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Harper's Tale - Friday, October 04, 2002, 6:55 PM
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Ista Hold Stables
As you step into the stables the scent of fresh hay and well groomed runners wafts over you. Rough hewn beams make up the major portion of the stable, over a dozen stalls lining each side of the large room. On the far wall you see several hooks and a shelf for keeping tack and cleaning supplies, everything kept neat and orderly by a dutiful stablehand. Not all the stalls are filled, but the runners which are present seem pleasant and well cared for, whuffling gently to themselves in their individual stalls
To the north, you see a blue and a brown dragon and two people.
In the stalls are 17 runners.
Gliding around is a bronze firelizard.
You see Orill's Wagon, Calysta's Wagon, Puppy, and Blackie here.
Synte and Merevan are here.
Obvious exits:
Courtyard

Dashvard slinks silently in from the Ista Hold Courtyard.

You look more closely at Dashvard...
His skin, though still very pale and smooth, has developed a thin layer of bronze over the quintessential paleness. You can't live at Ista for as long as he has without developing some kind of a tan. His eyes are sloe-black, almond-shaped, and evenly-set in an otherwise slightly jagged face, beneath fine, expressive black brows. His pale complexion, combined with dark eyes and dark hair, leaves him with a deathlike, almost ageless appearance, only slightly muted by the bronzen cast of his skin. His cheek-bones are high and his jaw slender but well-defined, his nose slightly aquiline but well-shaped and set well in his face; the combined effect is one of pale, delicate, almost feminine beauty, though there's little doubt that he's male. There is a long, discolored knife-scar down his right cheek. He's very lean, and carries himself well with his height (5'9, in case anybody cares); broad-shouldered, with a flat, hairless chest and a waspishly narrow waist. Wiry, supple lines define his form. His hair is black and thick, somewhat spiky around the edges, very glossy; it is cut fairly short, springy and thick at the top but shaved close to his neck around the ears and below, with heavy bangs that have an annoying (if endearing) tendency to fall into his face.
Off-duty clothes: the shirt is of soft russet material, with thatched gold weave at the ends of the long sleeves and around the base of the high collar. The trousers are darker, russet-brown, somewhat snug, accentuated by the soft black leather boots on his feet and the slim black belt cinched tightly about his narrow waist. Its buckle glints golden, in the shape of a fallen leaf. Perched on Dashvard's shoulder is Xab. Perched on Dashvard's shoulder is Dream.
Dashvard wears the knot of a Guard Guardsman.
He is a young adult of about 22. He is awake, but seems rather distracted.

You look more closely at Liesana, but don't notice anything different.
Eyes of amber glimmer brightly amongst sculpted features, slightly almond in their shape and evidence of a quick and lively mind apparent behind them. Under a long, glossy mane of wavy chestnut hair, her face is expressive and delicate; pretty and fine boned, but with light olive skin tanned by a decade of Istan sunshine, and a determined strength to the curve of her jaw that warns against any taking her for a useless frill. She stands about 16.2 hands in height, figure slight and long limbed, past the coltishness of youth and graced with subtle curves of womanhood. Marks of a life lived to the fullest, she bears the scars of old bone breaks on her right leg and left arm, and her hands show the marks of a career harper; slight callouses are apparent on her fingertips, and the web of her thumb.
Liesana is wearing her standard peasant blouse of sharp white, laces done up but left untied, and the sleeves billowy and full, but for where cuffs embroidered with a light touch of Harper blue constrain them. A tailored vest, also in the blue, is left unfastened, but cinched into place around her waist by a belt of chestnut leather with a shiny copper buckle. Earth tones appear again with her breeches, an amber shade granted to leather worked to a softness that permits it to fall like cloth. And while the slacks may outline a pair of toned and shapely legs, they still leave a good bit to the imagination. Her feet are shod in a well broken in and well cared for pair of black leather riding boots which reach to calf height, and her hair is pulled back into a low runnertail, a few shorter sidelocks escaping to soften the sharp beauty of sculpted features. Tail draping down Liesana's back, Hippolyta perches on her left shoulder.
Double cord and double loops in white and rich blue couple with a blue tassel and a binding thread of gold to denote a Master of the Harper Craft. A red ribbon interwoven further indicates that the wearer is posted to the Smith Crafthall.
You see Liesana take a closer look at you.
She is a young adult of about 27. She is awake and looks alert.

Storm Dancer
An elegant mare regards you with an alert klah coloured gaze. The clean conformtion of an Igenbred is shaded in the pale fog grey of a runner at the height of its power and grace. A dished face shows spirit and fire in the eyes and nostrils, which are always slightly flared, while an arched and muscular neck, accented by an adequate, but light mane hint at many hours spent prancing and galloping in the pasture and under saddle. Well formed withers ensure that saddles slip neither forward or back, and the sloping shoulders and deep chest hint at free motion and stamina. She stands a mere 14.3 hands, but her spirit is that of a much larger beast. Her tail is held raised as she moves, which is almost always, although she doesn't appear over-nervous like others of her breed.
Storm Dancer is 18 Turns, 3 months, and 9 days old.

Hadrian
This young bay gelding stands about 15.3hh, and has a soft and somewhat shaggy coat of rusty-brown. His mane and tail are slowly beginning to grow to full adult length, black hairs sunburnt by Istan light to a slightly brownish sheen. Legs not fully developed nonetheless move with controlled grace and speed; straight and strong, their nearly impeccable conformation combines with that of the rest of his powerful young body to make a runner rich in promise. Warm dark brown eyes look around curiously while a clean-lined head tosses upwards occasionally.
Hadrian is 3 Turns, 1 month, and 14 days old.

Liesana is already in the stables, putting in the final adjustments to the tack on her runnerbeasts. Yes, the term is plural today, as both Storm Dancer and Hadrian stand waiting in cross-ties, the mare with a patient anticipation, and the young gelding cheerfully and spastically jerking his head, and pacing in place. We're going out! Yay! Can I have a carrot? CanIcanIcanI?? "Stand, you," orders Liesana in his direction affectionately as she adjusts the set of Storm's bit.

Dashvard strolls into the stables with his stride measured in an easy lope, a wry look turning up the corners of his mouth and flickering in only slight evidence in his dark eyes. "Good day," he announces to the world at large. The gentle quirk of one fine brow suggests mild amusement as his glance takes in the activity of the gelding. "Excited, are we?"

"Could you guess?" is Liesana reply, peeking up around Storm Dancer's head with amber eyes bright and lively at the prospect of an afternoon's fun. "Fortunately, you get to ride her ladyship here, who at least has the sense to restrain herself until we hit a gallop." Stepping under the Igenbred mare's neck and laughing quietly as Storm tugs at the end of her runner's tail, she extends the reins of her bridle to Dashvard. "Your runnerbeast, sir. Just remember the old adage that you can tell a gelding, but you need to ask a mare, and you'll do fine." she sums up. The third line, about discussing things with a stallion is left out becaue, barring Liesana's aunt showing up to ride with them, there are no stallions of her acquaintance about. And with Rilna's penchant for boisterously good-natured meddling... that's just as well.

You see Dashvard take a closer look at you.

The smile that flickered around the edges of Dashvard's mouth became nearly a smirk for just a bare instant before it vanished entirely; now his mouth is somber save for the slightest wry quirk, and his eyes only betray the gleam of fun. "I am certain her ladyship and I will get along splendidly," he says with quiet dignity -- mocking himself, it can be assumed. "I will be excruciatingly courteous. Shall we, Liesana? It looks to be a perfectly splendid day." Wryness galore.

Liesana's eyes spark with mischief, and she sweeps a somewhat plummy bow after relinquishing the reins. "By all means we shall, my dear Dashvard. We must needs make the most of such positively delightful weather." Storm looks on somewhat boredly, used to her mistress's nonsense, while Hadrian, the new addition to the little herd, lets loose a querulous whinny. "Hush you," she murmurs again to the gelding, dropping out of her role a moment to check his girths, unclip him from the cross-ties and hug his head for a moment, before leading him out and past Guard and Mare. "Thought we might head up the meadow...?"

You lead Hadrian.
You go to the Ista Hold Courtyard.
Ista Hold Courtyard
Built into the side of a hard granite cliff, Ista Hold looms dominantly to the west. Windows pock the smooth surface of the cliff in neat rows until they get closer to the ground, where they begin to frame the great bronze doors leading into the Hold itself. A sea breeze seems constantly in the air here as the ocean and the wharf lay but dragonlengths to the east. Beaches are scattered to the north, recreational areas for the Hold's residents when not working.
It is a summer afternoon.
Perched on a windowsill are six firelizards.
Blue Khantuth and brown Djarreth are here.
You see Toshiro and Randell here.
Obvious exits:
Ista Hold Dock     Main Beach     Great Doors     Guard Office     Stables

Hadrian walks in from the Ista Hold Stables.
Dashvard slinks silently in from the Ista Hold Stables.
Storm Dancer moves with feet that condescend to touch ground in from the Ista Hold Stables.

Dashvard runs his fingers through his hair - in need of a trim, come to think of it - and grins wryly as he follows Liesana. "With you I would ride anywhere," he says gallantly, a sparkle in his dark eyes ... although what he means by that exactly it's doubtful he'd be able to explain, himself. "Let us delight in all the weather all across the world. We'll be back in time for dinner."

Iqe walks in.
Deemond blinks in from ::between::!
Iqe calls to Deemond, who flies over and lands on her shoulder.
Iqe walks out.

Liesana has often wanted to run her fingers through Dash's hair herself, to get it out of his eyes, but since he seems to take care of that task well enough on his own, and Liesana would likely die 'ere she'd admit it, she just lets her fingers check her stirrups instead, before neatly mounting and gathering her reins in one hand as Hadrian snorts at the newly-arrived and soon-departed Iqe. "Oh, well in that case, why should we let dinner stop us?" she asks, with a smile. "I have, after all, packed some rather interesting edibles in the saddlebags."

You swing up onto Hadrian's back.

Dashvard quirks an eyebrow upwards at Liesana, amused. "Interesting edibles, eh?" he says. "Well, it's looks like a scrumptious day for a picnic." How many adjectives can he use in the course of one conversation? The guardsman launches himself smoothly onto Storm Dancer's back. "We can explore the whole world, if we don't have to be back in time for dinner," he says cheerfully.

Brogan walks down some steps which lead to the great doors and the Hold.
Brogan walks to the Stables.

From Hadrian's back, Liesana's voice is a caress to match the steady sweep of her hand on the bay gelding's neck. "Steady on, 'drian, we'll be off soon," Hadrian doesn't so much steady as temporarily stop fidgeting, but it's enough to let Liesana wink at Dashvard. "Of course, I do recommend that we stop for breakfast before conquering it, or anything silly like that. But, to the valley then? You lead off."

Dashvard vaults lightly onto Storm Dancer's back

Storm Dancer moves with feet that condescend to touch ground towards the beach.
You walk towards the beach.
You stand on the sandy main beach.
Storm Dancer moves with feet that condescend to touch ground to the Gather Meadow.
You go to the Gather Meadow.
Storm Dancer moves with feet that condescend to touch ground to the Hold Valley.
You go to the Hold Valley.

Hold Valley
You stand amid the whispering, waving grasses of the Ista Hold valley. The grassy plain is framed on the north and south by stands of tropical trees. Along the southern edge of the valley lies the Herdercraft's Istan establishment, surrounded by several fenced-off areas that serve as the hold's pastures. Below, as the valley slopes downward to the east and the sea, the Hold's gather grounds are a wider grassy area, usually unpopulated except during gathers. To the west, the valley ascends and narrows into the ridge trail leading into the mountains.
Gliding around is a bronze firelizard.
You see Dunking tank, Tin o' Numbweed, and Storm Dancer here.
Obvious exits:
Gather Meadow     Forest     Grove     Upper Valley     Hold Pastures     Herder Crafthall

From Storm Dancer's back, Dashvard glances skywards, his mouth quirking slightly to one side as he breathes in both the scent of the air and the scent of the runnerbeast. "I do love this," he says quietly, a soft smile flickering across his face. "It's like ... much more free than I ever was when I had my freedom."

From Hadrian's Back, Liesana slows Hadrian from his collected trot, and lets him move forward in a loose-reined walk as a reward. She slips her feet from the stirrups and inhales a deep lungful of the sweetgrass scented air. "Mmmmm... I wholeheartedly agree. To race the wind in the summertime... it's as close to flying as any of us poor groundlings can hope to come..." She looks somewhat quietly embarrassed and hesitant to impart the next bit of her comment, fiddling with a wisp of the gelding's black mane before speaking. "I've written songs and poems about riding... never let anyone else hear, as composition isn't my gift. But... such feelings need to be remembered somehow."

From Storm Dancer's back, Dashvard smiles oddly at her, a touch of strange warmth reflecting briefly in his eyes as he speaks: "Indeed. The memory of emotion is important ... sometimes as important, if not more so, than the original feeling itself." It's probably clear that he's not only referring to the feelings of freedom inherent in a runner ride.

From Hadrian's back, Liesana taps at Hadrian with her leg, cuing a motion that the young runnerbeast has yet to learn. She flushes and murmurs. "Right, you're not Storm Dancer..." before using a less subtle means of communication, i.e., the reins. When the gelding is closer to Storm Dancer, and therefore she's in a more conversational range, Liesana gives a little nod, her own eyes alight with sharing and recollection. "True... in memory, events are idealized. The pleasures are sweeter, and the pains are dulled. No, I don't think I'd part with even my less pleasant memories. Not," she comments, returning to the present somewhat. "That I advocate living in the past."

From Storm Dancer's back, Dashvard shakes his head slowly. "No," he says, his voice suddenly both soft and strangely intense. "Living in the present is much less hazardous to the mind ..." He blinks, then, and shakes his head as if to clear it. "Memory makes us who we are and guides our hearts ... but it's not a very good place to build the future. The present is better for that."

From Hadrian's Back, Liesana's player is really not liking the lack of @emit, and it's cramping of her style. But it's fortunate that Hadrian is reasonably well occupied with cropping the heads of the grasses as he wanders on a loose rein, because Liesana is far more occupied in smiling at Dashvard and nodding agreement. "Very true. So what sort of future do you want to build?" she asks, tone light as she probes heavy topics. Classic Liesana.

From Storm Dancer's back, Dashvard glances across at her, his expression turning subtly wry. "A warmer one," he says. "A friendlier one ... than one might expect from my past." He hunches his shoulders - a position oddly awkward in the saddle. "You know. Do the normal thing. I've never done the normal thing in my life and I'd like to see if I'd be any good at it."

From Hadrian's back, Liesana smiles to herself, although something in the cast of her face includes Dashvard in the expression as well. "I don't quite know if any part of my life could be considered normal," the youngest Harper Master currently on Pern admits, a touch wryly. "Faranth knows I've tried it. If you have any luck with normalcy yourself, let me know... I'd like to join you in it." She continues to let Hadrian set the course up the valley, perhaps not such a wise move although he's not spooked at anything yet.

From Storm Dancer's back, Dashvard's player doesn't like the lack of @emitness either, for the record. For some unidentifiable reason, the guardsman blushes, the color lancing plainly across his still-pale face. "You'll be the first to know," he says dryly, trying to fight off the embarrassing flush. "I suspect I may prove to be singularly inept at it."

From Hadrian's back, Liesana's player cunningly devises a way to get her character, at least, off the runner and able to @emit. Liesana's answering blush, and isn't it funny how the pair seems to be doing that in tandem these days, follows soon behind as she realizes how her words could be interpreted. Oddly, she doesn't make her usual move to correct it, instead giving a little smile. "Then I'll be in good company with my own lack of skill in that aren--Ahhhhh!" Hadrian, left to his own devices, has meandered over towards a large flat rock, on which a wild firelizard is sunning. Startled, the winged beastie rises up, spooking the young gelding, who rises up as well, dumping the unusually inattentive Liesana straight into the dirt. "Oooh, I need to stop doing that." is her comment, managed a moment later.

Hadrian bucks Liesana off!

From Storm Dancer's back, Dashvard stares, startled, and then dismounts with unusual alacrity, getting his hair all out of place again in the process (poor guy really needs a haircut). Although his dark eyes reflect that he might find this amusing at any other time, or perhaps with any other person, Dashvard's the essence of courtesy. "Hey -- are you all right?" he asks, concern written plainly all over his face.
Dashvard drops gently from Storm Dancer's back.

Liesana's expressive features are showing a very expressive wince right now. She manages to bite down about a paragraph's worth of Keroonian curse words into a single oversocialized. "That... really hurts." as she rubs at her tailbone. But cogently realizing that such a statement won't reassure Dashvard much, she manages a distinctly wry smile. "Nothing broken this time, I don't think. But, ah... would you mind taking a bit of a head start on our picnic?" Because she's not relishing the thought of walking right now. Hadrian, now over his fit, comes trotting back over like an overgrown puppy, snuffling plaintively at her shoulder.

Dashvard shakes his head. "No, I'd be glad to," he says. "We've got all the time in the world, you know." He tilts his head, watching her with a worried expression on his face. "Er ... can I help at all?" Can't imagine how he'd do that.

Kissing it and making it better isn't really an option here, no. Liesana essays a reassuring smile as she continues to rub at her rear. "Er... can't think of anything at the moment, although I might want to make a pass by the hot springs later on, before the dratted Healers can pounce me... Ah!" Smoothly, she converts the semi-yelp as she shifts the wrong way into an exclamation of discovery. "You could get the picnic lunch from the saddlebags...?"

Dashvard feels himself flushing again for some unidentifiable reason. "Er," he says, "sure ..." He goes to the saddlebags, as obedient as any puppy (although come to think of it puppies aren't all that obedient ... they're cute, though!) to unpack the picnic, as directed. "All right," he says, "we must keep you away from the dreaded healers, after all ..."

"You're welcome to join me at the springs, if you'd like," Liesana gabbles onwards, free-associating as a means of distracting herself from the throbbing of her posterior. "And yes, Healers are such terribly fussy creatures. The last time Storm sent me sailing, they kept me flat on my back in the infirmary for three whole days. Oh, here, let me help spread that out..." she reaches out for one of the 'bags, miraculously having managed to avoid blushing when Dashvard did.

Dashvard smiles at her. "Thank you, I'd like that," he says, "I think." His fingers are nimble as he neatly removes various articles from the 'bags and begins to arrange them with casual neatness for the picnic. "Imagine. Three whole days." There's a hint of sarcasm here, although it's masked. "You know," he remarks mildly, "I'm sure they have your best interests in mind. I'd prefer you whole than not."

Liesana busies her hands in applying a set of cloth hobbles to Hadrian and unfastening the ends of his reins that he might graze. Storm, she trusts not to wander off. After that, she begins pulling various treasures out of the carrysack closest to her: three sorts of cheese, some salt crackers, grapes, puffed meat pastries, a flask of juice, and, since she is, after all, a Harper, a bottle of Benden white wine. "From my private reserve," she notes, by way of explaining the dust decorating the aforementioned bottle. "And... I happen to like myself whole as well, but I've got a rather nasty habit of being unable to go a turn without something happening to me, so I'm afraid I value my time outside of the infirmary..."

Dashvard's mouth quirks into a smile. "Yes," he says, "I understand perfectly. I value your time outside of the infirmary, too," he says. His brows sweep upwards as his glance takes in the repast. "Ah," he says, "a veritable feast."

"Rank, I'm finding," notes Liesana, pulling her belt knife and slicing into a cheese somewhat analogous to Brie, "Has it's privileges. Although I don't think I'll ever get used to being called My Lady Harper..." she muses, offering a slice of the cheese to Dashvard on the knife's blade before smiling roguishly. "Well, perhaps unless it's by you, My Lord Guardsman." she allows, eyes dancing as she remembers the manners displayed by both parties at their last picnic.

Dashvard takes the cheese with as much elegant care as possible and lifts it to his mouth with his pinky decidedly in the air, a lofty expression molding his delicately handsome face. "My lady harper," he answers, after nibbling on the cheese with an entirely straight face, "who else has been calling you by your especial title?"

Dashvard's straight face teases a giggle out of Liesana, who supresses it with a slice of cheese for herself, and a cracker to rest it on before answering, gaze disfocusing as she searches her memory. "Hmmm... two stablehands, a handful of apprentices, one mysterious stranger in a cape, and your Recruit Gahn. I do think Gahn was simply following one of the stablehands' lead in attempting to make time with me." Her lips compress at that. "I don't know why people assume that Harpers are natural born coquettes and flirts, you know? I can hold my own, but..."

Dashvard's gaze rolls heavenwards. "Fascinating," he says, a bemused rumble in his voice before he continues, "Gahn ... is an interesting lad," he says carefully. "I ... well, never mind." His mouth quirks into something suspiciously reminiscent of a grimace. "Although I'd appreciate it if that didn't get around," he adds wryly. "People seem to assume that guards are born dashing, debonair swashbucklers."

"Rest assured," comments Liesana dryly. "I have enough experience with keeping my own mentees' behavior under wraps that Gahn's is quite safe." She eyes the food and selects a small sprig from the bunch of grapes, lying down on the picnic blanket to take some of the weight off her posterior. Now leaning on her elbow fairly near Dashvard, she pauses before popping one the grapes in her mouth to suddenly offer a look of breathless and wide-eyed startlement. "You mean you're... not... a dashing debonair swashbuckler?"

Dashvard looks at her for a moment and then bursts out laughing, shaking his head. "You're going to have to tell me," he says, dark eyes sparkling with mirth. "I don't know what I am, but I'm fairly sure it isn't that." He takes a few grapes of his own and begins, absent-mindedly, to peel them.

Liesana laughs, but then ponders that joking question for a moment in all seriousness, finishing her grapes, and then turning her head to look up at Dashvard as the runnerbeasts gently crop the turf nearby. "You are... kind." she begins. "Honourable. Trustworthy. And able to make me laugh. You've been through life's fire's and emerged stronger. You understand pain, and yet you still embrace life. And I feel I can talk with you about anything." Feeling that perhaps she's said a bit too much, that old flush starts creeping into her cheeks, and she hurriedly switches to a lighter tone. "And you have to admit you're definitely not bad looking either,"

Dashvard looks at her for a long moment, feeling the telltale blush beginning to creep across his cheeks ... and yet the expression in his sloe-black eyes is somehow searching. "Liesana, I ... thank you ... I, er," he says, which is probably not the most eloquent or poetic thing to drop from his mouth. "I appreciate your candor, your humor, your trust ... and so many other things, I'm not sure I have the words to express ..." He trails off, perhaps to avoid finishing the sentence.

Liesana's own face is flushed, and yet she doesn't look away. Somehow that just wouldn't fit at this time and place. And yet... Liesana can't quite finish the sentence herself. So, almost tentatively, she moves her hand to cover Dashvard's, a careful little smile risking itself on her lips as the runnerbeasts continue to graze, by their soft snorts and whickers unaware of such strange things as human behavior.

Dashvard's lips curve into a soft smile as their hands touch. Silence can be more eloquent than words, especially stumbling ones when he's not even sure what he's saying. The touch of gentle fingers can be more articulate yet; and as her hand covers his, he reaches over with his other hand, caressing her cheek lightly with the backs of his fingers. It's a somehow timid, adolescent gesture, as though he's both unsure of what he's doing and worried about what her reaction might be to it. (The blush ... almost goes without saying.)

Liesana, so still in her movements, is like as to one holding a wild bird in their hand. She tenses uncertainly as her touch is received, then relaxes with a soft noise that's half laugh and half a gentle sigh, and over so very soon. The grapes fall unheeded from her other hand as it reaches up to take a gentle hold of the one caressing her cheek, turning it very slightly to press the lightest of kisses to the back, her eyes dark with questions and trust, an odd mingling.

Dream suddenly disappears ::between::!

Memory is a strong creature: but this is so much different from anything he's ever done, ever felt -- a friend, a true friend, whose lips caress his hand ... Dashvard has no experience to draw on, and yet, he feels as though he doesn't need it ... for now. Although his eyes still carry far more questions than answers, he takes the hand in his - the one she first covered his own with - and brings it to his own lips, a gentle, ticklingly light kiss on her palm ... his gaze never leaving her face.

Liesana likewise treads an uncharted path, but perhaps with more caution. Girlhood crushes, the casual fancies of Gathers or gambling men, these offer no advice. And no doubt in the depths of those hazel-gold eyes, memories of the disastrous failure with another close friend sit not too far from the surface. But she, too, is caught in a dance as old as time, the feeling of falling, the knowledge that someone will catch her. And so, hesitant as the maiden she's not been for nearly a decade, she tilts her chin as she looks at him, offering... invitation? Trust? Something indefinable, and yet centuries-known.

Dashvard looks into her face for a long moment, sure of his friendship ... and yet unsure of what this is, of what's coming next, of what is expected of him. He's also not entirely sure he /wants/ to be expected. The attraction is undeniable ... there is little mistaking the mutual connection going on here, born of friendship, of trust, rather than of anything fleeting ... (although aren't those here too?) And after so long of refusing to admit anything even to himself, the gentle touches shared between the two of them is like a release. "Liesana ...?"

Liesana's gaze is steady, and, a rarity for a Harper so attuned and conditioned to wearing various personas like masks, completely open as she searches his face for... something. Emotions can be seen racing across her features, little ripples on the pond of her soul. Caution wars with the recklessness inherent in trust, but eventually trust wins out again. This is Dashvard, she seems to assure herself. Her mouth forms a word twice before she manages to give a little, breathless nod. "Yes...?"

Dashvard tilts his head ever-so-slightly to one side. Confusions, emotions, memories ... Carid might be the strongest one, but Liesana is definitely not Carid. He trusts her, more than anyone he can remember ... not since anyone he can remember. Neither of them will be hurt. They can do this. They know each other so well. "May I kiss you, Liesana?" The question is very soft.

There's a faint trembling to Liesana's hand as reaches over to squeeze Dashvard's quietly. The walking wounded, both of them, but perhaps together they might form a whole. Should they? Could they? A sudden image of one of her mentees happening by invades, and the harper stifles a totally inappropriate laugh. The unbidden humour her subconscious provides settles her and grounds her back in reality and the moment, however, and so the trembling ceases and she simply nods and turns her face to him. "Yes... you may."

The glowing smile that touches Dashvard's mouth, gleams in his eyes, is short-lived ... not because it's not at home on his face, not because he has any reason at all to stop smiling. The sloe-black eyes close as he leans forward - gentlemen never kiss with their eyes open, you know - and the smile only fades as he, with gentle tenderness, touches his lips to hers.

Liesana sighs again, a sound of release and a terrible, wonderful and almost wholly unexpected happiness. One of her hands lifts to sweep his forelock away from his face, and she meets his lips with her own, gently, but with a firmness assuring them both that This Is Right. Alas that runnerbeasts have a horrid sense of when key moments are occurring, and Storm Dancer picks the very moment when Liesana is slowly letting the kiss deepen to snort a loud raspberry sound.

Dashvard isn't one to let some sarcastic runnerbeasts ruin a truly wonderful moment. He lets the kiss deepen, and linger, reveling in the contact. This simple kiss feels somehow much more important to him than anything else in the world. His mind is somewhere deliciously gleeful, even as he pulls gently back and grins fairly foolishly at her. "I think we've offended her," he remarks, quirking an eyebrow in the direction of the mare. "What do you think?"

Liesana is somewhat breathless as the embrace draws to a close, letting her fingertips lightly wander across the planes of his face, as if she were a blind woman committing them to memory. A smile plays across her lips at his query, and she places a playful kiss to the tip of his nose before pulling back enough to glance from the snuffling mare to Dashvard. "I think," she notes with warm humour in her tone. "That I don't particularly care."

Dashvard laughs softly, his regard resting on her face as though he never wants to remove it. "I don't really either," he says quietly. The wry quirk of an eyebrow. "If I had any other friends, they'd tease me unmercifully, I think. And I wouldn't care about that either."

"Ugh... my mentees would have a field day with this," Liesana is suddenly called upon to remember, laughter in her eyes as she rolls off her elbow to nestle close to his chest and just watch him. "And the rest of both Halls. And they are welcome to it." she decrees with an attempt at stern solemnity that doesn't... quite come off. She sighs again happily, and finally consents to feed Storm Dancer one of the long-forgotten grapes with her free hand.

Dashvard smiles happily down at her, only the barest hint of the usual wryness there. They just seem to fit so well this way; he can't remember such glee for the simple presence of someone, not ... not for a long time. Ever? He's not sure. It's never been like this before, he's sure, but he's not entirely sure what it has been like ... precious memories, overwritten by the present ... or perhaps by other memories, crueler ones, on which he refuses to dwell at present. The now is enough ... the now, and the wonderment of what might be to come. "Oh, let them," he agrees quietly. "Let them enjoy themselves. It won't hurt either of us."

"I feel like... nothing could ever hurt me again, right now," admits Liesana, her words somewhat muffled against his chest. Muscles where the tension was completely unrealized uncoil as she continues to simply lie there in a state of utter lack of her usual mile-a-minute thoughts, fingers playing idly with the collar of his shirt. "I feel like... singing, but I could never hope to find the words."

One of Dashvard's hands gently strokes Liesana's head, delighting in the feel of her hair against his fingers. He's utterly at peace with her in his arms, nestled against him like this; he feels at one with the world around him. It's magnificent. "I don't think there are any words," he says reflectively. "I think ... there are only ... feelings."

Liesana lifts a hand to untie the cord holding her hair into its tight runner's tail, letting the chestnut strands spill about and be caught lightly by the breeze as she simply... rests, unstrung and perfectly content as the summer day begins to turn to a soft tropical evening, to be held, breathing the mingled scents of the valley's grasses and the man she's lying beside. "A Harper without words..." she murmurs, quietly amused. "Now surely that must be a first."

Dashvard smiles into her face, and sighs softly, contentedly. "I'm sure it's happened before," he says, "although not often ... poetry is all about expressing the inexpressible, but I can't think of any off the top of my head that really applies."

"How do I love thee, let me count the ways?" hazards Liesana, quoting a passage handed down from Ancient times, and smiling a little as she lifts her head to brace her forehead gently against his. "Even that seems inadequate, I'm afraid. I could stay here forever, despite an irritating sense of duty telling me to get back to work. I would that I could stop the sun and hold it for a while..."

Dashvard laughs softly, stroking her hair again. "It might burn your hands," he murmurs tenderly. "Couldn't have that. The healers might come and get you."

"Mmm, let them come, if it meant staying here, like this, for just a little longer," demurs Liesana, very slowly rising on her elbow again, although she remains with her length measured against his. Amber eyes get a humorous glint as she surveys the barely-touched picnic lunch. "Oh dear..." she murmurs. "I think the cooks will be quite put out with us, you know."

Dashvard looks over at the food and a wry expression dances across his delicate-featured face. "Do you think we'll offend them?" he inquires, quirking an eyebrow almost mischievously upwards. Hmm. He ate ... a piece of cheese ... some peeled grapes ...

Liesana accounted for the same, and a cracker on top of it. The resilience of youth and youthful emotions carries over to their stomachs, it seems. "I think," she notes, reaching over to pick at the remaining grapes. "We should either eat up, or arrange for someone to eat the evidence for us." She tosses one grape in the air and catches it in her mouth, before extending one to Dashvard.

Dashvard accepts it with a gentlemanly flourish, shaking his head slightly. "Then we shall apply ourselves to the repast with relish," he intones. "If food be the food of love, eat on. Or something like that, anyway." Good grief, what a terrible misquote for the sake of a gag.

Liesana crinkles the tip of her nose at that one, looking mock-pained about it as she tosses yet another grape in Dashvard's direction. "Urgh, keep up such horrible misquotes, my dear man, and I'll be forced to kiss you to quiet you," she teases, plying her belt knife again, and arranging the resultant cheese slices on some of the crackers.

Dashvard raises his eyebrows at her. "What a terrible threat that is, too," he says wryly. "I'm afraid I'm hard put to think of another horrible one, though." He snaps his fingers in an 'aw, shucks' manner, and then tosses several unpeeled grapes into his mouth at once. Ahh, luxury.

Liesana mock-pouts, before nibbling delicately on a piece of cheese. "And here I was hoping...." she drawls, eyes alight. The massive pile of grapes is eyed, and, after a moment's thought, divided to leave a small bunch for the humans as she whistles to the runners to come collect their treats, a lithe and free spirit in her breeches and blouse, hair unbound and swirling about her hips as she sits upright.

Dashvard watches her for a moment, distracted from thoughts of food (understandably). "I like your hair," he remarks, apropos of nothing. His mouth quirks into a little smile as the absurdity of commenting strikes home. "I just thought you should know."

Liesana flushes for a moment at that, unused to compliments along those lines, as few are the males that would dare. She fingers the aforementioned tresses, eyeing them somewhat critically. "It's so fine, it tangles very easily," she notes. "I had been thinking of cutting it at one point. But if you like it, I think I might leave it."

Dashvard's mouth quirks. "Well, I'm not going to ask you not to cut it if it's terribly inconvenient," he says. "But I do like it." He tilts his head. "I should probably cut mine," he adds, "it's a ruddy mess."

The corners of Liesana's eyes crinkle with fond teasing as she notes that "Rest assured then, your influence shan't ever wholly control the length of my hair..." But then she reaches over to gently run the fingers of one hand through Dash's own 'do, pulling his forelock out of his eyes. "Mmm, perhaps a trim, but personally, I find it sort of... endearing, the way it falls into your eyes exactly when you don't wish it to. Although I suppose it doesn't fit the Guard image."

Dashvard laughs softly. "I think we've already established," he remarks, "that I don't give a hoot about the guardly image. I do my job. Whether I look like I do doesn't matter to me one way or another ..." And his grin is somewhat wry. "I'm used to it. So if you like it, it's no bother keeping it."

"And that, love, is exactly my response to your comments about my hair." Liesana pauses then, and analyzes the word structure of the lightly-said sentence. "Love... it falls so easily from the tongue," she muses. "It's never done that before, really. Well, not outside of my old fosterling..." Continuing to muse, she begins the slow task of packing the saddlebags up again, pausing again to eye the wine bottle with amusement. "We never cracked this, did we? But most definitely another time."

Dashvard grins at her, dark eyes sparkling. "It'll keep, love," he says softly. "Good things do."