Logs:Finding That Something
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| RL Date: 15 December, 2014 |
| Who: R'hin, Weylaughn |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: R'hin meets Weylaughn, and tries to give the aimless boy direction. |
| Where: Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 17, Month 7, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aughan/Mentions, Edyis/Mentions, Giorda/Mentions, Yewlani/Mentions |
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| It's been a warm afternoon, and the heat has lingered into the early evening. The sun is just setting, yet the lake shore is still occupied, though not packed, with most heading indoors for the dinner hour. R'hin's standing in the shallows, Leiventh deeper in the water, though out of reach of the bronzerider. While he doesn't really look in a hurry, the rider's not looking at his dragon, but rather at those nearby. Or maybe he's just eyeing off that bluerider weyrling that's clearly far too young for him to be eyeing in such a way. It's just that kind of afternoon-turned-evening, it seems. While it's far more common to find Weylaughn minding his own business of late - indeed, it's rare to see him outside of the records room, commons, or living cavern - he's meandered out this way for some fresh air. Ostensibly. But there's a letter of some sort in his hand that he's resolutely not looking at - especially with so many people still scattered about. He's on his way somewhere, but his path seems so aimless that it's likely he's not even sure where he's going. There's a crease to his brow that's out of place and the set of his mouth is an indication of inner discord - or merely thoughtfulness, it's hard to say. With a sudden movement, the angular bronze moves closer to R'hin, and therefore the shallows; moments later Leiventh spreads his wings, and with little warning he's pushing aloft. His low angle takes him coincidentally (or perhaps not so -- was R'hin looking in his direction in the moments before) out over Weylaughn, some droplets of water dispersed inadvertently below as the dragon circles higher into the sky, eventually soaring towards his usual post on the rim of the bowl. He's just lost in his thoughts, not oblivious to the world - though the difference is likely a subtle one, to be sure. Wey looks up at the sudden scatter of water droplets, brow pinching itself further when there's no sign of a cloud. It's only a belated processing of the bronze's passage that connects the dots and he blows out a breath that lingers a beat too long. Relief? Possibly. He shakes his head and stuffs the letter into his pocket. He pauses for only a few moments before he starts to move again, unconsciously venturing in the vague direction that the bronze must have come from. It's a direction, after all - and it's just as good as any. Coincidentally, except not, R'hin is approaching from the shallows of the late, not quite so damp as Leiventh was. His walk is deliberately done to intercept the boy, and it's almost like he's starting in the middle of a conversation that never actually begun. "I knew a boy, once, who always had his nose buried in this or that letter or book." Pale eyes are on Weylaughn, and he slows as he comes abreast of the holder. Everything shifts at the interruption. Weylaughn's steps slow from a casual amble to a cautious approach, only to stop completely when the bronzerider begins to speak. "Beg pardon?" The accent is distinct - a blend of Crom and somewhere else beholden to it - but the tone is one of polite confusion. His hands naturally come to knot behind his back and his posture, likewise, stiffens just a touch out of habit. "Terribly sorry if I'm- ah. Interrupting... something." There's a hitch there as his gaze momentarily flicks skyward in the direction he'd come, as if more dots were being connected - or not. And if he can manage a polite sidestep just this way, he will. The sidestep is not prevented. Indeed, R'hin turns his body so that he falls into step with Weylaughn. "I can't remember his name though. Bogat? Breir? Bren? Something like that," he shakes his head, musingly, as if momentarily perturbed not not recall. "Oh, no," with a quick, knowing grin, "Not interrupting. I can't remember what happened to him because he was completely boring and no one ever talked to him. Even on a beautiful day as this, he'd not be looking at the girls -- or boys," with a rise of brows, "But at words on a page. Seemed a waste." And, for his part, Weylaughn's silent - though he's long ago mastered the art of nodding attentively, which he employs now. As the rider falls into step, odd as it seems, he starts to move again, this time with a bit more purpose. Not so much that he's moving quickly but more to gain a bit of momentum. It's at the last bit that he cuts a sidelong look to R'hin, his expression schooled into a thing of patient impassivity. "I see," says he, even if he doesn't quite. "A pity, that. Though I suppose that's- ah. That's simply where his passions were, through no fault of his own." He supposes, anyway. Shoulders rise and fall and his hands remain where they are, the letter dismissed to linger, unread, in that pocket. With a twitch of shoulders as if dismissing the response, R'hin says, "There's fault, and then there's... turning a blind eye to the world around you. Cromese, no?" He doesn't wait for the confirmation, pale eyes on his companion as he lengthens his stride to match. "You have little of Aughan's likeness about you. I can't imagine why," it's said with complete casualness. "Perhaps. But, if he's happy, what does it matter?" Weylaughn is plenty content to leave that question there, rhetorical or otherwise. It's the next bit that stalls him up and prompts a hard swallowing that's followed by a click at the back of his throat. "Of Cromese blood, on my mother's side," he replies stiffly. His expression is conflicted, though he forces it into something as close to neutral as he can manage - but his tone is cold and his words come slowly. "Mother raised me with the belief that he is my father." There's a pause, then: "She's in the care of the Healers now. The Mind Healers." And if a hand finally unwinds to seek out the letter in his pocket, so be it. The next words have no business being bitter and, yet, they are: "My father, as far as I know, is a rider here." "It's a waste," R'hin says with an adroitness that suggests he might've been expecting the response, or something like it. Pale eyes don't miss the change of expression, nor the shift of his hand towards pocket. "Better off. Aughan's..." he grimaces, briefly. "If he wanted to name an heir amongst his relatives, he would've. So, staying to learn about your heritage...?" the Wingleader gives him a questioning look. Notably, he does not ask about the father. "Perhaps better. Perhaps not. I can't rightly say now," Weylaughn replies flatly. He looks away and sucks his teeth, allowing the silence to hang awkwardly in that growing gulf between words. Eventually, "No. No, there's no heritage to speak of. You say it's better to not be one of Aughan's - but better still would be that I did not know my M- Yewlani." His mouth distorts. "No. I came back to find something I can call my own. My half-siblings came with me because they had no choice." Pale eyes do not miss that self-correction, either. "Mothers want to protect. To see their children do better than themselves. Sometimes they lie to themselves," R'hin chuckles, briefly, under his breath. "It hurts to find out one's parents are only human. Something?" he presses, focuses, on that, interested all of a sudden. "An apprenticeship? A goal? A girl? A boy?" There's a shake of his head and Weylaughn leaves any talk of mothers to die where it is. A vague noise escapes him, shapeless to the core, and he seems plenty content to keep on walking without any further words. Yet, it's the interest - seemingly intense - in his goal that elicits a startled look from the lad. "I- no. Yes and no. It's- I'm too old for the Crafts - and I've had my go at it, turns ago. It's not for me." One corner of his mouth twists, though whether into a smile or frown is never fully revealed. "No. I'm just- ah. Just trying to find my place, if that makes any sense. I wasn't raised to do anything except manage a Hold-" and that, obviously, is peculiar set of skills on its own. R'hin's gaze lifts skyward, a low-throated chuckle escaping him. "Raised to manage a hold and yet he cannot find a place for himself," he mutters to himself. "Honestly. Giorda would find you work in a heartbeat -- running a Hold is not so different from a Weyr. But," with an adjustment of pale eyes back onto the boy, "I imagine if you wanted to do that you would have. Even a minor hold would take someone with those skills. So -- do you dream of riding a great big dragon, like your father? Travelling all of Pern?" "I could have stayed on at the Echoes as Steward," is the admission. Weylaughn's shoulders rise and drop in an indifferent shrug. It's just confirmation of the rider's suspicions and he ventures only a bit further to add, "Edyis suggested I try my hand at working with the records. I suppose it's suitable enough, but-" he's caught off-guard, just a touch, by that last question. The response is a bark of laughter that's quickly stifled, trapped behind a bit knuckle as the lad looks away again. "Sorry- sorry. I'm not- it's just that question is so- I don't even have words for it. I've never given it half a thought before, not even since moving here." "You don't want to be a steward -- a position many would find agreeable, given the affluence and influence it could afford," R'hin says, with a hint of blandness, "You don't wish to be a records keeper, yet you scoff at the notion of something bigger. This," he stoops, briefly, his hand picking up some dirt from the bowl, waiting until he's watched before he lets the specks of it go, to be caught and tossed around by the wind, "Is you. You are letting yourself be blown around by circumstance. There's nothing wrong with that. But perhaps you ought to take a step in a direction you want to go." Wey's brows knit and he shakes his head, just once. "I'm not scoffing at the idea of being a dragonrider. It's just never been a thought. It just wasn't there when I was a child. And, now- it just seems silly to even consider it as an option, in light of everything else." He stiffens a bit while he watches the display with the dirt and breeze; nor is there any protest to declare he's anything but that. Drifting. Aimless. "If I had a notion," he assures, one shoulder twisting subtly as an unconscious shield, "I would do just that. But it's rather hard to find a direction when I've only just learned there is more than one way to go." "Spin," R'hin tells him, with an odd kind of certainty. "Pick a direction. Try and fail. Do a different job each day. You'll never know if you don't try new things, and you'll never find something you're good at, let alone that you like doing, if you don't, either. Wasted potential is not life goal," and he's laughing now, though one might get the impression he's not so much laughing at Weylaughn, though it might not be all that clear-cut, either. And, as easily as that, the Wingleader is striding off at an angle to the boy's path, parting just as abruptly as he intercepted to begin with. And of Weylaughn, it's hard to say just what - if anything - he's taking from the advice. His expression is a neutral one, verging on impassive, and when all's been said, he issues only a shallow nod of acknowledgement. It's the laughter, see; that might be the thing that's finally putting him on edge. Whether at him or not matters little; it just serves to send him on his way a little sooner than it if hadn't been there at all. As the Wingleader ventures off, he continues on his course and, only after plenty of time has passed, does he deign to dig out that letter and read. |
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