Logs:Quid Pro Quo
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 17 May, 2012 |
| Who: Ali, K'del |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: K'del and Ali both need something. Conveniently, after an initial misunderstanding, it turns out they can assist each other. |
| Where: Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 10, Turn 28 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Tiriana/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, Hattie/Mentions, Jivrain/Mentions, N'muir/Mentions, Lujayn/Mentions, Val/Mentions |
 |
| 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.
Cadejoth is not on the sands accompanying his queen when Isyath and her rider arrive, and his mental reply tastes of open air-- and of Ysavaeth, whose brilliant sunlight cascades between his chains and all through his thoughts. Still, he seems pleased to see the Fortian queen, and it's not long before he's backswinging into a very (very!) careful landing upon the sands, seeming rather smug. Did she see his eggs? She must have seen his eggs. No doubt Ysavaeth is less thrilled, but at least she has her mate to keep her company once more. Ish. It takes a few minutes longer, still, for K'del's tall figure to appear in the galleries, his stride lengthening as he makes his way through the tiers towards Ali. "Been a while since you graced us with your presence," he remarks, lowly, as he draws up alongside her, one arm still bound in a sling, while his good hand sinks deeper into his pocket. "Our duties to Fort, of course." Isyath isn't deterred by the touches of the other gold in Cadejoth's mind: her greeting is pleasant and warm and, moments after he lands, she's aloft, circling slowly higher in the skies above, as if waiting for him to join her. Isn't it so much more /fun/ up here than down on those boring sands? She's hardly the most maternal queen even when her own eggs are on the sands, less so when it's another's. Ali straightens, as she sees the bronze land, fingers folding carefully. Even with the warning there's a faint startle as K'del's voice draws her gaze, moving to return to her seat, pulling the shawl casually over her lap. "It seemed for the best," the dark-haired woman smiles, a hint of regret in her voice that she doesn't attempt to hide as her gaze drops downwards. "High Reaches' isn't well thought of at Fort these days, and I hadn't wished to make matters worse." Even though it's hardly news, she speaks quietly, as if afraid to flame matters further. A beat, and her head turns back towards the sands, as she adds, "And Fort's duties to you. A good sized clutch." Oh, that is unfair! Now that he's back by his queen's side, Cadejoth seems loath (or is it Ysavaeth, making demands on his time?) to leave again-- and that tendril of thought he aims after the foreign queen holds definite longing within it. She's quite, right, of course: eggs are boring. Clutches are boring. Something to be proud of, of course, but... his thoughts are faintly plaintive, and held on a close band: wouldn't it be nice if they actually did something? "Of course," agrees K'del, and not without a hint of regret to his tone as he swings himself into a seat nearby. "It was-- didn't, to be honest, expect to see you at all. We're quite pleased." Of the clutch, presumably. "I-- hope your Weyrwoman is," he hesitates, visibly, sucking in a breath and then exhaling it again before he concludes the sentence, "recovering well. It can be-- difficult, when a Weyrwoman is less than herself." Something in his tone could almost suggest that he's talking about more than just Hattie. Isyath circles higher, sharing the view: the glowbaskets dotting the Weyr, the light from the ledges sparkling like stars in the night. It is only right that he joins her, of course, as is their custom - it's simply friendly to do so! Of course, the fact that her mental thoughts hold the vastness of space and the delight of the freedom of the air rushing beneath her wings aren't in any way intended to be a tease. Really. Ali, meanwhile, bites her lower lip at the mention of Hattie. "She'll recover in time, I expect. It's kind of you to ask." The dark-haired woman remains oblivious to the Weyrleader's tone, completely missing that /other/ reference there. "I-" she glances, totally obviously, over her shoulder - a spy she will never be - and when she sees an older rider dozing a few rows back, says politely, "I thought I'd return something. You, uh - one of your riders left it, after... after Issy's flight." She twitches away the shawl in her lap, Val's knife resting in the palm of her hand. There's something oddly possessive in the way she holds it that suggests she didn't 'just' find it, but reluctance or not, she offers it, hilt first, towards him. Cadejoth yearns for those open spaces, and though he does not seem unhappy, as such, not with Ysavaeth burning like a beacon in his mind even now, it would be difficult to miss the way he leans towards those open spaces once more. But he folds his wings back, straightens himself, and extends, instead, a thread of apology: not this time. He has duties. "I'm glad to hear it," says K'del, sounding genuine, though seriousness trails off into surprise - and is that relief? - at the sight of that which Ali has been hiding beneath her shawl. Accepting it, he admits, "Never thought I'd see that again; Val never did forgive me for losing it, not really. I-- thank you, Ali." He probably hasn't missed her possessiveness over it, but instead of remarking on it, he says, instead, "Still sorry about that. Invading your flight like that. Causing the mess." Disappointment ripples through Isyath's tones. Duties? Nothing should get in the way of the thrill of flight, the feeling of air beneath one's wingsails. Ysavaeth is there, Ali watches, as does K'del. What harm could come to the eggs while they wheel through the sky above? The eggs will wait: the moment will not. The Fortian junior relinquishes the knife with a lingering, reluctant curve of fingers along the flat of the blade, then drops fingers back into her lap. Daring, for a moment, she says, "You seem to have a habit of that. Invading flights. Causing messes." She doesn't mean it as an accusation so much as an observation, and one that she realizes the gaucheness of a heartbeat later, "Oh, that was terrible. I'm sorry." She bites her lip, murmuring, "Issy says Cadejoth's tones are twined with Ysavaeth's, not the senior's. It is a strangeness to her." She finally looks up at K'del, as if the Weyrleader will have an answer, an explanation for this unusual situation that will sit better with one well inured to the ways of tradition. « My duty is to my queen, » explains Cadejoth, turning finally to words when everything else fails. That doesn't mean his tail-tip isn't quivering with restless energy, or that Ysavaeth hasn't sidled ever so slightly away from him to avoid his shuffling movements. But-- oh. Oh, if only. Isyath will have to visit again, and then? Then, they will fly. K'del blanches at Ali's daring, and then, a moment later, manages to twist his expression into something more akin to a smile, though it doesn't quite make it all the way. "It's a talent," he agrees, ignoring her apology in lieu of answering the remark itself. "Or a curse; haven't entirely decided which. It--" he doesn't immediately have words to answer her last remark, and it sends a furrow into his brow. "It's a complicated situation. Perhaps it shouldn't have happened, but it has. Things are - let us say that our weyrs have something in common, at the present moment." « Iovniath is your queen. » Isyath says this in a matter of fact tone, that only highlights her further confusion as Cadejoth's longing continues to be thwarted by a junior queen. There's a sense of rushing stars, the sight of a distant glimmer of gold as the Fortian queen soars and dives above the skies, subtly or otherwise seeking to claim what is not claimed by Cadejoth, nor his queen - whoever that may be. Ali, meanwhile, is flustered, her awkwardness apparent as she keeps her gaze downcast. She's silent for a long while, fingers toying with the fringed edge of her shawl, before she finally murmurs, "Difficult. Tense. Uncertain." Of their similarities, presumably. "I've been in many meets with our Weyrleader and Lord Jivrain, and the harpers. I suppose I shouldn't tell you, given your involvement, but- you've always given me good advice on political matters, and I don't know how to- how to make them both give just enough to make things right." Her frustration is self-evident, letting out a sharp breath a moment later, color rising in her pale demeanor. Iovniath? No. There is no ice in Cadejoth's thoughts, and nor does the mention of High Reaches' senior draw any reaction from him aside from a quiet assent that she is, indeed, the senior queen. « Ysavaeth is my queen, » he replies, without hesitation. He simply has no space left for Iovniath. "All of these," agrees K'del, glancing at Ali throughout her silence, although when she speaks he turns his attention towards the two dragons on the sands. He misses the rising colour in her face, but her frustration is far too audible to go unnoticed; he sucks in a long, low breath, keeping silent until long after he has released it to the warm air once more. "Negotiating with Holds is never easy," he says, finally. "These days, they always hold the advantage - Jivrain, especially." And that's K'del's fault. "He knows you need him more than he needs you. Would it--" Finally, he turns his gaze back on Ali. "Would it help if we pulled back? They have come accustomed to having us on hand, I think." The startlement in Isyath's mental tones lingers in her voice, the Reachian bronze's response startling her into silence - a feat rarely managed, indeed. He can sense her still, of course, her delight in the difference and challenge of High Reaches' skies, circling high above. His response is /alien/ and requires further thought before she dares tackle it. A hint of hope surfaces in Ali's expression, one which she tries to quell, though rather unsuccessfully. "It would- it would, /force/ him to deal with us. At the rate we're going, we're in danger of our riders becoming slaves to him, and that I would never condone." A fluster of something almost like a backbone shines for a moment, but only a moment, before the intensity of her voice fades, and the junior dares to look up at K'del. "Why- why would you do that? What-" she takes a breath, as if bracing herself, "-what would you expect?" in return, she undoubtedly means. Cadejoth is surprisingly placid in reply-- he knows what is what, and what is right, and whatever others think, well, that's for them to worry about. « Iovniath is no one's queen, » he remarks, then, quite evenly. « She will accept no one. She seeks to rule alone; she seeks to change the way things work. » K'del is watching Ali too intently, now, for her hope to miss his attention, and it has him biting at his lip and looking pensive. "No," he agrees. "Nor could I. We work in partnership with the holds, no less than that. Jivrain-- reminds me of Lord Aughan, and that concerns me." One hand, his good hand, reaches to run through his curls, mussing them up as he pulls his words together. "There's a matter I intend to bring to the combined Weyrleaders. Soon, I hope. I'm a man who loves his Weyr, Ali. I'd do anything to save it; I will do anything to save it." His next breath is a careful one. "I could use the support of your Weyrleaders. No-- won't force them to vote my way. But their consideration. Please." This time, he sounds almost desperate. « The senior queen rules the Weyr, that is the way it should be. » That is the world that Isyath knows, and the one that Ali believes in, so for her, there is no alternative. The bronze's evenness makes her retreat further, as if his ideas, his /thoughts/ might somehow be infectious. Ali's still watching K'del, and she exhales as he compares their Holders. "They both seek to take advantage while they see weakness." The Fortian junior watches: she's right there, agreeing with him, leaning forward, understanding his love of his Weyr and his need to protect it. She's right there with him, until three heartbeats after his plea. The Reachian Weyrleader's words, together with Isyath's uneasiness, lead her to a conclusion that makes her pale and stand abruptly, the shawl in her lap spilling to the ground. "I- you can't be-" she glances at the queen and bronze on the sands, then back to K'del. Her expression is nothing short of horrified, looking at him like she believes - /hopes/ - he'll recant and admit he's joking in the next breath. Frustration is audible, now, in Cadejoth's tone: he can't explain what he means, can't justify, can't-- Isyath's retreat leaves him alone with his thoughts, unwilling to seek her out further when he can't get his point across. The severity of Ali's reaction makes K'del frown-- and then look concerned. "I-- what do you think I mean? Tiriana's unstable. She's not-- she's not well. I've evidence of it, mountains of it. What would you do if you believed Hattie wasn't going to recover, but refused to see it? Just put up with it? Pretend it isn't happening?" Now he sounds almost angry, abruptly standing so that he can walk towards the edge of the sands and take several long, deep breaths. Much more quietly, "The next queen that rises will be senior. Rielsath, probably. It'll be better that way. For everyone." The look that Ali sends towards the sands - to where Ysavaeth sits so close to Cadejoth - says exactly what she /thought/ he meant, though she's mindful enough not to voice that aloud. There's a flushed hint of guilt for a moment, for thinking the worst, though it vanishes soon after as he mentions her own Weyrwoman. "I would /never/," she begins, vehemently, then snaps her jaw closed. Bending down to retrieve her shawl, she concentrates on brushing sand off it, using the gesture to try and regain her equilibrium, though her voice is still somewhat unsteady as she says, almost inaudibly, "I'm sorry. I didn't realize how- what it's been like here." K'del's gaze follows Ali's, and he understands: it shows on his face, quietly and unhappy, though he makes no remark on it. Her vehemence turns his attention back to the Fortian junior, though it doesn't linger there; his expression turns rueful, as he turns his gaze onto his broken arm, his fingers flexing against the fabric. "Shouldn't have brought your Weyrwoman into it; didn't mean it like that," he says, implying an apology that he doesn't entirely verbalize. "It's-- not something I try to advertise." For a moment, he sounds almost guilty, though he's so quick to cover it up with his added, "It's just - hard. I'll lose my position, in the end, over this. Cadejoth won't chase Rielsath. But perhaps that's what we need: a fresh start." It's all so well reasoned; he seems to genuinely believe in all of it. The look towards his arm pulls Ali's gaze, likewise. Breaks and injuries are a part of rider life, and it takes her a moment to utter, shocked, "Your Weyrwoman did that?" There's a thread of disbelief in her voice. No goldrider she knows is violent; the very idea is incongruous. "Oh, K'del," she utters a moment later, full of quiet sympathy, taking a step closer to press her hand against his uninjured arm in a show of support. Her gaze fixes on him, on his grounded answer, chewing her lower lip. With an exhaled breath, she glances away - upwards - to somewhere in the dark, where Isyath soars. "I'll speak to our Weyrleader." It was a subtle ploy, if intended that way (and it almost certainly was); K'del manages to only quietly meet Ali's gaze, rather than outright, overwhelming confirm her conclusion. Her hand draws a hesitant half-smile, grateful, one that turns more serious again a few moments later. "That's all I ask," he says, still so very quiet. "Thank you, Ali. I hope-- I hope we can help each other out. This for that, one for another. We--" He sounds regretful, quite possibly even apologetic, "ought to stick together. Weyrs. It's easy to forget, sometimes." Like he did. Ali's hand drops away from his arm, and her expression tightens momentarily at K'del's final words. She hadn't forgotten, but she's not one to point out anything so obviously. Her expression is strained, sober. "We ought to," is all she says, her agreement light: her attention is distracted, turning her head towards the bowl as Isyath lands. The Fortian junior busies herself with wrapping the shawl around her shoulders, settling it in place, all to give her a few moments more to find some words that aren't fuelled by an intensity she's trying hard to conceal for once. /She/ may understand, but Isyath does not. "I only hope it works out. For both of our Weyrs. Good evening, Weyrleader." She forgoes the pleasantries to the High Reaches queens, an obvious oversight on her part, though it's doubtful it's deliberate so much as distracted, turning to head towards the bowl. K'del bites back a further comment; whatever it is, it probably can't help. "Good evening, Ali," he murmurs rather than says. It's a long time before he stirs from this spot - instead, he fingers the knife in his lap, the cast on his arm. He thinks. |
Leave A Comment