decides against it.

Meetings with the Azkhan always got him worked up. He kept his temper and wits about him this time, but it was a close call. No need to feed the rumor mills any further.

Not that there was anything to hide here, this time.

He’d warned those idiots not to run that particular racer (or ANY runners, in this heat!), but did they listen? No.

And now some poor animal paid the ultimate price for human greed. It never failed set his teeth on edge and start the slow burn of his rising temper. He couldn’t afford to lose his standing with the Azkhan, however and so he clamped down on his anger and focused on his task.

Returning to his quarters, he muses on what his life has become now, since he’s made Igen his home… and of the sacrifices he’s already made.

In the end and after he has cleaned up, it’s not the Cantina he turns to but the stables instead. It’s been awhile since he worked Iapetus and the distraction of handling the fiery tempered stallion will calm his own.

“Mania”

He knew the signs.

He should have known and seen what was coming, before it devolved into this. When lucidity and sanity turned to something far uglier and dangerous. Instead he let his guard down and let hope settle in and that’s all it took.

Ixanedre wrestled with the man, amid the toppled pieces from the game they’d been playing, trying to pin his arms and also force him down. Even before the man lunged at him, he had called out to the ‘attendant’ outside. Even though much of him had wasted away from Turns of idleness in a near catatonic state, the man was almost strong enough to overpower him.

Distantly, Ixanedre wondered if it was the mania that allowed that.

He wondered what was the trigger this time.

Again, his brief lapse in thought is enough for the man to get the upper hand; too late does he see what is coming. The pain that explodes across his cheek and radiates down through his jaw confirms it, Ixanedre growling a string of curses as he renews his efforts before the man can punch him again. Sensing he’s about to be pinned down, the man’s voice rises in fury and desperate pleas.

Begging, screaming, for things he cannot have.

Calling, desperate, for one who no longer exists.

Lost in the din of the chaos, the door opens and the attendant rushes in. Between him and Ixanedre, the man is subdued and appropriately sedated. Together, they drag the limp, wasted shell of a man, a former rider, to his narrow bed. Turning to leave, he ignores the calls from the attendant to wait; he also ignores the crunch of playing pieces under his feet as he strides out that door.

The oppressive heat that hits him like a wall only further darkens his mood, breath hissing through his teeth as pain bubbles up on one side of his face. Damn him for hoping it would be any different! Now he’ll have bruising and swelling for sure and questions and pitying looks from those who know about his father.

He doesn’t want to deal with any of them.

He doesn’t want to deal with it or him at all!

So he does what he’s learned to do to cope… he turns to an awful string of vices throughout the night in an effort to drown out the world.

It’s simpler that way.