Logs:Pragmatists and Visionaries
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 4 December, 2015 |
| Who: Kh'tyr, Mirinda |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Mirinda surprise-interviews Kh'tyr. They're going to be besties for sure! |
| Where: Sanctuary, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 15, Month 6, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ebeny/Mentions, M'kris/Mentions, Olivya/Mentions |
  |
>---< Sanctuary, Fort Weyr >-------------------------------------------------<
Once a complete weyr, buried beneath the mudslide, this awkwardly-shaped
chamber has now been cleaned up and protected from the elements by a set
of proper doors where the ledge might have been. It's a cozy little spot,
all funny little shelves and nooks in the warmly-painted walls, various
ornaments sat in each space in the wall, from collections of tealights to
elaborate carvings.
A third of the cavern is occupied by a large, rectangular storage unit
fronted by glass to make a counter-top, behind which lie a series of
wooden shelves stacked with crockery and various bottles, a proper yet
small built-in oven and a short, stocky cupboard. A selection of cakes,
biscuits and pastries are usually available throughout the day, set out on
the countertop alongside a board detailing the variety of warm drinks
available. Small groupings of mismatching furniture sit scattered
throughout the remaining free space, lending the place a quaint, homely
air. Usually on-duty is Molly or Joy, kitchen girls known for their baking
skills.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Kh'tyr M 33 5'9 solid, dk. brown hair, dk. brown eyes 0s
Mirinda F 30 5'5" slender, black hair, brown eyes 8s Sanctuary. Such a quaint place, with such a suggestive name. To the paranoid, such an inviting setting with such scrumptious offerings is obviously some variety of trap. Still, like the best traps, it's impossible not to put one foot into the box to see if one can sample the bait without tripping the trap. Kh'tyr's truly skeptical look as his dark eyes drift over the the makings of Molly and Joy suggest not only indecision but perhaps an unfair suspicion about the bakers wrapping up their work at this late afternoon hour. As traps go, it's not really Mirinda's MO: she's not one of those people who is especially drawn by food, and, to be honest, could probably eat the same meal day in and day out without actually noticing. Or caring. But the Sanctuary is a pleasant place in the afternoon, quiet when many other places about the Weyr are not; it's an ideal location for a simple, quiet goldrider to take her papers and to sit, largely unbothered, with a mug of tea. That tea is empty, now, however, and that draws the goldrider away from her table and towards the counter, at which point she finds herself drawing up alongside Kh'tyr himself. "Good afternoon," she says, simply. Kh'tyr's dark gaze slides away from the food and askance to the woman offering him greeting. He might be recently returned, but there are some people whose knots warrant learning to recognize on sight more quickly than others. Mirinda must be near the top of that list for his shoulders stiffen slightly and he answers a formal, "Weyrwoman." Then he steps slightly away from her on the pretense of collecting-- well, it turns out to be a muffin of some variety, but that hardly seems to matter to the brownrider whose eyes only feign interest in what he's picking up. The sound of her title has Mirinda's gaze turning to focus upon Kh'tyr more squarely, as if only now does she have any real interest in the person alongside her. Those dark eyes perform some level of study, noting his dress (and his knot) before it slides back up towards his face. "You," she decides, then, "Must be Kh'tyr. I trust Igen kept you well." "If I must," Kh'tyr answers with pretended gravity, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgement. Her words forestall any attempt he might've made to move farther away. "I was less at Igen than I was near it." There's a pause in which one finger pokes the icing on the cake where it had stuck up unnaturally among the rest of the smooth application before he adds, "I was visiting family when word of the quarantines spread." Not, presumably, at the Weyr proper. Mirinda's mouth opens, and then closes again. "I see," is what she decides upon, ultimately, as she hands across her mug for refilling. That, at least, takes some of her attention away from the brownrider in the short term, although she's plainly not finished with him. "I understand you have worked as an assistant weyrlingmaster for some time. What are your thoughts on Fort's program as it stands?" "You're not going to buy me dinner first?" Kh'tyr asks, even as the finger that got icinged withdrawals from the quick trip it made to his mouth. "No." Mirinda's tone has a note of awkwardness to it, but more than that, some faint level of disapproval. She is being serious. Kh'tyr is being serious, too. It's just that the assistant's brand of seriousness doesn't seem to translate to most people. "That's an awfully broad, in depth, and intimate question to spring on a man when all he came for was cake." He holds it up as evidence. "You didn't even ask me to sit down," he points out, expression convincingly wounded. "Unless you were looking for me to say something as poorly thought out as 'It's fine.'" He raises a brow in a way that suggests he would be disappointed in her if that was indeed her hope. There's a tightness to Mirinda's expression, now; she's plainly disquieted by Kh'tyr's approach, though falls short of being embarrassed by what he has to say. "On the contrary," she says, after a moment's pause. "I expected you to say something that would then prompt me to wish further conversation on the subject, which would then lead to an invitation to sit and talk." Kh'tyr studies Mirinda with one slightly arched brow, lips set in a way that suggests a smile but isn't decisive enough to be one. "You know, your Olivya said you were different," his tone is strange, not suggestive enough to say whether or not he's inclined to agree. Lowering the cake to where it doesn't take center stage in the proceedings, he hazards, "Something like: the program is solid, for a traditional program, if different than what I'd known at Igen. Every Weyrlingmaster is different. There's room for improvement and flexibility, but if Ebeny's duplicate appeared tomorrow to take up the knot to run the program just as before, Fort would continue to have well trained weyrlings churned out as servants of the grand plan." He makes a gesture, with the cake plate, to encompass the Weyr on the whole. Something shifts in Mirinda's expression-- softens, perhaps-- at mention of Olivya (which probably does little to dispel any rumours Kh'tyr might have heard about their closeness), but she doesn't comment on the mention. Instead, as one of the girls hands back her mug, refilled, she gives the brownrider a little nod. "'Servants of the grand plan.'" The repetition is amused, if quietly so. "I take it you are not a... loyal subject, as it were. Sit with me, Kh'tyr. Tell me what you would do differently." "Me?" comes with the marked widening of Kh'tyr's eyes and the flop of his free hand to his chest in a dramatic gesture. Him? It could be a response to the invitation or to the assertion of disloyalty or both. In any case, he'll move to sit with the goldrider. "It could be said that your Olivya and I see eye to eye on a number of things. And that though my Weyrlingmaster at Igen would call me competent, the description might also include rabble rouser and troublemaker." There's a slight wiggle to a brow as if the roguish brownrider would take those titles and wear them proudly if only it were socially acceptable to do so. "Still, I play the game because the rules haven't changed yet. It doesn't mean I wouldn't teach riders to think for themselves and not limit their goals just because the thing between their legs says they're not as inherently less important than someone else." That could apply to dragons or-- well. You. Mirinda's expression doesn't change, nor does her gaze drop from Kh'tyr's. She sits, of course, setting her replenished mug down upon the table in front of her as she considers what she's just been told. "And do I want a troublemaker and a rabble rouser to train the next generation of my riders? What is it you wish to teach them? How do you wish to see them fit themselves into the world around them? What," and here, now, is the hint of a smile, "is your vision?" "That depends," Kh'tyr answers candidly, "On which side of history you're on, Weyrwoman. Rabble rousing and troublemaking to no end progresses no agenda and only serves to make people who might be allies less than inclined to be associated with your name or your causes, no matter how noble. That was my unfortunate lesson from Igen. If you've reviewed my performance record, which I imagine you have if we're having this conversation, you'll know it's been spotless for turns, save the occasional accident," like getting punched in face by one person or another and giving as good as he's gotten. "The rest is something of a more complicated question." One he has to mull over a few bites of cake, evidently. The sound Mirinda makes is neutral, but she's certainly not denying that she's read his record. "I'm listening," is what she does say, clearly in response to that last. Kh'tyr settles back in his chair as he finishes chewing before speaking. (Manners~) He's considering her again as he does. Instead of telling her, he asks, "Would you say you're fond of the status quo, Weyrwoman? Goldriders, bronzeriders, leadership determined by which dragon fucks which and who they happen to have chosen as a lifemate?" "You know who my father is, I'm sure." Mirinda lets that hang there for several seconds, expression tight but even. "I am well aware that Impression to a bronze does not guarantee a good leader, nor does that bronze having the ability to catch a queen. Does that mean I advocate throwing over an entire world order? No. Does it mean I believe in promoting based on merit and not political expediency? Yes." Kh'tyr's eyes narrow just slightly at the mention of M'kris. It's a subtle change in his expression that might just mean he's impressed by what he might take as ballsiness for bringing up a topic that might otherwise be used as weapon against her. "What is your vision then, Weyrwoman?" It's probably the first genuine interest in the woman wearing the knot and the intensity of his look and the sudden lack of posturing marks it as a stark difference in attitude. He wants to know. Mirinda presses her lips together, tight and then tighter still, and hesitates. "I'm not a visionary," she admits. "I never have been. My focus is on making sure Fort can rebuild. I wish to see capable people put in positions where they can do good. I want to make sure Fort has strong relations, and I want our riders to be trained in ways that keep them useful and important in these Interval times. I want to make sure we have food to eat, come winter, and candidates enough." "A pragmatic woman," Kh'tyr observes before biting his cake again. Once he's done his mouthful, he cants his head slightly. "In Igen, I learned patience, method. There's a time to everything. Fort isn't in a position for a revolution now. Perhaps not even in my lifetime, but every good change needs a solid foundation. And teaching that is something that will only give you solid, thoughtful leaders, and followers, if they're capable of it. Some people are just idiots," he finishes, still candid. Mirinda has no comment for her pragmatism, nor, directly, for the rest of what Kh'tyr has to say. Instead, she gives him a considering glance. "And that is why you would prefer to work with the weyrlings than aim to lead a wing?" That question stills his hand on his cake. Carefully, Kh'tyr sets the cake down and brushes off his fingers on one another, looking levelly at the goldrider with just the smallest edge of something dangerous. "I would prefer," he says the three words very delicately, as if they might be edged blades on his tongue, "to work with the weyrlings because I am a teacher, a capable one and that is where I can do good. That is where I can teach Fortians to have strong relations, to one another, to the broader world, where I can teach them to be useful and important in these interval times. You put me in some humdrum wing and you waste everything I have to offer." "Hm," is what Mirinda says, so very non-committal. "I see." She hasn't even touched her refreshed mug of tea, but now she rises, gathering up her papers with her. "If you'll excuse me?" Their discussion may have gone largely well, but now, now there's something in her expression that suggests a certain sourness. With Kh'tyr? With his answers? With what she can't fault in his answers? It's impossible to tell. "Your servant, Weyrwoman," Kh'tyr inclines his head as he rises, not looking at her as he takes his plate and heads to where it and the rest of the cake can be deposited. A waste, but perhaps the brownrider has lost his appetite. |
Leave A Comment