Logs:Fitting In
| |
|---|
| RL Date: 7 June, 2015 |
| Who: Irianke, Z'kiel |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Z'kiel seeks Irianke to learn how to fit in at High Reaches as a follow up to why he was passed over for the leadership program. |
| Where: Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 7, Month 13, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Quinlys/Mentions, Nimae/Mentions |
  |
>---< Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr(#364RIJs) >------------------------<
At the heart of this oblong cavern is its meeting table: a long hardwood
oval with a mirror's dark shine, High Reaches' sigil picked out in lapis
and onyx at its center. Twenty chairs surround it, each softened by an
embroidered cushion that's just a little too stiff for complete comfort --
meetings need to be kept short, after all -- with the chair at the table's
head, facing the ledge, being somewhat larger than the rest.
Interspersed between glowsconces upon the smooth walls, ancient tapestries
depict the territories High Reaches protects in a particularly pastoral
fashion, all fluffy clouds and fluffier llamas, or else fishing crafts
sailing merrily out to sea. Among them is also a natural alcove, its
several wooden shelves primarily stocking fine wines and liquors as well
as the glasses to serve them, though the lower shelves also hold whatever
hidework requires particularly frequent attention.
A narrow wooden door leads to the Records room, while the tunnel that
extends to the weyrleaders' ledge is wide enough for three men to walk
abreast, with just enough kink in it to block the wind.
+views available
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Irianke F 37 5'7" slender, dark curly hair, stone blue eyes 0s
Z'kiel M 20 6'3" lean, black hair, green eyes 1m
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Records Room Weyrleader Complex
>-----------------------------------------< 7D 13M 37T I10, winter night >---< It starts as such things often do, with Ahtzudaeth's thoughts uncurling like pipe smoke. It's a gentle probe, a peripheral swirling at the fringes of Niahvth's thought that congeals in a good-natured, « I hope this day finds you and yours well, my queen. Z'kiel is on his way to speak with yours. » And, sure enough, the riding leather-clad weyrling arrives in short order. He removes the helmet when he's just inside, exposing his freshly re-shaved scalp. For now, he just seeks one thing - and announces himself, after a fashion, with an intoned, "Weyrwoman," that serves as greeting. Given forewarning, if not by much, Irianke has not set her pen down. Nor has she looked up, though she must be aware of his arrival, particularly after his greeting. She finishes writing out her thoughts, whatever they might be, considers them with level gray-blue eyes, then breathes audibly. It'll have to do. Then, and only then does she look up with a smile and a wry, "Did I miss your salute while writing?" That salute? It does follow - but only when she looks up. "No," is a statement of fact. "But it seems-" and, here, there's a moment of glossy-eyed draconic communion that resolves quickly into: "-inefficient to hold a salute when you're occupied, Weyrwoman." Z'kiel holds the salute for a solid three-beat before lowering his hand. "I was asked to speak with you." His chin lifts slightly to indicate the paperwork. "If you are busy, I can return another time." Irianke's facade warms up visibly at his response, and she even laughs a little gesturing to a seat and putting her paperwork away. "I am always busy, Z'kiel. It seems I have bitten off quite more than what I can easily chew. But sit, I need to nibble on my lunch a little bit else the cooks will yell that I'm not taking care of myself again. Sandwich?" Cause that's apparently what's on the untouched tray by her elbow: sandwiches and cold tea. The offer of a sandwich is met with a slight shake of his head. "No, thank you. I've had my fill of sandwiches for the day." The utterance is deadpan, Z'kiel's expression seemingly locked into a state of neutrality. That mask twists just a little at the request to sit; which he does do, but with just enough hesitation to register as reluctance. His helmet resides in his lap for now, gloved hands resting on it to either side. "I was asked to talk to you about fitting in here. At this Weyr." His mouth distorts slightly, twisting to one side. "Becoming a part of it," is clarification that follows another flicker into the bond of rider and dragon. Irianke stares at Z'kiel for a moment too long, then bursts into laughter. A hand climbs to press into the side of her temple and she ducks her head down to look at her lap, if her eyes were open. "Oh, oh, I'm not laughing at you, I promise," says the goldrider through a laugh that subsides. "I... I mean. If you find out the secret, I'd love to know as well. Who advised you to do so?" He weathers the storm of that laughter with mute stoicism and a slow blink. It's only once the worst has past and she's spoken that Z'kiel intones, "Even if you were, Weyrwoman, I would have no choice but to listen to it." A beat. Then: "Odds are, I deserve it." He sucks his teeth thoughtfully at the rest of the response and then the question - and his answer, at first, is just a flat grunt. He follows it with, "Weyrlingmaster Quinlys. I asked her about the requirements for the silver thread program. She told me there were concerns about loyalty. She told me to talk to you. Similar situations." Because Igenites. "Because we're both from Igen Weyr." Irianke concludes, aloud. "I see. In your case, however, your loyalties were brought into question due to your continued desire to return to your home. Can you see how that would be a conflicting desire with showing that you've accepted High Reaches Weyr as a place you call home and would live and die for if Thread were falling?" "No one asked why I did it," Z'kiel replies evenly. "And I should have explained." There's a slight shift in his posture, one that finds him leaning forward just a little. "I needed something to send back to Igen. Something official. My family would not take my word for what it was," which rankles him somewhat; bitterness twists into those words before he snorts them away. "They expected that I would return. I had to give proof that I could not - and would not." There's a slight pause. Then: "I can see now that I made a mistake in not saying anything. I was frustrated by the situation. Desperate - but not in the way that they were." "Your failure is not realizing no one would ask and not understanding that people would expect this of you given the drama with regards to your Searching. Your family had official words. They don't need to take your word for it. Nimae would have let her Weyr know of the arrangements as well. How much more official could you get than a Weyrwoman's word that only those who Impressed to blue and greens would be asked to transfer? Do they similarly disregard rank and leadership?" Irianke's words are clear, paced, and warm, even if the content of them is not. Kindly, she even puts the sandwich she was nibbling on down for this, "Z'kiel, if you wish to integrate yourself at the Weyr, all you have left is time. Time for others to forget your origin story here, or that you spoke of going back to Igen should you Impress, or that you asked to go back to Igen should you Impress. Time. I'm sorry the Weyrlingmaster asked you to come here for that kind of advice. Time is all I have." And not much of it given the odds of who will rise next. "They tend to hear what they want to hear, Weyrwoman. And two sources was not enough." Z'kiel pushes to his feet and shifts the helmet to rest at his hip. "It doesn't matter now. I've no blood left at Igen and no desire to return. My fellow weyrlings seem to have long-forgotten the words I said before Ahtzudaeth found me. They've seen what I've done since. They know." And that's probably all that matters most, now. Matter-of-fact, all of it, while his gaze remains level on Irianke. There's a dull click of tongue against teeth, followed by a salute and: "Thank you, Weyrwoman. With your permission, I'll leave you with the rest of your time." "Good luck, Z'kiel. And if you do discover the secret to win friends and integrate quicker, please let me know. I could use a healthy dose of that myself," says the woman who runs it all for the moment. Irianke reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose and just manages a smile. "I do have one question for you if...," the goldrider hesitates, closes her eyes, and then just presses forward, "If you have the time." A low, oddly musical hum-grunt follows. Z'kiel offers a shallow nod and a reassuring, "If the secret is one to be shared, I will, Weyrwoman." There might be more, but it's there and gone with the fleeting crease that claims his brow. He's in mid-pivot when the question comes; it's enough to stall him and angle a look back. Fortunately, he's either oblivious to the phrasing - or has the good sense to not react to it. A shoulder rises and falls in a lopsided shrug. "Ask." "Did you work in the stables at Igen? Did you," Irianke sets her lips down firm, considers her words, and then asks, "Know my son well?" Hnnnh. "Lars, ayuh? Spoke to him a time or three in passing." Z'kiel sucks his teeth thoughtfully, features tightening just a little with the recollection. "Couldn't say I know him well, but I know him. Good kid. Friendly. Saw to Dervish when I couldn't. Seemed to do a good job." Shoulders rise and fall. "Didn't spend too much time in the stables, though." Apologetic. "Of course." Irianke can't quite mask the disappointment in her professional voice, but tries nonetheless. "He is quite a bit younger than you. Thank you, for indulging my curiosity. Have a good day, Z'kiel." A salute is given, along with a shallow nod. "Of course, Weyrwoman. I may speak to him again if I go back to Igen. Have to figure out what to do with the beast. Clear skies." And, with that, he turns and takes his leave. |
Leave A Comment