Logs:Meeting with DOOM
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| RL Date: 13 July, 2011 |
| Who: Devaki, Tiriana |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Devaki and Tiriana meet. There are accusations on both sides and definitely no meeting of the minds. |
| Where: Records Room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 15, Month 3, Turn 26 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions |
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| Two children under the age of two is not really conducive to peace, quiet, sleep, eating, sanity, and possibly a load of other things. So it's no suprise that at some point, even a mother as jealous of her children as Tiriana has to get some time to herself. Leaving the boys with R'uen and her cousin-nanny, she retreats to the sanctuary of the records room, to just--breathe. With the tapping noise of his walking stick and the glowbasket held in hand, Devaki's painted himself as a fairly noticeable target, quite apart from the quickly-fading-to-yellow bruising that mars his jaw and cheek. He makes his way slowly about the room, casting his glance this way and that, as if searching for someone, though he hasn't quite resorted to calling out yet, in deference to any who might still be working this late. It's the tapping that gets to her, more than anything else; even before Devaki actually enters, Tiriana is nearly twitching in time to it. By the time she gets there, she's downright glowering, though she seems to be trying at least somewhat not to aim all of it at the exile. She glares at the books, too, and the walls for good measure. Only, "If you don't stop that, I may freshen those bruises for you." Devaki's not looking in Tiriana's direction, gaze lifted to peer at shelves; it's the woman's voice that draws his gaze with surprise and a puzzled frown. "Stop what?" he asks, the picture of innocence. Well, it's certainly stopped now, since he's paused to face her, glancing down at himself as if some answer might make itself known. "That /noise/," says Tiriana, with a sniff as she slides herself down into one of the more padded chairs by a table. "This is records, and anyway, it's late. People come here for quiet, so unless you're blind, there's no call for all that. /Are/ you blind?" "Noise?" Devaki echoes, tipping his head to listen to -- well, nothing, apparently. "Are you quite all right? Perhaps I should get one of the healers." He's using that tone that all healers have down pat -- the calm, talking-to-a-crazy-person tone. The latter question earns a bemused stare. "No. Are you?" again, an indulgent tone, clearly humoring her. Tiriana knows that tone, too, and it only makes her narrow her eyes further. "I had thought our lessons would teach you manners with your betters by now," she instead notes. "But I guess that's too much to hope for with your sort." "Betters?" Devaki's gaze flickers to her shoulder, and finding no knot, rises again with a querying quirk of brow. "Your Weyrwoman," Tiriana counters. "My Weyrwoman?" Devaki muses on that thought a moment. "My apologies. I'd thought you were one of my jailors." There's a slight tip of head that could be taken as a bow, though the lift of his hand and the twitch of lips conveys something perhaps a tad more mocking. "Paid to keep us here by your Holds and Crafts. At least -- that's the rumor I heard." "If you can make a profit of a good deed--, my Iovniath says," Tiriana replies with the sort of shrug that's too carefully offhand. She's still giving Devaki a hard look, not pleased with the titles he confers. "But it's K'del's good deed more than mine. I'd be about as happy to throw you back in the sea and call it done, myself." And now there's something more in Devaki's gaze, less mocking, more interested. "Some of us would prefer to return to the Holds that birthed our lines, Weyrwoman. And out of your hair just as happily as you want us gone. But your Weyrleader has said otherwise." He snaps his fingers as if only just recalling something. "I'm sure in one of those candidate lessons they talked about the Weyr structure. And that the Weyrwoman is in charge...?" "The caverns are mine; the wings are his. We handle the holds together," is Tiriana's answer to that. "So you're mine until you impress and his when you do. Though Faranth forbid you do. Iovniath might really decide to eat somebody if you get near her eggs now." Leaning back in her chair, she winces, shifting until she's at least somewhat comfortable. "Just what do you think is out there for you?" Once particular phrasing -- probably somewhere around 'until you impress' -- earns a subtle reaction, a slight tensing of posture, though he manages to keep expression mostly even. "Not all of us intent to stand, Weyrwoman. You, or your Hold's, wishes aside." He throws that out, casually, then twists his body slightly to set the glowbasket on the shelf next to him. He seems content to keep his distance, both hands folding over the stick. "It's hard to know. Apparently we're not ready for the world yet -- or it for us." Tiriana, blunt as ever, "It's the best offer you'll get. There's no shame in it, whatever you holders think. And if you're good at what you do, there's opportunities there. Hell, you don't even have to be that good--just look at K'del." That, at least, makes her smirk. Devaki, it seems, appreciates the bluntness, and is the same in turn: "Will you force those who refuse onto the sands, then?" His fingers tighten around the stick. "It isn't about the shame. Your life isn't for all of us, and you can shove us in as many classes saying otherwise -- not everyone will believe you. We have a Tradition, as you and yours do, and it is important." Tiriana shrugs, which is not really much of an answer at all. "Dragons won't take everyone, anyway. Not enough of them even if they would. Your tradition's dead, regardless. You're nobody here and whatever infamy you have is just because you're shiny-new for people here, for a little while. It won't last, however much you like to think you like to think you'll always hate us, you'll always be different." "Our Tradition is dead if we let it die." Devaki's tone is vehement. He does, however, concede the latter point with a tip of head. "Yes-- you're right. We will always be different. Wouldn't it be better to see the back of us? We'd integrate far better in a Hold anyway. You know that, you're not oblivious. Yet you keep us here, away from the Holds. Or one in particular?" "What's the hold got that we don't?" is Tiriana's challenge. "You can't farm, or sail, and everything else, we already have here: crafts, and laymen's work, people to marry and breed with. You think you're holders because you think your fathers were holders, but really they were only ever exiles. You'd best remember that." "It's more about what Holds /don't/ have," Devaki says, rather blandly. There's a slight tightening of jaw, and he says, "Yes, you're right on that. We're exiles, and we will always be. Even if we should get one of your dragons -- you may live to regret that, Weyrwoman. You dismiss Turns of our Tradition as if it means nothing." Tiriana shrugs. "I might but I doubt it. What can your kind do to me?" she notes, untroubled by this. But she leans forward, all the same, lips pursing as she eyes the younger man for a moment. "Sometimes traditions need to be thrown away. Do you know where I come from? Or my Iovniath?" "I am going to afford /your/ traditions and /your/ history the same courtesy you have afforded me and mine." Devaki says with a faint twitch of lip, after which he turns on his heel, hand hooking to catch up the glowbasket. The tapping of his stick marks his hasty departure from the room. |
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