Logs:Personal Politics
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 16 May, 2014 |
| Who: H'kon, Madilla |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Hold politics are discussed. Personal politics kill the discussion. |
| Where: Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 22, Month 10, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Though overall pleasant, the temperature has dropped just below the freezing mark, enough to allow the lightest sprinkle of snow to fall from the skies. |
| Mentions: Devaki/Mentions, Dilan/Mentions, Lilabet/Mentions, Raija/Mentions, Tevrane/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: There was a typo in a pose somewhere that I noticed when playing this, but think I can find it now? Bonus points to whomever does. |
   |
| Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr Winter is coming, and Arekoth can feel it. He could feel it so much that he landed awkwardly, trying to favour that torqued leg that was aching some, and slipped on slick ground. He landed badly, and it twisted. Most of that - the checking-over, the oiling of the hide around the injury, the instruction of (and repeated reassurances that Arekoth really is fine, the final one coming from the dragon himself) Dilan in the tending of wound - took place in the dragon infirmary. It's later in the night, and not in the company of any young boys now in bed, that H'kon and Arekoth move quietly along the lakeshore, the dragon glistening beneath the moons' light, fully oiled, the rider with his hands tucked into his pockets, breath trying to condense but not quite managing, both smelling of dragon and oil and cooler night air. Waiting. Dilan's concern for Arekoth was certainly, finally, eased by those reassurances - and tempered rather dramatically further by his pride at being able to assist; for a boy his age, he's remarkably patient and thorough, with steady hands that seem to suggest he's inherited something of his mother's vocation. It took him longer than usual to fall asleep, alive with excitement, and perhaps that's part of why his mother's smile is so fond, now, as she weaves her way past boulders and chilly puddles to join dragon and rider. "How does it feel?" she wonders, addressing her words to both; always the healer. Always. It would be unfair to say H'kon wasn't at least a bit impressed by the boy; equally unfair to say that the day has been an tiring one for the rider, who worries, deep down, when his lifemate is hurt. Even when it's the same hurt that has come back again and again. The look that answers Madilla's smile is, at the very least, satisfied enough, and he nods, while Arekoth makes a show of pausing mid-step, that leg of his in a weight-supporting position. (How does what feel?) "Warm, but tiring," the brownrider answers the (or, his) healer. Eyebrows lift, and a hand emerges from his pocket to gesture to his dragon, invitation for her inspection. That gesture has the healer, his healer, shaking her head. "I don't know nearly enough about dragon physiology to make any kind of assessment," she says. "Besides, it's pretty clear that Arekoth's feeling fine." She's noticed, then. Of course she's noticed. "Perhaps the more important question is: how are you feeling, H'kon?" This is more direct than her usual wont, and the look on her face as she turns her gaze more closely onto the brownrider, is tinged with... not concern, but certainly something within that genus. It's not so much a shared expression as a shared energy, a shared moment, between dragon and rider. "He's been looked over by a dragonhealer already," sounds- not so much puzzled, as disjointed. Unnecessarily looked over, as Arekoth completes his step, takes another, and then settles, standing with that leg forward, toward his rider, toward the healer his rider has, at the same time, approached by a few steps. "We'll likely not need sit out on any planned duties." The unplanned, well. "That is good." It's like an answer. "Yes," agrees Madilla, though it's not obviously an explanation of anything; just a word, released into the chill evening air. It's followed, a few seconds later, by, "I'm glad. That you're both well." Her brownrider; her brownrider's brown. She's taken a few steps closer of her own accord, though she stops short of actually touching either of them. "That's what matters." Close, and both stopped, green eyes seek green eyes, watchful, for a long moment. Eventually, H'kon does speak, something almost yielding in his tone, while his dragon breathes warm air into a cloud above his head: "We'll be needed now. Around Nabol. Winter is coming... there will be people with nowhere to go. Again." The hand that was extended has since found his pocket. Pulling his jacket forward and tight across his back. Still, he's watching. Madilla's eyes are lowered to meet H'kon's; she seems unsurprised by the form of what comes next, even if she hasn't predicted the contents. "Of course," she says. "It's in the Weyr's best interests to do the best for them, even beyond natural human kindness and compassion. Nabol is... it's personal for you and Alpine, now, isn't it." It's probably not the chill of the air that has her huddling into her shawl, this time; it's more subtle than that, and more quiet. "It is in the Weyr's best interest to cultivate what ties it can, while it can, it seems." It makes the wingsecond frown, his jacket still drawn tight against his back, and his posture still straight for all that. Behind him, Arekoth lifts the injured leg, lowers it, carefully pressing against the ground. H'kon is that bit more distracted, though his eyes have yet to lose their focus, when he addresses, a bit late, "I suspect our involvement has never been impersonal." 'While it can' draws Madilla's own frown, though it smooths itself out into something more solemn, if more stable, after that. "Yes, of course," she says, having moistened her lips with a brush of her tongue, however useless that must be. "Do you think it's going to get bad? Worse?" Arekoth's second stretch brings H'kon's eyes back to his dragon. The brown is the first to start moving, the stiffness that has already started to settle in evident enough, even after so short a break. "If all are intermarrying," is quiet, musing, unfinished. Arekoth's motion has transfered to his rider, who invites Madilla along with a quick tilting jerk of his head, and takes only a few steps before checking to see if she will join them. She will join them, though she's slower to commence moving, and slow enough in her pace that it will take her a few steps to fall in alongside the brownrider. "If all are intermarrying," she says, picking up that threat with a sigh, "that could... I don't know. I don't imagine it's the kind of thing that happens often. Surely they compete with each other, usually. Surely there will be some hesitation in doing so." H'kon waits. Arekoth does not, though he's moving slowly, most likely at his rider's behest; even waiting, H'kon's attention is not full on Madilla. "Perhaps. Unless it becomes a matter of being in or being out." It's a vague notion expressed there, and he doesn't seem at all content with it. He starts moving once more, frowning now at nothing, at the ground, perhaps more that beneath his dragon's feet than his own. "The Lady Nabol puts it as survival." And something in that implies a certain degree of respect, or at least like, for her. Madilla's teeth come to rest upon her lower lip; she exhales. "Because... because if she doesn't join them, she'd be the odd one out." The healer lays the words out more for her own benefit than H'kon's; clearly, he knows this already. And she... she walks, one foot in front of the other, clearly considering these words. "I don't know what Devaki's plans are, really. It's not something we discuss. Dee is - thankfully! - so far outside of that. I don't necessarily trust the others, though." "But he has them." The inference may well be a confirmation, though the brownrider doesn't elaborate. The mention of Madilla's son has H'kon's gaze moved onto Arekoth, watching that leg, feeling it, as it moves. Letting his thoughts stew, as H'kons do so well, each footstep crunching lightly over the top layer of part-frozen sand. "He's always had them," is the answer to that; it's significantly rueful, as much filled with recollection as it is with truth. "It should never have surprised me, when he disappeared for so long. I knew he had no intention to just... sit quietly by. He'll not have stopped planning, now." There's an audible frown to her voice, albeit one that doesn't extend as far as her mouth. "At least they're all children, for now." H'kon must still be listening; it's that sound of recollection that slows his step. His dragon is paying attention, also. When they stop, they stop as one, Arekoth testing the leg, H'kon simply moving his hands within the pockets of his jacket, an unsettled consternation toying with his face, unsettled. Madilla is not part of the stopping at one cohort; her stop comes a few steps later, faltering awkwardly, and has her gaze sliding back towards H'kon more directly. His unsettled consternation gives her pause: a breath sucked in, then exhaled again. And, "What is it?" Specifically. Thought after thought plays with his (uncharacteristically) plastic features. None of them seem ready to turn into words. By the time he does find words, "That is what I wonder, also." by the time he moves from a faintly frustrated, helpless sort of look, to something more H'kon, waiting for Madilla to understand, Arekoth has come to rest, his movement only the occasional flick of his wings and clouds of dragon breath in the air. Helpless frustration is not terribly enlightening. Madilla resumes chewing on her lip, still watching the brownrider, brows knitted. She exhales, abruptly. "I find it difficult," she says, "reconciling the exile I knew, once, and the Lord I know, now. There are glimmers, but... I find him incomprehensible, really. I never realised, then, how determined he could be. Not that knowing would have changed anything." She exhales a second time, turning her gaze away: out towards the lake. H'kon listens, quite intently, his expression now unchanging. He watches Madilla, even when she turns to the lake. Any shift of his is only a redistribution of weight, without movement of his feet, nor overt changes in his arms, his shoulders, his back. Arekoth breathes out again. H'kon prompts, "And now." Something bewildered crosses Madilla's face, as though she's still trying to work out what all of this is... and isn't terribly comfortable with any of the possibilities. "Now... I don't know. Like I said, I don't really think I know him well, anymore. If I ever did. He's just..." There. Whatever he is. "He plays the game. Whatever he needs to do, to get ahead. That's all." Now there's something dissatisfied in the brownrider, who does shift his feet, this time, and pull at the (apparently well-sewn) pockets of his jacket once more. "Whatever he needs to do," H'kon repeats, grim. "Does it not worry you?" His dragon has started to move again, this time turning in place, careful of the smaller two alongside him. "It does," is Madilla's answer: soft, barely above a whisper, and nearly lost to the wind. "Of course it does. His ambition. His... I'd worry had I no connection to him at all." And worry more, clearly, because she does. "I do believe he wants what is best for his people." This part, at least, is a clearer line of questioning. This part, H'kon can follow up, pressing despite the change in her voice, or in Madilla herself, "Does he include your son among them?" Arekoth pauses only a moment after his turn, looking back toward the bowl, sharp in aspect. The decision is made; he moves. He draws H'kon's eyes from the woman. Now, perhaps more than ever, Madilla stares out over the shadowed lake. "I am not Blooded, and that makes my son nothing more than a bastard, not a pawn in anyone's game." On face value, the words ought to be certain; they're not. "Devaki loves Dilan. I'm sure there will be things he wishes for him that I do not. I won't let him use him, though." It's only after she's said that that she turns her head, finding Arekoth, and then his rider. H'kon waits out a few more of his dragons steps after Madilla has spoken before he looks her way. "Your bastard son is the one to whom my dragon will speak." The words are heavily weighted, the rider's face, serious and intense, as if that could make his meaning the more clear. Arekoth has not stopped his march for the bowl, his wings twitching a hint of spreading, though he does not take flight. He does issue a noise in his throat, though, as he progresses. For Madilla to use that word is one thing, but it seems like she's startled by H'kon's repetition of it, as though it sounds all the different coming from his mouth. Her exhale is rougher, this time, but the words, when they come, are joined by a firm glance, and an equally firm voice: "He belongs in the Weyr. More than Lilabet, who at least has dragonrider blood. It's what he wants, and I... will stand up for that. Whatever happens. He's old enough to make his own mind." "We would stand with you in that," is just as serious, but his voice is quieter than it was before, and there's a degree of study in the look given her now. "Your son," a bit of emphasis, the comparison left open, "knows, I'm certain." Now, H'kon shifts, breaks that gaze, scans after his dragon, toward the bowl. "It's better, that Alpine has little to do with the Hold." Madilla's uncertainty is plainly written upon her features: she's caught between the fears she's had ever since Devaki become Lord and her old friendship with him. Instead of words, she ultimately nods, whether or not H'kon can see it. It's only afterwards that she says, "Better, yes. Nabol is safer. Less personal, even when it isn't. At least... Devaki has his son, and his daughters, too. He'll not need mine as well. But your support..." Matters, even so. "Is Arekoth ready to go in?" "For the time being," H'kon allows. Her question after his dragon receives a nod, though he makes no move to go after the brown. "It's more than support, Madilla." H'kon is stuck there, for a moment, in place, watching his dragon from under a furrowed brow. That furrow is still present, when he looks back over to her, yet again, but his eyes have softened somewhat. 'For the time being' is not comforting. But H'kon's next statement has her flushing, teeth dropping back towards her lower lip to chew upon it, as she nods. "I know," she answers, a few beats later. "I know it is." Those green eyes of hers consider the brownrider for a few beats more, as she allows the corner of her mouth to twist up, ever so slightly. "You'll want to be with Arekoth tonight," she says, more firmly. "And I should get back, in case Raija wakes." H'kon confirms that much with one, short nod. Raija's name gets a response in the pull of the corner of his mouth. "You'll know where we are," is all he actually speaks to it, stepping to Madilla to offer, at the least, a trace of his hand along her arm. "I will," agrees Madilla, firmly, her expression surely designed to be the very model of understanding. That trace of his hand has her lifting her own hand, her other hand, so that she can reach across her body and press it, just for a moment, atop of his. "Sleep well," she says. "Both of you." It's enough, said and done, for that night. H'kon turns from there, and proceeds to his dragon. The trip to their ledge will be quick, his actions in setting up the brazier and seeing to Arekoth's comfort, efficient. And maybe he'll even sleep, eventually. And Madilla? No doubt she'll sit on the floor between the beds in which her children sleep, studying their sleeping faces. Lilabet, lost in dreams; Raija, hunched forward and mostly buried beneath her quilt; and Dilan, too, his fair face peeking out from the blankets, serenely peaceful in rest the way he so rarely is in waking life. |
Leave A Comment