Tied Up In Knots
Who: Noemie, V'lano
What: Noemie is called, rather forebodingly, to speak with the Weyrleader. V'lano has a new knot for Noemie, and she takes a while to catch on.
Where: Istan Weyrleader Ledges
Istan Weyrleader Ledges
A shallow set of steps leads up to this wide, spacious ledge, scored at the edge by turns upon turns of dragonclaws. It's largely set into the mountain, providing shelter from sun and rain while allowing enough room for a queen dragon and several others, if need be, to sun at the edge and lounge within. An anteroom of sorts is carved into the rock at the rear, occupied by a polished table and chairs, and narrow passageways lead off to private chambers, the council room, and the hatching grounds.
It is the simplest way for a rider to summon another, so lacks formality from sheer commonality of use. Still, the weyrleader's bronze presents the request to Naijath with a regal calm that must be rehearsed, as stately as a messenger presenting a missive tied with ribbon and sealed in wax. It's in his tone, not in his words: << He would see yours this afternoon. >> It is in the monochrome painting, all in tones of gray, he offers up of the broad stair leading up to the wide ledge behind which lurks the alcove in which the weyrleader takes most of his formal meetings and no small number of the other kinds. << Thank you, >> Volath adds graciously, intoning a verbal bow, and withdraws.
By afternoon, the bronze has likely forgotten this exchange. He suns on the garden ledge just south of the larger one to which he is technically now entitled. On that larger one, quiet awaits, though the mouth of the conference room has its curtains drawn wide and within at the table sits V'lano, feet up on the chair next by, sandals discarded on the floor. The table holds a sheaf of hides and a tray; the tray holds a pitcher filled with red and gold, sweating condensation, and two glasses.
It's up those pictured stairs that Noemie now comes, taking in the place, slightly wide-eyed, as she enters. Spying the Weyrleader, it's with a small degree of hesitancy that she approaches, as if mentally checking over that she's got her manners correct. "Good afternoon, sir," she says, nearing him. "Volath bespoke Naijath? He told her that you wished to see me?" Her voice is light and cheerful as ever, with only the vaguest hint of trepidation at the unusual summons.
"Ah, Noemie." V'lano's feet come down off of the chair they were propped on in a deliberately slow fashion, toes reaching for his sandals. The motion is unhurried, unabashed. He lifts a hand to gesture, fingers loosely curled, a welcome - as though he could draw in the greenrider with the tip of his palm. "Come in. I hoped you might have time for a little talk," he murmurs, chin down and eyes up so his dark gaze flickers behind long lashes. Once he's shod again he rises, then steps around to lay a hand on the back of a chair so he can pull it back a bit from the table. "I'm even willing to toast you for your time," he grins, with a droll nod toward the tray and pitcher. "Have a seat?"
Noemie approaches the rest of the way as V'lano rises, relaxing slightly, enough for a smile to spread on her face. "Time for talk? Of course," she says, tone reassured by the Weyrleader's laid back attitude. "And... a toast? Well, I could never turn down one of those." She takes the proffered seat with a look of gratitude, then glances with curiosity at the liquid in the pitcher. "Why, thank you. Might I ask what we're toasting with?"
"You know, that's the second time in a month someone's asked what this is." V'lano waits to see about tucking in Noemie's seat once she's taken it, then bends a little and hooks his fingertips over the rim of the tray, tugging it closer. "Which means nothing, of course, but it surprises me after turns drinking the same thing and no one ever asking. It's called Sailor's Delight. From the rhyme." He lifts the pitcher and pours the two glasses full, then places one before the greenrider. Carrying his own on a short pacing trip to his own chair, he asks, "How's it been for you, helping Fadra?"
"Ahh. You mean, people aren't curious to know what it is they're drinking? I nearly always ask," Noemie says. First things first: she takes a sip of the drink, and /then/ she answers the question. "And it's rather good, too. Working with Fadra? It's been... an interesting experience, I'll admit that. But a gratifying one, seeing the Weyrlings progress. And I've enjoyed working with the team as a whole. Fadra and I are night and day, really, but I think the lot of us are a well-rounded bunch. I've learned a lot from them."
"Oh, no. People aren't curious to know what -I'm- drinking," replies V'lano, a laugh beneath his words making his voice wry. He seats himself, glass in hand, nudging his chair back enough so he can angle toward Noemie and stretch his legs out beneath the table, ankles crossed, the upper sandal dangling lazy from his toes. "Learned a lot from them," he muses then, an echo. He raises his glass but speaks before drinking: "From the weyrlings? Or - ?"
"The other Assistants. But the Weyrlings, too. Seeing how they grow and strengthen as pairs together is sort of a--" Noemie pauses in her speech suddenly, looking slightly embarrassed. "Well, maybe this sounds silly. But a metaphor for life, in general? How we grow and learn as people, how we learn from experiences." She traces a finger along the condensation of her glass, looking thoughtful. "And having to be something of a disciplinarian has been a learning experience. I think my backbone is a little stronger now."
"Ah," replies V'lano, releasing the syllable in a sigh of understanding. Brows up, chin raised, he is the -picture- of understanding, too; or perhaps of thoughtful manipulation. But he smiles, and his smile is pleasant and not -too- secret. "Oh, really? That's an interesting thing to say - about backbone, about discipline. We haven't children, you know; I always thought that having them would give a weyrling trainer an edge. Maybe it's the opposite: training weyrlings might give you a new edge with your littles?" Barely a beat allows him to break a somewhat broader smile, eyes dancing, and sociably enough ask, "How are they doing, anyway?"
"Discipline's never been my strong suit, when it comes to them," Noemie admits readily, "But then, my oldest two are fostered, so when I see them, it's an occasion for spoiling, not discipline." She grins, returning the broad smile, her features taking on the fond look of a mother talking about her children. "They're all doing just fine. Noelyn'll be a toddler far too soon for my tastes. And Rylie, the oldest, just reached her fifth turn." At the idea that training Weyrlings will help with raising littles, she laughs. "Mothering /is/ a bit like training Weyrlings, I suppose. But with some different challenges-- you don't worry about losing them *between*, just that they might get separated in a crowd."
"I suppose. Weyrlings - or especially their dragons - is the closest approximation I know well," laughs the weyrleader, with a wave of the hand not holding his glass. He indulges in another sip from his drink, then bends his knees and tucks his feet properly in front of his chair so he can lean forward and put the glass back up on the table. "Will you be fostering Noelyn out as well, when he's - a toddler, or something like?" V'lano's tone is amicable, his expression intrigued, as if the unknown details of childrearing are of some fascination. Yet his shoulders square a little as he folds his arms on the table and lean into them, something about his posture betraying business.
"And they grow just as fast, don't they?" Noemie says, more sounds of laughter issuing from the young woman. A generous gulp is taken from her own drink before she continues, giving a small shrug. "I'm not sure yet. Ril and I have been putting off the discussion. We'd both like to have one of our children with us, but we're both busy-- and we want the girls to know their brother, too. We'll get there when we get there, I suppose. There's time yet to decide." She grins, adding, "The nannies here really are something. Without them, I don't know what I'd do."
"I give Grissa all the credit for the nanny staff. I mean, I'm sure our headwomen since and the assistant headwomen have helped keep the children's caverns well-staffed, but - " The weyrleader pauses to grin, almost boyish in doing so, and to lift a hand to the back of his neck for a quick rub at his nape. "Well, anyway, I can't say I blame you for avoiding that talk. R'layn's doing well in Dawnsflame, I assume?" Odd question, but V'lano accepts its obvious awkwardness with a little twist of smile and a flicker of a brow, all too cunning in demeanor, pseudofake.
Noemie notes the odd expression and smiles back uncertainly, but the tone of voice in which she answers is normal, as if nothing was odd about the question. "Oh-- yes, he is. He's been keeping me up to date with Dawnsflame business. I admit, I do miss us both being on the same schedule, being in the same wing." She reaches for her glass to take another sip, expression still uncertain, although turned slightly curious as to why the question was broached.
"Ye-es," says V'lano, straightening, his voice hardly plumbing the depths of empathy. After a little semiprivate shake of his head, he lets silence dominate and takes up his glass for a drink. The liquid, surely alcoholic but fruity too, swirls, colors mixing as glasses are tilted. He holds the stuff in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. Refreshed, he replies, "I'm not actually sure it's in your cards to return to Dawnsflame, Noemie." Bright as his tone and expression may be, there's something else causing the corners of his mouth and the brushstrokes of moustache above them to twitch. "Is R'layn secure there?"
Noemie gives her head a slight shake, as if this might refocus her hearing, help to explain the words she just heard. "Not in the cards? -- Secure? I'd assume he's secure. I don't see why not." The uncertainty of her tone has caused her voice to lose a bit of its volume, but she looks directly at the Weyrleader, trying to read in between the lines of his expression. "But... what exactly do you mean?"
"I mean, is he comfortable there. Contented. Secure in himself. Unthreatened...?" The bronzerider's thick brows slide upward as he draws out this last reiteration of his question, though the thing twitching in the corners of his mouth begins to looks suspiciously like a smile. "How's he coped with you wearing an assistant's knot?" The smile dances in his dark eyes now, too, and V'lano sets down the drink on the table so he has both hands free to raise and finger-comb his curls with. "With you answering to Fadra, or with the weyrling wing answering to you?"
"Comfortable, content? I suppose so. We both always were. And, he's been happy for me. Proud. He's always doted a bit. Reminded me to slow down, now and then." Noemie looks downward, slightly into her drink, as she tries to answer the question fully, thinking mentally over the time she's spent with the weyrlings. And then, looking back towards the Weyrleader, "But really, sir, if I can be so bold... why do you ask?"
V'lano's chin lifts and what glints in his eyes now is, if not understanding, at least clearly satisfied. "Because I don't aim to cut holes in my wingleaders' personal lives, Noemie," he explains, ever-patient, the words so smooth that a tongueslip might be hard to suspect. "But if your weyrmate's likely to be supportive, I see no reason I should worry."
There's silence for a good moment while Noemie just looks peculiarly at the Weyrleader, trying to figure out just where she'd missed something. Finally, she repeats dumbly, "/Your/ wingleaders... /my/ weyrmate... supportive?" She glances around the ledge, as if checking to make sure he really couldn't be addressing anyone else. "You don't have me confused with someone else, sir?"
The bronzerider lifts his chin, looking down his suntanned nose at the woman seated at his table. It's a thoughtful look, not quite smiling save for the merest crinkles at the corners of his eyes, appraising. He takes in the cut of her hair, the shape of her freckled face, the mold of her shoulders, that dark gaze dancing over her with perhaps too-frank consideration. Then near-black eyes seek brightly blue ones, and V'lano twists a sleek, sure grin across his smirker's mouth. "No," he says, voice deep and droll. "I'm quite sure you're Noemie." His eyebrows twitch, almost waggling, as he lazily slips a hand into a pocket, tilting hips a little in his chair to let that pocket flatten. "Of course, it might be rather embarrassing if you weren't," he admits meanwhile, cheeky now.
Noemie glances down over herself, smoothing out a wrinkle in her dress and giving a tug at her hair as if double-checking all of her features, making sure of her own identity. "Yes... I'm Noemie. I know I was when I woke up this morning, and I don't think that's changed since. But the whole bit about your wingleaders, sir? Last I checked, I wasn't one of those." Her voice falters between confusion and nervousness at suggesting that the Weyrleader might be wrong, and her expression turns questioning, looking for the explanation she knows must be somewhere.
"No, you weren't this morning," agrees V'lano, a laugh now implicit in a thrum that sets his voice humming with mischief. He slides out of the chair and straightens to his feet, plucking the pocketed hand out; his elbow unbends just enough that he can crawl a fingertip onto the table and flattens his hand. A little heap of colored cord falls onto the table beneath his palm. He squashes it flat under that palm and slides the whole across, then straightens again, collecting the pitcher as his reach retreats so he can refill his glass. The heap contains Ista's colors and, if untangled a bit, the make of a wingleader's knot, minus the dragonhide-hue thread needed to complete it. "Top you off?" the weyrleader offers, with a gesture of the pitcher, once he's done pouring his own.
"Yes, please," Noemie says, but without, most likely, actually registering what she's agreed to. Her attention is all on that little pile of cord, and she stares at it curiously, then reaches for it, picks it up, and examines it more closely. "This is a wingleader's knot," she says incredulously. Then, looking back at the bronzerider, "I wasn't this morning-- does that mean I am one, now?" Wide blue eyes look searchingly, a bit dazedly, for confirmation, the significance of the moment not having fully sunken in.
V'lano rests his free hand on the table and leans so he can tip the pitcher and pour Noemie's glass the rest of the way full once more. "That's what it is. And unless you leave without it, that's what it means. I have to give you something else, though, before you go." He rights the pitcher, sets it down on the tray, and retreats - shrinking somewhat, seemingly, back into his seat. He slouches a little, his drink taken in hand, and grins across at the greenrider. "Personalities aside - how did you do with Fadra's methods?"
"Thank you," Noemie says as her glass is refilled, and she reaches for it, taking a long drink, giving herself a moment to let everything register. Setting it down once more, she smiles, still looking a bit overwhelmed. "And, thank you-- for this opportunity. Fadra's methods? Well, they work, don't they? I tried to adjust a little-- think more like Fadra-- but I suppose I did fine." She tries her best to continue on with the conversation as nonchalantly as the Weyrleader, but this proves slightly hard to do, her words not losing the slightly dazed tone they'd taken on before.
"To think like Fadra." V'lano leans forward, not too suddenly but not too slowly either, and nudges an elbow onto the edge of the table. He props his chin on the back of his hand and focuses most intently upon the greenrider, his new wingleader, for a long moment. "Would you say that you can usually interpret her methods, understand what her intent was? I don't mean to ask about agreement - just understanding."
"Understand? Of course. Even when we come from different perspectives, I can almost always understand hers," Noemie says, falling back more comfortably into the pattern of conversation. As moments pass, she looks a bit more relaxed, more Noemie-like again. Realizing that her new knot had remained clasped in one hand, she sets it back down, gently, on the table.
The weyrleader sets down his glass, plucks his chin up off of his hand and leans back. "Exellent," he smiles, lashes lowering, eyes almost smoky with his own smug satisfaction. "That'll make your work easier." Again he tips his hips with all the awkward grace of a seated man trying to get something out of his pants pocket. Then he's lifting his hand, palm opening; up, sailing from this lazy toss, goes a wingbadge. In motion, its colors and arms are hard to make out. V'lano catches it and, after a significant, brows-raised, on-your-toes sort of look at the greenrider, tosses it again, this time toward her. When she captures it, she'll find its shield to be Timor's.
Noemie reaches out deftly, catching the badge a bit less than an arm-length away from her, and opening her hand as she draws it back towards her to look. Seeing the Timor badge, she grins. "Oh! Yes, I suppose it will. Fadra is stepping down, then?" Eyes flick between the Weyrleader and the new badge, carefully searching out its details for the first time, becoming familiar with the emblem she'll now wear.
"She's going to wear Starblaze's badge for a little while yet," V'lano replies, smooth as ever, while pushing himself out of his chair. He's grinning even as he gets to his feet, even as certain, subconscious details of his posture and manner indicate that this time, his arising is to see his guest off rather than to invite her or fill her glass. "Though I should probably take a moment to let the other wingleaders know and brace myself for anyone who might want a word with me about it." He winks, just to lighten the possible impact of this statement, to make it bright if quite serious. "Anything else I can do to you today, Wingleader?"
"Ah, of course. No, I don't think so, sir-- but thank you, again." Noemie rises easily, smiling, not seeming too bothered by the idea that someone might 'want a word' about his decision. She reaches once more for her new knot, holding it and badge lightly in her hand. "I'll do my best to do Ista proud."
The weyrleader's eyes dance; his mouth remains smirky, but there's earnest pleasure cacheted inside the smug. "I know you will," V'lano replies, reaching out to offer a handshake, business sealed. "Thank you for accepting."
Noemie accepts the handshake, her handshake surprisingly firm for her small size and lighthearted demeanor. "It's an honor, truly," she says, smiling back, a genuine look to back up the words she speaks.
What: Noemie is called, rather forebodingly, to speak with the Weyrleader. V'lano has a new knot for Noemie, and she takes a while to catch on.
Where: Istan Weyrleader Ledges
Istan Weyrleader Ledges
A shallow set of steps leads up to this wide, spacious ledge, scored at the edge by turns upon turns of dragonclaws. It's largely set into the mountain, providing shelter from sun and rain while allowing enough room for a queen dragon and several others, if need be, to sun at the edge and lounge within. An anteroom of sorts is carved into the rock at the rear, occupied by a polished table and chairs, and narrow passageways lead off to private chambers, the council room, and the hatching grounds.
It is the simplest way for a rider to summon another, so lacks formality from sheer commonality of use. Still, the weyrleader's bronze presents the request to Naijath with a regal calm that must be rehearsed, as stately as a messenger presenting a missive tied with ribbon and sealed in wax. It's in his tone, not in his words: << He would see yours this afternoon. >> It is in the monochrome painting, all in tones of gray, he offers up of the broad stair leading up to the wide ledge behind which lurks the alcove in which the weyrleader takes most of his formal meetings and no small number of the other kinds. << Thank you, >> Volath adds graciously, intoning a verbal bow, and withdraws.
By afternoon, the bronze has likely forgotten this exchange. He suns on the garden ledge just south of the larger one to which he is technically now entitled. On that larger one, quiet awaits, though the mouth of the conference room has its curtains drawn wide and within at the table sits V'lano, feet up on the chair next by, sandals discarded on the floor. The table holds a sheaf of hides and a tray; the tray holds a pitcher filled with red and gold, sweating condensation, and two glasses.
It's up those pictured stairs that Noemie now comes, taking in the place, slightly wide-eyed, as she enters. Spying the Weyrleader, it's with a small degree of hesitancy that she approaches, as if mentally checking over that she's got her manners correct. "Good afternoon, sir," she says, nearing him. "Volath bespoke Naijath? He told her that you wished to see me?" Her voice is light and cheerful as ever, with only the vaguest hint of trepidation at the unusual summons.
"Ah, Noemie." V'lano's feet come down off of the chair they were propped on in a deliberately slow fashion, toes reaching for his sandals. The motion is unhurried, unabashed. He lifts a hand to gesture, fingers loosely curled, a welcome - as though he could draw in the greenrider with the tip of his palm. "Come in. I hoped you might have time for a little talk," he murmurs, chin down and eyes up so his dark gaze flickers behind long lashes. Once he's shod again he rises, then steps around to lay a hand on the back of a chair so he can pull it back a bit from the table. "I'm even willing to toast you for your time," he grins, with a droll nod toward the tray and pitcher. "Have a seat?"
Noemie approaches the rest of the way as V'lano rises, relaxing slightly, enough for a smile to spread on her face. "Time for talk? Of course," she says, tone reassured by the Weyrleader's laid back attitude. "And... a toast? Well, I could never turn down one of those." She takes the proffered seat with a look of gratitude, then glances with curiosity at the liquid in the pitcher. "Why, thank you. Might I ask what we're toasting with?"
"You know, that's the second time in a month someone's asked what this is." V'lano waits to see about tucking in Noemie's seat once she's taken it, then bends a little and hooks his fingertips over the rim of the tray, tugging it closer. "Which means nothing, of course, but it surprises me after turns drinking the same thing and no one ever asking. It's called Sailor's Delight. From the rhyme." He lifts the pitcher and pours the two glasses full, then places one before the greenrider. Carrying his own on a short pacing trip to his own chair, he asks, "How's it been for you, helping Fadra?"
"Ahh. You mean, people aren't curious to know what it is they're drinking? I nearly always ask," Noemie says. First things first: she takes a sip of the drink, and /then/ she answers the question. "And it's rather good, too. Working with Fadra? It's been... an interesting experience, I'll admit that. But a gratifying one, seeing the Weyrlings progress. And I've enjoyed working with the team as a whole. Fadra and I are night and day, really, but I think the lot of us are a well-rounded bunch. I've learned a lot from them."
"Oh, no. People aren't curious to know what -I'm- drinking," replies V'lano, a laugh beneath his words making his voice wry. He seats himself, glass in hand, nudging his chair back enough so he can angle toward Noemie and stretch his legs out beneath the table, ankles crossed, the upper sandal dangling lazy from his toes. "Learned a lot from them," he muses then, an echo. He raises his glass but speaks before drinking: "From the weyrlings? Or - ?"
"The other Assistants. But the Weyrlings, too. Seeing how they grow and strengthen as pairs together is sort of a--" Noemie pauses in her speech suddenly, looking slightly embarrassed. "Well, maybe this sounds silly. But a metaphor for life, in general? How we grow and learn as people, how we learn from experiences." She traces a finger along the condensation of her glass, looking thoughtful. "And having to be something of a disciplinarian has been a learning experience. I think my backbone is a little stronger now."
"Ah," replies V'lano, releasing the syllable in a sigh of understanding. Brows up, chin raised, he is the -picture- of understanding, too; or perhaps of thoughtful manipulation. But he smiles, and his smile is pleasant and not -too- secret. "Oh, really? That's an interesting thing to say - about backbone, about discipline. We haven't children, you know; I always thought that having them would give a weyrling trainer an edge. Maybe it's the opposite: training weyrlings might give you a new edge with your littles?" Barely a beat allows him to break a somewhat broader smile, eyes dancing, and sociably enough ask, "How are they doing, anyway?"
"Discipline's never been my strong suit, when it comes to them," Noemie admits readily, "But then, my oldest two are fostered, so when I see them, it's an occasion for spoiling, not discipline." She grins, returning the broad smile, her features taking on the fond look of a mother talking about her children. "They're all doing just fine. Noelyn'll be a toddler far too soon for my tastes. And Rylie, the oldest, just reached her fifth turn." At the idea that training Weyrlings will help with raising littles, she laughs. "Mothering /is/ a bit like training Weyrlings, I suppose. But with some different challenges-- you don't worry about losing them *between*, just that they might get separated in a crowd."
"I suppose. Weyrlings - or especially their dragons - is the closest approximation I know well," laughs the weyrleader, with a wave of the hand not holding his glass. He indulges in another sip from his drink, then bends his knees and tucks his feet properly in front of his chair so he can lean forward and put the glass back up on the table. "Will you be fostering Noelyn out as well, when he's - a toddler, or something like?" V'lano's tone is amicable, his expression intrigued, as if the unknown details of childrearing are of some fascination. Yet his shoulders square a little as he folds his arms on the table and lean into them, something about his posture betraying business.
"And they grow just as fast, don't they?" Noemie says, more sounds of laughter issuing from the young woman. A generous gulp is taken from her own drink before she continues, giving a small shrug. "I'm not sure yet. Ril and I have been putting off the discussion. We'd both like to have one of our children with us, but we're both busy-- and we want the girls to know their brother, too. We'll get there when we get there, I suppose. There's time yet to decide." She grins, adding, "The nannies here really are something. Without them, I don't know what I'd do."
"I give Grissa all the credit for the nanny staff. I mean, I'm sure our headwomen since and the assistant headwomen have helped keep the children's caverns well-staffed, but - " The weyrleader pauses to grin, almost boyish in doing so, and to lift a hand to the back of his neck for a quick rub at his nape. "Well, anyway, I can't say I blame you for avoiding that talk. R'layn's doing well in Dawnsflame, I assume?" Odd question, but V'lano accepts its obvious awkwardness with a little twist of smile and a flicker of a brow, all too cunning in demeanor, pseudofake.
Noemie notes the odd expression and smiles back uncertainly, but the tone of voice in which she answers is normal, as if nothing was odd about the question. "Oh-- yes, he is. He's been keeping me up to date with Dawnsflame business. I admit, I do miss us both being on the same schedule, being in the same wing." She reaches for her glass to take another sip, expression still uncertain, although turned slightly curious as to why the question was broached.
"Ye-es," says V'lano, straightening, his voice hardly plumbing the depths of empathy. After a little semiprivate shake of his head, he lets silence dominate and takes up his glass for a drink. The liquid, surely alcoholic but fruity too, swirls, colors mixing as glasses are tilted. He holds the stuff in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. Refreshed, he replies, "I'm not actually sure it's in your cards to return to Dawnsflame, Noemie." Bright as his tone and expression may be, there's something else causing the corners of his mouth and the brushstrokes of moustache above them to twitch. "Is R'layn secure there?"
Noemie gives her head a slight shake, as if this might refocus her hearing, help to explain the words she just heard. "Not in the cards? -- Secure? I'd assume he's secure. I don't see why not." The uncertainty of her tone has caused her voice to lose a bit of its volume, but she looks directly at the Weyrleader, trying to read in between the lines of his expression. "But... what exactly do you mean?"
"I mean, is he comfortable there. Contented. Secure in himself. Unthreatened...?" The bronzerider's thick brows slide upward as he draws out this last reiteration of his question, though the thing twitching in the corners of his mouth begins to looks suspiciously like a smile. "How's he coped with you wearing an assistant's knot?" The smile dances in his dark eyes now, too, and V'lano sets down the drink on the table so he has both hands free to raise and finger-comb his curls with. "With you answering to Fadra, or with the weyrling wing answering to you?"
"Comfortable, content? I suppose so. We both always were. And, he's been happy for me. Proud. He's always doted a bit. Reminded me to slow down, now and then." Noemie looks downward, slightly into her drink, as she tries to answer the question fully, thinking mentally over the time she's spent with the weyrlings. And then, looking back towards the Weyrleader, "But really, sir, if I can be so bold... why do you ask?"
V'lano's chin lifts and what glints in his eyes now is, if not understanding, at least clearly satisfied. "Because I don't aim to cut holes in my wingleaders' personal lives, Noemie," he explains, ever-patient, the words so smooth that a tongueslip might be hard to suspect. "But if your weyrmate's likely to be supportive, I see no reason I should worry."
There's silence for a good moment while Noemie just looks peculiarly at the Weyrleader, trying to figure out just where she'd missed something. Finally, she repeats dumbly, "/Your/ wingleaders... /my/ weyrmate... supportive?" She glances around the ledge, as if checking to make sure he really couldn't be addressing anyone else. "You don't have me confused with someone else, sir?"
The bronzerider lifts his chin, looking down his suntanned nose at the woman seated at his table. It's a thoughtful look, not quite smiling save for the merest crinkles at the corners of his eyes, appraising. He takes in the cut of her hair, the shape of her freckled face, the mold of her shoulders, that dark gaze dancing over her with perhaps too-frank consideration. Then near-black eyes seek brightly blue ones, and V'lano twists a sleek, sure grin across his smirker's mouth. "No," he says, voice deep and droll. "I'm quite sure you're Noemie." His eyebrows twitch, almost waggling, as he lazily slips a hand into a pocket, tilting hips a little in his chair to let that pocket flatten. "Of course, it might be rather embarrassing if you weren't," he admits meanwhile, cheeky now.
Noemie glances down over herself, smoothing out a wrinkle in her dress and giving a tug at her hair as if double-checking all of her features, making sure of her own identity. "Yes... I'm Noemie. I know I was when I woke up this morning, and I don't think that's changed since. But the whole bit about your wingleaders, sir? Last I checked, I wasn't one of those." Her voice falters between confusion and nervousness at suggesting that the Weyrleader might be wrong, and her expression turns questioning, looking for the explanation she knows must be somewhere.
"No, you weren't this morning," agrees V'lano, a laugh now implicit in a thrum that sets his voice humming with mischief. He slides out of the chair and straightens to his feet, plucking the pocketed hand out; his elbow unbends just enough that he can crawl a fingertip onto the table and flattens his hand. A little heap of colored cord falls onto the table beneath his palm. He squashes it flat under that palm and slides the whole across, then straightens again, collecting the pitcher as his reach retreats so he can refill his glass. The heap contains Ista's colors and, if untangled a bit, the make of a wingleader's knot, minus the dragonhide-hue thread needed to complete it. "Top you off?" the weyrleader offers, with a gesture of the pitcher, once he's done pouring his own.
"Yes, please," Noemie says, but without, most likely, actually registering what she's agreed to. Her attention is all on that little pile of cord, and she stares at it curiously, then reaches for it, picks it up, and examines it more closely. "This is a wingleader's knot," she says incredulously. Then, looking back at the bronzerider, "I wasn't this morning-- does that mean I am one, now?" Wide blue eyes look searchingly, a bit dazedly, for confirmation, the significance of the moment not having fully sunken in.
V'lano rests his free hand on the table and leans so he can tip the pitcher and pour Noemie's glass the rest of the way full once more. "That's what it is. And unless you leave without it, that's what it means. I have to give you something else, though, before you go." He rights the pitcher, sets it down on the tray, and retreats - shrinking somewhat, seemingly, back into his seat. He slouches a little, his drink taken in hand, and grins across at the greenrider. "Personalities aside - how did you do with Fadra's methods?"
"Thank you," Noemie says as her glass is refilled, and she reaches for it, taking a long drink, giving herself a moment to let everything register. Setting it down once more, she smiles, still looking a bit overwhelmed. "And, thank you-- for this opportunity. Fadra's methods? Well, they work, don't they? I tried to adjust a little-- think more like Fadra-- but I suppose I did fine." She tries her best to continue on with the conversation as nonchalantly as the Weyrleader, but this proves slightly hard to do, her words not losing the slightly dazed tone they'd taken on before.
"To think like Fadra." V'lano leans forward, not too suddenly but not too slowly either, and nudges an elbow onto the edge of the table. He props his chin on the back of his hand and focuses most intently upon the greenrider, his new wingleader, for a long moment. "Would you say that you can usually interpret her methods, understand what her intent was? I don't mean to ask about agreement - just understanding."
"Understand? Of course. Even when we come from different perspectives, I can almost always understand hers," Noemie says, falling back more comfortably into the pattern of conversation. As moments pass, she looks a bit more relaxed, more Noemie-like again. Realizing that her new knot had remained clasped in one hand, she sets it back down, gently, on the table.
The weyrleader sets down his glass, plucks his chin up off of his hand and leans back. "Exellent," he smiles, lashes lowering, eyes almost smoky with his own smug satisfaction. "That'll make your work easier." Again he tips his hips with all the awkward grace of a seated man trying to get something out of his pants pocket. Then he's lifting his hand, palm opening; up, sailing from this lazy toss, goes a wingbadge. In motion, its colors and arms are hard to make out. V'lano catches it and, after a significant, brows-raised, on-your-toes sort of look at the greenrider, tosses it again, this time toward her. When she captures it, she'll find its shield to be Timor's.
Noemie reaches out deftly, catching the badge a bit less than an arm-length away from her, and opening her hand as she draws it back towards her to look. Seeing the Timor badge, she grins. "Oh! Yes, I suppose it will. Fadra is stepping down, then?" Eyes flick between the Weyrleader and the new badge, carefully searching out its details for the first time, becoming familiar with the emblem she'll now wear.
"She's going to wear Starblaze's badge for a little while yet," V'lano replies, smooth as ever, while pushing himself out of his chair. He's grinning even as he gets to his feet, even as certain, subconscious details of his posture and manner indicate that this time, his arising is to see his guest off rather than to invite her or fill her glass. "Though I should probably take a moment to let the other wingleaders know and brace myself for anyone who might want a word with me about it." He winks, just to lighten the possible impact of this statement, to make it bright if quite serious. "Anything else I can do to you today, Wingleader?"
"Ah, of course. No, I don't think so, sir-- but thank you, again." Noemie rises easily, smiling, not seeming too bothered by the idea that someone might 'want a word' about his decision. She reaches once more for her new knot, holding it and badge lightly in her hand. "I'll do my best to do Ista proud."
The weyrleader's eyes dance; his mouth remains smirky, but there's earnest pleasure cacheted inside the smug. "I know you will," V'lano replies, reaching out to offer a handshake, business sealed. "Thank you for accepting."
Noemie accepts the handshake, her handshake surprisingly firm for her small size and lighthearted demeanor. "It's an honor, truly," she says, smiling back, a genuine look to back up the words she speaks.