Logs:Plain Talk
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| RL Date: 9 October, 2013 |
| Who: Gallagher, N'rov |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Clutchsire vets new candidate. |
| Where: Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 9, Month 13, Turn 32 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, Ali/Mentions, Azaylia/Mentions, Ebeny/Mentions, E'ten/Mentions, Hattie/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, I'kris/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Jenilynn/Mentions, Satiet/Mentions, Taikrin/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Slightly backdated. Mostly live, then the last few by +mail. Thanks to N'rov for being flexible! |
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| Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground -- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers, and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black. The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks, however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat.
It's possible that Gallagher's presence was overlooked, settled quietly on one of the benches mid-way up in his work clothes. His pose had been unassuming and calm, after all. But now, he rises, and the less-than-crisp state of his garb speaks to him being one of those counted among the people who are wide awake, and have been for hours. His smooth movement down toward the rail sends the waft of stables to those luck enough to be near enough to the aisle to smell his passing. It's not overwhelming, but enough to say he's spent some hours there this morning. Blue gaze is settled on the pink egg, too, though it slides occasionally to Vhaeryth and the others. Here's N'rov, unlucky enough to not have a cold and the stuffed-up nose that goes along with it, though the less-than-crisp nature of his clothing owes nothing to do with long wakefulness; that straw-sweat-muck smell is just pungent enough that his head lifts, and after some moments of studying Gallagher he says in that Southern Boll drawl, "A favorite?" Gallagher's head turns just slightly to pair name with the face he likely already observed on his way to the rail. His lips pull into a slight smirk. "It's a little too colorful to garner the title of 'favorite'. They're a fine clutch, though." He compliments coolly and with the air of someone who's seen many and more eggs on the sands. "Is it one of his?" The attention of the clutchsire to that particular egg hasn't escaped his notice. "I'd like to think so, considering," N'rov says with a certain dry amiability. He scratches a few more words into place and then all of a sudden glances up with a chuckle. "Or one of his favorites, did you mean? I wouldn't say so. Of course," he's back to writing but apparently can talk at the same time, "it probably says in the handbook somewhere that there are no favorites, they're all wonderful, new life, et cetera." The man shifts now to look at N'rov. His look is a study of the other man's face, measuring. "A favorite." Gallagher clarifies simply then, before turning his gaze back toward the sands. "Do dragons read handbooks?" is his next question, just the mildest hint of amusement to clue that the question isn't a serious one. The bronzerider doesn't look up, but there's an amused curl to his mouth that suggests he senses something. Or, has some other entertaining thought, but it deepens just before he replies, "If they did, and followed them, life might be more convenient. For us humans, at least. Have any friends who're Standing?" "Faranth forbid." Life be made more convenient. It's delivered so dryly that it's hard to say if he's serious or kidding. The next is serious enough, "Friends? No. I am, though." Gallagher glances briefly to his unknotted shoulder, and adds, as though just now remembering, "Took the knot off while I was on stables duty this morning. No sense in getting the white thing muddied up. It's an impractical color for some of the chores on the duty roster." "Are you," holds a different sort of interest, that first word lingering. The nib even stops with its scratching. Just as unhurried, "It's very pure. Unsullied, if only via the amazing powers of bleach in order to erase a life's past ills. Or so I'm told." N'rov adds after a moment, as again he begins to write, "Have you Stood before?" "I am." The confirmation is easy, matter-of-fact. Gallagher's lips purse slightly at the words about purity and bleach. "Are candidates supposed to be pure? This place has a history of taking the sullied right along with the supposed innocents. If there is such a thing." Now he turns fully to lean his back on the rail, arms still hanging loosely at his sides. "First time. And last time. I'm of an age to be out of the running for future clutches." He looks easily of an age or thereabouts with the clutchsire so perhaps it's understandable. "Did you Stand more than once?" "Some would romanticize them as such, I'm sure, if only so that Holders would allow their gently-bred youth to Stand. In earlier times, of course," N'rov adds with a nod to the weyrleaders' still unchanged policy. "Others would say, no, Impression is itself purification: take the new life, discard the old," and he shrugs for that. He's turned his gaze back to the candidate, now that Gallagher's turned, gray eyes looking him over for traces of age and whatever else turns up along the way. "What name do you go by, by the way? I'm N'rov, of course; I only Stood the once." "Impression as purification," Gallagher's expression turns deeply thoughtful and he's silent while he mulls the idea over. "I wonder." He finally concludes. "I watched Taikrin and the other convicts Impress, but I'm not sure I'd call it a purification. Perhaps a forgiveness of past sins or a transmutation of penance as a prisoner to service as a rider, but I don't buy purification. Renewal, sure. But..." Purification? He doubts it. "Gallagher." Then, "Perhaps I'll follow in your footsteps then. Are they a fair set to follow?" Translation: does he like his life? "If it were that, it would have to be temporary, a one-time deal before we stain our new sins atop." N'rov's brief grin is sardonic; he sets his pen down to cap the inkwell more solidly, enough to last it through who-knows-what jostling instead of a chance nudge. "I like your transmutation of penance idea, Gallagher." The name is different with his accent, perhaps verging on foreign already, but not completely unlike; it has the same roots. "G'her, G'ler, G'lagher maybe... let's just hope against G'lag." Anyway. "There may be something to it, this penance. I happen to like my footsteps, though you'd always have a man ahead of you. L'her, L'ger. That one could be difficult if you weren't a lager man." "Or G'ag." A single brow arches at N'rov. Clearly, some time has been thinking of the fortunate and unfortunate honorifics his name could create. "It'd be awfully hard to find a bedmate with a name like that." The seriousness now is tinged with a definable humor. "I'm a lager man by necessity." He admits, though it doesn't seem to matter much. Gallagher twists his head to glance back to the bronze on the sands, considering, before he shrugs, "I think I could handle falling in step where need be. They encourage that where I'm from." It's not exactly volunteering a personal detail, but it is cracking the door in case N'rov would like to ask the question. "Or that," the bronzerider agrees, and permits a smirk that starts out dry and just winds up becoming a grin. He's got a nod for lager, though; a glance to his own dragon, who's taken up lounging now that the pink egg's disappeared (behind some of the other eggs, but still, disappeared from the galleries' perspective); a half-smile for the other man's being from somewhere. "Whereabouts? I'm going to guess from around here; you sound like the others with that thick accent of yours," those last words accentuating his own drawl into caricature. It lasts through, "Boll, we talk the plain talk." "Originally here. I expect that's why my being Searched didn't ruffle too many feathers. But Crom most recently." As for Boll talking the plain talk and the exaggerated display of it, Gallagher arches a brow at N'rov. "Boll's hot." He points out obtusely. Possibly, he's never been. "And weren't there some problems with rebels down that way? Kidnapped goldriders and all?" The rumors get around, but likely the candidate hasn't heard any solid run down given the miles between Boll and Crom. "It has that reputation," N'rov noncommittally agrees, and then slews his gaze towards the cavern entrance and the Bowl beyond, which does not. "Crom." It's just the name; only his tone is speculative, and only for that one syllable. He's turned back towards the sands. Silence expands. Then, finally, "Too true. And eggs, before that. We did get the weyrwomen back," and for all that it's 'the' and not 'our' weyrwomen, a subtle harshness to his voice suggests involvement that's personal. "And eggs." Gallagher mulls this over. "You have a hand in any of that?" Surely, the candidate doesn't mean the rebels or the egg-stealing. He must mean the relatively safe return of the weyrwomen. The other would be too bold an inquiry to make, and might even be mistaken for an accusation, right? "A hand. How do you mean?" The bronzerider's tone is conversational, a not entirely unamused glint in those gray eyes; he leaves a specific pause before, "Those eggs were of Vhaeryth's brother Adiulth's siring. The weyrlings of Vhaeryth's were those affected," such a simple word, "by the cave-in of their barracks." As though that were what Gallagher might have meant; as though the other man might have cause to remember relative minutiae. As though Fort's progeny might be doomed? "A hand. You know. A part. Not in the eggs," Gallagher's even look hints that he doesn't believe N'rov didn't know just what he meant by that. The man's expression is briefly affected by the bronzerider's words. "The cave-in was a tragedy." He says without hesitation or reserve. "My condolences. This lot, we can hope, will fare well." He doesn't say 'better', doesn't draw the comparison. That initial clarification might have curled up an answering hint of a smile, but it doesn't last; gravely, genuinely, "Thank you. For Fort. And the good wishes for here," all of here, perhaps, not the eggs alone. With that closed, N'rov reaches down for the waterskin by his side, taking a long pull before answering, "Our group did fetch," another simple word, "Ali, yes. On the side, while the goods were dealt with out front." He considers the other man, how visibly he may or may not be reading between the lines. "Is it something you mind talking about?" Gallagher's question is direct, rather than beat around the figurative bush. "Sometime, if you don't mind, I'd be interested to hear about what that was like." Beat. "I was a guard at Crom. Maneuvers with dragons, however, aren't something I'm terribly familiar with, but something that interests me." Since he's here hoping to get a dragon and all. It's something N'rov openly considers, rather than dismissing or, for that matter, agreeing out of hand; "Over a drink," he decides, and then gives Gallagher a wry glance. "I'll buy, but we still might end up with lager." He's also not immediately dislodging from his slouch; if anything, it deepens, one arm crooking back behind his head. He drinks the water he's got. "Crom, hm?" Apparently even as far south as Boll, they've heard of Cromese guards. "My uncle's in the guard at Boll. Whether the new Lord, or Lady it's looking like, keeps them all on..." he shakes his head, frowning. Maneuvers come in second to the travails of his home, but he does think to say, "Plenty of formation variations, and movement variations, for the dragons and the winds and the weather; lot bigger difference between a bronze and a green than a couple of men. What's it like being here, after the guard?" And that guard, to boot. "As long as you're buying," Gallagher's expression is briefly sardonic. He doesn't return to the topic, the matter settled now as far as he's concerned, so he turns his attention to the words about guards. Someone who isn't Gallagher might politely comment about N'rov's family ties to the guarding profession, but apparently not Gal. The most received from him on that score is a slight nod showing the words aren't lost on him. There's visibly more interest, though no one would call it 'keen', for the considerations of dragon-size in maneuvers. But even so, he doesn't press that topic either. Not just now. Instead, he answers, "Ask me in another few sevens. This is only my third day back. I've visited enough since I joined up, but visiting a day or two isn't the same as living here, and isn't the same as wearing a white knot. So far, there's evidence that this isn't the Weyr of my youth, but then, I was gone before K'del came to leadership. Before Satiet passed away and before this place started chewing through goldriders like they were pawns instead of queens." Expendable versus not. "Before K'del." Something about that adds mirth to N'rov's gray eyes, though he doesn't actually bite: something that doesn't so much fade as layer with that chewing on queens that works a muscle in his jaw. But then, "What was she like, that Weyrwoman? Or Taikrin, for that matter, in those days. I've heard the odd story, of course," but there's nothing like another. "You know that whole 'before K'del' bit means I was twelve when I left, right?" One of Gallagher's brown brows arches, allowing N'rov the benefit of the doubt. "Are your memories from when you were twelve particularly vivid about the people you didn't know personally? And I didn't know Taikrin at all, then." The last is slipped in casually. Not a dodge, no, of course not. N'rov just gives Gallagher a dry look of his own, his mouth hooking upward, not embarrassed in the least; "You think we learned about the 'Reaches in weyrling class? For all I know, you were a particularly sapient twelve-Turn-old, cut your teeth on something more than getting out of chores. Also," he says more meditatively, "I'd always heard Satiet made an... impression. It's too bad." That Gallagher hadn't noticed, that what happened to her happened, though it has the remove of a third-hand hand-me-down icon. Maybe he hadn't noticed that slight pause between Gallagher's last two words; maybe he did and it doesn't matter. "Shouldn't you have?" Gallagher questions, his query serious even in the face of N'rov's humor. "I'll have to ask Quinlys if the weyrling lessons here are so remissed." He means it. Then, "Quinlys." This is murmured distinctly more to himself than to N'rov, as if he had just remembered something important on the to do list. "Oh, Satiet did make an impression. It's just unlikely that I'm going to tell you anything of interest since it's likely the same impression was made on me as others who didn't know her in more than being able to tell when not to open your mouth and talk about the mud pies you made for breakfast." That's likely an exaggeration. Near-twelve turn olds have more to think about than mud pies. "And you don't seem like the sort to enjoy being bored by parroted anecdotal details. Unless I'm mistaken?" He does offer the latter as a possibility, blue gaze once more scrutinizing N'rov. "Not especially," N'rov says without any hint of an admission. He doesn't explain until the other man's done with mud pies, until he's added dryly, "As soon as you said 'parroted,' that pretty well weighted the dice. But, back to weyrlinghood." Maybe he's spent too much time working for Ebeny. As though it might matter to Gallagher for the candidate's own sake that he understand, "I won't say that we didn't learn anything about the place, it's hardly that, and of course getting rid of Tiriana was drummed 'round the world." As well as comets falling, weyrwomen poisoned, little things like that. "But relative minutiae about another Weyr's timelines? There are more important things to learn in the, what, Turn and a half max that we have. Integrating man and dragon, for instance. Even neighboring Weyrs," he shrugs, drinking again from his waterskin, "are more truly autonomous than neighboring Holds, I'd say." "My mistake." Gallagher's answer is so simple for all the implications it could be making. It's hard to tell whether or not he means his mistake for assuming such things would be important or his mistake for assuming N'rov weren't an idiot, because his expression is so deadpan, a look so often worn by the candidate that it's not out of place now. "I'd best get along to the bathes lest I offend the clutchmother with my lingering scents." The candidate waits however, adding, "By your leave, sir?" Clutchsires carry a little weight with this candidate, at least enough to accord him that deference. Nothing in N'rov's own expression, less definitively deadpan than subtly sardonic, suggests a great deal of gratification attendant to assuming Gallagher's enthusiastically embraced the light. There's a solid confidence to him, as though regardless of whether the other man agrees, he believes he has a handle on these priorities; also, an uptick to the corners of his mouth. That might have to do with Gallagher's not arguing, but also perhaps with, "Do that. She's particular." It also lets him return to writing which, after a long look at the sands' occupants and a muted exhalation, he proceeds to do. For a little while, he even leaves the margins alone. |
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