Logs:Head Down
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| RL Date: 12 October, 2015 |
| Who: K'del, Silva |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: The candidates get a first hand look at Dragon lunch, and K'del's not quite so happy with what he sees. |
| Where: Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 24, Month 13, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Snow - all the snow |
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| Cadejoth's not the kind of dragon who spends all his time in the hatching grounds when he has a clutch, but he certainly does prefer to stick closer to home; to watch over his Weyr from the spindles or the rim, and to remind everyone that he is here... and this is his. This afternoon, however, he launches himself off of the rim and circles down, down, down towards the feeding grounds, joining his rider who has padded across the snow-covered bowl to join him, hands tucked into the pockets of his fur-lined jacket. His expression is quietly reflective, gaze focusing upon his bronze as the dragon takes down a ready beast rather than on anyone-- or anything-- else. It's lesson time for the candidates, especially those not weyr born. Just to drive home exctly what they're getting into a small group, including a well layered Silva in their midst have been herded outside to view the sight of a dragon eating. Silva's attempting to act the queen bee over the group, "Seriously, like, it can't be //that// bad. I mean, like. We eat meat all the time." The rider along with them is just going to smirk as he flicks a salute off to the Weyrleader and leans back. A swish of his hands, go forward little candidates. Good luck. K'del must be, surely, aware of this little demonstration; that's probably even why he's here! But it takes him a few moments more to actually focus himself upon the little group, and to meander towards them to stand behind, his superior height meaning his view is completely unobstructed as Cadejoth slaughters his kill. He waits, as if for emphasis, with a dimpled smile for that rider. "Were he about to chase a female," he tells them, "he'd only blood them. But he's hungry, so he'll tear out the belly and eat it." Exhibit A: just that. And cue the gathered candidates going white (or green) as the bronze takes down his meal. One boy has to put his hands over his mouth as the gag reflex kicks in, and every single one of them has to turn their heads away from the sight. This gives the weyrleader behind them a clear view of every single one of their faces. Silva's is set with a very un-pretty scowl, but give her credit, she's one of the first to recover (probably //because// she recognizes who is standing right there.). Straightening up she makes a show of fixing her hat upon her head and swooshing her hair out to one side. "Well." But she really doesn't have words to add to this. "Cadejoth's not the messiest of eaters," offers K'del, very almost cheerful except for the obvious exhaustion and tension visible in his expression; it's been a long sevenday. Month. Turn. "Some of them deliberately play with their food. But when they're very little, they just eat what you chop up for them, so that's tidier." Those blue eyes focus upon the candidates, one by one, with some small measure of curiosity in evidence. Silva could turn around and look some more, but no. She won't. Instead, she's going to make a show of pulling on her gloves tighter, and sending a dirty look at the rider over there who is doing a not so awesome job of hiding his laughter at the candidates behind his hand. When that gagging candidate does finally take himself off Silva gives him a 'ew, gross, seriously' look and edge away. "Well. It is what it is. I guess. Whatever." Just play it off... Cadejoth tears open the poor beast's rib-cage, ready to eat the tasty entrails within. K'del gives Silva what may count as a crooked smile. "Everyone's got to eat," he agrees, though his eyes are too thoughtful for him to be wholly buying her comfort. "Ever chopped up raw meat before?" He pauses, and then adds, "that's one thing we may assign some of you to the day of the hatching, or the day before. Getting things ready for the new weyrlings. Good practice, too." Silva would fall into the safe zone of examinging her fingernails but it looks a little silly with said nails hidden under the cloth. "Uh, no. I mean, like, I'm sure it has been brought up but like, no." Reaching up she flicks a lock of hair over a shoulder and glances at what the dragon is doing with his meal. A grimace crosses her face and she's just going to firmly turn her back on things. "There's like, so much blood." "That's... the way of things," allows K'del, his expression a little more dubious, now, as he continues to study Silva. She, of all of them, has caught his attention. "What's your name, candidate?" Always ready to talk about herself Silva will take one last glance, shiver, and then plant her gaze on the Weyrleader. "Silva. From Tillek." She'll make an exaggeratedly respecful curtsey to him - never mind that candidates are suppose to bow, and smile again, just as pretty as one could want. "It is well met sir." K'del's too distracted by where Silva is from to register the curtsey; he blinks fast. "From Tillek. You were Searched from Tillek?" This, plainly, is a problem. Blink, double blink, and sllloowwwllyyy retreat backwards a step. Silva glances around at the other candidates, like she's trying to figure out exactly which one to use as a human shield. There, the one with the curly red hair. He'd do. "Uh, no. I was here, but my father's from Tillek? He's a master harper. But I," cue an exaggerated sigh, "got sent here to spend some "time"" it's hard to make quotation signs out of mittened gloves, but Silva manages it, "with my aunt." Those broad shoulders sink in-- what, relief? It could well be. "Ah," says K'del, rather more even and less as if he intends to interrogate the candidate. "And then you were Searched. So Lady Edeline could not possibly claim you as one of her own." A nod, sharp and firm. Evidently, that is a good thing. Silva relaxes her own bit, and Copper-top is not going to get shoved in front of her as a protective human shield. "Well." Her tone takes on a prim voice, "It doesn't really matter. It's not like she could do anything about it." Silva's got that set to her shoulders that could allow her to take on a runner at full tilt if she wanted to with her attittude alone. "I'm sure aunt maybe has said something." K'del is plainly not terribly impressed by Silva's reaction, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Do you mean to imply that you don't believe the Lady Edeline could do anything in retaliation, were she to choose to do so?" "I mean that I'm sixteen." Silva's back is straight and proud. "And that means I can make my own choices. And there's no one who wouldn't, like, back me up on that." A hint of distain touches her voice, "Except maybe my aunt and mother who insist that I'm still a child and like, can't make my own choices." There's no hint that Silva's getting any irony out of her self-righteous talk. "If your choices meant that Tillek would refuse to tithe, leaving this Weyr missing a quarter of its resources-- all those things that keep us fed, clothed, and comfortable-- no, no you would not be permitted to make your own choices." The cheerfulness has utterly left K'del, now; he has entered lecture mode, his height allowing him to tower down over the candidate. "Every decision has consequences. Were Lady Tillek to see matters in a certain way, which I hope she does not, yours could have dramatic ones for this entire Weyr. Do you understand me?" Silva finally looks away, a flush of anger bringing some red to her pretty little cheeks. She bites her tongue on the first words to pop out, and swallows them unsaid. "I'm sure she won't. Da," Silva cathches herself, "father, is a craftmaster and only my mother is from the hold. Plus like, I wasn't there. And it's not like they wanted me anyway." She'll allow a calculated bit of self-pity to sink into her words, eyes now fixed on the ground just beyond the weyrleader. "So it's not like there is going to be a problem or anything." K'del is not in the mood for sob stories, or perhaps he never is. Certainly, some of the other candidates have backed away. "You better hope it isn't," he says, coolly. "And keep your head down. If it comes to it, we'll argue you as craftbred, but..." This much is clear: he very, very much hopes it does not come to that, because it is only the need for candidates that is keeping him from taking back her knot right now. A toe digs into the dirty snow underneath, and Silva mutters, "I told you it won't be a problem." There's clear defiance in her stance, but she keeps her words quiet enough. "It's not like I asked." Her arms have folded behind her lap and she's not looking upwards at the Weyrleader. She can feel the social stigma dropping down on her from the views of the other candidates. They get acid like stares for their betrayal. "You know better than I do our political situation with Tillek, then?" K'del's tone is deceptively mild. "You understand the Lady Edeline and her motivations and reactions better than I do? You can assure me that I'm over-reacting on high level political matters?" Know what is //super// interesting right now? That dragon eating! If nothing else, K'del's ire towards Silva is totally pushing the other candidates towards conquring their queasyness over the dragon eating. Silva peers up through her eyelashes, that mullish set to her entire expression firmly in place. "I'm sure my father would back me. And harper would back him. So like. It shouldn't," at least she's dropped the definaite? "be a problem." Lifting her head pridefully, she'll finally look the Weyrleader in the eyes again. "I would make it right." "You would make it right." This time, K'del's tone drips with scorn. "You, Silva, need to remember your place. You won't make anything right. You have no power; you sit at the bottom of the hierarchy, and some things even your father cannot make right." Beat. "And given all of that, I might remind you that one does not speak back to the Weyrleader." A sharp intake of breath and Silva looks away again. "Would you like my knot back sir?" She'll offer it freely, even if it stabs at her particular pride in the stomach. "If it would help." Silva does NOT want to give it back, and a hint of real emotion breaks through her arrogance. It may look, for at least a moment or two, as if K'del will accept that knot back; it certainly does look as if he's giving the issue some thought. "No," is what he says, finally. Perhaps it's the real emotion; perhaps it's something else. "But if anyone asks you, you're craft-bred. Keep your head down, Candidate, because you will not like what happens if you do not." Finally, finally, Silva will show enough self preservation to keep her trap shut beyond a quiet, "Yes sir. Craftbred and head down." Behind her back her hands twist, but not in definance. Evidently this, finally, is enough. K'del doesn't even push for punishment-- perhaps he's distracted! Or feeling forgiving. "Good," is what he says, instead. And then, "Excuse me." Cadejoth is done and he? He has a Weyr to lead. There's a bit of a glare that gets sent after the back of the Weyrleader, and with a flip of her hair Silva turns back to the candidates. She's totally got her work cut out for her to draw back her tiny group of followers. Thankfully not many of them are in this group. "It's not that bad." Referring to the blood spattered snow. "I mean, seriously. Did you see him? Almost threw up, I mean, gross." First way to start, put someone else in the spotlight. |
Comments
Edyis (21:48, 13 October 2015 (PDT)) said...
Angry K'del D:
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