Logs:Hello, Malachite
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| RL Date: 2 January, 2016 |
| Who: W'leri, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'rov gives W'leri a big knot. |
| Where: Council Room, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 16, Month 9, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: L'vek/Mentions, D'rol/Mentions, M'naz/Mentions, X'vin/Mentions, Taria/Mentions, D'vro/Mentions, Estanei/Mentions |
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| It's afternoon. There are fancier liquors on the sideboard, but right now, it's beer time. Halfway into their first glass, N'rov still hasn't mentioned why he'd summoned W'leri, but now he gives the shorter man a frankly speculative look. And W'leri is not a man to be inconvenienced, plied with beer or not plied with beer. "What's got you acting all generous, N'rov?" the bluerider drawls, half-lidded eyes watchful from behind the froth-glazed rim of his glass. N'rov's smirk is slow-growing but definitely there. "How are you liking Flint these days," is a question, as he gives W'leri a good old-fashioned drawl right back. It must be a fine brew indeed, for it takes a few sips, and a scratch to his lingering facial scratch, to get W'leri to reply on the subject. "I'd higher hopes for X'vin," is right to the point. "I'm suspicious of all this recruiting wingleaders from other weyrs business." N'rov. N'rov's in no hurry; N'rov's easy with his nod, even, as though there's no surprise there. "My preferred alternative to making that plural," those wingleaders instead of that one, "is going to look a lot like nepotism." The grunt W'leri makes is followed closely by a gravelly: "Don't think hiring strangers is any better than nepotism, unless you want the weyr to think you'd prefer them to us." He rolls his broad shoulders, repositioning his bulk in the chair. "I'd take kooky old L'vek over some upstart from Benden, Southern.. hell, High Reaches, any day." N'rov's got a low chuckle for that, that preference; then he lifts his glass and toasts, "To L'vek." It's worth that drink, that considering swallow; in the end, though, his gaze roams over W'leri once more, nose and all. "Which do you think is worse," he asks with interest, "foreigners or loading up from Hematite? Because that could have been an option. Or, if I'd stolen C'stian back from Southern, arguably a two-for-one." "To L'vek! Let him never hear us say it," sounds as serious as it is sarcastic. W'leri doesn't skimp on the gulp of beer that follows, but quirks a sardonic brow at N'rov. "Can't think of a single fellow to promote aside from the likes of Hematite? What about old D'rol from Jasper? M'naz from Obsidian? You're not giving it enough of a go if you can't think of a few," he grumbles, wiping the beer foam off his lower lip with the backs of his fingers. "M'naz isn't up for it. D'rol is keeping the seat warm. I suggest you think of D'vro as part trade for the bronzeriders that left us for Southern," N'rov says, and then exhales, setting his mug atop the stone table with a clank. "You ready to step up, W'leri?" "M'naz isn't up for it," which may be ambiguous; presumably the Weyrleader could make him. "D'rol is keeping the seat warm. I suggest you think of D'vro as part trade for the bronzeriders that left us for Southern," N'rov says, and then exhales, setting his mug atop the stone table with a clank. "You ready to step up, W'leri?" To each point, W'leri grunts in an unimpressed way. "Can't say I'm surprised about M'naz, but that southerner.." He scowls darkly at the mention of the foreign wingleader, which only serves as a stark contrast to the dumbstruck expression that comes next, mouth slack and everything. "Huh?" His face says it all: what? who? me? Until he gathers himself up, setting aside his beer glass and giving N'rov a nod. "Fuck, yes. Didn't think it would be you who'd see my worth, if I can be honest, N'rov." N'rov makes to rub his eyes, as though he had had some particularly spectacular optics installed for the seeing, that growing smirk now an open grin as he meets the bluerider's gaze; shoving back his chair, he leans forward as he stands, the better to shake the other man's hand. "I'm counting on you to prove that worth, outside of Flint's shadow." The chair in which W'leri sits creaks as he heaves his bulk up and out. His overlarge hand meets the weyrleader's, to shake with firmness and appreciation. "You gonna make that explanation to X'vin or is that on me? Can't imagine the men will be pleased, but fuck 'em. It's about time," is the bluerider's gruff answer, his face glowing -- somehow, despite the heavyset brow and flattened mouth -- with pride. "Let's just say, Flint's agreed to... accommodate me," N'rov says over their matched grip. His gaze is gleaming, the more so for the bluerider's appreciation, even as he moves to top off their beers and sit back down. "It won't all be fun and games, wingleader; you'll have a few pointing at you and Estanei," their clutchmate who half appointed herself by stepping up when it was needed, "and there's the whole 'have to set a good example,' which is a pain in the ass but what can you do." "Accommodate." Sarcasm drips from the word, and it's as close to amusement as W'leri might get. "It'll be one hell of a trial for Estanei. She's got the balls to do it, but it's harder for women trying to wear the same big boots as men, especially when half the weyr wants her knot." He doesn't sound concerned for himself, as he reseats himself and takes up his renewed glass. "What do you mean good example?" is his obvious question; N'rov knows his clutch mate, knows how he is. It's a word upon which N'rov does not elaborate, not beyond his slow half-smile. As to Estanei, "It's been already," the bronzerider agrees. "Here and there, but call it agile if you want, she stepped up at just the right time. It's strange; I don't imagine, back in weyrlinghood, anyone would have thought it would be the three of us together. E'ten 'seconding early, that was obvious, but then he stepped back... Anyhow: don't mess up holders, stay clear of 'em if you have to; drink all you want, so long as you get the job done; brawl with brawlers; and do something with what you've got. Drills, sweeps, you're not one to let those slip; but," and here N'rov pauses, searching for just how to put it. He settles for, "Look to the future too." "I wouldn't have." W'leri relaxes back into chair, his glass balanced on his thigh while he ruminates with N'rov over the past and present. "Shit, never thought I'd be a wingsecond or a wingleader. I knew my fate when Voaneth chose me. Never thought I'd see the day Hattie left either, thought I'd precede her in death. Bad habits and all." Speaking of those.. his frosty blue eyes are watchful, cognizant. "I don't think that'll be much of a problem." And then, conceding, with a ghost of a smile, "I'll have to now, won't I? Can't let my reputation precede me, can't rest on my references to get the job done." N'rov lifts his glass at the mention of that goldrider's name, then drinks that slow toast while W'leri continues; his nod for that last is wry. "You'll have something of a challenge with your wing; its acting wingleader mentioned your name, but I don't know that the rank and file is going to embrace you. Malachite. You mind a patch of green on your shoulder?" Another surprise for W'leri on this autumn day! His eyebrows soar upwards and stay that way a while, until he lets out a low whistle. "Malachite, huh? I wasn't expecting that one, but why not, they could use better structure. Taria wasn't.. the woman was daft even before she died, N'rov." That's his opinion, anyway. "Voanth will be proud," he says, dryly. N'rov grimaces. Taria. Dead Taria. "Some people liked all that teambuilding business. Didn't they do flower arranging once? Hematite, we just went hunting." He drinks, taking his time with the beer. "Got some nice pelts out of it. Anyway. So you've got this wing. Where do you want to take it? Drilling and sweeps, that's a must, but beyond that. Don't tell me you haven't had any lazy nights dreaming sweet dreams of Flint's knot," he says with a crook of one brow. "Teambuilding is for fresh apprentices and little girls. You count on wingmates taking blows for each other, but when you force all that mushy-gushy-flowery bullshit on them," W'leri says, shaking his head with disbelief. "I've got this wing. I've got ideas. You're not the traditional type of guy, not if you're giving me and Estanei leave to run wings. I'd like to see more blue and green riders trained up to be more than the workforce. Give them something to aspire to. Give your bronze and brown riders something to worry about." "That's the spirit," N'rov says with a smirk. "Train a couple wingseconds, not just one, make one of them green... and try not to fuck this one, all right? I'm good with transferring some of those brownriders and you've got, what, two bronzes. Not all right off, necessarily, but in the next couple months. We'll look to give you some more of the lighter pairs, those that can hack you. So you're not worried about being a little, what, enclave or something, you get all the good ones and the other wings get the big lugs?" W'leri coughs into his beer, and it sounds strangely like a laugh. "Can't promise not to fuck it up, but I'll give it my best try and my best is better than most." He allows himself that vanity. "Let them talk their shit. No one cared about furthering their training before now, and I'll be counting on the ones that want to come all on their own." "I meant, don't fuck the greenrider, but that works too. Except I know you'll make it," N'rov says with deliberate confidence. Evidently he'd had confidence, too, enough to braid W'leri's knot ahead of time; he steals it now from the chair next to him, where it had been hidden by the tabletop, and saunters around the table to display it for the other man. There's Voaneth's blue, right there. "Ready?" "I meant, don't fuck the greenrider, but that works too. Except I know you'll make it," N'rov says with deliberate confidence. Evidently he'd had confidence, too, enough to braid W'leri's knot ahead of time; he steals it now from the chair next to him, where it had been hidden by the tabletop, and saunters around the table to display it for the other man in all its glory. There's Voaneth's blue, right there. "Ready?" The smile that creases W'leri's face looks more like a grimace than what it is. "I've yet to fuck my wingleader, and I won't start with my 'second." His eyes track the weyrleader's movements, from chair to his side of the table, and when N'rov has the knot displayed so close he sucks in a breath. "Faranth, it's fucking beautiful," he comments, staring at his fancy new knot with covetous eyes; it is still in the weyrleader's hands. "Yeah." "Yeah, it is." N'rov's not got another word for his clutchmate's reputation around greenriders; whatever conflict will come down the road, likely from another source, this is the good stuff. "Go on, man. Take off the old one." He'll give him the new. Not a single harper plays nor procession marches through the cavern, but W'leri has the face of a man who has just been given a great reward, even under all that scruff. "Blast," he curses, when he has trouble getting off the original, and once its loose he tosses it onto the table with little care. "Bye, Flint. Hello, Malachite." And then he takes the new knot into his hands, holding it with all the reverence once might give a large diamond or a baby. If only N'rov had requested that Suireh sing. But that might have been distracting; as it is, he can focus on W'leri's efforts, even lean up onto the table to sit and enjoy. "Go for it," he encourages in a low voice, once the new-matched pair have had some quality time together, so different than how he'd taken up his own. If W'leri needs a hand, N'rov will help him, but as for the badge the weyrleader will conjure into being thereafter... the new wingleader will have plenty of resources (with which to legitimately bribe, even!) to make it on his own. It takes half the time to secure the new knot in place, but longer for W'leri to get his fill of the image of it, riding his shoulder neatly. "I should've done this sooner," he drawls, blue eyes turning on N'rov before he claps the man on the shoulder heartily. "You're a right good lad, N'rov." He doesn't begrudge that badge, and continues to be in awe of that fancy bit of thread. "Fucking good day. Beer and a knot." N'rov guffaws, and claps him back. "That's 'man' to you, man. I can dredge up a mirror if you need it," and he lifts a brow at the man before he moves as though to get it... but really, what he's got is more beer. They aren't going to be running out. |
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