Logs:To Mistakes and Bad Influences
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| RL Date: 13 May, 2013 |
| Who: Azaylia, I'zech |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: I'zech asks Azaylia about the queens forcing the wings to fly mock threadfall in his own, special way. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 10, Month 10, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, Taikrin/Mentions |
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| Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor, and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook. Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern. Snow. It may only be a sprinkling, it may still be autumn, but it's enough to have plenty of folk groaning over the brevity of summer. Azaylia's never been one to complain, though as the past few sevens have shown, she's not immune to having some grievances. Not that she's airing them now, tucked in a booth with a few papers and work hides scattered about. They're kept a safe distance away from her drink, something brown, sweet, and thoroughly spiked, whipped white topping having all but melted away. The Snowasis isn't always the best place to get some work done, but oftentimes the sound of the crowd has a way of fading into comfortable whitenoise. It's how she's able to pour over the paper in front of her, pausing to make notes in bubbly, feminine script. I'zech did some groaning already. It was unoriginal, but he's not here to impress anyone. And now, with the snow quick to melt on his hat and shoulders, he steps into with bar a quick look around as if he half expects a weyrling to leap out and make him do something unpleasant. Instead, he finds rather the opposite in one nice, quiet goldrider with her girly beverage and her girly writing. He swings by the bar to get a drink and then ends up at Azaylia's booth, helping himself to the seat across from her and spinning one of her pages around so he can look at what she's scribbling on. Movement from across the booth has Azaylia peeking at I'zech, polite smile offered before her head lowers again to finish writing down a thought. The page he's spun around is a list with numbers, only one part of freshly done inventory of the stores. If he can make sense of it, there doesn't seem to be a reason for concern. Then again, the goldrider probably doesn't bring any of the exciting paperwork out with her, if such a thing exists. "I'zech." Not overly warm, but certainly friendly towards the confirmed Assistant Weyrlingmaster. A glance for the paper, "It's not very interesting." But she doesn't stop him, instead taking the interruption as a sign to tidy up her work area. "How are you?" "That depends," I'zech says, ignoring the warnings about how dull her work is and just turning the page back to her without any comment on it. "Are you going to ask me to explain mating flights? Because if so, I'm not sure there's enough liquor here. Might need to bring in some kind emergency supply. Or skip it and go right to the fellis. Can you do that?" he wonders with a twist of interest on his brow, eyeing her across the table to see if that falls under the jurisdiction of weyrwomen - recreational fellis. "Probably not." Surprised, Azaylia can't keep from laughing, "Is it that time already?" She's always had an interest in the weyrlings, but even she doesn't have the time to keep track of their lessons. "No, I think I've got a handle on flights." Never mind the amount of bloodied dragons after Hraedhyth's first. "Why the liquor? Or fellis? And, no. I think the Healers have the final say about that." Talk of alcohol reminds her of her cooled drink, bringing it up for a sip that interrupts her amused smile. After her sip, "Do you not like explaining it? Or is it me?" "There's only so many ways to say 'it's not a big deal'." Which is perhaps only half of it, since then, with a roll of his eyes, he adds: "And alll the feelings." That requires a drink, even if his company probably doesn't think his impatience with a bunch of young peoples' confused emotions is really all that funny. I'zech just sinks back in his seat, planting a boot on the edge of Azaylia's bench. "So, you gonna explain that stunt you guys pulled? Throwing your weight around?" "They're young." Those feelings are excused with quiet understanding, smiling to herself as if she isn't only a few years their senior. Not even that, as Azaylia's younger than a certain bluerider. "It's something new, and possibly scary." She's willing to offer empathy where she finds it lacking, though I'zech's own opinion isn't argued. He's allowed his annoyance. Having glanced down at his boot, her gaze snaps up all too quickly at the bronzerider's question. It's obvious from her stare that he was thought of as an unlikely source to the backlash she's received over the past sevens. "I... can explain why I did what I did?" She won't, can't, speak for the other goldrider. "They aren't children." Most of them at least. Who knows if there are a few young ones running around. Anyway, I'zech gives her a look that is well aware she's only a bit older than most of them herself, just like he's only a bit older than her. Meanwhile, maybe that boot tries to pin her in, between her and the exit without encroaching on her space. And the bronzerider doesn't look particularly ruffled, but then the weyrlings weren't shipped off under gold-pressed duress, so he doesn't personally have much to complain about. "Go on, then," he prompts leisurely. Azaylia's lips press in a thin smile, not embarrassed but perhaps sheepish as she's reminded by the bronzerider. "Inexperienced, then." Not quite a correction, said just for the sake of clarity. Pinned as she might be, the weyrwoman doesn't look as if she'll attempt to escape. Proof can be found in the lack of hesitation after the bronzerider's easy prompt. "I don't know which answer you're looking for, but I'll do my best." The thought doesn't occur to the goldrider that she doesn't have to answer to him. Or, if it does, she's inclined to ignore it. "When the wingriders refused to go, it felt like an earlier protest-- when Iolene was alive? The queens took care of that, but it was... different. I realize that now." Her quiet voice is firm, steady, as I'zech is not the first rider she's had ask after the incident. Likely not the last. "I made a mistake. I didn't want to force the riders, and I shouldn't have let anyone convince me otherwise." A swallow, a sign that perhaps she's still touched by guilt as she reaches to take a long sip from her mug. "Yeah?" I'zech answers, a brow cocking slowly, inching upward with a bit of amusement. His boot tips on the bench beside her, just a flex of his leg. "How'd you'd justify it last time that isn't working now?" A twist of laughter forms on his mouth, though no such sound actually comes. He just shields the whole thing behind his glass, even if his eyes crinkle a bit anyway. "Do you ever get dizzy, being convinced this way and that and back again?" "Iolene wasn't Taikrin. Wasn't Aishani. She... it was about her being an Islander. Not about what she was doing." The Exile Weyrwoman didn't get much of a chance to put possible plans into action before her death. Still, Azaylia doesn't look terribly comfortable talking about the murdered goldrider. Pushing past that, "This time, it felt similar. That there were people arguing about Taikrin being a woman, a brownrider instead of... her actions. I should've paid more attention." But the wings are a Weyrleader's business. Arms crossed atop the table, she straightens from her hunch at the amusement he aims to hide with a glass. A sore subject, enough that her brows and gaze lower with the weight of regret. "Every decision I've made has been mine. I'm... I'm finding my way." Not that she sounds satisfied: yes, it must be dizzying. I'zech does interject to say, "No one gives a shit about Taikrin being a woman." But the politics that are brewing beneath this conversation are: "Same shit, different day. I guess without thread-eaten dragons to soothe, a queen has to flex her special muscle for other reasons, huh? What else is new." He gives her a derisive smile, this time moving the glass to the side so she can see it. "Why save it for special occasions like a good frock." Does he take a glance over her attire? Yes, he does. He laughs, "And people worry about me being a bad influence." Obviously, those people need perspective. The grip of her fingers tightens at her arms, curling into the sleeves as she sits and listens to I'zech. Azaylia glances up long enough to catch that smile, wounded gaze not reaching his eyes before her focus is on the papers in front of her. Her frock is nothing special, dark blue dress simple in design and high quality only so it can last her longer than a season. It has. The goldrider takes in a slow breath, "I understand why you feel that way." It sounds like the beginning of an argument that never comes, simply letting the bronzerider have this. No excuses offered, quiet in her obvious discomfort as if she expects him to continue. "And now you feel bad," I'zech is so kind not only to observe, but to point it out. "About what? Do you know? Or does it just smart that people are upset with you?" He's wry and needling, but there's something flippant about all of it. Maybe that makes it less wounding? Or maybe more. Could go either way. He lifts a finger from his glass to point at what's left of her cooled frothy concoction. "Drink up," he reminds her. Booze, the great salve. At least there isn't any crying. A smile strains Azaylia's lips as I'zech points out the obvious, not so deep in that sadness that she can't be amused by it. "I feel bad that something I did hurt people. Hurt our home. Especially because I was wrong to do it." Shoulders roll in a slow shrug, "It does sting, that people are upset with me." But for good reason, and that's why she's willing to bear the harsh words, the criticisms. Reaching for the mug at his reminder, she lifts it almost as a toast, tipping it towards the bronzerider before downing the rest. The lift of her glass brings a twist of a smug smile to I'zech's face and he lifts his own glass, a far more direct toast instead of her little hint at one. His knee swings wide under the table, evidenced by the bend of his boot, the shift in his seat. "To mistakes and bad influences." He cocks a brow at her, all withdrawn and sad over there, as if he general unmoved by her wounded regrets. "So now what? Head down, hope everyone forgets?" "If you're toasting to mistakes, we're going to need more drinks." It's meant to be a joke, of course, but Azaylia's murmur doesn't quite manage it. Her dark eyes sweep out from their booth, motioning to a server to bring two more. She's willing to buy I'zech another. Misunderstanding brings the girl closer to clarify, and it's then the goldrider decides on a finger of whiskey as well. The bronzerider is welcome to add to it, whether out of guilt or her usual generosity. "No." She answers simply once they're alone, "I'm going to do what I can to make things better. Mistakes need to be fixed." Plenty of them, judging from the size of her order. "Or fellis," I'zech is quick to joke, tipping his head. "I bet you have all kind of friends in the infirmary who would never suspect you, hand over whatever you wanted." He's probably teasing, probably, though the smile is thin and there's a little something watchful in his eye, perhaps more for the way she continues after he tosses his order aside at the girl. "Ballsy. What do you do to fix that kind of abuse? Bake cookies? Braid hair?" He pretends they're serious options. But the, in contrast, an honest question pops into his head. "Was it your idea or hers? Hraedhyth." Maybe, wherever she is, the queen feels a little creeping, clammy fog from wherever Rojeth is. The disapproval in her glance isn't as playful as Azaylia would like in her lingering gloom. She's making an effort, though they aren't terribly successful, "Now you're starting to sound like a bad influence." She doesn't tell him no, doesn't think it's necessary. The weyrwoman eases back, forcing the tension from her shoulders as she slowly resumes in tidying up her space. Not an indication that she means to leave, since they have drinks on the way. "I don't know yet. It'll come to me." Surly an opportunity will present itself, and this time she has no intention on sitting on her hands. I'zech's question startles her into a blink, finding his face with a curious answer, "It wasn't my idea. But, after I decided to help, I explained to Hraedhyth that the dragons weren't doing their duty. Before that she..." A shrug, the gold having little concern for human pride, for human business. In the skies the warrior queen's drums thunder on, unbothered even as Rojeth's fog creeps in. Warm flames offer a sizzle of welcome, evaporating the cold with her natural intensity-- hardly a threat. The fog lingers, its source unlimited such that if Hraedhyth's heat burns off the edge, more can always come. It seeks nothing, though, just lingers at casual distance without intention, as fogs rarely do have intentions. I'zech might be less benign and makes no effort to disuade the rumors about his influence. "I thought that was obvious. I spend my day corrupting the youth of the Weyr." That darkly satisfied smile starts to creep up again, like maybe he means it. "So you can't even dump it on her shoulders, huh?" Can't blame the gold for the booboo. "It's just your fuck up. Do you, like, have a thing for Taikrin? You know..." He bounces an eyebrow, touches his tongue to his lip and generally makes a quick but suggestive expression. That kind of thing. Hraedhyth might be curious and send a curl of dark smoke to meet that fog, heated black plumes a stark contrast to Rojeth's clammy mist. He's allowed to linger as she barrels through the sky, wielding bone clubs that beat the air to her drums contented rhythm. That smile earns I'zech a concerned side-eye, interrupted once their drinks arrive. "I told you, it was my mistake." The words are chased by a mouth and throat full of burning, shot of whiskey the first to go. No ego, she goes rushing for a sip of her warm, girly drink. After the shudder passes, she meets that perverse suggestion with a lift of both brows, "No..." It could be uncertainty that has her trailing into, "We were wingmates. I was giving her a chance to prove herself." And now, the brownrider has lost the support of one queen. "Well, sure. Wouldn't want to blame any innocent bystanders," I'zech drolls out, more interested, for the moment, in the arrival of his drink. And his boot slides off her bench as he sits up a bit to reach for it. He chuckles a bit when she knocks back the whiskey. "There ya go. Solution to everything." And even though she just bought him this drink, he's sliding with it to the end of the booth and hauling himself up to stand. "Well, as they say, you don't know what you have until you lose it." He tips his head and lifts that fresh drink, "To bad influences," he says again, this time with a wider smirk, even though he's about to stroll off. The burn of that shot has worn off, and yet Azaylia's still has a pinch to her brow when I'zech begins to slide away. Disappointment? Possibly, he's as good of a distraction as any from her paperwork. Manners won't allow her to keep the bronzerider, "To bad influences." Lifting her mug in return, she takes a sip of her drink. Once her hand passes over to make sure none of the whipped topping is clinging to her nose or upper lip, "Clear skies, I'zech." She'll keep to the Snowasis for a while, working on her pile and nursing a solution or two. I'zech gives her a jaunty salute, easy enough. "Chin up," he tells her, like that's the big boring secret. And with his drink, he just moves off to pester someone else for a little while, until the glass is empty and he can wander from the Snowasis entirely. Some thanks she's gotten for her drink, eh? |
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Zian (Zian (talk)) left a comment on Tue, 14 May 2013 05:07:10 GMT.
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I'zech's icons are so awesome. The person who uploaded and chose them should get a medal. :D
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