Logs:An Apology in Person
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| RL Date: 5 March, 2009 |
| Who: Cirse, K'del |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After a not-too-subtle reminder from Cirse via note, K'del finally makes his way to Fort to apologise to the Weyrwoman for Cadejoth's participation in Peirith's flight in person. |
| Where: Galleries, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 12, Month 2, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| Galleries, Fort Weyr The entrance to the sands and galleries alike is little more than an archway and a section of flat stone before it dissolves into the sands proper. Although it's warm here, it's not nearly as hot as the sands themselves are. To the right is a broad pathway leading to the stands, with a set of stairs leading up one side all the way to the upper tiers. Also visible from here is an odd engraving on the wall -- an etching that details the rotation of the Red Star. Lined along the right-hand side of the hatching cavern are the galleries, the seats carved from the stone wall and stacked backward to allow observers the best view possible of the golden sands. Those at the bottom are protected from wayward dragonets by a railing, while dignitaries from outside the Weyr -- Lord Holders, other Weyrleaders, Craftmasters and their ilk -- have a specially designated spectator's box at the topmost row. There are three separate flights of stairs leading into the galleries, with one near the entrance, another set in the middle, and a flight at the northernmost end. Two crops of candidates on the sands today can keep a rider busy, at least when it comes to raking away all the footprints at her queen's behest. Peirith's curled the more tightly about her clutch for all those visitors, too, forgoing any special mound for three or four or one or five of the eggs in favor of piling them all up together. Only glimpses of the eggs are visible beneath her wing, and finally Cirse plants the rake in the sand and leans on it. "... relax now. Really, you can." Cadejoth made no attempt to contact Peirith, on his arrival, and now, K'del's head, stuck around the entranceway in the galleries, seems inclined to make only a fleeting attempt to determine the presence of the queen's rider. Unfortunately - if his expression is anything to go by - even that quick look is enough to note an affirmative, and the young bronzerider hesitates, shoulders slumping, and then, very slowly, inches his way further in. Perhaps she's too busy to see him. Or to talk, even if she does. Peirith's eyes roll, but then, whirling is what dragon eyes do, and at least she must save further comment for her rider's thoughts alone. But then her head lifts, scenting, and her attention presses hard on the visitor as though he were suddenly underwater. Cirse's shoulders straighten, though the scarred one is less fluid about it, and she spares a hand for her lifemate's shoulder. Dark eyes on her dragon, her tone conversational enough, "Welcome. That waterskin, on the first third tier: would you please bring it down," but she waits until Peirith relaxes a fraction before turning for the sands' edge. Under all that draconic scrutiny, K'del freezes, standing where he is in a state of limbo, one foot hovering just above the ground. His gaze flicks from Cirse to Peirith, and then, as the Weyrwoman speaks, back to Cirse. Slowly, that foot touches down again, and he turns, following the directive without a word. With the waterskin in hand, he returns towards the edge, keeping well back from the sands themselves, hesitating. Then, in a low, even tone: "Weyrwoman. I'm K'del. I'm--" Sorry, presumably, but the words don't make it out that far. He offers the skin, instead. "Thank you. Yes?" Cirse further inquires once she has the waterskin in hand, much as though he might also be hungry, or thirsty, or tired. She tugs the sleeveless shirt slightly away from her skin, giving it the briefest of glances before uncorking the skin and drinking, and her eyes don't leave him for long. As she drinks, gradually Peirith's attention lightens and lightens, the ocean slipping away to find his bronze who hadn't given note of his presence. Even so, she's still on watch, and it's a wonder his boots aren't dripping. Cadejoth has the same apology in tone as his rider, though his greeting is warmer and more active, rattling and darting, here and there. K'del swallows, looks at his feet. Then, slowly, he returns his gaze to Cirse. "I want to apologise. For taking so long to come, after you requested me to. I don't have an excuse for that." His hands are drawn together, behind his back, his shoulders nervously slumped. "And for the flight, of course." For that, Peirith can extend her own welcome for those rattlings and dartings after all, now warmer to him than to his rider much as he is warmer himself. At least, or so she lets it be known, so long as Cadejoth occupies himself with her or her Bowl's entertainment rather than with her clutch; he understands, yes? The eggs shine individually behind her thoughts, though each is a little too blurry to let him properly see how they vary, like so much hidden treasure. Her rider listens simply, corking the waterskin as she does, and then nods towards the bench. "I understand." She sits, but rather than wait to see whether he does, she twists back to reach beneath the seat and pulls out her pad of notes and a fountain pen. But of course! Cadejoth promises this earnestly, showing, in response, the pleasant part of the bowl in which he resides, and a sense of the evening air: more than enough for him. Plus, of course, Peirith herself, and could a bronze ever need more than that? Cirse's reaction is not one K'del appears to know what to do with; he nods, at first hesitantly, and then, with a show of more confidence that his faces denies. He waits until she sits, then joins her, keeping his distance. His mouth opens, but no words appear to be forthcoming, and, quickly, he shuts it again. "You understand," Cirse says conversationally, rubbing her hands in the air to let them dry before starting to flip through the clip-secured pages, "If you and he had lasted longer, it might have been more difficult to forgive. As it is, K'del, they say that all's well that ends well. And I know you will respect a closed flight in the future." Once the pages are where she wishes them to be, adjusted infinitesimally to be just so, she uncaps the pen and begins to write. No, sketch: the smooth, purposeful motions are too varied for anything else. She looks at him again. "I am Holdbred myself. Do you feel you understand now, what a queen's flight can be like?" K'del sits on his hands, one under each leg, and stares towards his feet rather than at the clutch, the queen, her Weyrwoman. It's the sound of her pen on paper that lifts his head, rather than her words, curiosity edging into his expression. But: "I will." Fervently said, certain. "I won't take any chances, not again. Think-- I do. Yes, Weyrwoman. Hope to avoid them, in future. Senior queens, at least, even if they're not closed." It's a smooth sound, barely there, as fits fine paper and an even finer nib, though there's nothing showy about the pen in her hand except how it works so well. And it's not that Peirith questions Cadejoth, exactly, so much as that she lets herself be entertained: can he truly not think of more? "Why is that, rider K'del?" Cirse asks with her. "And how would you describe our flight, now that you understand it?" It could sound salacious, but in her voice, she might have been asking what he saw on sweep. It's the way her pen moves that K'del watches so intently, though it could just be that it keeps him from needing to look at Cirse herself. Cadejoth, considering, perhaps /could/ think of more, but he's quite pleased with the marks he can make in the snow with his whippy, wriggling tail, and, really... for now? All good. "Couldn't-- /I/ couldn't stop him. And I wouldn't want - by accident - to win one. A senior queen, at least. Maybe a junior. But." His head shakes, and, rather than continue the thought, he tackles the second question. "Intense. Overwhelming. Hadn't ever wanted something so badly." His gaze lifts, finally, to consider her face. "Or someone, more to the point." Then he'll see, if he can put it together, cheekbones and pointed chin and the nervous tension she's found in his mouth. Only a curving wisp alludes to curls, just yet. Peirith curves her neck, too, would see those snow-marks if she could see through distance and stone, not that she's about to move from her guard; she would be further entertained if Cadejoth would show her. Or, in looking, would he just chase his tail around and around some more? As K'del continues to speak, Cirse jots down little notes that are more like symbols: something like a triangle tucked into one eye, a series of scar-dots behind him like a shadow. She rarely looks at the page as it is now, but then her pen stills altogether, a heavy drop darkening the page until she tilts the nib upward to swallow what's left. That's a more telltale reaction than the slight widening of her pupils, than the moment before Cirse says, "Sometimes we don't think we can." Cadejoth shows: furrows in the snow where his tail has been, some criss-crossed over each other as he makes patterns with them, some even mushed into nothing as he's stopped on them on his way around and around. K'del hesitates, eyes lifting from his casual inspection of her page, resumed again after his previous words, as she speaks. "Can?" he repeats, questioningly. "Want someone-- or stop them? Or something else?" A ripple of appreciation from Peirith precedes the sandy sense of her beginning to shape some of these patterns with not tail but wingtip, until all at once she too stills. Cirse is shaking her head already, dark eyes turned away. "Not now," she says, and caps her pen, tucking it by the waterskin before gingerly loosening the clip to free the upper sheets from the would-be stain. "Here, K'del. Look at these," instead. She must have surmised he would come, because in between notes of supplies and flow charts there's suddenly his face as it was early on, given the dark frame of her spread thumb and forefinger, while fanned fingers obscure more than glimpses of other men from that night. Cadejoth responds with enthusiasm, happiness blossoming through his mental touch. Nonetheless, as she stills, so too does he, reigning in his mental presence, aside from a few stray sparks, zipping against faintly clinking chains. K'del's mouth opens, then shuts again, and then he looks honestly surprised at the presence of his face in amongst her papers. "Oh," he says, further words failing him. The next page has another, later, lost in his dragon in memory's clean dark lines. This time Cirse isn't so careful at hiding the other character studies, quick sketches all, one of them a woman: a contorted profile, a jaw captured on a gasp, eyes wide and amazed, a banner of dark cross-hatched hair clinging to sweaty skin. But she also doesn't watch him linger for long, if indeed he looks at all, closing those long-dried pages with a sense of finality. "We don't often get to see ourselves from outside," she explains. "Have you seen enough, for now?" K'del looks, and his expression is, if not outright troubled, then distinctly thoughtful. "I suppose we don't," he agrees, to her explanation, leaning back now that the pages have been closed. "Thank you, Weyrwoman." It's enough, then. Plenty, perhaps. "Thank you." Soon after, there will be excuses - polite, well meant - and good wishes for the clutch, and then, a departure. "Good evening," he'll get back, and due thanks for the good wishes, but no last invitation before he leaves: the ledgers are balanced, these pages clean. |
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