Dione, R'nyr


In the dark, two strangers have a differing opinion of books and other things.


It is before dawn of the sixteenth day of the ninth month of the first turn of the 12th pass. It is the sixteenth day of Spring and 73 degrees. It is a clear night.


Archive Library, Southern Weyr

OOC Date


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Archive Library

Where once books reigned supreme, this open space is now dominated by a stalwart skybroom reaching to the sky through a broken ceiling. What was once evidence of collapse is now ornately carved with engraved ivy, matched by a clever contraption of stone that allows the gap to be closed in inclement weather. A small garden occupies the space around the tree-trunk, all manicured bushes and flowering shrubbery enclosed by a grated gutter. The walls are lined with bookcases, while a spiral staircase leans on the western wall to wind upwards to the second level. Tucked in the corners and scattered in the main areas are tables and chairs, cafe-style, and comfortably worn overstuffed armchairs. It is the perfect place for individuals to gather, to enjoy the offerings of the food-cart or a spirited conversation.

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Quiet repose fills the weyr tonight, at least here, far from the come-and-go of the nighthearth and the Kitten, or for that matter the kitchens, where drudges race around to get things ready for the next morning. Here, in the library, it's hushed and quiet and above all dim, with few glows still uncovered. One of the small baskets is nearly on the lap of a young woman curled up in a vast wing-backed chair close to the skybroom, and it casts ghoulish light on her face and beyond, making her shadow against the wall a humpbacked, ill-at-ease thing. Next to her, balanced precariously over the arm and one half of her lap, is a gigantic tome of some sort, heavy enough that fingertips turn white with pressure when she has to shift it.

Just because Rukbat flees the skies when night comes doesn't mean a rider's duty is ever done. R'nyr's saunter into the library is a thing of loose limbs and predator's ease. His gait takes him past rows of books, fingers dragging along their spines with irreverent ease. "Lalalala, books." In one hand a glass glitters in what light is cast off by the scarcity of uncovered glows, a half an inch of deep, amber liquid sloshing around. "So, utterly, inescapably boring." That's the moment he spots Dione, who gets a sardonic glass tip just before taking a sip and turning back to the books.

Hmm. Not the usual one hears from a new entrant to the library; R'nyr's form is scanned by Dione, as is the glass tipped her way, before a smile curves into being. "Pray tell," she asks after an interval spent ensuring that the bookmark is slipped in and the book is closed, "what would make this night more entertaining?" The drawl is Neratian in origin, thick, but with the slight slurring of a frequent traveller. She keeps on staring, though it's with a knit brow, perhaps trying to place his face somehow, and failing.

"Thread?" R'nyr throws back, his voice bouncing off the books in front of him since he chooses to not turn around. "Something more than a dark room full of dusty old books." Finally, pivoting on a boot heel, the man regards the teenager with what can only be a laconic boredom. His own voice is clipped in pure High Reaches as he's a 'Reachian through and through.

That earns a soft laugh, muffled behind the book as Dione lifts it slowly upright. She hefts it into one arm's crook eventually, standing and moving off to return it to the closest shelf. "High Reaches, aye? What a place it must be, if Thread at midnight is deemed entertainment." The thought tickles her enough to let the laugh fade naturally, and she ambles closer, head tilted. "Mad flying and the threat of death or grievous injury, hm?"

A jovial essence settles on the half-smile R'nyr portrays, watching the girl's approach from over the rim of his drink. "You've no idea what High Reaches is like, girl." The silky purr of his voice is indolent, brows arching a fraction. "It's not a crime to want excitement. A thrill exists to fighting Thread that a young girl couldn't possibly understand." The lone floater of ice in his glass clinks against the sides when it's tilted again for a sip.

Dione's shoulders lift and fall; the accusation is not an unjust one, as she's never been to High Reaches. "I've enough experience with what riders term entertainment," she returns drily. "One does when you're a bartender long enough. But you're correct, I've little enough experience with flying against Thread, not being a rider. I've enough experience on groundcrew though, to know that it's hot and filthy and frightening. You take care of the vast majority of it, but we don't have dragons to blink us between and freeze it." There's a little core of strength to that answer, then a tip of her head to the amber liquid. "What's the tipple of the night?" Impolite to lean in and sniff it, after all.

"Experience," R'nyr's smile is not exactly friendly but neither is it essentially unfriendly. "Funny word coming from a young girl. I suppose it's easy enough to listen to a bar's gossip." The sweep of his eyes across her form is just shy of derisive of her fairer sex, though at least he doesn't voice his now-time misogyny. "Whiskey. Top shelf. I only dabble in the good stuff." As for her description of Thread, it only garners an amused look and the scratch of his thumbnail along the edge of whiskered jaw.

The 'young girl' smiles. Even the apparently scant experience of eighteen turns have taught her something about men: don't confront them where they're most muleheaded. "No light flirtation to ease the night for you then?" she asks idly, watching him steadily from misty-mint eyes and an expression of idle content. "If not, S'pose you tell me what it's like to fly Thread then. Or is it inexplicable for you too?" That is a matter of some pique, being told again and again that it's inexplicable.

"Flirtation?" R'nyr outright laughs at that. "Shards no, girl. The last thing I want is some chit trying to cut her milk teeth on me." He snaps his teeth with an audible click. "It would end in tears and they wouldn't be mine." The glass is shaken, getting that lone floater bobbing and clinking against the sides. "It would be impossible to describe what fighting Thread is like to someone who can't understand what having a dragon is like." He pauses, cuts a sharp smile. "No offense or anything." Not that he sounds all that sincere, but assholes rarely are.

"Ah," Dione opines, making herself at home on the nearest chair's arm. "How very mysterious all of you are." That's not even the slightest trace of mirth with that, and her gaze darkens a bit, not quite so friendly. "None taken," is said next, and her hands fold on her lap; "I must say, what with yourself and D'rak, are all northern riders as close-mouthed and mean-spirited? Makes me glad I got away whilst the getting was good." Pause. "Whiskey's your drink then?"

Friendly? Friendly is not R'nyr's middle name, no. So the darkening of her demeanor only causes the half-smile to appear, dimpling one side of his face beneath the sandy scruff. "Mean spirited? Don't recall the truth being counted as mean spirited. Imagine trying to explain how your arm is attached to someone who was born without an arm. It's like that." Not that the bronzerider is all that worried over his not-so-pristine reputation. "I've got a lot of drinks. Whiskey being one, yes."

"With skin and gristle and meat and bones," Dione parries, drawing on the childhood cothold memories she'd almost forgotten. Thanks R'nyr! "But I take your point." Her eyes dip to the glass, and mouth furls into a thoughtful line. Something's lodged in that mind of hers, and the smile that slips back up is friendly, gregarious. Total bartender-face, really. "I'll inform Sevreni then, in case you show your face at the Kitten again." Misogyny is only allowed to stretch so far, after all, but there are more drinks to be banned than just the aforementioned whiskey.

"Mmm," R'nyr's response is noncommittal at best, amused by the shifting display of emotions across the girl's expression. From friendly to dark and stormy to friendly again. "My thanks to you, girl." Again the dimpled half-smile appears as the glass is drained, "I won't say no to a free drink." Not that she mentioned free drinks, but he'll take it there. Laying the glass on the shelves, pressed against the spine of the books. "Take care." That's his exit. It does come with a half-assed salute and cheeky smile before sauntering his way out of the library.

Dione's smile only increases in wattage, pique rendering it a brilliant thing. "Not at all!" she calls out as he leaves, though she wrinkles her nose at the press of the glass against the books' spine. "Have a good night, and clear skies tomorrow!" With that she waits until he's gone, then goes to fish the glass away with a huff. "Honestly. Some people."

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