Ione, R'ik


R’ik checks in on Ione and gets nowhere fast.


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


Southern Weyr, Niatskivhiath's Ledge

OOC Date 16 Mar 2016 22:00


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“Figured it was time we caught up.”

Niatskivhiath's Ledge

Night has claimed Southern for its own, cool and clear skies above lighting the ground below in degrees of silver. It's not yet so late that most have retired, though the dinner hour is past and the moon has claimed its place against that dark blanket of night. Ione's ledge is well-lit enough, with a glow placed to guide the goldrider home, and another that rests beside the young woman as she sits on the ground, curled up against Niatskivhiath's side. The gold seems rather lackadaisical, moving only to offer the occasional frustrated snort toward her rider. Those protests go unnoticed by the young woman, whose sole focus seems to be upon the sketchbook which rests upon her lap, and the charcoal she uses upon that surface. Whatever secrets lie within her weyr, they're blanketed in darkness for the moment, as it seems the sole light sources rest outside.

It could be that R’ik was just passing by along the broad sweep of ledges linking the goldriders and Southern’s leadership and just decided to ‘drop in’. Then again, is he really the ‘drop in’ sort of guy? Thus, his steps slow and draw to a complete halt once Ione is sighted. There is in his hand, a bottle of something and upon his face surprise to see his clutchmate sketching. And so, “You’ve been keeping things from me.” He drawls and closes what short distance had remained to come up behind her possibly blocking the light but definitely trying to catch a look at her subject and technique.

It's totally possible. And as Ione looks up and sets her gaze upon R'ik, the acceptance of this totally plausible explanation is momentarily there upon her delicate features. It doesn't take long, though, for suspicion to gain equal ground with innocent acceptance. "I keep things from a lot of people," the young goldrider admits with a shrug, but makes no attempt to shield her work from R'ik as he draws closer. It's a childhood dream never realized that is put to paper; designs of dresses never to be made, drawn with a practiced hand. This is something the girl has done for some time, it would seem. "Are you talking about this, or did you have something else in mind?"

There’s a smile prepared when Ione glances up though it’s not entirely manufactured and is warmed by the blood of friendship. “Mmmm.” The sound resonates from the cavern of R’ik’s chest and vibrates in the back of his throat as he sets the bottle down to one side and parks his ass alongside Ione. Guess she just got herself a visitor. “You’re pretty good,” he goes on to say of her drawings. Not that he knows much about the subject of dresses but that’s almost irrelevant. “Gonna have those made up?” It’s a fair question and might have come with more added had she not queried his motives for dropping in unannounced. “This. Other stuff.” A shrug. Just a pair of clutchmates shooting the breeze. Or maybe not. “Figured it was time we caught up.” Said with another rare smile.

Whatever happened to politely asking to join someone? She may not speak the words, but it's crystal clear in the look up and down that Ione offers to R'ik as he seats himself. But that apparent objection is short-lived, as she brushes it aside to capture one last fold of a flowing skirt. She leans it back to study the (possibly) finished product, before flipping the book closed with a snap. "Thanks." This, at least, is offered with a genuine smile. "I don't know, I mostly just do it for fun. Weavers would probably tear them apart." A self-effacing laugh, before her sketches are set aside along with the charcoal. She has a cloth at her side, and it's this she reaches for to try to wipe her hands clean of smudges. "Catching up…" There's that suspicion again. "I don't know, nothing much has happened since Sven died, which has been a good change.." Big, innocent eyes don't quite disguise the challenge that lies beneath, daring him to contradict her.

There is very little that R’ik actually asks for in this life. Instead, he mostly just finds a way to take what he wants. Thus, that look coming from Ione is pretty much ignored. Head turned and watching quietly as she adds a few finishing touches, the bronzerider glances up when the book is closed. “Maybe. But given you’re a goldrider, I doubt they’d do it to your face.” The hint of a cheeky grin appears. Work the angles, Ione! While she cleans her hands, he turns his gaze out over the leadership courtyard below. “Really.” With that one word he calls her out on her bullshit. “S’not what I heard,” R’ik goes on to add in a tone that lacks judgement or accusation. It’s merely a statement of fact. “Figured you might wanna talk about it.”

"It's not really worth anything if they're only nice about it because I'm a goldrider, is it?" Ione points out, a hint of annoyance behind those words. Slender legs are drawn up to her chest, and she wraps her arms around them. "I don't want someone to lie to me to make me feel better about myself." If it comes down to that, she's plenty capable of doing it herself. Still, she can't help but echo that cheeky grin of his with a faint smile of her own. "Really." And the annoyance is back. Her expression sours slightly, instantly suspicious. "Whether or not I want to talk about it depends on what you've heard." That's right, R'ik. She's not going to make this easy on you.

Having seen Ione with needlework in her hands before, R’ik’s response is simple, “So then make it yourself.” With long legs drawn up and his arms looped loosely about them, the pair of them present the perfect image of just a pair of clutchmates catching up. But life is very rarely ever so free of complications. The bronzerider barely reacts to the teeter-totter of the younger goldrider’s emotions and keeps that same seemingly calm façade in place when again she challenges him. Sage eyes slide sideways, lock briefly to blue and slowly a black brow lifts. Really? She wants him to spell it out for her? Well here it comes. Blunt as ever, the low rasp of his tone is grave. “You need to give Sam some space. He’s on the edge of turning everything around him to crackdust.”

His words are met by a simple shrug. Needlework is one thing, but perhaps she doesn't have the skill to handicraft something quite so elaborate. Whatever the reason for her noncommittal response, it seems the goldrider isn't going to offer answer further than, "Maybe." One hand reaches out to run fingertips over the surface of her sketchbook, focusing upon that rather than the man beside her as she waits for her challenge to be met. Her lips are pressed together tightly and her brows are drawn, displeasure in this moment written across her features. Her head snaps up to look at him sharply when he finally offers up an answer. "What the fuck are you talking about?" she demands, anger sparking in pale eyes. "I'm not even talking to him. If he wants more space than that, he can ask for leave."

The skin about R’ik’s eyes tighten and the soft flesh of his mouth firms in the face of Ione’s displeasure. However, if anger is brewing, it’s still being held under tight control and not yet ready to be unleashed. “I’m talking about my brother, the man you told was no one.” The bronzerider’s gaze becomes intent, pointed. “The pair of you are like oil and fire,” he goes on to add. “You stir each other up and then feed off the flames. You do that enough times, someone’s gonna burn until there’s nothing but ash left.” He looks away from Ione and gathers calm in a few slow breaths. “Don’t make be choose between you, Ione.” Although that choice has probably already long since been made, there is still a certain loyalty and care that the young goldrider is held in. “He’s a hard man. You know that. He ain’t a piece of meat you can hammer with a mallet to soften. He’s steel. The more you beat him, the harder and sharper he gets.” The look cut back to the young woman at his side, says it all – In this, he and Sa’mael are peas in a pod.

Her own building anger is abruptly curtailed — at least for a moment — in favor of outright confusion. "Why would I ever tell Sam that he's no one?" She appears genuinely, utterly bewilderd by the thought. "He knows what he means to me." Even though it seems she still won't voice it aloud; perhaps she assumes it doesn't even need to be said. Confusion lingers for a short time, but with his words it takes little to stir up those feelings of frustration and resentment again, and they're reflected in the sharpness of her gaze. "That's not giving either of us more credit, if you think we're so easily destroyed." An unladylike snort escapes her, and though she covers half her face to mask it, it's still audible. "You don't have to choose sides in this, R'ik." Her voice is flat, hard. A reflection of the company she keeps, it seems. "What man are you talking about? I don't beat him, he tries to beat me down until I stop caring about him. If he doesn't like what he gets from that, well, that's not my fault."

R’ik doesn’t answer to the first and merely fits Ione with a long, long look. “Neither one of you are cast from stone.” He finally states. “There is a point at which every single one of us can be destroyed.” Whatever he thinks about the situation at hand, is being kept firmly to himself. After another long patch of silence in which he idly tracks the path of a pair of firelizards squabbling midair over a morsel of food, the bronzerider once again gathers words together. This time when he speaks his words are weighted by the sharing of a deep personal truth that puts the register of his voice to something so quiet it would otherwise get lost in the rasp and burr of his tone were they not sitting next to one another. “Sometimes having someone care about you is more terrifying than you can ever imagine because it means you have to feel again and you don’t get to only feel the good stuff. It all comes back. Every last fucking piece of it until the thing that you dared to open yourself to is at risk of being drowned by the shit you’re trying to forget.” A pause occurs in which he considers the agitated rub of his thumbs over the bony knob jutting from opposite wrists. His gaze lifts and Ione is fixed with a penetrating look, his lips moving in a low murmur of words.

"Name something, R'ik, and I guarantee you that Sam has already done it," Ione replies in a low voice, the hard tones at odds with her youthful countenance. "If I can be destroyed, I already have been." And yet, here she is, looking hale and hearty aside from the dark shadows beneath her eyes. But those have lingered there for some time already. Otherwise, she appears the picture of health, sound of body and mind — present anger excluded. Booted feet wiggle a little as she slides the toe of one over the other, letting it slide free with a quiet, dull thud. She repeats the gesture in the opposite direction, staring at her toes from over her knees until R'ik has finished speaking. "I'm not asking him to care about me," she mutters quietly, her voice softer but no more forgiving. "And if he did want to care about me, I would help him. It would be really fucking nice if one person around here believed even for a second that I was capable of standing on my own two feet, instead of constantly telling me that he's going to destroy me." It's clear she's already getting antsy with the fidgeting, but it's not until R'ik's murmured words that she shoots to her feet, putting a few steps between them. "Forget."

Unbidden a smile touches R’ik’s mouth though it lacks humour and indeed warmth but is instead a stark rendering of something cold that has crawled out of a deep dark place. “I’m not here to defend him, Ione. And I sure ain’t here to tell you he’s gonna break you. You were warned. Repeatedly. You might think you know what you’ve gotten yourself into,” his tone says he doesn’t believe this for a hot minute, “But you’ve made your choices.” Broad shoulders move in a shrug for he’s done beating his head against that wall. “I came by to ask you to give him some air and because I thought maybe you could do with a friend.” She scuttles away and he rises to his feet, grabbing his bottle up by its neck. “But seeing as you have everything so very well in hand, I’ll leave you to it.” The bronzerider takes a few steps away then pauses. “There’s no shame in asking for help.” A valuable lesson he’s only just recently been forced to learn for himself. “Goodnight, Ione.” And unless she has anything further to say, R’ik will be on his way, heading in the direction of the Senior Weyrwoman’s weyr.

Ione throws up her hands, stalking away a few steps only to whirl back again. "I'm tired of this fucking skepticism. You think you know so much, R'ik, but I guarantee Sa'mael hasn't told you the half of it. I know exactly what I'm getting myself into." There's something in her tone that hints she may no more than even him, although she'd never say so aloud. The rest of his words are met with her cold back, as the goldrider stands with arms wrapped around her middle. The only time her lips part again are to mutter, "I don't need help. I need him, and he'll come to me when he's ready." Or when Czhaevth has driven him half-crazy with anger — it seems Ione is willing to play either card. "Goodnight, R'ik."

R’ik doesn’t stop; he just keeps on going with a rueful shake of head. He’s getting pretty close to being done trying to offer the support of friendship. And so instead? He does probably the most annoying thing ever – he starts whistling as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Ain’t life grand!

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