After The Lesson - Mohria's Suspicions

Participants:

F'min.jpg Mohria.jpg Crispin.jpg

Date: September 18, 2010
Location: F'min and Mohria's Weyr
Synopsis: After a Weyrling lesson that did not go so well, F'min returns to his ledge. Mohria is suspicious of F'min's behavior.
Rating: PG
Logger: Mohria

It's meal time. Usually F'min would be on his way down to meet with Mohria and Crispin in the Living Cavern, because dinner was a good meal to have with the wings and catch up on the day. He didn't feel like it tonight. After finishing up with the weyrling class, he rode a fuming dragon back up to the ledge, and found the last of Seacraft Ale Mohria had brought down. He was supposed to save it for her for after the baby, but she'd understand. He'll go and get her a fresh skin of ale closer to the Babe's birth.

While the brown dragon cools himself on the ledge, his eyes flicking with a speck of red now an again, his anger leaks on occasion to his blue ledgemate. There's concern, too, though, a worry mixed in with the anger. Something is not right.

F'min brings a chair out to the ledge, after removing Voldrath's straps, he sits in the chair and tips it back against the wall.

Dragon> To Riordanth, Voldrath projects « HE yelled. Mine yelled at the weyrlings. They deserved it, little brats. But he never yells at people, even when they deserve it. »

Down in the Cavern, Mohria packs up Crispin and their remaining dinner and heads back up to the ledge. Riordanth lands gently, crooning low to Voldrath as Mohria and Crispin slide off. "Be gentle with Daddy," Mohria warns the little boy, and Crispin nods. Taking his little food sack in hand, he walks into the weyr and slips into his bedroom, quiet as a mouse. Mohria follows, but she doesn't try to hide. "Sweetheart?" she asks, giving her weyrmate a once over.

Dragon> To Voldrath, Riordanth's mind is quiet and subdued. Something is not right, indeed. « Why? »

Dragon> To Riordanth, Voldrath projects « One was being lazy, letting their dragon do the work. When he made them do the work, another weyrling told me that we should be nicer… and she called me 'battle brother' as if she was my equal! »

F'min looks up from his chair where he's leaned against the wall, and lowers the aleskin after a particularly long pull. He sneezes into his sleeve, then reaches out an arm wordlessly for Mohria to come to him so he can curl his arm around and rest his head against her waist. His forehead feels hot through the material to her skin. "Long day, love."

Mohria notices the aleskin with a small frown, but the sight of him takes up her attention after that. Especially the sneeze. Her frown deepens to one of concern as she walks over and stands beside him, her hand resting across his shoulders. "I can tell," she murmurs. She shifts her body a little so she can bend down and kiss his forehead. "How are you feeling?" she asks, pressing her lips now against her tunic's arm.

Dragon> To Voldrath, Riordanth rumbles in discontent, fidgeting in mind and body. « He does not look well. »

Dragon> To Riordanth, Voldrath projects « He doesn't? » Swings his head to look at his lifemate. « I thought they get red like that when they're angry, like our eyes… » »

"I have a head ache," F'min enunciates clearly and slowly, with more than a little touch of ire. "Shardin'weyrlin's. Barely out o'their shell an'tellin'Voldrath how we should run th'class? Not only, that, but talkin't'my dragon as if they're his equal. Can y'imagine if Voldrath had done that t'S'din's? I'd still be runnin' an'on glow tendin'duty for a sevenday whenever Voldrath was sleepin'. An' then her rider has th'temerity t'tell me I'm not fit t'teach because I demand that she'an her dragon show some respect?" The red spots in his cheeks brighten again as he recounts the worst part of the lesson. His forehead under her lips is hot, like Crispin's when his illness is coming on.

Riordanth shifts restlessly on the ledge, rumbling softly. Mohria watches him, and there's a delay before his words sink in. "Wait. What happened?" she asks, frown growing even deeper. There's a lot here for her to get upset about, it seems. She sits down on the ledge beside him, sticking her legs out in front of her. One hand braces her upright, while the other rests gently around her curved belly. "S'din was a hard ass."

Dragon> To Voldrath, Riordanth projects « Mine is worried. »

Dragon> To Riordanth, Voldrath doesn't reply, but the tinge of anger is slowly being overrun by the feeling of unease and worry

F'min nods, the front legs of his chair thumping down. "He was a hard ass, but we're all alive an'know how t'keep our skins in one piece. An'I wasn't nearly so hard, didn'even tell her sh'had t'do laps or anythin'before sh'was gettin' her little chin up in th'air, tellin'me what was what, an'that I was too full o'myself t'take a suggestion, an'I was a porcine headed somethin'or other." He takes another swig. "All because I told one girl t'finish th'job o'givin'a sack o'stone t'th'lad behind her. Faranth's sake," he explodes. "It's not like I told them t'throw th'sacks. Sacks jus'like th'ones we throw in fall all th'time. I didn't expect them t'be able t'throw them, but they should all be capable o'at least carryin'em a length. Not even." He lays the skin on the ground next to him, so that he can keep his arm around Mohria. "Reminds me. I left th'stack o'sacks with stone in 'em next t'th'trainin'grounds. I gotta take 'em back t'th'firestone cavern or they'll have m'hide."

Mohria listens, all the while watching him. "I'll take care of it," she promises. Or make Riordanth do it, since hauling sacks of firestone is off limits at this point in her pregnancy. She waves off the blue and he soars down to the training grounds. Mohria once more turns her attention to her weyrmate. "What a brat," she murmurs, siding with F'min in this, of course. "Let me get you some water," she says, slowly standing with her hand still against her stomach.

F'min nods at the offer for the water, but he holds onto her for a moment before letting her go. "Thank you, Moh-love. Did Spin have a good day with the harpers?"

Mohria kisses his head gently, "He did," she assures. "Have some food," she encourages, pointing to the sack by his feet which contains sandwiches and some bubblies. She slips into the weyr to make sure Crispin is comfortable before she returns with a skin to the ledge. She dampens a cloth and presses it gently against his forehead. "I think you're getting sick, sweetheart," she says gently. "You've got a fever."

F'min nudges at the sack. The sandwiches are ignored, but he at least takes a bite or two of bubbly pie. Apparently not /that/ sick. Yet. "I'm probably just havin'one o'them summer colds. Gettin'my sweat all frozen when I go between," he murmurs. But having Mohria fuss over him isn't bad, so he leans against her and allows the babying.

Mohria nods, watching him thoughtfully. "Probably," she finally says. Though time will tell. "Let's get you into bed. Do you need to go take a bath first?" She yawns. She fakes it, but it's a good fake. "I'm a little tired. Feel like resting."

F'min continues to nibble at the bubbly pie. "I'll take a bath t'morrow. Crispin's in his room? I'll just stop in an'kiss him good night b'fore I go t'bed." Bubbly pie gone, he brushes the crumbs from his hands, takes a swig from the ale skin instead of the water, then stands up. He gives a slight wobble, but grins it away to Mohria as he leans down to kiss her forehead. "See y'in bed," he tells her with a wink, then strolls into the weyr towards their son's room.

Mohria stands as he does, pushing a smile onto her face for his benefit. She lingers on the ledge to greet Riordanth when he returns. In his bedroom, Crispin is sitting up in his bed. His food dishes are neatly stacked on his little table, and he sits up and reads one of his favorite picture books. He looks up when his father enters, looking uncertain. "Daddy's not sick like me, is he?" he asks, the worry plain on the boy's face.

F'min smiles to the boy as he sits on his bed next to him. "Na, son. Just a li'l cold, y'know how Mommy an'Daddy get sometimes when th'weather changes? I'll just get a little extra sleep an'be fine. Nothin'fer y't'worry about. How about a hug'n'kiss b'fore I go t'sleep." The neatly stacked dishes are given a fond smile of their own. Such a neat, caring, and respectful boy. His son wouldn't back talk a rider.

His son would know to expect a spanking and a stern talking to if he did. The thin little boy slips out from under his covers and happily crawls into his father's lap, rising up with his knees on F'min's thighs. He wraps his arms tightly around the man's neck and kisses his cheek. "I wuv you, Daddy. Feel better."

F'min wraps his arms around the child, smiling in the goofy way that he can't help when the boy is being so sweey. "I love y't', Spin," he murmurs, giving a kiss to the of the boy's head. "Now hop under th'covers an'I'll tuck y'in. Mommy will be here soon t'kiss y'good night, too.:

Crispin scrambles back and under the covers with a little giggle, snuggling and lifting up his 'Rath stuffy for a kiss from his father, as he always does. "Kiss 'Rath!"

F'min chuckles and bends his head, steadying the stuffy with one hand to kiss the stuffy. The poor Yenne special was one of the homeliest looking creatures ever, but it was special to the rider, and he was happy to see his son hold it in such high regard as well. "Night, 'Rath," he says, tucking the stuffy under the covers with Crispin, and then he leans down to tuck the covers around the little boy. He leaves another kiss on the forhead, "Night, 'Spin." Then he pushes himself to his feet, and makes his way to the room he shares with Mohria.

Mohria says good night to Crispin and then walks into their bedroom, stripping down to her night clothes. "I've brought you a cold compress," she says, laying the damp rag in a bowl beside his bed. Another rag already rests in the bowl to soak up the next batch of water, which she pours from a pitcher. "Drink this," she orders gently, handing him the water skin once more.

F'min smiles wearily up at Mohria as he lays on his back. He did kick of his boots and take off his shirt, the old scars standing out lividly across his chest and arm. "Y're a blessin'," he tells her thickly. "I'm th'luckiest man alive." He takes the water skin, and drinks obediently, then he shifts his legs more firmly onto the bed, straightening himself into a more comfortable position. It doesn't take long after his eyes close for him to be sound asleep.

Mohria lays the cloth over his forehead and, after a moment's hesitation, over his eyes as well. Suspicious of firehead, Mohria covers all their glows and slips into a light slumber, alert for any change or sound from him.

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