Logs:Lacking Empathy
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| RL Date: 23 October, 2015 |
| Who: H'vier, Irianke |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: H'vier happens across Irianke in the galleries. He states some uncomfortable truths and Irianke gives him a gift. |
| Where: Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 2, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Lilah/Mentions, Farideh/Mentions |
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| Niahvth is on a ledge up high, overseeing the eggs that are not hers. It's nearly midnight, the winter air outside bone-chillingly cold with snow and dunes all over. In hear though, it's warm enough to shed several layers and wear lighter clothing. Irianke is seated in the galleries in the seating area reserved for dignitaries, with a cushion beneath her criss-crossed legs. A billowing skirt circles her hips, her body, and drapes over the bench. In her hands are a large sketchpad and a stick of dark charcoal and on the hide is the sketched outline of a dragon. H'vier appears from the bowl shortly before Reisoth appears from above. The bronze settles on a ledge of his own to look down at the small array of eggs, only greeting the senior queen with a brush of his presence. The bronzerider pauses near the stairs leading further up into the galleries, shrugging out of his jacket and folding it over his arm. Then his gaze settles on Irianke and he draws in a deep breath, lets it out, and begins making his way, casually, in her general direction. Niahvth responds pleasantly, sunlit marigold and warmth emanating from her as her own mind brushes against Reisoth's in greeting. Though it's likely she's given her rider a warning, Irianke remains unattentive, or so focused in on her work she doesn't look up to H'vier's approach. She sits back a little and puts the drawing before her, then flicks a glance to Roszadyth, then back down. A pucker claims her nose, displeasure bringing that charcoal back down to smudge some lines here and add others elsewhere. Reisoth's attention turns from the eggs, to the queen, and then to the galleries, great faceted eyes blinking slowly as he gets comfortable in the heat of the cavern. When H'vier gets close enough to speak without having to do so loudly, he says, "Late night, Weyrwoman. I wasn't expecting to find you here." Which might lead one to question who he was expecting to find here. He ends up settling onto a bench behind the dignitary box, setting his jacket down beside him only after he's pulled his flask out from inside of it. "Do you come here later to avoid people or to meet someone specific?" Irianke asks the question, not looking up from her drawing until after she speaks. The pad is balanced on her crossed legs and the charcoal stick continues to dirty her left hand. She pivots to catch sight of H'vier behind her. "Aren't you supposed to be angry with me?" is her next question, the humor in her intonation egg shell fragile as she slants the wingleader a look. "I came because I came," answers H'vier, eyeing the woman more than the clutch of eggs beyond her even when she glances back at him. "I thought the idea is that I wasn't supposed to be angry with you, but I was anyway." At least it's the past tense that he uses, and not the present. "I'm angry with a lot of things, Irianke. You aren't very high on that list these days." "Tell me," Irianke starts, the sketchpad slid onto the bench and her legs shifting to straddle rather than criss-cross. "What are you angry with, H'vier? We never did get around to the talking part of a relationship, and," the goldrider is quick to lift a hand, that look that remains steadfast on H'vier turning into a quick, crooked smile, "I don't mean the cozy, cuddle, love you forever relationship. I just meant you know, interaction." The bronzerider doesn't roll his eyes, but he does glance away from her and seems more neutral when he looks back. "I don't think we're at the talking part of a relationship now anymore than we were then." H'vier must not expect her to argue that, because he continues, "Did you ever draw Reisoth when they were on the Sands?" "I thought we weren't at the talking part of a relationship even now?" Irianke returns tartly, though not in anger. There's a twinge at the corners of her eyes, a sorrow-filled tiredness she's just keeping at bay. The Weyrwoman turns back to look at the sands, even though her legs remain straddled, and exhales. "They'll hatch soon. Part of me hopes all of them will, another part of me hopes some don't make it. It's a wretched feeling feeling caught between two very opposing emotions." H'vier snorts at the first, but doesn't press. His gaze is on the eggs out there now, too. "You could always choose a couple of them, take them between. If you could get the dragons away long enough." The tone of his voice makes it difficult to tell whether he's being serious or cruel. "Or you could try cracking one open. They might not go between before they're fully developed. The dragonhealers might appreciate the ability to dissect one of them." A sound, a cross between an amused snort and a cry of indignation escapes Irianke. She's silent, looking down at the sands and breathing evenly, until she finally says, in a quieter, more solemn voice, "I'm sorry for your loss." "Are you?" It comes out before H'vier can stop it, with an edge of bitter sharpness. "You'll forgive me if I have a hard time believing you have any empathy for my loss. Fort's loss, perhaps. Pern's. But mine?" Irianke says nothing, just looks at H'vier with a self-awareness that recognizes what he says as true and has nothing to say in response. But she doesn't flinch or look away, just continues to meet his gaze. He holds her gaze for some moments, intense, on edge. But then he nods knowingly and looks down at the flask in his hand. H'vier looks like he might say something when he looks back up, but instead he starts to rise. "I'm angry with myself," is what he offers her as he's grabbing his jacket and turning away. Irianke doesn't stop looking at H'vier even after he looks away and even after he starts moving. Rendered mute, the goldrider merely sighs at the end of the conversation and looks down at the sketchpad on the bench by her. "Wait," she finally says, before he can move away too far. Quick hands flip through the pad and pulls out a rough sketch of a dragon that is distinctively Reisoth. She holds it out. "I draw everything." H'vier pauses when she speaks, glancing back as though he's unconvinced she has anything worth waiting for. But he's wrong, evidently. Steps draw him back, this time closer, so he can take the sketch. He looks down at it, face unreadable, but finally says, "It's very good." It's a few more moments before he's offering her work back to her. Irianke shakes her head and flutters her fingers. "Keep it. I remember what Reisoth looks like by now. I used to watercolor, but then," the goldrider glances at the sands where her gold does not reside now, "Well, I Impressed and ran out of time. Keep it. And I'm sorry for not having empathy for your loss before." "Thank you." H'vier certainly isn't going to demand that she take it back. He clearly has a soft spot for his dragon, like every other rider in the history of ever. "I appreciate it." As for his loss, "I don't expect your empathy, Weyrwoman. But thank you." Hopefully she wasn't hoping for a return apology. "Enjoy the rest of your night." And then he's turning away again, more than likely to find somewhere more alone to drink. And Irianke stays right where she is, returning to finish her sketch of Roszadyth. |
Comments
Squishy (22:55, 26 October 2015 (PDT)) said...
I like this moment of warmth howeverr brief.
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