Who

Ione, R'ik

What

A tearful Ione seeks R'ik's help

When

It is late night of the first day of the eleventh month of the sixth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr, R'ik & Hrykeluth's Weyr

OOC Date 09 Jan 2016 22:00

 

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"You have to go find Sam. I think he's going to do something stupid."


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R'ik & Hrykeluth's Weyr

The day has already waned and allowed evening to take its place when a winged form comes to rest upon the ledge outside of R'ik's weyr. It's not Niatskivhiath who deposits a bedraggled looking Ione upon the ground, but rather a blue whose rider quickly takes to the skies again upon completing his mission. The goldrider's clothes are rumpled and creased, and her hair threatens to spill free of her attempts to pull it back. Exhaustion shows in red-rimmed eyes, and there's a stiffness to the way she moves, as though it takes effort to hold herself together. "R'ik?" she calls out, pausing at the entrance to his home. Whether or not Hrykeluth is stationed outside, there's no way of knowing whether the bronzerider is in residence without Niatskivhiath checking. And, well… that's not happening right now. "R'ik, are you here? I need to talk to you."

There are very, very few that would dare to land on this ledge unannounced. In act, thus far, the number of visitors rests at none. Possibly why that blue took off so quickly for indeed, Hrykeluth is in residence and like a wolf disturbed in its den, the blackened bronze hidden by shadows, bares his teeth in territorial warning at the interloper. From the entrance, the inner weyr is silent and affords little in the way of light to cast upon the man that lives here. One moment it seems empty and the next, R'ik appears as if out of nowhere from shadows pooling to the left. Dressed in a pair of loose pants held up on narrow hips by a firm knot of ties meant for that purpose, he's otherwise bare-chested and bare-footed with a charcoal stick tucked behind one ear. Ione's dishevelled appearance is taken in through narrowed eyes. "You been drinking?" Asked even as he steps aside and gestures for her to enter.

Unlike that blue, Ione seems rather unconcerned by Hrykeluth's display, although she does afford the bronze a thin smile in greeting. But before she can make much more of an attempt at earning her welcome on this ledge, R'ik appears from the shadows. "I-" the question catches her off-guard, and there's a moment's pause before she gives a stiff, "Of course not." It may or may not be the truth. There's an awkward hitch to her gait as she walks; the pained stutter of sore muscles complaining about the journey. She's only a few steps inside before she blurts out, "You have to go find Sam. I think he's going to do something stupid." She scrubs her face with both hands, tension written in every movement. "He probably already has by now. It took me forever to walk back, I should've just left when it happened but…" Her words trail off into muttering. Lots and lots of muttering.

Tracking behind Ione, the way she's walking doesn't go unnoticed and it does little for the crowding of brooding features. The interior is sparsely appointed. A bed with linen rumpled and a pillow on the floor next to it has an old and lumpy couch with a blanket tossed over it at its foot. To the left is an old dresser missing a knob or two on the drawers and to the right, a rustic rocking chair that perfectly matches the one in Sa'mael's weyr. Pushed up against the wall, under an unlidded glowbasket is an old brandy barrel that currently appears to be serving as a desk for there are a number of sketches and tools spread across its circular top. R'ik almost walks into the back of Ione when she suddenly stops and fixes her with a browlifted look which then crashes into a thick frown streaked with smudges of worry. "Walked…back." That stands out first. "Sit." The old couch is pointed to. "And tell me where the fuck Tiski is and why you think Sam's off on a suicide mission."

"From the delta." Which isn't the longest walk in the world, but on what appears to be little to no sleep and given Ione's tenuous relationship with gravity, well. It was probably longer than necessary. There's a cursory glance from the young woman as she takes in her surroundings, but her gaze almost seems to slide over the room rather than seeing it. On any other day, it would warrant inspection, but there's that glazed tinge to her eyes. Obediently, she takes a seat upon that lumpy couch, reaching for the blanket and tugging it to her. "Tiski is…" Her voice cracks, and those pale eyes begin to well up. "She's home. And something was wrong with Sam, something was really wrong, and then he said something about blood and I don't know whether he intended to spill his or someone else's but I need to know that he's okay."

R'ik isn't exactly set up for hosting anyone. And yet. Yet. Crossing over to a section of the weyr thrown into deep shadows, there's a strange scraping sound followed by the creak of hinges then silence for a few moments. It plays out again in reverse and then he returns with a dusty unopened bottle in hand and holds it to Ione along with the single tumbler he owns. Brandy. Bearing a label that impossibly puts it at over one hundred turns old. He doesn't seat himself beside the young goldrider but instead begins to pace back and forth in front of her, glowlight scattering across the thick ridges of scarring across his back. There's a nod given when she marks her dragon safely back at the Weyr. He'll deal with why she had to walk a little later. For now though, "I think you better start at the beginning." Pale eyes turn to Ione, his thoughts currently shielded from his expression.

Given how recently she began drinking, Ione hasn't cultivated much of a knowledge or appreciation for the finer points of what makes a good (or bad) bottle of liquor. So that one hundred turn old label? It goes over her head, thought she does at least make a vague mental note to replace R'ik's bottle of… whatever this is at some point in the future. With no small amount of struggle, she manages to get that bottle open and pours herself a healthy glass. The first mouthful has her coughing and gagging a little, but that doesn't stop her from forcing the next (and the next, and the next) down her throat. As the warmth begins to spread through her veins, she finally lifts her gaze back to R'ik. "There's not a lot more to tell," she warns in a voice that still holds that tremble of restrained emotion. "We were talking last night by the delta, and I knew there was something wrong. I could tell. And I kept asking, and he wouldn't tell me, and…" Her expression tightens, drawn with guilt. "And then when he went to leave, he said something about starting the day with blood."

R'ik isn't much of a drinker these days as is likely common knowledge but that doesn't mean that he's unaware of the value of some of his 'discoveries' gleaned from the jungles after the pirates had scattered. "Hey. Woah. Waittaminute." A hand wraps about the belly of the bottle Ione starts to chug like it was juice. "Slow down there, kid." Affectionate the term rather than derogatory. "I see." That's for the deeply disturbing information shared about the man he holds closer to him than a brother. For a moment pale eyes go distant and out on the ledge, Hryekluth stirs. Eyes refocus and R'ik tugs the bottle toward him. He needs a drink. Which in itself likely says a lot. "Well he ain't dead. We woulda heard by now." Might seem callous but he's familiar with his blonde wingmate and the fact that sometimes a man just needs to blow off some steam and needs his space to do so. "He'll be fine, Ione." Trying to convince himself as much as her for her every part of him strains to go looking for Sa'mael. "You look like you could do with some sleep yourself."

Hrykeluth thinks to you, « I bespoke Czhaevth with: From out of the wilderness, a cold wind stirs, whispering through trees and over frozen ground. « Czhaevth. » The name is spoken with the muted thud of a load of snow hitting the ground. Nothing further follows for currently the blackened bronze merely seeks confirmation of existence. »

Long, long, long, long down the dark corridor of the abyss, where Oblivion awaits with the cold embrace of frigid fingers of frozen water. Existence lies in a place and point in time, pin-pointed down a lonely road where engines roar and the heat of the sun beats down in merciless flame. Air stirs, earth awaits. Words are not conveyed, but is it enough that this touch exists? Clocks melt in the azure-blue sky as time twists hither and yon. (From Czhaevth)

Hrykeluth thinks to you, « I bespoke Czhaevth with: The sound of those engines are collected together and sent spiraling back to the one who had asked. The frozen air holds its breath while red eyes appear and disappear between the wide trunks of ancient trees as dragon and rider confer. « Is aid required? » »

There's a whine of protest as R'ik seems to be removing that bottle from her grip, and Ione's lower lip juts out in a youthful pout. Nothing sounds better than the numbness that comes with a healthy amount of alcohol. "Just a little more," she wheedles, holding out her already empty glass. "Please?" Those pale eyes threaten to spill over with tears again as she looks up at him. "But he could be hurt. Or he could've done something really stupid and gotten himself in trouble, and he-" The words catch in her throat, and the girl seems truly pained by the thought. Blanket is drawn more tightly to her. "He needs to be okay. I couldn't-" Sniffle. "If he weren't. I can't sleep until I know he's okay." Among other things.

Brief: a glimpse into the mirrored surface of flowing light that flows into the river of Time that shows nothing but a seconds look of destruction. Fists slamming into flesh, and the riotous call of a whole host of people. « No. » Czhaevth, actually, sounds downright bored. Left out front, cooling his engines, while his lifemate engages in what might be either a fighting ring or a bar brawl or maybe he's just beating the shit out of someone for no reason. Or maybe he's gotten mixed back up in the past as a way to put shade on such words as cowardice. The sky's the limit, truly. Sa'mael has whatever it is under control, or so does Czhaevth's laziness hint at. (From Czhaevth)

Don't worry, Ione. You'll get that bottle back. Maybe. Taking a hit from it and hissing in response to the burn down his gullet and into his chest, R'ik swipes the back of his hand across his mouth and puts Ione under close scrutiny. Any time a woman starts with the tears, alarm will bloom in a man's chest for they're so often at a loss as to what to do about it. But its more than that. Its something she's said and the way she's said it. Where he'd begun to crouch before her, R'ik slowly straightens back up again, the bottle still in hand and the glass Ione holds out, purposefully ignored. "You care about him." He states fixing her with an intent look before turning away with a sigh that echoes into the hand that palms down his face. Moving over to the dresser the bottle gets set down on its top and the bronzerider starts pulling out a pair of trousers, an old but clean shirt and socks. Suddenly he stiffens and turns his gaze out to the ledge. "Fuck." He mutters and his jaw sets. Swiftly, loose pants are dropped - LOOK AWAY, IONE. BARE ASS ALERT! - and undershorts and then trousers are donned along with the shirt and socks. "I'm going to get him. You. Stay here." She'll be told while he dresses.

Hrykeluth thinks to you, « I bespoke Czhaevth with: While Hrykeluth is happy to follow Czhaevth's lead and leave the matter in his wingmate's capable talons, it seems his rider isn't of the same opinion. A put upon sigh stirs the snow and somewhere in the distance a predator howls its annoyance for being made to leave the warmth of its den. « We come. » Unspoken request lies in that for a location to be provided. »

Ione will just stare at that bottle the way a dog stares at any visible food item - unblinkingly and completely immune to distraction. It seems a better idea than giving into the urge to curl up and sob, which is becoming harder to fight by the moment. A few tears escape her eyes, and she quickly wipes them away with the back of her free hand. "Yes," she croaks out, the only answer she's willing to give. Whatever more there may or may not be in regards to her feelings is up to R'ik to infer for himself. The arm holding out that glass finally seems to give in when he takes it far, far away. The glass is set down on the ground, and when she looks up again there's suddenly far too much R'ik there. It's a testament to how dulled her reactions are that it takes her a moment to even register his nudity, and then she drops her gaze as swiftly as her thoughts catch up. "But I want to go with you!" The blanket is thrown aside and she's on her feet with surprising speed, although she sways dangerously. "Please?"

R'ik has totally drawn conclusions. Though whether they sit right with him or not, he's keeping to himself. Bent down to lace his boots up, he catches a blur of movement from the corner of his eyes and almost trips over the laces of the other boot when he lunges to steady Ione. "And I'd take you with me," hands have settled on narrow shoulders, "if you weren't drunk." While there's a rare show of kindness to the rasp of his tone, there's also a sense of finality. Big pseudo brother has spoken! "I might wind up having my hands full. I need to know you're safe." Staring down at Ione, the distance not so great given her height, a hand lifts and a scarred knuckle clears a tear from under her eye. "He's gonna be fine, kid. He's a tough bastard." A brief smile is made to appear in a show of encouragement that does little to wipe the troubled look from sage eyes.

Ione wavers on her feet for a moment before settling into steadiness. "I'm not drunk," she protests, her voice cracking. She may not actually be terribly intoxicated (yet), but between exhaustion and high emotions, she might as well be. Even if alcohol isn't the culprit, R'ik is right in thinking she'll be more of a hindrance than a help. She lifts a hand, pressing it to her forehead and wincing. "If-" She's not admitting to giving up just yet. "If I'm not going, you have to be careful to be safe, too. I can't look out for you two if I'm not there." It's a very thin attempt at humor that barely tugs at the corners of her lips, but it's something. "I know he's a tough bastard, but that doesn't mean he's not a stupid tough bastard." And she's not so far gone as to miss the worry in his gaze.

"You're something." R'ik counters, holding firm on his position about not taking her along. "I can drop you off back home before we leave and I'll have Hry keep Niatskivhiath updated, yeah?" Without warning and in a move seemingly completely out of character for a man highly protective of his personal space, Ione will find herself wrapped briefly in a hug. "We're men. We're all stupid." R'ik tells her with a thin smile as he draws away a little. His jacket is pulled on, that other boot laced, a knife slipped into the top of it and then his dragon's straps are taken down from the peg they're hanging on. He pauses on his way out to the ledge and fits Ione with grim look. "You might wanna get a few things from the infirmary for just in case he needs patching up."

Ione casts one more look in the direction of that lost bottle, because the idea of that drink is still a very attractive one. There's a flinch when he suggests communication through Niatskivhiath, but the young woman does nod after a moment. "If that doesn't work, try firelizard. I'll send one after you." That hug is desperately needed, no matter how brief, and Ione clings for as long as she's allowed. "I know," she agrees, as the tears begin leaking from her eyes again. She's quick to wipe them away, but they don't seem to want to stop this time. His words freeze her for a moment, and pale eyes close as she takes a deep breath. "Okay." She moves to follow him with that awkwardly stiff stride. "Drop me off at the infirmary, I can get a ride home on my own." And hopefully the healers will just ignore the crying goldrider asking for supplies.

While R'ik might come across as a heartless bastard to those that don't know him all that well, and feel as awkward as fuck around a female in tears, he does still have a heart. Thus, once Hrykeluth is strapped up, the bronze wearing a seriously put-upon look, he turns to Ione before giving her a hand up and pulling up the hem of his loose shirt, will try to dab at those tears of hers. "C'mon, kid. He ain't dead. And if you go in there crying, them healers are gonna get all nosy and shit."

"I know, I know," Ione answers, sniffling. For her part, she hasn't ever doubted R'ik's heart, but she still looks surprised to be using his shirt to dry her tears. "Thank you." She takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to get a handle on herself so as not to give the healers anything to gossip about, but those traitor tears still seem to want to escape. Until she knows for certain that Sa'mael is safe - and until things are resolved with Niatskivhiath - her emotions will continue to betray her.

Perhaps its the recent encounter with the younger flesh-and-blood sibling whom Ione reminds him of that draws from R'ik such uncharacteristic displays of affection. "Any time." He goes on to tell her while giving her a boost up the side of reddish-bronze hide. When he mounts up behind the willowy junior there's no hiding the tension that rides the taut set of his frame and when he deposits her outside of the infirmary a few moments later, its with a promise to return with their blonde clutchmate firmly in tow.

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