Logs:Where To Take This
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| RL Date: 2 July, 2012 |
| Who: N'rov, K'varl |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'rov wants to know the former Boll heir's thoughts on the Weyr's rocky relationship with their former Hold, and the recent troubles befalling the Weyr. |
| Where: Southern Boll |
| When: Day 14, Month 2, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Jivrain/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: K'varl played by Ali |
| Home. Oh, it's the peninsula's deserted tip, not near the Hold proper where N'rov has lived all his life, and it's even more windy than warm this time of Turn... but it's marked as Southern Boll on the maps he's long memorized, and today that makes the difference. Perhaps those very breezes that mess with his hair have crossed such a distance as to have played with his mother's or brother's too, as dark and curly as his own; he can imagine it so, at least. Perhaps K'varl will come. He doesn't imagine that, not with Zihanth as flighty as she is and K'varl as reserved as /he/ is, but for the moment he doesn't imagine alternatives either. They'll come, or they won't. In the meantime it's not so bad to sit on a sunwarmed boulder with his back against another, and watch his ocean's waves froth in and out against the white, sandy shore, while his dragon plays in those same waves like the dragonet he was such a short time ago. His hat's tipped forward against the sun. Even now, he shouldn't burn. Long enough time passes that N'rov may well begin to suspect he'll be enjoying the weather solo today, at least. Finally, something impinges on his awareness -- maybe Vhaeryth feels a familiar touch of his clutchmates' presence, or some movement catches his attention. The pair are gliding in, low, sweeping from inland -- so either they betweened to a point nearby and took a stealthy approach, or perhaps Zihanth simply enjoys the leisurely flight from Boll. K'varl's without his helmet, enjoying the sun himself, it would seem, and he tugs off his goggles only after he slips from Zihanth's back, a gloved hand patting the dark green's hide. /She's/ aloft in an instant, soaring out over those blustery ocean winds, curiosity drawing her closer to where Vhaeryth challenges those waves. "N'rov," the former Bollian heir greets, leaning a foot against the rock his clutchmate reclines against. "I'd hoped for a cake, or /something/, sad to say it's not my Turnday. Did my grandfather put you up to this?" It's all spoken lightly, though naturally there's an air of weary suspicion in his voice. Vhaeryth's stilled upon sensing Zihanth's approach, if briefly, the saltwater foaming sharply against his neckridges... and then between them, releasing him to coast again. He floats, buoyant, letting the waves raise him and drop him like so many winds. There's no hurry. He even waits until she's in sight to greet her, a flash of lighthearted welcome, if one not unalloyed with a hint of rider's tension and his own humor: if the humans would just swim in such waters, perhaps all their troubles might be pounded out of them. N'rov, though, lifts gray eyes from K'varl's boot, his smile slower to find his mouth. "Only a little fruit. I'm not sure what use you'd have for any gifts of mine. And no, he's had nothing to do with it; would you like to see?" It's a quicksilver thing that Vhaeryth presses to Zihanth as a present: sincerity, bright and swift as a fish. K'varl's brow furrows as he stares at N'rov, even as Zihanth dives down-- in the process of accepting whatever gift Vhaeryth might be bestowing her. The cut of the Bollian Blood's gaze towards the water just moments before the green veers off is, perhaps, telling. There's a hint of disgruntled frustration from the small green, before she twists and dives into the water instead. "I've errands to be running, as I'm sure you do as well, N'rov. Out with it." He's brusque, but not outright rude, at least -- he's still waiting, possibly for the other shoe to drop. N'rov watches K'varl or, more to the point, watches K'varl watch his green. Perhaps Vhaeryth can keep her occupied, and in so doing, keep /both/ of them occupied so the young men can talk. In the meantime, his hands go up to link behind the back of his neck, bracing his tipped-back head, anything but closed. "Now that it's harder to look like we're colluding," he says, leaving a pause there to fill with memories of those people /watching/ them, watching to see if they sat too close at a table or said anything to each other at all, "I thought I'd see what you have in mind." "What I have in mind?" K'varl echoes that statement with just enough lilt at the end to turn it into a query. "Where to go from here. Where to take this." N'rov's still looking at him, and now he says, "We could keep dancing, so I'll stay this instead: I don't like how things got messed up between our Hold and this Weyr. I don't want people to /screw/ it up again. Do you want to do anything about that too, or... I'd understand, you know, if you wanted to just disappear in the wings. To get out from under your grandfather's thumb." K'varl's jaw clenches, and his foot slips from its perch on the rock as his gaze refocuses on the horizon. "Anything /I/ do is closely watched. Either by the Weyr or my grandfather. Even if I /wanted/ to I /couldn't/." His gaze flickers, briefly, to where Zihanth surfaces beneath the waves, then ducks away again. There's, perhaps, a fleeting hint of resentment, but he's too well schooled to let it show for more than a heartbeat or two. "My grandfather... he's a good man. He wants- has always wanted what's best for the Hold. /I/ wanted that too. Before." Before... Zihanth? Sympathy's not foreign to N'rov's face, but its lingering is. It doesn't now either, not for long, not solely for the other man's sake. "I wish you'd gotten to train /with/ us, not gotten singled out," he says in a low voice, looking neither at sky nor at sea. "K'varl... what do you want now?" For the former, K'varl seems rather unbothered- it's the latter statement of the bronze weyrling's that earns the Blood's attention. "What do /I/ want? I don't have much choice. I can't become Lord Boll after my grandfather, anymore. I'm no Lord Jaxom." A hint of derision, perhaps, there. "You sound like the Weyrlingmaster. I suppose my rote answer would be some sort of Wingleader, or /something/, but I was raised to /Hold/." He regards N'rov a moment longer. "Why? What do /you/ want, N'rov?" "No," no Jaxom. Although there's a moment when N'rov's mouth curves, where for a moment he might be /imagining/ it, what with the other weyrling so dramatically silhouetted against the sky and all. "It's a comedown for you, I know, being a..." greenrider? "rider. Me, I'm still figuring things out. I want to see what's out there in the world that I never saw before. I'd have thought I'd be happy never seeing this place again. But when those tithes went missing, that struck me /wrong/." "You remembered your ties of birth only afterwards?" K'varl suggests, rubbing a hand over his chin. "So... you want to be a hero, N'rov? Solve the crime, save the day? If you want the insider information from me, my grandfather /didn't steal them./" There's a heat to his words, like a phrase oft repeated and just as surely believed. "I know he didn't." N'rov's hands aren't so casually linked behind his head now, but rather braced against the rock beneath him, tension pushing the lines of his muscles into relief. "A man I know was with the train. He said it was all there when they left. I believe him. So you don't need to convince me." It was probably difficult to tell that K'varl, too, was totally tensed up, until he releases it all in one breath, hand tugging through his hair. "Good," he says, with a breath of relief that speaks of someone long used to fighting a very different sort of opinion. "So you, and I, believe it. Both of Boll. Now, if only we could get someone /else/, one of the Weyrleaders, to believe it." N'rov's slower to relax, even relatively, though somehow his features are less shadowed beneath the hat. He pushes himself up, slowly, until he's just about standing next to his fellow weyrling: just a touch of a lean against that grounding rock. Just enough to keep him shorter than the other man. "Yes," he says flatly. "And what's more? I worry that this latest is going to get blamed on Boll too. The attack on N'muir, on his daughter. The straps, the firelizards, all of that." "I-" K'varl pauses, then looks, really /looks/, at N'rov. "I doubt even the Weyr could stretch blame that far, given the boy was of Fort Weyr's upbringing." Still, he's frowning now, looking unhappy at the very /suggestion/. Zihanth's in the air again, diving close to the water and flying upwards again, and as K'varl's glance flickers towards, her, she wings up further still, a shadow passing over them briefly and blocking out the sun. "Well, if you've any influence, N'rov, I'd suggest you work on avoiding that conclusion." N'rov may not naturally take well to being stared at, but he holds still, just one deeper breath like a nervy runner. "Perhaps he was indeed doing it all on his own," he offers neutrally, not as though he really believes it. As Zihanth rises, Vhaeryth sinks again beneath the waves, though gradually the tide draws him inward, closer. It's during that moment of shade that N'rov shuts his eyes, just for that moment, opening them again when the sun is returned to him. "I... All I can do is talk to people, and the main thing is not putting it in any more heads. Right now, it seems like they're as likely to believe that the Weyrwoman's behind it. But of course it wouldn't all be said to my face." Or K'varl's, except perhaps to get his goat. "Anyhow. I know you're in a bind, and if there's something you want a hand with... even if it's just smuggling in a basket of your mother's fruit rolls," his mother's cook's fruit rolls, "let me know." A long moment of silence, and K'varl watches Zihanth settle nearby. Even on the ground the green shows a restlessness that is, perhaps, borne of her dam. "Perhaps I will," he says, noncommittal for the time being, but at least he holds out a hand to N'rov by way of parting handshake. "If nothing else," N'rov says wryly, "It's just plain good to talk to someone who doesn't talk funny." His handshake's firmer for a moment, right at the end, and then he sinks back against the stone. And although he watches for their departure, his attention stays on K'varl: not, for more than a moment, on Zihanth's lines and the precise shade of her hide. Not for more than a moment, or two. That earns a brief, if honestly amused smile from the young greenrider. Oh, Zihanth looks perfectly normal. But then their dragons are only just on a Turn, and she doesn't appear to be an early riser. K'varl, for his part, doesn't notice the scrutiny or doesn't seem particularly bothered by it - perhaps it's something he's well used to - climbing atop the green's neck and only pausing long enough to put on his goggles before the dragon leaps aloft. |
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