Logs:Things Weyrleaders Are Supposed To Say
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| RL Date: 14 May, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, K'del |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Farideh and K'del are at it again. |
| Where: Weyrleader Complex, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 10, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Pleasant, cool. |
| Mentions: Irianke/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions, Ali/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions, Telavi/Mentions, K'zin/Mentions, C'ris/Mentions |
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| Where morning has been filled with duties and lectures, in the afternoon, High Reaches' newest goldrider makes herself comfortable out on the ledge in front of Irianke's weyr. It's a little chilly, but overall pleasant, and that's why Farideh's chosen the warm sunshine outside to the dim lighting provided by glows; she's even forgone that horrible jacket for a coarse gray sweater. She's sitting cross-legged on the scarred stone, with a significant pile of hidework in her lap that she's pouring over whilst gnawing voraciously, absently, on the end of a pen. Her other half, growing like a weed, is nowhere in sight, though presumably not more than a brisk run away. High above, Cadejoth appears from out of nowhere, his pale form starkly visible against the brilliance of the sky. He lands, having circled down towards his own ledge without more than a cheerful rumble for the watchdragon; a few moments later, there's the sound of footsteps on the steps, and then: "Iri--" But K'del has been deceived; Farideh's hair is dark, and surely that's part of the problem, but the rest of her is certainly not the acting weyrwoman. K'del, formally dressed in stiff leathers, comes to an abrupt halt. "Farideh." The bronze's descent might be noted, but then again it might not; there's no shift in her position or demeanor to suggest either. Farideh's name on the Weyrleader's lips finally brings her eyes up from the words she'd been reading -- pretending to read? -- to squint against the harshness of the daylight, waay up there to his face and the toffee-colored hair. "K'del," is uncertain, a tad wary, but she's quick to glance back toward the weyr. "I don't know where Irianke is or if she is-- here." Here could be as specific as her weyr, or as loose as the Weyr. Uncertainty (and wariness) is, if we're being honest, an improvement over immediate disdain or dismissal; K'del accepts it as such, his expression neutral despite his surprise at finding this goldrider here, rather than the other one. "Cadejoth can track her down," he says, easily. "I just saw--" he waves an idle hand, a gesture that probably isn't all that illuminating, and then drops it again. Nor does he correct her use of his name rather than title-- but perhaps he's simply distracted. "You're working here?" "A ghost?" Farideh guesses (un)helpfully, lifting her eyes to his face again. Both curiosity and excitement reflect in her expression, briefly, before being replaced by the usual sullenness. "Irianke told me I could study on her ledge if I wanted to. It gets noisy and distracting sometimes, in the barracks. Seventeen people and seventeen dragons, plus Quinlys, Telavi," followed by a nose-scrunching, "and K'zin and C'ris," where the slight annoyance is meant for the two later riders. "What are you doing here?" "A dark-haired woman sitting on the ledge." K'del's nose has wrinkled; plainly, he's not enthused by the prospect of ghosts. "I was hunting down Irianke. Obviously. I remember how loud it gets." His hands slide towards his pockets-- or where his pockets would be if they hadn't been sacrificed to the alter of preserving the lines of his jacket; his hands slide back down his sides. "Surprised you haven't just gone and picked out a Weyr and started studying there, instead." A bemused look transforms her formerly sullenly-set features, lowering the brows and drawing her lips up into a semi-smile. "Do you often?" But a considerably more enticing prospect is dangling in front of the goldrider, and Farideh is eager to snatch it up. "Can I?" she asks, of the weyr-squatting. K'del's brows raise. It's probably deliberate that he answers that first comment first, ignoring Farideh's eagerness-- at least in the short term-- to comment on that. "Hunt down my weyrwoman, with whom I work closely? No, of course not." His tone may be rich with sarcasm, but at least he manages not to roll his eyes: he's an adult! "You're not allowed to pick one out," he says. "That's not stopped people in the past, of course. Irianke might not be impressed." K'del probably wouldn't be, either, even if he is the one who raised it. "Mistake dark haired women sitting on ledges for Irianke," Farideh quips back, even if it is Irianke's ledge that she's occupying. "We don't looking anything alike, except for--" The obvious, which she won't rehash. Instead, canting her head, she considers him for a few beats. "It wouldn't hurt to look, at least? I wouldn't want to pick the one with the freshest bloodstains," is dry, perhaps a shade too dry, but then she's trying to unfold from her cross-legged style and pushing to her feet, her hides set aside on the ledge for now. K'del, plainly, is regretting his comment. And this time? He doesn't manage to avoid rolling his eyes for Farideh's first remark. "Oh no," he says. "No. If you're going to inspect those weyrs, before you're supposed to, you'll have to do it under cover of darkness, or at some point when I don't know." His head shakes. "Anyway. There are no bloodstains. Even the one that got burnt has been properly cleaned, since. What are you working on?" "Why are you such a stick in the mud? I suppose next you'll tell me not to go between err I get lost, or not go to any gathers where I'm likely to get fondled or taken advantage of," Farideh says mockingly, not even bothering to hide her disdain anymore; there they go! She pokes at the hides with the toe of her boot and lifts her slender shoulders in a disenchanted shrug, before her arms cross protectively over her chest. "Something boring. Supply and demand, notes-- all of those types of things." Dryly, "Oh goodness, no. How dare I show any concern for you at all. Obviously, it's all a front to cover for my plans to get you killed." In the face of Farideh's disdain, K'del's sarcasm wins out. "I'm not the bad guy, Farideh. You don't have to like me, but this is the truth: I want what's best for this Weyr. That's what I spend my time doing. Things like the supply and demand you're so unimpressed with matter to my everyday life, because I have to make sure that people in this Weyr keep eating. One day, that will be your job, too, and don't for a moment think that sitting there being disdainful will pass muster." "You aren't my father, you aren't my brother, and you certainly aren't my friend. I would rather you mind your own business. I don't need your concern," Farideh retorts, less-than-pleased. "What will it do to just look when we'll be moving into them in two months anyway? I'm not going to sneak off and have liaisons in my downtime." Her arms tighten reflexively. "Why don't you leave the lessons to Irianke? I at least respect her, and know she won't lie to me or lead me astray. You, however--" There's a tight, thin smile, that's not pleasant at all. "Too bad." The words are short; outright curt, really. "Whether you want me to or not, I do care. I care about every single rider in this Weyr, because that's my job. And I care about you, because whatever my personal feelings about you, you matter to the future of this Weyr. I don't lie to you. Won't ever lie to you. You can choose not to believe that, but that is your bias, and it's not based in fact." He's angry, but there's something else in his expression, too: hurt. "Whether you like it or not, there are things you're going to have to learn from me." "That," Farideh scoffs, "is a load of dragon shit." So elegant, so classy, this one. "We've talked about this, in circles really, and you know as well as I do that I," one finger pointing to herself, "don't believe any of your I'm-the-perfect-boy-next-door schtick. There's too much to lose in trusting you and--" Her upper lip curls back and she simply stares at him in increasing frustration. "Everything that comes out of your mouth might as well be straight of the Harper's Guide to Things Weyrleaders Are Supposed To Say." Whether she sees the hurt, or not, she doesn't acknowledge it, not immediately anyway. Spots of light dance, sunlight filtered through the diaphanous lace of a curtain, to herald Roszadyth's presence, as she so gently asserts herself to the older bronze. « If she would but give him a chance, I do think she would like him immensely, » the little gold rallies, encouragingly. (To Cadejoth from Roszadyth) K'del's arms cross, now, in front of him, and he sighs. "I'm not perfect. Fuck, Farideh. Never claimed I was, never believed I was. Fucked up more times than I can begin to articulate; been fucking up since before you were born. Doesn't mean I don't try. Doesn't mean I'm not doing the best damn job I can for this Weyr. There's a fuckload to lost in not trusting me, too. Don't I get a chance to prove myself? Or do you know so much better than everyone else in this Weyr-- all the people whose trust I have earned? You're not perfect either. None of us are." Now, increasingly, he just sounds sad. To Roszadyth, Cadejoth's joy at this beautiful, sunny day is manifest in the way he allows his chains to jangle-- less discordant than they might be, though perhaps short of being actually musical. « I wish she would, » he says, sad, if not so sad that it ruins his mood. « He hates not being liked. It burns him up inside. It makes him stupid. » Poor, stupid K'del. Roszadyth is patient and gentle, a wisp of smoke and a spritz of florals. « I do understand that you find him terribly abhorrent, but can you try to get along? Of all the men, he is the Weyrleader. Someone you should look up to, aspire to; someone you should confide in. » (To Farideh from Roszadyth) "Good. I'm glad you can say that out loud," Farideh replies, tartly, but then she's silent for the duration of his recounting of his side of things, wearing an expression that's half suspicion at least. It's at the end that she picks up again, lifting that stubborn chin of hers in answer to his assumptions. "When are you going to start? You don't even try to understand my side, you just walk around," here, she tries her best to imitate his height and width, bowing her arms and scrunching her shoulders up, and making a sour face, "all 'I'm the leader, I make the rules, blah blah blah', instead of listening." Her posture relaxes, fingers finding their way to her hair, to tuck the curly strands behind her ears; she at least looks partially remorseful for her waspish ways. Roszadyth takes her time to politely consider Cadejoth's words, turning them over, examining them with light indifference. « I should not like to be disliked either, but she, » is all lovingly spoken, cultured notes and gentle insistence, « Is trying to understand. » She seems pleased by the outcome, by her and Cadejoth's mutual acceptance, and then lightly, buoyantly, « We can fly together soon. » (Not like that, Cadejoth.) (To Cadejoth from Roszadyth) "I've answered every question you've ever put to me," answers K'del, his voice quieter, now, even edging towards flat. "Half the time, you've returned it with snippy dismissal without listening. What do you want me to listen to? Because frankly, I don't need to listen to you telling me what a horrible person I am. Talk to me, yes. I'll listen. But not if you're petulant; not if you can't listen to what I have to say, too. It goes two ways, Farideh." To Roszadyth, Cadejoth is pleased by this; pleased, and also approving. « He is trying, » he promises. « I hope they will keep trying. I hope. » Of flying, he is much more enthusiastic (so much enthusiasm! His tail might as well be wagging). « Yes! I'll show you how to fly around the spires, and also, the ice fields. » "That's not part of the deal. You don't get to pick and choose when you listen. Don't you listen to everyone else? When they're mad or upset or petulant? Your riders? Or do you just brush them off and put them down as being immature?" Farideh's hands gesture wildly, before plunking onto her hips. "I'm offended by these notions that you have, these ideals that you're somehow unwilling to bend. I'm not going to fit in whatever box you've assigned me, and I won't," she replies. "How can I trust you? Simply saying you care, saying you're Weyrleader doesn't solve anything." Leaving their riders to squabble, as they are wont to do, for now, Roszadyth is content to simply listen avidly, with a soft sound somewhat reminiscent of a wistful sigh here and there. « Is it very far and very cold? I should like to see it, and ships too, » she says, delightedly. « I should not be so imprudent as to ask, but Cadejoth, could you show me? » (To Cadejoth from Roszadyth) "No?" K'del's brows raise. "Since when? I listen when people have something to say. Guess I'll listen to just about anything, as long as the person presenting it is willing to work with me, and not just dismiss everything I have to say. It's up to you to work out how to trust me-- or if you can trust me. I can't force you. All I ask is that you consider what I have to say. And I'll do likewise. Mutual respect; that's all. But childish tantrums? Why should anyone listen to them?" Beat. "They didn't listen to Tiriana, either. Most of the time she had no idea that people were working around her, letting her pretend she won." Captive audiences are, for the record, the best. Cadejoth's genuinely pleased by Roszadyth's reaction, her delight buoying his enthusiasm. « Of course I can, » he tells her. « The ice fields are far, and so very, very cold. Here--» He shares: distant glaciers, their ice always moving but so very, very slowly, blue and white and beauiful. « Up high, the air is very crisp and thin. » (To Roszadyth from Cadejoth) "There you go, again," with one hand flung out to point out the futility of this whole endeavor. "You aren't really listening." Farideh's mouth scrunches up and purses, her gaze, still on the Weyrleader, pointed and full of derision. "I wish you were less interested in being in charge all the time. More fun? More flexible? More focused on High Reaches? Wore-- High Reaches blue more often? Didn't walk around with a stick in your pants?" Maybe they're playing a game! But she's still regarding him aloofly. "I am not some heathen that executes people and sets things on fire, so please don't compare me to one." Roszadyth is genuinely overjoyed, in girlish fashion, and seemingly fascinated by the images he exchanges. « How magnificent, Cadejoth. You have seen all of these things? » Her glee is barely restrained, carried forth in the faintest tinkling of piano keys and the echo of a hollow laugh. « I can almost taste the air. Oh, I wish, I wish we could fly now. » Such disappointment. « Rasavyth says we must wait until we are already. » (To Cadejoth from Roszadyth) K'del's expression turns utterly bewildered. "I wear High Reaches blue nearly every day of my life; what are you even talking about?" Beat. "No, you're not Tiriana. But you are going to have to think about how you work with people. You're going to have to work with people you don't like; are you going to snipe and yell and stamp your foot at all of them?" He throws up both of his hands, this time, taking half a step backwards. "I'm the person I am. I spend every day of my life focused on High Reaches. Don't you think, if I didn't care about this Weyr, I'd've run off to Southern turns ago? If I'm so terrible, show me what I should be doing. Be better than me. And when you actually want to talk? And listen? Come find me." He turns, now, ready to walk away. To Roszadyth, Cadejoth, with pride: « Every one! » He has been to many places, and he shares these, too: distant beaches, wild oceans, mountain meadows. « Rasavyth is correct, » he admits, with some quiet sorrow of his own. « But it won't be too much longer. Soon, you will glide, and then, you will fly. And then, you will fly with your rider. » Clearly, that is the best of all. "I work with people just fine! Except overpaid, know-it-all, large-headed, sons of--" Whatever else is on the tip of the goldrider's tongue never gets said; instead, she bites down hard on her lower lip and starts back-stepping, away, physically distancing herself. Fingers curl into fists, clenched, but behind her back. She watches him turn and doesn't stop him from leaving nor offer any other angry retorts. Her parting words are a simple, "Enjoy the rest of your day, sir." Glee and sorrow and embarrassment, all! Happiness for the wide world she's never experienced but gets to relive through Cadejoth's eyes, great sadness at not being able to see those things for herself until later, and finally, ruefulness at the turn their riders' conversation has taken. « Perhaps, one day, they will see eye to eye, » she laments, carefully retreating, where it wouldn't be polite to intrude. (To Cadejoth from Roszadyth) K'del doesn't flinch, this time, and the look on his face-- such deep sorrow; such hurt-- won't be visible as he makes his retreat. Ouch. To Roszadyth, Cadejoth, too, regrets that turn of conversation. « They tried, » he says. What he doesn't say is that he hopes they'll do better, next time; perhaps it doesn't need to be said. Riders! |
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