Logs:Understanding Motivation
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| RL Date: 2 June, 2013 |
| Who: Azaylia, N'hax |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Azaylia asks N'hax about his and C'wlin's sneaking into High Reaches Hold. It's not the tongue lashing he expected. |
| Where: Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 14, Month 12, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Rumbles and flashes of lightning intersperse between the periodic fall of snow throughout the day. There is humidity in the otherwise cold air. |
| Mentions: C'wlin/Mentions |
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| Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr Tucked off the back of the training room, the barracks are a huge, high cavern that stretches far back into the stone of the Weyr. Both of the longer walls are lined with couches for the dragons, enough for a couple of Pass-sized clutches at once, each matched with a cot and press for the weyrling dragonrider. In this day and age, however, the couches in the back have been allowed to grow dusty with long disuse. Hearths are spaced between every few couches to heat the big room. For decoration, there are a number of tapestries on the walls, looking almost as beat-up as the couches out in the training room, but scattered flower pots with their bright blooming contents provide a cheery touch. Additionally, some of the couches have had graffiti scratched into them over the Turns that were never quite cleaned off: smears of chalk messages or even rough pictures, some not fit for young eyes. In many cases names and dates have been painstakingly carved into the rock, a record of those that once made their home here. The weather is a fair metaphor for Hold and Weyr relations as of late, but at least the thunder and lightning can't be blamed on N'hax. Can it? Surely some might find a way. Azaylia might, not that it's obvious from the careful way she pokes her head around the corner, dark gaze curious. Snow clings to her midnight cloak, hood lowered to reveal tight buns that are designed to hold against the howling winds outside. The rest of her eases into the barracks with some discomfort-- how long has it been since her own weyrlinghood? She doesn't announce herself, but the first peek inside was to ensure that whoever's in isn't in the middle of changing. No changing here, though N'hax is in a state of deshabille: rather than go crazy at the enforced all-systems-silence, he's taken to cleaning every last corner of the barracks. All of the rushes from the couches have been moved out -- all of them, even from the stalls far in the back. The hearths are roaring nicely, fed a steady diet of those rushes, and the bronzeling is given to soaping down couches, removing graffiti and smudges and stains in a painstaking effort of detail. Self-imposed punishment? Perhaps. C'wlin, on the far side of the barracks, doesn't seem to share his self-punitive measures. Or maybe he's doing laundry from all of the beds. Whichever it is, he's not in the present frame of N'hax, scrubbing down a couch that he hasn't any clue used to be Azaylia-and-Hraedhyth's. C'wlin is far, and N'hax's scrubbing actually attracts Azaylia like a vtol to a flame. She tilts her head to an extreme degree, as if trying to match the direction of the weyrling's own. "Need any help?" Until, "Oh. Wait. Unless this is part of your punishment. I shouldn't." She straightens back up to shrug off her heavy cloak, folding it over an arm and holding onto it as she looks over the rest of the bare couches. "You're Jhorinth's." The bronze that sounded so upset days before. If the weyrwoman is at all angry, she hides it well underneath her gentle curiosity, simply watching the weyrling. Shirtless, arms stained with cleaning solution and redwort, N'hax looks up at the questions, not quite startled but not exactly smooth, either; a reflex. "I haven't been handed down an official punishment yet," he replies matter-of-fact, dipping his sponge back into the bucket next to him, squeezing out the dirty water, and starting the process of wiping down walls again. He does reposition himself so he can keep an eye on Azaylia. A respectful eye. Maybe. "Jhorinth is the one to have the ill-luck to have picked me on the Sands, yes." He reaches a stopping point and sits back on his heels. "Is there anything I can do for you, weyrwoman?" There's resignation lurking beneath his tone, but he manages to not come out as entirely sulky: more tired, with dark shadows showing under his eyes. When it doesn't seem like N'hax will stand, Azaylia goes about folding her cloak once or twice more. Dropping it onto the floor, she sits across from him and only glances at the bucket rather than make good on her first offer. For now. "Don't say that," If he's expecting to be scolded it starts now, delicate voice staying even, "He picked you for a reason." She speaks with an unyielding confidence in the ways of dragons. His resignation inspires her own, taking in a slow breath, words carried on the exhale, "Well. I'm not here to punish you." So at least there's that. "Honestly, I just... I wanted to know why you did it? I was upset, before. I... really hope some of those rumors aren't true." She glances up from the couch to find his face, wearing a mix of puzzled apprehension. N'hax continues sitting as he is -- an awkward position for a man, sitting rump on his heels, thighs over calves. His expression goes clear, then puzzled, at Azaylia's words. He doesn't fight his comment about Jhorinth -- it was halfhearted at best, really. The puzzlement is about her not being here to punish him. It's gone in an instant when she asks those questions, and he shakes his head, glaring down at his hands for a long moment. Where's C'wlin when a man needs him? "Do you know," he starts out in reply, his words slow, "What the pirates were there to steal from that cargo ship? What made them risk coming so close to port? A ship heading to High Reaches the day of a new Holder's confirmation?" With legs crossed, her dress is long enough to aid black leggings in keeping her modest as Azaylia waits for his answer. She doesn't press, giving N'hax as long as he needs with the same, admittedly puzzling, calm from earlier. "I don't, actually." The weyrwoman has little problem admitting it. What should she know about the ways of pirates? Mild surprise has her brows climbing, "Do you?" N'hax is watching Azaylia, tasting her answer with all of the senses available to do such a thing. "You were there," he presses, not answering the question. Or-- presses isn't exactly the right choice, there. Dodges, perhaps, evades. "Did you not find the timing... suspicious? The circumstances?" It's less questioning, those, and more hypothetical. He opens his mouth to say something and thinks better of it, closing it with a thoughtful mien and bowing his head sharply. "Of course I do." Who doesn't find the timing suspicious? And yet, "I wasn't going to let it stop me, though. I don't remember it stopping you." The lingering note of pride might be for N'hax, or just Hraedhyth's own feelings on that day soaking into Azaylia's tone. It doesn't stay for long, brows faintly pinched as she leans in some, hands on her knees. "What confuses me is why you, both of you, still did what you did. No riders were hurt, even if it was... faked?" The reasons behind such a thing, suspicious or no, aren't clear to the weyrwoman. "Whatever you think you found," His avoidance hasn't gone unnoticed, "I hope it was worth it. I really do." It's now that her voice softens, regret not only in words but carried in that soft murmur. Just as he watches her, she's watching him. "It didn't stop me," comes N'hax's return, and now there's a hand rubbing down his face, pinking splayed across the bridge of his nose in a way to allow him to peek out from behind said appendage to look, miserably, at Azaylia. It isn't that he isn't miserable over getting caught; it isn't as if he doesn't see the ramifications. "Azaylia," and here his voice is honestly hesitant, a totally different timbre to it than a moment prior. "What would Tillek have that High Reaches would want?" He's Telgari, born and bred and raised: the intricate histories of the holds within the coverage area isn't as obvious to him as his home area. It's Azaylia's turn to take time before speaking. Her hands come together in her lap as she considers the question, not in how to answer but looking for one. "If it was the Hold's doing," She's still not convinced, one way or the other. "I can't imagine what they'd be after. Marks, valuable tapestries, maybe old records?" Only suggestions, hypothetical at best. Though her own understanding of the 'Reaches territory is greater, it doesn't seem any help in this. "You didn't answer my question." A gentle reminder, "Why did you? I'm trying to understand, N'hax. But other than... a hunch, I don't know why you'd cause so much trouble." For the Weyr, especially. Lady Edeline's hold on her tithes surely made its way around the lower caverns, even if the situation was quickly handled. N'hax shakes his head at Azaylia's answer, not to rebuff her, but in a gesture that indicates he doesn't understand. He stays silent through the end, her gentle reminder. He opens his mouth to reply, stops. Opens it again, after a moment of thinking... still stops. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he mutters, "It seemed like a good idea at the time." Bronzeriders. Maybe Pern should just kill them all off to keep them from random acts of mayhem. There's a subtle quirk to Azaylia's lips at his answer, "A lot of things tend to." Still, he's given her an answer. Rather than stand, the weyrwoman begins to roll the faint ruffle of her sleeves up high, past her elbow. "I'll leave your official punishment up to your Weyrlingmasters. You made a mistake." Even if he might not agree, she presses on. "The only thing you can do now is accept the consequences, and move forward." She reaches into the bucket, searching for his abandoned sponge with a warning of, "You might want to get another one." That quirk's grown into a small smile. N'hax was ready. Beneath the misery there is an odd tension, a knot of words ready to explode out at the right person. Azaylia, thankfully, isn't that person; and for a long moment - a very long moment - he simply sits where he is, uncomfortable penance-stance with damp knees on cold stone, searching her face. Especially when she reaches into the bucket for his sponge. The smile that has been rare since he's been sentenced down here reappears, tentative and half-born, and he goes to fetch his stash of extra cleaning supplies. The bronze weyrling's smile gives Azaylia's some heart, wringing out the sponge and putting some experienced elbow grease behind her scrubbing. She might ask after a few more details in her gentle way, but nothing terribly probing. The weyrwoman means what she says, and she has enough time to help N'hax finish a couch or two. It might not be a coincidence that she leaves when the weather's improved as much as it's going to that day. The time spent does seem to do a considerable amount to settling N'hax-- ease away some of the raw, harsh edges that have grown since that unfortunate afternoon. He has a quiet, well-stated word of gratitude before she goes -- and an apology for all of that which he has contributed to. After she leaves, he turns, squares his shoulders, and goes back to scrubbing. Maybe a spotless barracks will make the weyrlingmasters take pity on him? Ahahahahahaha. Who's he kidding. At least he turns back to the task with better mood than when Azaylia first entered. |
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