Logs:Sweeten the Pot
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| RL Date: 8 March, 2016 |
| Who: D'vro, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Discussing games and stuff. |
| When: Day 20, Month 3, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Kh'tyr/Mentions, Olivya/Mentions, Mirinda/Mentions, W'leri/Mentions |
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| It's easy to drop by that place that doesn't even have a name, and not out of any highfalutin' edginess either; easy to slouch on a couch; easy to toast toes by the fire. N'rov's been here since toward the middle of the evening, but that commandeered pitcher still has some glassfuls in it, never mind the other riders (a couple Onyx, a couple Malachite, a couple others already gone) who're just getting up with a collective groan. Maybe it's not their first. The bronzerider's sprawled back, boots digging their heels into the old rug, gray eyes aglint in the firelight as he toasts them on their way. For the sort of man who will make up work for himself to do, spending any down time in a public setting can be kind of hit or miss. Tonight Slate's wingleader has wandered in with a couple of his riders, one smiling greenrider with a familiar hand on his arm. It doesn't seem as though she brought him here to hang on herself, though, because she and the other rider break away. No doubt only after D'vro has assured them that he won't simply leave again once they've turned their backs. It leaves him free to notice N'rov, however, and it should come as no surprise that he gravitates toward the other man. "You look comfortable," he notes in greeting. "I am," is the lazily drawled reply; whatever N'rov's had on his plate, he's left it far behind. N'rov invites, "Pull up a chair," only it's the other side of his particular couch that gets the nod instead. "What did she do to get you free? Bribes? Blackmail? A question for me?" D'vro glances back toward the greenrider even as he starts for the other side of the couch. He sinks into it with a sigh through his nose, considering the questions before offering, "She threatened to send her proddy friend to my weyr later if I didn't take some time to enjoy myself." The last two words have a certain emphasis, like she clearly doesn't realize just how the bronzerider typically enjoys himself. "I don't entirely trust that she won't do it anyway," he admits with a frown. N'rov's got a smirk for the other man, one that turns appreciative as his gaze swings the greenrider's way: plotting. He eases forward enough to snag a glass that looks reasonably clean (though the lighting is not the brightest) to fill for the other man. "Nor would I. Here," before he tops off his own. "Still, the weather's warming, the weyrlings haven't killed or been killed, and neither have our Holders." He doesn't knock on wood. "What do you say, up for those games in a month or two?" A drink isn't always something D'vro will allow himself, but right now it seems to be quite appreciated, given the circumstances. "Thanks." He takes a healthy swallow, then, "I've enjoyed keeping an eye on the weyrlings. Your weyrlingmasters seem plenty competent." High praise! "I'm looking forward to the games. It's always interesting to see where the wings are strongest. And weakest, I suppose. A little healthy competition never hurts, either." Even he can see the benefit of that. Praised enough to get an amused, pleased lift of N'rov's brow; "They haven't killed each other either," he murmurs. For the games, "Good to have you on board. Anything you'd like to see to sweeten the pot? Make it exciting for would-be winners, instead of just not wanting to lose." The first earns a proper grin from D'vro before he's taking another drink. "I'm not sure I'm your typical would-be winner. The idea of relaxing expectations isn't exactly a relaxing thought. Though I'm sure there are some in Slate that would enjoy the prospect." Probably more than he's willing to acknowledge, admittedly. "One thing people will always enjoy, however, is a raise. However slight. I've no idea if there's any budget for it, granted." "Slacking still up to the wingleader," N'rov assures. "It's also worth framing it as a trial run instead of permanent," a short laugh, "at least, 'permanent until the next Weyrleader.' See how it goes, and so forth. Raise," he wets his throat as he leans back, comfortable, "is unlikely; bonus, that depends on what Mirinda makes of our finances. First in the lunch line? Delivery of breakfast to one's weyr for a month? A song commissioned in their honor? We have options, D'vro. Well; 'we' meaning you and me and W'leri and everyone. My thought is to keep Onyx," tiny wing that it is, "out of the prizes. Anything else you'd like to see happen, keep our boys and girls busy out of Fall? How's your family these days, come to that?" "If games are likely to be an ongoing occurrence, depending on whether you can maintain your position as Weyrleader," it's a little casually challenging, friend to friend, "its prizes would be more meaningful if they're not lasting. Something that can be given to the winners, then taken away and given to the successive winners. A song would work less well than a spot in line or delivered meals, for instance." D'vro lifts his glass to N'rov before another drink. Something for him to think about, anyway. As for family, "They're well enough. I've honestly not had much contact with anyone the last few months." And that must not bother any involved parties overly much. This laugh is just as short, but sincere; N'rov's grin hides out in his eyes and the slow cadence of his voice. "Everything can be taken away," he exaggerates grandly and yet only a little. "But only after, what, forty Turns or so? Possibly forty-five. In any case, you're right, it just doesn't have the right ring to it. No disclaimers allowed. Breakfast, a none-too-early breakfast, is much better." He considers the other man anew. "They can't," though D'vro's not even three Turns older than he, "be young." "I'm sure we'll all come to some conclusion that sounds good. Perhaps you should open it up to the riders themselves. Let them suggest what might drive them to want to win." The source is always a good place to get information, after all. D'vro finishes off the rest of his glass, letting his gaze seek out his own riders. Or at least attempt to. They're quite happy with enjoying themselves, like he's supposed to be doing. "I'm not young. It's difficult to come to terms with that sometimes." "I like that," and the mere prospect curls N'rov's smile wider. But as D'vro goes on, "How's that? Not as though you're old." "Not old," D'vro agrees. "But not young. It doesn't always seem like so long ago that Colsoth and I were weyrlings ourselves. But he's just turned twenty two turns a few months back." Which, obviously, means it was some time ago. "You never feel your age through Vhaeryth?" "What's my age?" N'rov says, wry but not facetious. "I mean, look at N'muir; guess that's my baseline even now. He's in his sixties," and retired with his weyrmate after his health gave out, true, "B'doran's almost there. Vhaeryth's twelve, that's all. We have a long way to go." Which doesn't stop him from eyeing D'vro, trying the other man's idea on for size. "I didn't mean that you're old." D'vro must think this is what he's supposed to say in this particular situation. "Certainly neither of us are past our primes. That would be depressing, I think." So he won't think about that. "A long way to go," he repeats. "I like that. And I think I might slip out while she's busy," he adds with a gesture toward the greenrider who had a hand in bringing him here. "Don't stay too comfortable, N'rov." Good advice for any man. D'vro is getting up, setting aside his glass. "Never," is N'rov's natural assurance, and that much more wry for all that. "I'll even distract her for you, should she get wind of it." How subtle can D'vro be in his escape? Regardless, it seems N'rov has his back. |
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