Logs:Serving the Weyr
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 1 August, 2015 |
| Who: R'hin, Z'kiel |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Nabol Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: During Savannah shadowing, R'hin takes Z'kiel to a bar and tries to get his measure. |
| Where: A Bar in Keogh Hold |
| When: Day 4, Month 6, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Quinlys/Mentions |
  |
| With the morning taken up by Cirrus drills, it's afternoon by the time the senior weyrlings disperse to join various members of Savannah on their respective assignments. Z'kiel is lucky, or perhaps not so, to be assigned to the Wingleader, who has brought him to a bar in Keogh Hold. That was hours ago, and as the afternoon fades into evening, it's getting really rather dull, all around, R'hin seemingly distracted, and not particularly talkative. Still, the bar itself is starting to fill up, with patrons from the Hold and surrounds congregating to grab a cooling beer in the growing summer heat. Their table is near the back, with a good overview of the occupants, and while R'hin insisted on them nursing juices earlier, now he brings a pitcher of beer and fresh glasses to the table. "Just beat the rush," the older bronzerider says, his mood oddly enthusiastic. Leiventh, a silent presence on the outskirts of the Hold, has been a likewise silent partner, though the sense of cold winds rises up briefly and fades just as swiftly. Lucky or unlucky, it's just the nature of things; Z'kiel grunted at the assignment in his especially articulate way and away they went. The hours pass, but the weyrling endures without complain. R'hin's relative silence is met readily with the Igenite's own. He's just not the chatty type, even if Ahtzudaeth might be. The bronze, however, is not one to intrude where he's not wanted and his presence is relegated to a mirrored and misty presence at the periphery of minds. As the bar begins to fill and R'hin orders beer, Z'kiel's expression finally shifts from a thing hewn of grimness and into one of grimness with a slightly furrowed brow. No words, just a low hnnnh rises in response. He still has a glass of water, at least, and he takes a small pull from it. There's a distinct noise of dismissiveness from R'hin as Z'kiel reaches for his glass of water, making a bit of a flourish as he pours a glass of the beer and deliberately sets it in front of the other bronzerider. Pouring a second, he leans back, cocks his head to one side, and regards him. After a beat, he says: "A toast." His expression is expectant, waiting for Z'kiel to do so, it would seem. There's an idle click of tongue against teeth when the beer is presented. Z'kiel's jaw tightens - a thing that's barely perceptible, there and gone in the blink of an eye along with a faint hazing of eyes - and then the switch is forcibly made. The beer is taken, the furrowing of his brow resolving into the raising of a single eyebrow. A toast? He sucks his teeth and lifts the glass just a little, just enough, and ultimately intones, "To possibilities and potential." Which is clearly Ahtzudaeth's doing in some sense or another, gauging by his mental chortle. In either case, the beer remains raised until... well. Something happens. Or nothing. Rukbat only knows. One might detect a flicker of amusement in the twitch of lips, or the glimmer of pale eye, yet there's nothing present in R'hin's voice when he murmurs: "Vague," with a lift of his glass, "But apt." He doesn't wait for a cue, but takes a generous swallow, gaze resting on the weyrling for a moment longer, before sweeping the bar again, a habit that he's likely not even conscious of. "So," as if the beer is an ice-breaker for the hard topics: "Going to flee back to Igen the second you graduate? I heard rumors." The glass is brought to Z'kiel's lips - a symbolic gesture, at the core of it - but he sets it down shortly after. Water remains his preferred beverage and he indulges in it. "His suggestion," is his matter-of-fact reply, coupled with the roll of a shoulder. He's still, a veritable statue, while the older rider's gaze sweeps over the rest of the bar. He remains still, even when that question is asked. "Rumors that are nearly a turn old." He grunts. "Even if I wanted to, he wouldn't allow it." His chin tilts, his gaze set to try to intercept - and hold - R'hin's if he can. "High Reaches is home. That's the end of it." "Is it?" is R'hin's light, easy reply, accompanied by a low-throated chuckle. He doesn't seem overly perturbed by the other's drinking preferences, leaning back briefly in his chair. "He seems to want a lot of things." His gaze is curious, meeting the other bronzerider's with ease. "Do you miss the shimmering of the sun scattering across the desert as it rises? The heat of the day as it burns into your skin and chases away the cold of the night? The scents and sounds of the traders as they vie for the best position to set up shop?" The fingers of his free hand taps against the table for a moment. "What do you want, Z'kiel?" "He wants what's best. For both of us." Of that, at least, Z'kiel is utterly certain. "I tend to agree. Not always. But, most times." His arms cross over his chest and he straightens a little in the chair, expression set in characteristic grimness. He listens. He waits. He says nothing of Igen, in the end; instead: "I wanted to be given a chance with the silver threads program. That was not meant to be. So. What I want is to do my duty. To do what the Weyr needs me to do." A slight lift of his chin follows. "That is all I wanted to do. As a hunter. As a weyrling. I do not think that will change when I am a rider." "You want to serve," R'hin sums up Z'kiel's response, with a raising of eyebrows as if challenging the other bronzerider to disagree. "We all do our duties. We all serve." Z'kiel meets that raise of eyebrows with a knitting of his own and a tightening of his jaw - subtle, but there all the same. "Serve the Weyr. Serve the Weyrleader. Serve the Wingleader. Serve the Wing." The Savannah Wingleader laughs, low-throated and amused. "Mmhmm." R'hin's finger taps, again, at the table. "You parrot the line well, and yet there's a little something," his finger lifts, circling vaguely, as if to indicate the weyrling's face, "That still suggests rebellion. You ought to practice more, if you're going to try and make people believe that." To which there's a grunt and Z'kiel finally unfolds his arms, but only to get at his water for a good, long pull. The now-empty glass is set down with barely a click. Deadpan: "Good thing I don't plan on trying to make anyone believe anything. Not my job. That's all him. I just do the work." Which is plenty true: if any files had been reviewed, his early-rising and hard physical training tendencies are just as apparent as his improved academics over the course of the past turn. If he's rebellious, he's the slow burn type. "Convenient," R'hin says, with gaze drifting ceiling-wards for a moment. "That it's all him lets you off the hook for any responsibility or accountability. You absolve yourself of any decision making or autonomy. I suppose," with a spread of hands, "Each to his own." That's worth a throaty sound that's definitely not a grunt this time. "He's good with words. I'm not. You want a fancy speech, you ask him. You want me to lug firestone for hours, you ask me." Z'kiel's shoulders roll, but only to square things up again. Properly. "If I make a mistake, it's mine. Ask Quinlys, unless she's forgotten that conversation. What I do, I do." "I'm asking you. You don't have to be good with words to expression your opinion, your belief, your view of the world. Unless--" his hands spread again, this time indicating vaguely where his dragon might be, "--you can't." A long pause follows, R'hin's pale eyes on the bronzerider's face. "Who do you hope to fly with? Avalanche? Hailstorm? Equinox?" That he picks more 'traditional' wings is by no coincidence. "Ask those questions." Z'kiel maintains that square-shouldered posture, hands on knees for the time being. "You asked what I wanted. I told you. Don't believe me? Not my problem." The question is met with a slight shake of his head, not exactly dismissive - rather, it's ambivalent. "I don't hope to fly in any one wing. I hope to fly in a wing." Slight distinction, carefully articulated. "I don't know their Wingleaders. I don't know their wing. But. If a Wingleader taps me into their wing, then I can only trust that they know what's best for their wing." The words come slowly. Carefully. And he's left without water to drink after. Woe. "No. On the contrary, I believe that you believe them. But I also think you don't quite know yourself, yourself-with-Ahtzudaeth, quite as well as you think." R'hin's glance flickers towards the bar again, and back. "Mm. You have no opinion, no ambition, no drive. Well, I'm certain you'll find your match." Wing wise, presumably, though it's hard to tell from the low-throated noise that escapes him for a moment, before he takes a gulp of the beer. There's a slight squeak as Z'kiel pushes his chair back enough to allow him to rise. Knuckles rap thrice on the table top - symbolic, maybe, or simply superstitious. "I don't," is his flat reply to the first. "But you didn't ask about that." Still. His standing is purposeful; it allows him to salute the elder rider with proper form, at least. "I have work to do. Paperwork. Training sessions to schedule." And much as he might have wanted to just walk out, something else all but forces a blandly queried: "Permission to return to the Weyr?" The flicker of fingers is, perhaps, concession on R'hin's part that he didn't ask, and yet there's a twitch of lips all the same. "The truth can be uncomfortable," he allows, pale gaze tracking Z'kiel as he rises and salutes. He looks like he's considering, weighing his response while studying the weyrling's expression. "Of course. Important work to finish." The nod that follows appears dismissal, the Savannah Wingleader shifting his weight but otherwise remaining seated, gaze moving towards other occupants. "There are no comfortable truths." Not in his world. It's a matter-of-fact statement, left to hang or fall as it will. Z'kiel salutes a second time with that seemingly dismissive gesture and then he's off, striding for the exit without looking back. The cold flicker of wintry winds soon follows, Leiventh's fleeting presence tracking Ahtzudaeth and his rider, at least until they're back at the Weyr, before dispersing entirely. |
Comments
Alida (23:19, 1 August 2015 (PDT)) said...
Iiiinteresting...
Leave A Comment