Logs:The Answer Is No
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 4 October, 2014 |
| Who: K'del, Weylaughn |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: While sympathetic, K'del is not helpful to Weylaughn's quest. |
| Where: Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 12, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aughan/Mentions, Azaylia/Mentions, Ienavi/Mentions |
  |
| Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr At the heart of this oblong cavern is its meeting table: a long hardwood oval with a mirror's dark shine, High Reaches' sigil picked out in lapis and onyx at its center. Twenty chairs surround it, each softened by an embroidered cushion that's just a little too stiff for complete comfort -- meetings need to be kept short, after all -- with the chair at the table's head, facing the ledge, being somewhat larger than the rest. Interspersed between glowsconces upon the smooth walls, ancient tapestries depict the territories High Reaches protects in a particularly pastoral fashion, all fluffy clouds and fluffier llamas, or else fishing crafts sailing merrily out to sea. Among them is also a natural alcove, its several wooden shelves primarily stocking fine wines and liquors as well as the glasses to serve them, though the lower shelves also hold whatever hidework requires particularly frequent attention. A narrow wooden door leads to the Records room, while the tunnel that extends to the weyrleaders' ledge is wide enough for three men to walk abreast, with just enough kink in it to block the wind. It's common enough knowledge that K'del spends a couple of hours working in the Council Chambers each day, sort of as 'office hours' for those who need to speak with him. It's mid-morning, now, and Taiga's drills have been cancelled due to the abominable weather; it leaves the Weyrleader time to puddle about with the hearth, with adjusting tapestries that don't need adjusting, and warming hands that, well, probably do need warming. He's facing that way, now, gaze speculative. And it's that common knowledge that's lead to a certain Holder returning once more to the Weyr. Clad in black with silver embroidery and accents of purple, Weylaughn makes his way to the Council chambers with a measured stride. Just barely inside, he'll take a moment to tamp his boots clean and flip back his fur-lined hood. The gloves keep his hands warm enough, but he still rubs them together vigorously for a moment. After a cursory glance at the contents of the chamber, the Cromese lad calls a mild, testing-the-waters, "Weyrleader?" The sound of footsteps and boot-tamping is likely enough to rouse K'del from his reverie, though it's not until he's actually addressed that he turns, fair brows lifting so as to let him consider the young man. He's not wearing his jacket, and is thus knotless, but he's identifiable enough regardless; now, he pauses, then gestures towards the table. "That's me. Something I can help with you?" It's polite, probably even genuinely so, but light in a way that suggests he's not expecting much. Relief flashes briefly across Weylaughn's features, only to swiftly be schooled into formal neutrality. His hands fold habitually behind his back and he enters properly - only to stop again and, this time, issue a deep bow of respect to the other man. It's as painfully formal as everything else about him and speaks all too well of his upbringing. "Ah, it's a pleasure to meet you, Weyrleader." He straightens, with gray eyes seeking blue. "I'm Weylaughn of Seven Echoes Hold, beholden to Crom Hold. If you have a few moments, there is something I would like to discuss with you." The overstated formality has the corner of K'del's mouth twitching, though it subsides at mention of 'hold' and then, specifically, 'Crom Hold.' "And you, Weylaughn," is polite enough, too, if without any of that strict formality. "I've some time, certainly. You can sit, if you like. I'm going to." He does, too, without waiting for a response. "Of course," Weylaughn waits until the Weyrleader's seated before he claims his own. His hands fold in his lap, leaving him straight-backed and square-shouldered. "I spoke with your Weyrwoman some days ago, but felt it appropriate to speak with you as well," he begins, his tone even - if accented in a tilted version of Cromese. "I will try to keep this brief. Ah. I am here to attempt to secure support for my claim as an heir to Lord Aughan. I realize the Weyr's ability to offer support is limited, but I wanted your blessing before I pursued the matter." His chin dips briefly and he adds, "My mother, Yewlani, has documentation to prove that I am Lord Aughan's son." A beat. "I realize how ludicrous it all sounds, Weyrleader. Preposterous, even." His mouth twitches to one side. "But it is true." It's impossible to see from K'del's expression whether he's been prepared for this request, whether he and his weyrwoman have discussed it; it's so neutral, so smooth. His hands press flat upon the table, gaze dropping towards them for a few long moments before, finally, they rise to meet Weylaughn's again. "No," he says. "The answer is no." "No?" The answer hasn't even had a chance to sink in before it's bounced back with a note of bewilderment. Weylaughn's jaw twitches and he's silent for the span of a deep breath before: "You do not wish to lend support? Or do you not believe me?" The words are carefully chosen and slowly issued, with the youth's gaze doing their level best to seize the Weyrleader's own. His voice pitches just a little lower, "Or is there something else that I ought to know about?" The bewilderment is what draws that look of abrupt sympathy from K'del. He shakes his head, exhaling as he leans back in his chair. "Doesn't matter whether I believe you or not; doesn't matter what anyone believes. It'd be political suicide for the Weyr to get involved: we don't play holder politics. We don't, we can't, and we won't. Even beyond that..." He speaks quietly, with obvious sympathy, and something almost fatherly to his tone and expression. "It doesn't matter. Aughan can choose who he likes for his heir. You could be legitimate, son of his Lady, and he could still choose someone else. Conclave won't force it, not while he's hale and hearty and clearly in his right mind. I'm sorry, but the answer has to be no. You'd be better off forgetting about all of this. Move on with your life." Oh, no. No, this was clearly not how things were to go, given how Weylaughn's expression crumbles. Disbelief is just the first real crack; frustration is the second. It's only K'del's patience and sympathy that seems to keep him together, strange as it may seem. "No," is his retort, breathless as it is. A shake of his head firms things up for a second, "No," and fires him up just enough to push to his feet. "I am well aware of all of that," he says, but it's clear something's caught him off-balance. "But it's not something I can just let go of - with all due respect, Weyrleader." A slow, deep draw of breath helps, but only a little. "I'm not looking to overthrow him; I just need support to legitimize my claim. It doesn't matter if he chooses me, but the rest- that part..." he trails off, any thoughts of the Weyr and all else clearly having fled for the moment while he latches onto the one thing that's important to him. It really is immediately obvious that K'del hates doing this, especially in the wake of that crumbling expression; his own wince is visible and unrestrained. He blinks as Weylaughn draws himself to his feet, gaze tracking the younger man upwards. "You just want him to acknowledge that you exist, is that it?" He doesn't wait for a reply to that soft-spoken question, and instead, sighing, shakes his head. "There's still nothing the weyr can do to help. I'm sorry. Truly. Take your proof to the harpers. But even then... no one can force Lord Aughan to acknowledge anything. You need to be realistic about that, too. He's got a wife and child, another child on the way. True or not, there's just... can't see any reason why he'd do it, and too many good reason not to. I'm sorry." "More for Mother's sake than my own, Weyrleader." The admission surprises even him and Weylaughn takes a few seconds to compose himself. It's a splintered version of his earlier neutrality, but it will suffice - for now. Nevermind the slight twitch of the tendons in his neck or the tension threaded through his shoulders. He bows stiffly and, when he rises, finishes the motion with the barest dip of his chin. "My apologies for wasting your time, Weyrleader. Many thanks for speaking with me. If you will excuse me..." His throat works, a hard swallow choking back whatever else might have been said. He doesn't wait for a response. There's a crisp pivot and he's off for the door and the eventual snowy oblivion beyond. "I'm--" K'del doesn't have a chance to finish whatever it is he'd like to say; he winces, instead, watching after Weylaughn long after the young man has disappeared from sight. Sometimes... Sometimes, being Weyrleader sucks. |
Comments
Edyis (20:45, 4 October 2014 (EDT)) said...
Poor K'del. Poor Weylaughn. You knew it was coming but still.
Azaylia (00:41, 5 October 2014 (EDT)) said...
Poor babies. ;^;
Leave A Comment