Logs:When The Revolution Comes
| |
|---|
| RL Date: 26 May, 2012 |
| Who: K'del, Val |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: K'del has something to return to Val. And things to ask of her. |
| Where: Seedy Tavern, High Reaches Area |
| When: Day 18, Month 11, Turn 28 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ali/Mentions, Devaki/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
| Seedy Tavern, High Reaches Area A little ramshackle and moss-grown around the edges, most riders would probably have a fit about the green condition this place is in. Perched on the side of the road between High Reaches Weyr and Crom Hold, this is your typical small waystation comprising a four-walled building with a main room filled with dilapidated tables and chairs, a splintery bar and copious quantities of bad beer. There's a kitchen at the back and a single large room where cots can be set up for sleeping. A small beasthold provideds shelter for up to a half-dozen runners. Not K'del's usual sort of joint, this Tavern, but when you leave your dragon far enough away, and change your clothes and remove your knot, and hey, muss your hair while you're at it... it's nicely anonymous. Cadejoth isn't, of course, in rattling bones and chains and merry enthusiasm in Visigoth's direction, extending a wordless invitation to the brown. Ysavaeth, eggs? They linger in his thoughts, too, in a we-won't-be-away-long kind of sense, but for now: freedom has called. At the bar, K'del takes his chances on another beer, ignoring the flirtations of the bar-wench so that he can watch the game of cards in progress with a critical eye. The big brown's reply is near-instantaneous, the negotiation with his rider's considerably longer, if a matter more of working out details than any real difficulty. When his rider enters, with her clunky boots and man's indigo-dyed trousers, she's got her hair scraped back under a tattered hat and a scar applied artistically down one cheekbone. The boys can play, Visigoth aiming for up high where there's more sun. Val? She tips her hat back a fraction on entering, nodding here and there as she strolls along, though K'del gets a distinctly entertained side-eye once she's bellied up to that bar and seen what he's looking at. Low: "How're they doing?" Expletives precede K'del's more sedate, "Rubbish," a sentiment that no doubt the men at their cards won't appreciate, if they bother to glance up long enough to notice. "Beer? Whisky? Whatever the lady wants--" That last is to the barkeep, who is just now bringing over that second beer, sloshing it over the sides of the glass as he slides it in K'del's direction. Giving Val a sidelong glance, the bronzerider adds, "Got something for you. Courtesy of--" He hesitates, conscious, perhaps, of not seeming too out of place in this environment, "a mutual friend, if you like. Girl who likes shiny things." Val's been angling for better looks at the cards, catching sight of at least two hands before the offer draws her attention and a prompt, "One of each!" The bartender gets a brilliant smile, one that he can see fade as she turns away to K'del but only so it can brighten again. Her lashes fall, and then she's laughing out from under them as they rise, "A present? Is she..." Val can't help but slide closer, on the edge of the stool now with barely-ringed fingers on the bar for unnecessary balance, "Is she pretty? Adorable? Dramatic? A tomboy? Will I like her? Will I just want to do her?" "Pretty sure you've already wanted to do her," is K'del's lazy remark, one that will have to suffice while he wraps ring-less fingers (cast-less, too!) around his drink so that he can draw it towards his mouth. He sips, he makes a face, he sets it back down again (it's really not good beer), he looks back at Val. "She's sweet. Earnest. More capable than her people seem to give her credit for." One eyebrow lifts, inviting her to draw conclusions from that, though he seems aware that it's not much to go by because he adds, "Anyway, she says she just found it, and we'll believe her long enough to accept it, too." Val's sweet-if-filthy mouth rounds, "Have I? Was it back at the other bar," one of so many! "is it jewelry? Is it..." Oh, but finally K'del's done with the beer, and the brownrider waits expectantly, without more than one or two wiggles on the seat. As he speaks, though, her face begins to fall, slowly, like evaporation out of a teetotaler's glass. Eventually, "Just found it... we'll believe her?" Her eyes practically round all of a sudden. "It's not Madilla, is it?" K'del seems to be rather enjoying this game, Val's expression proving vastly more entertaining than the cards he's given up on watching. "Madilla? No, though you're almost on the right track. And yes, we will believe her. Reckon she's got enough on her plate without anyone accusing her of holding on to things that aren't hers." K'del, see? He's free of that burden, now. Free of Boll. Free of - "No? No more guesses? Suppose I can tell you. Show you. Give it to you. But not until--" The booze arrives, one of each, just as she's ordered. "Drink up. It's vile." Not Madilla? Does Val's lower lip grow plump, ever so slightly, under the impression of her teeth? "For a man not wearing his knot," she informs K'del in low tones, "You're acting awfully you-know-what-ly all of a sudden." So she'll abandon the beer and start with a slug of the hard stuff. "Can't help it. Shedding the knot doesn't-- anyone, you're the one who taunted me with a game of yes and no over the identity of my admirer, if you'll recall." K'del is enjoying this far too much, that much is obvious now - his grin is just too broad, too amused. He flicks his fingers at the barkeep again, acquiring himself a shot of the harder liquor, postponing further explanations until he can down it in one. Finally; "She's from further afield. Foreign, if you like, but not really. Should I," he grins, "put you out of your misery, then?" "It should," Val says, as though the phrase were a synonym for It did. "And that was different." She licks the last slick of whisky off the inner edge of the shot glass, just for a ghost of that burn, and turns her shoulder to the bronzerider so as to examine, instead, the beer he's bought her. She shrugs. "'Not really.' Why don't you show me the geegaws and I can guess from there." Val, meanwhile, can drink. Even after the whisky, the look K'del aims at his beer is full of trepidation, as though the memory of it lingers pretty definitely in his tastebuds. Still, he reaches for her, wrapping fingers around the none-too-clean glass for a long moment or two before withdrawing again to fumble within his beltpouch. The item itself is wrapped in an old (but clean!) sock, with a piece of bootlace tied into a bow to, presumably, make it 'pretty'. He hands it over, and, "The wrapping isn't her fault, promise." And here Val had slid a closer look over towards that sock, aiming to assess its proportions. She stops. "Oh." She desultorily holds out her hand, palm up, and lets him plop the thing there before she messes with the lace. But there's something about its weight that has her speeding up, some, and then she catches on, "Oh." It's such a different tone. She pulls out her blade, laying it flat, checking for nicks with only a bare nod at the bartender to let him know, no, not starting a fight. At least, not a knife fight. "So it wasn't lost." Wait for it. Wait for it. K'del's on edge only for a moment or two, though, before that speeding up, and the eventual unveiling, proves his point: he seems pleased. "It was," he corrects, quietly, but firmly. "She found it, and returned it." Eventually. "Said I'd try and get it back, didn't I? May've taken longer than I intended, but - here it is. Looks to me like it's not been damaged or anything. Another shot, to celebrate?" That beer? No, he's not going back to it. "If you say so," Val agrees just a hair too easily, but maybe that's due to her beer, the recipient of her scowl now that she's turned the knife over for further scrutiny and then made it disappear. Her knife. She's not touching the beer again either, but she also hasn't pushed it away. "How did it go yesterday?" Yesterday, the other day, whichever. She's still staring more or less in the direction of her beer, as its foamy head gradually continues to wilt into grayed white smears. And so, K'del gesture to the barkeep again, a man who must be feeling pretty pleased about business, tonight, unless he's getting wary at the ability of this scruffy pair to pay for what they're drinking. "At High Reaches Hold? At Boll?" He keeps his voice low, all the better not to be overheard. "Jivrain's pissed at me, and Devaki," that murderer, "blames us for his people being exiled, because the weyr, back then, followed orders and did what they were paid to do. He's a jumped up little shit, but I kept my cool." It's not like K'del, not really, and he seems to know it, exhaling long and low before he adds, "Our hosts were otherwise pleasant and congenial. A nice day." "So it wasn't a... mutual thing? Why?" Val's too busy avoiding her beer and goggling at K'del to reassure the bartender any. "I thought we had a good thing going. And fuck him if he's going to be that way, he should be counting his blessings he's marrying the Lord's sister instead of holding in the back end of nowhere." Never mind the nice day: the brownrider narrows her eyes at K'del and says, "I know, I know you didn't give the place back to get this back." Though it would be an awfully grand gesture. K'del seems to register only belatedly that any reference to Boll really is going to bring up that question: why? And from his expression, then, he doesn't have an easy answer to it, though at least he's able to postpone the answering as two more sloshing shots are laid down in front of them. He drinks, manages not to choke, and uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, after. "Made a deal with Fort. Give them back Boll for their consideration on something else. Something important." Beat, and: "If she were craftier, I'd think she gave it back to make me want to play nice. But no." He drinks, Val drinks, faster and with a clack of glass to wood, and then she's staring at K'del with her mouth only briefly ajar. "Pay the man, and let's get out. It's only cold out, not wet. Let's... not talk about it in here." She's standing now, not waiting, except long enough to make sure he doesn't get hijacked along the way. Oh yeah. Flying under the radar, incognito. K'del shoots a glance at the barkeep, then, but the man's briefly busy with another patron, and that seems to leave him off the hook. Except to pay, of course: he slides the marks across the bar, catching the man's eye for only a moment, before he's sliding off his own stool and following Val out into the afternoon. Silently. There's packed earth, weeds, a few runners tied up, the smell runners inevitably leave behind, and sky that's actually more blue than gray. But weeds lead to underbrush, and the trail leads to a hill, and along the hill there are rocks big enough to sit on and not get damp. At least, for big enough for Val to sit on. Somewhere along the way, she burps, a grudging thing that has her grumbling about the beer. But then, then she's looking up at the bronzerider, wherever he is. "What's going on, K'del?" It's softer on his name, but there's still that urgent underlay. K'del doesn't sit, even if he could sit: he stands, using both hands to support his lower back, turned away from Val so that he can stare off over the landscape below them. He's been silent as they walk, and is silent now, too, though not perpetually. "I told Ali I'd give Boll back if her Weyrleaders would consider voting my way, with the Weyr Council. With--" He falters, uneasy and uncomfortable. "I intend to petition for the removal of Tiriana, on the basis that she is no longer mentally stable." There. He's said it. She watches the sky, and then she's watching his back, the bones of his back, watching out for his back. Watching his back. There's no reason to conceal cursing now, even though she had in the bar, and yet she's silent for a good long while. "Rielsath will be the first to rise," he continues, finally, having apparently reached the conclusion that Val isn't going to say anything. "And Cadejoth won't chase, not with Ysavaeth around. So we'll have new Weyrleaders. It's not self preservation." "He chased when Iovniath was around." That sentence nearly doesn't have a period to contain it, resting on air, a tentative diminishment of breath. "Ysavaeth isn't Iovniath." K'del's certain of this, though not so certain that he turns around to say it to Val's face. Still: the sky, the hill, the view, they can all see it. "He's hers, the way he was never Iovniath's." The boots don't accept walking as quietly as Val might like, their treads crunching against pebbles as she moves out of sitting and then standing's silence. She might look at his face now, or at least to one side of it, at an angle. "Does it feel like a collar?" she asks, wonderingly. So he's aware of her approach, even though he doesn't turn his face to meet hers. He exhales, instead, staring, boring holes into the horizon with the intensity of his gaze. "Sometimes," is his answer. "It is what it is, though." "Not like you don't try to change things," Val notes. "Evidently." She exhales, her lips pursed, shivering on the edge of a whistle. "What a... that's huge. Why do you think she is? Unstable? More than any goldrider that ever lived?" Now, finally, K'del turns his gaze on Val, and there's something imploring in it as he tries to explain. "She refused to teach Iolene. A goldrider who could end up Weyrwoman someday, and she's never been trained. She tried to fire me, force me out, and then broke my arm when I refused. She hasn't been showing up to formal events, and that's a snub on people. She's - she puts her pride ahead of her weyr. It's not right." "Sometimes weyrwomen make stupid decisions," Val says with the resignation of someone who's used to it, of the chromatic riders who can at least take some little relish at pointing and grumbling at their betters' entertainment. "And formal events," fuck formal events, says her tone. But the rest: "K'del, you didn't tell us, you didn't tell me how that went down." K'del can't deny that charge, and knows all too well, his expression implies, that he's made plenty of bad decisions himself. "I was embarrassed. At being beaten up by my Weyrwoman, and not being able to convince her to train her own goldrider. At - all of it. I've spent so long treading lightly around her, and I'm tired of it. She was the reason Ezalea left. She stole their money. For the weyr, but that's not the point. She stole it. She-- I've put up with too much. It's not right." Oh, K'del-- He's so much taller, but that doesn't stop Val from reaching up to try and hug his shoulder, to pull him down to her, to... something. "You... K'del." He's just a bronzerider. "I don't want you to have to be embarrassed." Still: "Stole whose money?" Should she have that touch of satisfaction that's in her voice, that moment's appreciation of the errant Weyrwoman? K'del, he's easily pulled, now, able to face her without embarrassment (this time), though there's definite helplessness in his expression. He doesn't miss that satisfaction, and his mouth curves wryly as a result of it, but it's not-- "When the meteors fell. I guess that was before you were with us, I think. We were paid for it, and she kept it all, even though they weren't all our meteors. Balen nearly revolted. Tiriana couldn't see a problem with it. It's just--" He's helpless. "I don't even know anymore." "Meteors... falling rocks? You got paid for falling rocks?" Val's eyes do gleam, and if physically shaking her head is what it takes to drive the thought away... when she straightens again, though she's not letting go of K'del just yet, her tone's gotten low and thoughtful. "But people, they can say whatever they want. Dragons... Maybe Ysavaeth could protect Cadejoth, if he wanted to do what she wanted instead of what Iovniath wanted, but what about the rest of us? What could the two of them do?" "Apparently the minecraft like meteors," says K'del, with the quick shrug that implies he doens't really remember, probably doesn't even really care. He watches Val, noting her reactions with eyes that are trying maybe too hard not to show too many of his own thoughts and feelings. "What're you getting at, Val? Speak freely. Do you think I'm doing the wrong thing?" This time, when she shakes her head, it's a short gesture accompanied with a backward step, her hand trailing down not to catch at K'del's but to tug at his sleeve, straightening before she lets go. "I just don't know, K'del. It's crazy but it's every boyrider's dream, right? But if Iovniath does not want to go, who would or could stop her? It's like... you could make F'reen wingleader instead of Mielline, but even if people would follow him to take a piss even, there's no way we'd listen to Hofrinth." None of these are ideas that are particularly helping K'del, honesty or no honesty. His nod is a reluctant one, his exhaled breath long and low. "I don't know," he says, quietly. "But something needs to happen. Something has to change. Love High Reaches too much to let her destroy what I've worked for." Val presses her lips together, then kicks at a rock. The boots may be loud, but that rock speeds off with a satisfying smack, and her toes aren't even dented. "Fair enough. And she's Telgar anyway," says the brownrider from Benden. "Either way, something will change, yeah?" She hesitates. "Iolene seems like a sweet girl, but can Rielsath sit on her queen? What do you think?" "Something," agrees K'del. "Either I'll be out of a job, or Tiriana will. Can't go on with both of us, that's for sure." He turns his gaze back towards the horizon, watching it silently for long moments before finally concluding, "I don't know. Just - no idea. No idea what's going to happen." And it worries him. He shoots a glance back at Val, suddenly thoughtful: "Can you help me out? Keep an eye on Io? And... you know, if you felt like it. Help me out in general." Hint. Hint. Hint. The other rocks survive Val's wrath, for now: she's watching the same horizon K'del is, at least until she begins to turn, slowly, seeing what there is to be seen. At his question, though... somehow, that lightens her smile, for all that she doesn't look back. "I suppose I could. Under the circumstances." And they'll remember each other when that revolution comes. |
Leave A Comment