Logs:K'del Screws Something Else Up
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| RL Date: 3 February, 2012 |
| Who: Iolene, K'del |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Iolene comes to talk to K'del after his meeting with Ali and N'muir. It goes well, and then... not so well. |
| Where: K'del's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 15, Month 12, Turn 27 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ali/Mentions, Jivrain/Mentions, Lujayn/Mentions, Milani/Mentions, N'muir/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
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| K'del's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr Accessed via a narrow staircase from the Weyrleader's Complex, or from the broad, sunny ledge beyond, this weyr was clearly designed to be for one of the weyr's junior queens. Spacious, but not extravagant, it boasts a well-sized outer room, narrowing in front the well-sized dragon couch and ledge beyond. Much of this main room has been turned over to a couch and several chairs, which circle the hearth and the blue rug set down in front of it. There's a low table here, too, set in the middle of that rug: there are almost always papers spread out across it, some of them important, others more inclined towards the fingerpaintings created by small fingers. A tack-cupboard stands tidily behind the couch, keeping out of sight a rider's paraphenalia. Three low steps lead up onto a peculiar little landing, just large enough for the antique skybroom desk and set of shelves that have been placed there. Here, too, there are definite pointers to the lived-in state of the weyr: the desk could in no way be described as tidy. Behind the desk, a narrow passage leads in an inner set of chambers, made up of a sleeping cavern and a private bathing area. An oversized wooden sleigh bed fills much of the space, the mattress piled high with overstuffed down pillows and comforter, their covers dyed in varying shades of navy blue, light blue and bronze. There's a nightstand on either side, both with reading lamps, and against one of the other walls, a tall, heavy wardrobe made from a dark wood that matches the bed. The bathing area is part of the same cavern, a folding screen shielding the toilet and slightly raised, double-sized bathtub built into the stone, and a small shelf holding toiletries, shaving equipment, and clean towels.
K'del returns straight to his weyr, after that meeting, nursing a bruised (but thankfully, not broken) hand and a raised temper, both of which are eased with the assistance of scotch. So he's in, when Iolene enters, even if he doesn't register her presence until that tentative calling out of his name. He sits on the step that leads up to his little landing, whisky bottle on the floor next to him, his injured hand in his lap, his formal jacket still on-- his expression mutinous. Silence for a moment, and then, "Iolene. Come on in. Ysavaeth's calmed down?" He noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed and a certain sense of relief floods Iolene's features; that there's no need to explain that- well, that K'del noticed. "Oh no. Of course not," is her rueful confession. "I tried to distract her with stories and songs and suggested we leave the Weyr, but she wouldn't think of leaving High Reaches with-.... she kept railing about how she tolerates Iovniath and Rielsath cause they existed before she was born but an outside gold is anothe...," her lips press down and a hand flies to her mouth, held just below widened, apologetic eyes that latch onto K'del's mutinous expression. "I'm sorry. I wasn't supposed to share that. But she'll be fine now." K'del rubs at his forehead with his uninjured hand, looking suddenly tired. "As long as she'll be fine," he murmurs, vaguely, managing a half-heartedly sympathetic expression as she waves Iolene in. "Want some whisky? Come sit, anyway. You did well, keeping her calm. I'm sorry for the instrusion... didn't realise they'd be coming. They didn't make an appointment or anything." He's half-rambling and seems aware of it, breaking off ruefully as he reaches for the bottle again. Invited in by word is enough for Iolene to push past the ominous look K'del wears and she takes two careful steps from that protective wall before hurrying the rest of the way to slumping backwards on his steps, so her head rests on the top of that landing and the rest of her lanky body just... sprawls. "I don't think I'm quite strong enough to deal with her sometimes," begins Io, of her dragon. But then, in the same breath shifts the conversation with a tentative floater, "Are you in trouble?" You, not High Reaches. K'del shifts before she gets there, making room, and puts the whisky bottle carefully out of the way of accidental feed movements-- though he takes another swig from it first. "With Fort? Yes. Need to talk to Tiriana, later, and see whether I'm in trouble with /her/," never mind that she approved the venture in the first place. "N'muir seems to think I'm leading us to violence, weyrs fighting over holds-- which," he hastens to add, with a fond glance down at Iolene, "is not something that ever happens. He's exaggerating, and I don't know-- seems half blind to the fact that they keep making the situation worse. I waited months, you know?" He pauses, then goes back to the previous subject: "You seem to be managing, so far." "Why?" Always full of questions, this one is less rambly than most of Iolene's inquiries, and yet loaded in so many ways. Recognizing this, the young woman adds a clarification as she eases herself onto her elbows to turn and look at K'del. "Why is Fort mad at you? I don't understand why it would lead to a war." He might return to a previous subject; she chooses to ignore it. "Because--" K'del hesitates, scrunching up his face until deep furrows form on his forehead. "They feel like we're stealing Boll from them. That because we've made this deal, Boll won't go back to them. Far as I'm concerned, though, I don't see that Boll /will/ go back, not unless Fort has something they need. It's Interval-- we're less vital." The fact that she uses the word 'war' only seems to make him uncomfortable, for all that he tries to bite that back. More quietly, "He seems to think that we'd all start trying to poach each other's holds, nevermind that we only did what we did because of the present situation. And so we'd fight over them. It seems-- unlikely. To me." Iolene is either oblivious to his wince and discomfort or chooses to ignore that as well as she eases up even more, shifting her body so it's uncomfortably reposed on its side on those stairs. Surely one of those steps is digging into her hips. "And which of High Reaches Weyr's holds do you fear would be poachable?" Blandly, "Do you need a cushion, there?" That's an easier thing to say than anything else that they're talking about, though after a moment more, he adds, "Don't think any of them are. Crom played us off Telgar, turns back, but he seems happy enough with the outcome of that. Tillek's not thrilled with us, but I can't believe they'd jump ship, particularly not given the way Fort treated Boll." Beat. "That's the thing, really. Why would anyone be willing to go to Boll? Whatever Jivrain is like as a person, he's one of /their/ Lords. And they've treated him appallingly." There's a headshake for cushions. Iolene's gaze drops, those lashes of hers shifting with a quickness that speaks of a desire to say something. If there's anything she's learned in the last two years it's been to hold her tongue. And yet... she speaks of the one hold dear to her childhood memories that he doesn't speak of in the quietest tones, "And High Reaches Hold?" Her mention of High Reaches Hold draws silence from K'del, at first; he distracts himself by reaching for the bottle again, and taking a swig before offering it to the lounging goldrider. "We've always had good relations with High Reaches Hold," he says, calmly. "I'd not expect them, or Nabol, to even consider going elsewhere. Frankly, would never imagine /any/ hold going elsewhere unless things were particularly screwed up." "And if we find Tillek's son dead?" is Iolene's next, far more sobering question. K'del swallows, thickly. "The Lady Edeline may be angry at us for not finding her son," he says, very quietly, "but I don't think she can blame us for his kidnapping. Don't think-- she wouldn't seek elsewhere. It just isn't done." "But Boll did." Iolene points out the obvious, but then lapses. She's out of questions with this particular point, having understood as much as she'd like. She stretches out a hand to accept that bottle and takes a test taste of the bottle's rim before tipping it back more and coughing one word forced out in between all our coughs. "/Foul/!" "Boll was--" Whatever it was, K'del breaks off in order to watch, aghast, as Iolene chokes on the whisky. Hastily, he grabs for the bottle back, saying, "Shells, sorry. You all right? Need some water or something?" His apology is genuine; concern rings true in his tone. Iolene waves a hand; except that's the hand with the bottle until he takes it away. Luckily for him, though she'd probably think otherwise, there's no spillage. "No, no, no," each negation is punctuated with a little cough, and then an aghast, "You drink that stuff? How does it not burn your insides all up?" K'del sets the bottle down, well out of the way, rather than drink from it again; once that's done, he glances back at Iolene, still showing visible concern. "It-- grows on you, I guess? Mostly, I like drinking the nicer stuff, which tastes better. This stuff gets you drunk pretty quickly, though, and sometimes that's pretty nice." His cheeks are pink; he's clearly had more than a few swallows of the stuff already. "Oh, K'del," says Iolene, when she finally has her voice at her command. It's a little ragged for the scotch burning her throat and yet, carries the tonal quality most people seem to use when saying her name. "Why do you need to be drunk? If Fort's mad, they're mad. Why do you care? And worse comes to worse, we can just send Tiriana over as a diplomatic emissary and that will solve all problems." Cause that's just a brilliant idea. "Because--" K'del lets out a low, heaving sigh. "We used to have good relations with Fort. And now, they just can't seem to see. N'muir treated me like I was an upstart child, as if I haven't been doing this job longer than him. It drives me crazy, that they can't even seem to see what they're doing wrong, and it's not my place to try and explain it." He sounds empty; utterly discontent. "Everything falls apart. I'm trying to do what's best for High Reaches, and everything falls apart." Her last suggestion draws a hollow laugh. "Hattie and Tiriana in the same room for that would-- don't know which one of them would be worse." "Would that be bad?" Iolene asks, her voice somehow carrying a plaintive innocence that one trace flicker in her eye belies. K'del is distracted from his own thoughts by Iolene's question; he's surprised by it. "The two of them, at each other's throats over it? Yes. Yes, it would be bad. N'muir found it difficult to be civil to me... emotional people, like Hattie and Tiriana... it just wouldn't work." "And I ask again, how would this be bad? It doesn't sound like either of them are reasonable leaders." Iolene sounds all too reasonable, except she's sitting up and leaned forward across her knees for that bottle that was set aside. This time, she's more careful, and takes a far smaller sip before turning it into a swig. K'del is genuinely surprised by Iolene's second attempt at drinking the whisky, but doesn't say anything: still, it's visible in his expression. "Neither of them are bad leaders," he says, firmly enough, despite that faint edge of drunkenness that makes him almost slur. "They want the best for their weyrs, even if sometimes... none of us are perfect. I make mistakes, too." "Like with us." It's a flat statement, not a question that the really sober says. "Like with me." She holds onto the bottle, keeping it hostage from the almost slurring Weyrleaader. "K'del, don't you like me at all?" "With... you?" K'del sounds mystified, and yes, he was going to grab for the bottle, and now she won't let him, and he's blinking madly because her question... "Of course I like you, Iolene. Like to think that we're friends, sort of, right? Why would you think that I don't?" Iolene's hold of the bottle tightens, tucked against her chest like a security blanket. "The Fort Weyrleader brought his junior goldrider with him. I- what could I do? I fly in your wing, I see you work every day. I- I don't understand everything going on, but what can I do for you?" K'del eyes the bottle again, but lets it go in order to blink at Iolene again. His hand runs through his hair, then drops back down towards his lap. "Shells," he says. "If you want to come with me to meetings with the Holds, you're welcome to, Io. Helps, sometimes, to have another set of ears. We can go over wing reports, if you like. In the mornings. And tithe reports. Things like that. If you're interested." It's not that she wants to do all that boring stuff, but the fact she's not included while a mousy Fortian goldrider gets to is enough to rile up a goldrider's dragon for sure. Among other things. K'del's welcoming of her help, in one part startles Iolene visibly, tenses her, and relieves her. It's a weird amalgamation of emotions. "Well, I guess I could help," is, however, a little reluctant. "Here." She won't hold his bottle hostage anymore. Now that he has the bottle, K'del doesn't seem as eager to drink from it - he puts it back down on the floor, and goes back to watching Iolene, his brow furrowed. "If you want to. I'll have Cadejoth invite you, next time we go somewhere. If you're free, you can come along." He nods for emphasis, although that seems to make him a little bit dizzy - he sits back, hastily, and lets out a low sigh. "You're not pissed off at me or anything? It'd probably make my life if someone else was, too." He seems to be reassuring himself with the question. Exasperated; "Oh, K'del." The bottle being safely out of the way, not that Iolene would care given her next actions. She's suddenly on top of him and smashing her lips against his. No, K'del did not expect that. That doesn't mean - well, he's a bit drunk, and she's a pretty girl, and whatever's bothering him (which seems to be more than just the Fort stuff), well--- he kisses her back, probably with less finesse than he might normally, arms wrapping around to hold her as he does so. He tastes of whisky and-- then he pulls his mouth back. Barely more than a whisper is his, "Io?" Not unhappy, just... uncertain. Iolene exhales her, "Yes?" unhappily in lieu of K'del. She's not uncertain, just unhappy and plaintive. "Hey," he says, leaning in to kiss her again. His arms are still snug around her: he doesn't seem to be pushing her away, just-- "You're not just-- trying to make me feel better?" His uncertainty is visible in the furrow of his brow, now, too, not just in his voice. "People do that?" Gone is the unhappiness, replaced in an instant with an uncertainty. Iolene pulls back to the limits of his snug arm and blinks upwards. K'del looks... awkward. He doesn't release his arms, but it wouldn't be too hard for her to get free if she tried. "Well... don't know. Maybe. I just--" He's looking at her in increasing surprise, and finally, shakes his head. "Didn't... realise. I guess." "Oh. Oh." Horribly embarrassed now, not that she wasn't in any prior encounter, Iolene pulls away completely. When Iolene strikes out, she really, really strikes out with boys. "I... You don't need to sleep with me to make me feel better. I don't. I didn't I mean." K'del's arms fall back towards his sides, and honestly, he looks wretched. Passionately, "No. Io. It's not like that." He seems to mean that, too, though his desperate pleading expression is hard to place: is he wanting her to not go? Is he wanting her to not be embarrassed? It could mean a lot of things. "Shells, Io. You're pretty and I like you and you're fun, and I just didn't realise that you-- that you-- wanted this." It's a lame conclusion; he flushes. Iolene crosses her arms over her chest. Given she lived her entire life sheltered on an island .... she seems to have the scorned woman down pat. "You're stupid then." And the name calling to cover up her hurt feelings. No man likes to hear that; K'del flushes deeper still. But: "Maybe I am, a bit," he says, exhaling after a few moments. "I'm sorry, Io. You're-- I guess I just-- I don't know. You always seemed to be making calf eyes at someone else, and I just didn't notice," because he sucks, "that maybe-- shells." "Whatever." Which is the unfortunate standby of women everywhere. "I hope you're very happy with... with Milani." Huff. And a promising connection with regards to Fort leads to an immature stomp off. Oh, Iolene. "Milani and I aren't--" But K'del lets that one go, and after a moment, goes back to his bottle. Whisky? Is totally safer than women. |
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