Logs:Of Chances
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| RL Date: 26 August, 2007 |
| Who: C'len, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 28, Month 3, Turn 13 (Interval 10) |
| Weyrleaders' Ledge, High Reaches Weyr(#480RAIJLs) A flight of steps worn smooth with time lead up to a broad flat area with enough room for a gold and her consort to sprall and lounge. Openings lead to a room used for conferences, the Weyrwoman's private room, and the hatching sands themselves. A round table of well polished hardwood sits in one corner and is surrounded by chairs. Contents: Leiventh Obvious exits: Hatching Grounds Weyrwoman Weyrleader Council Chamber Bowl Your location's current time: 22:08 on day 31, month 3, Turn 13, of the Interval. It is a spring evening. Leiventh senses that Vildaeth's touch is muted, testing, as he reaches out, none of the usual lurid colors bright in his mind. « Mine seeks yours to talk, » he offers. Leiventh> Vildaeth senses that Leiventh's mental touch is the cool chill of a deep 'Reaches winter, but no less welcoming for all that: « Yours is welcome, as always. Mine bids you join him on his ledge. » C'len climbs the stairs from the bowl. C'len has arrived. It's late evening on a warm spring evening, and R'hin's settled at the table out on the ledge. A bottle of white is open and close to his hand, as is the glass he's currently drinking from. His attention is on the pile of reports stacked in front of him, though it's difficult to tell if he's merely concentrating or his thoughts are far away. Leiventh's a dark, still bulk close by, the bronze not moving in the slightest. C'len carries himself easily up the stairs from the bowl, still dressed in orange-embroidered finery after the earlier hatching. "Sir?" He calls as boots thump up the stairs, both warnings of his arrival in addition to draconic communications. "Do you have a moment --or two?" "For you?" R'hin doesn't look up, warned no doubt by the still bronze across the ledge, "Of course, C'len. Take a seat. Would you like a drink?" Before the man has cause to answer he's on his feet, walking over to pick up a clean glass. "Something on your mind?" C'len drops into the offered seat, though the offer of a drink is declined with a shake of his head. "Just got back from Ista's hatching. A good showing. I thought we could discuss the matter of my wingsecond, though," he says with a slight grin, "Now that Shanlee has been transferred to Glacier." Long legs stretch in front of him, relaxing into the seat with a moment's sigh. "I guess it's taken me just as long this time to pick someone, as it did last time." Perhaps the Weyrleader misses the other's demurral, or perhaps he merely ignores it - either way, R'hin pours a second glass before slipping back into his seat, an amused smile slipping across his features. "Ah. And how did things fare down there? As... violent as we've come to expect from our Istan cousins?" There might be just a dry hint of disdain in his voice, though not in his expression, passively polite as he regards C'len. "Of course." There's not a trace of apology in his expression, though he does say, "Your first pick was exemplary. My compliments." "It was--ah, a bit bloody. I think maybe moreso than Nalaieth and Vildaeth's clutch, but that was a bit of a blur for me." The rider shrugs his shoulders and, not one to ignore even unnecessary hospitality, he accepts the glass of wine, cradling it in his hands and probably providing more warmth to the white than it should receive. "I've select B'yan to be Snowstrike's next wingsecond." A dip of C'len's head indicates Leiventh's rider, "Subject to your approval, of course, sir." Whatever comment R'hin might've made on the subject of the Istan line is, perhaps fortuitously, forstalled by the Wingleader's next words. "B'yan, hm?" He's silent a moment, musing into his glass before taking a sip, expression markedly even. "How did you come to such a decision, if I might ask? Some might call that a curious choice indeed." At least the wingleader has gotten straight to the point, without beating around the bush. And in this manner, C'len plows forward: "It's hard to know how to choose a good 'second. Someone that will be forceful enough to lead drills, but helpful enough when needed. Last time I just let them decide amongst themselves, really, with the contest." He pauses long enough to take a sip of the white, hands still holding the bowl of the glass rather than the stem. "But things are different now. We need someone willing to take chances. So I, ah, sponsored a table at the tournament. B'yan won, so I selected him." And then the rider laughs softly, something remembered, then draws in another sip of the wine. "Chances." The word is echoed heavily by R'hin, the Weyrleader sighing over it as if accepting and regretting it at the same time. "True. Things stand on a knife's edge. Luck might tip things in our favor... or away from it. Even I can't see how things will fall right now." His hand brushes against his shaved head, eyes distant. "I trust your judgement, C'len. The decision is yours." C'len idly twists the glass in his hands. "He expected marks from his win," and the slight grin shows what, earlier, he was laughing about. "I'm not sure how it will work out. But I can always send him back if it doesn't, right?" This is asked with a lift of brows over light brown eyes sparking with a hint of mirth. "If anything, I don't think he's been injured, so that suggests he and Jaireth fight well. You would know better than I, though, sir?" "Lack of injury, and ability to fight thread, does not a leader make," R'hin says, expression sober, serious. "I've known B'yan since he first came to the Weyr. He's changed a lot, granted--" he pauses, and seems to be picking his words carefully, indeed. "I have concerns about his loyalty-- normally I would not be worried should a rider's loyalty be to themselves above everything else. But in a leader--?" his shoulders shift in the faintest of shrugs. "It's hard to say. But as you said-- now is the time for chances. So a chance we must take." C'len admits, "He's just as experienced as anyone else, these days. As long as he's willing to take his chances not just for himself, but for the Weyr, I think it will work out. He seems sharp, if quiet." The observations tumble out, shared easily with the Weyr's leader. Then there's another hint of a grin, "And since you've someone from Snowstrike now, we can just swap and be even." "Mm." R'hin is deliberately non-commital on the subject, and lets out a faint grin as C'len points out the swap. "Very well, Wingleader. As you say-- we'll be even. Drink up, my friend." He gestures to the glass, "In celebration of your new wingsecond." C'len lifts his glass, taking a much longer drink from it. "I'll let him know. I asked him to attend Snowstrike's last few drills, to get a feel for the differences in the wings. Maybe it will help the transition." C'len draws his legs in closer, sitting up more fully in the seat. "And if it doesn't work out, maybe we could switch back?" He asks with a soft chuckle. "Maybe," R'hin says, with a laugh and a look that clearly says other than his words. He lifts his glass, drains it, and sets it back on the table. "Best of luck to you then, C'len," he murmurs, attention straying towards the reports on the table, and though he doesn't say it, there's a tacit dismissal in the gesture. C'len drains the last few sips of wine, before lifting the glass in farewell. It's deposited on the table, the lanky rider pushing himself up from the chair. "Good night, sir," he says, followed by a salute before the bronzerider turns on his heels and retraces his steps to the bowl. C'len wanders down the flight of steps, towards the eastern bowl. C'len has left. |
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