Logs:Wingseconds of the World UNITE!
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| RL Date: 16 September, 2014 |
| Who: H'kon, Savartha |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Telgar Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: H'kon gets in touch with an old friend to investigate the diverting of skybroom. |
| Where: Random waystation, Igen area |
| When: Day 28, Month 10, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| Storyteller: K'del/ST |
| OOC Notes: Relating back to Logs:Diverted, albeit some time thereafter. |
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| There are waystations all throughout both Telgar and High Reaches territory, stations at which dragonriders from either Weyr aren't commonplace, nor are they a shock. H'kon has chosen none of these, nor those where their presence might make bigger news, nor even those where riders are commonplace. H'kon has chosen a place not in either Weyr's coverage, where the desert's dryness threatens to suck moisture straight out of northern riders, and where most riders come in Igen garb. He's not gone so far as to don local dress, of course, and he only looks out of place by virtue of being strange. But unless a sailor leaving Big Bay for the river southeast of Telgar feels particularly observant today, and gossipy tomorrow, it's unlikely the presence of a High Reaches wingsecond will get back to anyone - rightdoers or wrong - back home. So here H'kon waits, at this table, with a glass of whiskey untouched at his fingertips, and Arekoth well enough away to keep burden beasts from panicking, but near enough that he might be a beacon for the blue he's searching for in the clear Igen skies. It's true that Asvrath is close enough in hue to those skies that he could blend in to them, if only he tried; he doesn't try, though. He doesn't panic the beasts by diving at them, or announcing his presence loudly, but he's unmistakably there... unmistakably here. Showcasing his aerial stamina only takes a few moments, perhaps reined in by his rider's more sensible presence; then, the pair join Arekoth, Asvrath's tawny-hair rider nodding once before she strides, loose-limbed towards H'kon. She's keen-eyed; Savartha is known for her ambition, her diligence, her drive. H'kon knows all these things about her; this is why it was Asvrath that Arekoth first reached to, that he greets now with a jovial, « Spoilsports, » and a shrug of his wings that prompts their re-settling on his back. It's why H'kon raises only green eyes in greeting to Savartha, and waits for her to take her seat. When the boy comes to the table, it's with her drink already in hand. "Some while," comes from the brownrider while that boy is still within earshot, before he's reached the other end of the room once more. « The spoil-iest, » agrees Asvrath, breezy and unbothered, his own wings adjusted just-so, his tail brought to curl around his legs. « How are you, Arekoth? You and yours certainly chose a peculiar location! » It's not to Asvrath's taste, clearly. Savartha's hands are folded in front of her, resting upon the table, as she rolls her shoulders back and nods - just once - to the brownrider across the table. The smile she gives the boy delivering her drink is brighter than the one H'kon gets, though the latter is more interested; more intent. "Some while," she agrees. "Some long while." « Sand's just hot, sharp snow, » the brown offers, his head canting to look the place over. He yawns. « No complaints on our part. It's sunny at home. » For now. « You? » The corner of H'kon's mouth pulls, straight back. He keeps his eyes on Savartha a moment longer, then looks from his drink, untouched, to hers. Next, gaze flicks up, taking in his environs, as much as he can in an instant. His fingertips close around his glass. "Why we called you, first." The pause is for confirmation from the bluerider, before he proceeds. « Sandballs, » muses Asvrath. « Sandmen. Sandforts. I'm not sold. » He shares an image of himself as lord over a desert - and then an alternative, wherein he is lord of snow-covered mountains, as far as the eye can see. Better. Much better. « Windy, at Telgar. Good for the wings. » Savartha raises fair brows, gesturing with her drink towards the other Wingsecond. "Speak on." « We've got the seas for that. » Brown wings extend, slowly, every muscle flexing. « And the mountains. And the plateaus. » Wings dropping, slowly back down as he goes on with his list, « And the fields. And the foothills... » "Skybroom," says H'kon, low, flat. "Turning off from the major supply trains between Telgar and Crom. Not Alpine's usually sweep area, but we've had a rider who has watched in Crom's region. I don't believe it's an anticipated thing. Nor reflected in the manifests that do reach that Hold. Those manifests should be the same ones which leave Telgar..." Green eyes on her again when he pauses. "And we have not heard of any activity known in the northern range that might warrant the diversions." Sitting back, "But it is not our territory." Savartha is more taciturn with H'kon than she is with others; taciturnity breeds taciturnity, with the bluerider, and today is no different. She steeples her fingers, bypassing her drink in order to give H'kon a considering glance; long and lingering and just a little too impassive for it to be anything other than a deliberate front. "Crom," she says, finally, "Is an interesting territory, for your Weyr and mine, shared as it is. Do you imagine plots, H'kon? Wood-fuelled plots?" « We've mountains. Fields, too, and foothills. Perhaps no seas, » but of these, Asvrath is dismissive. Who needs seas, when one has plains? "I try not to imagine anything too complex." Amusement comes expressed in a few lines at the corner of one eye, a twitch in the brownrider's cheek. "Perhaps it is accounted for somewhere. Just not in what we see. This is merely caution." H'kon's fingertips tap-tap, two touches, to the sides of his glass. The amusement is gone, his brow furrowed. "There was a time in recent memory that supplies moved irregularly, and it took some time for that to settle itself, even with Weyr intervention." Frown. "Albeit that was no road off in the mountains." « Maybe, » muses Arekoth, « They're going to build a big skybroom... runner or something. Wheel it across the plains. Take Crom by force! Or, » let it not be said the brown is not equitable, « Telgar. » « Or fill it with men to surprise them in the night, » concludes Asvrath, for surely this is a story that has made its way to Pern, albeit (no doubt) in a modified form. « Crom smells funny, all that firestone. Who would want Crom? » Aside from Telgar. And High Reaches. Obviously. "Caution," confirms Savartha. "I'll have our wing keep an eye out." The glint in her eye suggests she is certainly imagining plots... plots to be foiled by her people, leaving her covered in glory - a Wingleader in the making. "I don't trust Aughan. Does anyone? And that makes anything unusual in the area... suspicious." « Wiley, » says Arekoth, knowingly, sagely. « Dragons. » It takes a bit, but the brown is able to burp, as if that should prove some sort of point. It makes his chest puff, proudly, that accomplishment. "I'd hoped," suspected, "you would," says H'kon. "And if you need our assistance..." Tap-tap. He makes a frown, this one, pensive. "I imagine I can guide Y'rel's intentions if need be. But our focus has been Nabol. Since... Nabol." There is the beginning of a smile for that, but it's thin, and short-lived even in so slight a form. He studies the bluerider a moment, and then, at last, lifts his glass. The burp makes Asvrath snort, remantling his wings as if to shake off the distastefulness (except that it's funny, too, of course) of it all. Accomplishment? Please. "You can't just focus on one hold," remarks Savartha, turning her glass upon the table - once circle, then a second, and then she lifts it in acknowledgement towards the brownrider. "Seriously, I mean. It's limiting. Broaden your horizons. We'll call on you, if we need to. When we need to." She smiles; it's a promise, however silent, that she won't attempt to take all the credit... despite the wingleader knots and kudos clearly dancing in front of her eyes. "We are branching out. It's what had us in Crom." There's a note of disatisfaction in it, a light note, but one nonetheless. "At any rate, Crom is the best a High Reaches wing could do for you, in this matter. Just the one hold." At long last, the glass makes the trip between where it's been hovering before his face, to his lips. "When you need." Now, H'kon is looking her over again, looking this time for differences, changes, still alert, but less formal. Arekoth mimics the wing shuffle, and looks, and feels, very pleased with himself. « That would make sense, » comes after some moments, to let that feeling die down. « That they'd have to hide a big runner like that in the mountains. On those plains of yours it would stand out like a lone bronze's rider in a gold flight. » Inside, the brownrider's mouth twitches. Savartha has noted that dissatisfaction, eyes keen and interested, though there's no change to the fine line of her mouth. "And," is a little belated, "If there's anything you need from us..." She's unapologetic, though, about wanting the glory. Swirling her drink, she drops her gaze towards it, focusing for a few seconds before her attention is back upon the brownrider. "Have you got your eye on the bigger knot, H'kon?" she wonders, then. « I've never seen a gold flight with only a single bronze. A single brown, maybe, but... » Browns, pfft. Asvrath has no time for any of them... except that Arekoth is, presently, entertaining. « Perhaps it should be a skybroom dragon. I wonder if they could make flame come out of his mouth. Not as fun as our flame, but... acceptable. » « I have. » Pride, puffed right into the brown's chest. "If there is anything I think requires your assistance, then we will find you again." There's a glint of triumph there, for all that Arekoth and Asvrath are ever only a thought away from one another. H'kon lifts his glass again, drinks, and furrows his brow as the glass meets the table again. "I can see that knot well enough on Y'rel's shoulder." The furrow deepens, and there's a certain recitation behind, "Arekoth and I will always serve the Weyr as it needs us, of course. But-" he settles, thoughtful for a moment. And then, at last, gives one nod, satisfied with however much has been said on the matter. « Until they light themselves on fire. » She laughs, eyes rolling; head shaking. "You're a laugh, H'kon," she says, but it's affectionate enough, in its way. "Well, all the more promotion for me, maybe. If only it worked that way. Was there anything else, or should I rouse that blue of mine again? He's all twitchy." He's not; he's having a wonderful time. « Fire, » he says, contentedly. « At least that would be interesting to watch, eh? » « More interesting watching them try to put it out. » "Be certain to let your weyrleader know, then, that the limited knot supply will not be co-opted by High Reaches." H'kon is a laugh. Only his suggestion of that same comes in the lift of an eyebrow. He flicks a finger in the direction of Savartha's glass. "That is all I have of business. Though you may wish to finish that." A beat. "Or demonstrate," and he glances quickly out over the rest of the room, the glance itself more indication than inspection, "some clear reason not to." Savartha laughs anyway - laughs, and then rolls her eyes merrily. "You're funny," she says, in that way that suggests she thinks he's anything but, really. "I could throw it in your face," is offered of the drink, though she lifts it towards her mouth instead; perhaps she's decided that making a scene is a bad idea. "In that case, you should tell me what's what at High Reaches. News, H'kon. We'll have to play at being old, gossipy biddies." « Fire, » repeats Asvrath, clearly more interested in this as a broad concept than in considering the particulars. « I like a good fire. » "News," repeats H'kon, and the corner of his mouth pulls down. "News is that High Reaches has a weyrleader now, and properly. There has been some rotation in wing leadership, though nothing shocking. Nabol is settled but poor." Those three things, and he's left with eyes moving faintly as he searches for anything more. "Perhaps best you throw your drink," is dry. « Belch-fires or all fires? » Arekoth is playful, now. "Your news," despairs Savartha, "is boring. I know all that. I have ears." It's enough that she considers her drink, as if truly debating the merits of throwing it. Instead, she says: "Our new Weyrleader has been making changes. Big ones. It turns out it pays to convince him you're loyal to him, above anyone else; who'd'a'thought it, right? I hear he's schtupping Prinavi... she's my clutchmate. Never liked her, much." « Belch-fires are excellent, » declares Asvrath, the Telgar-born and High Reaches/Igen bred blue. « But all are good. Ish. You take what you can get. » "Some news," answers H'kon with a shrug, watching Savartha carefully, "is." But he listens to her, tilting his drink up to finish what's in the glass, purposefully. "Are you, then? Loyal to him?" Arekoth stretches out that one leg of his carefully, and shuffles his wings along his back. « I suppose you have to. Ever seen a burning forest? » There's a memory of a crackle through his mind, too similar to the imagery he (sometimes) shares to be a certain suggestion of so large a fire. For a moment, Savartha's smile is all teeth. "I can be loyal to anyone who'll get me ahead," she tells H'kon, cheerfully. "Or... I can pretend it, anyway. It's a game. Isn't everything?" Her own drink is drained then, too; deliberate, certainly, but still without ostensible hurry. « Oh yes, » says Asvrath, though can he be sure? Except: « My Savartha is woodcraft-bred. I remember. » Borrow. Remember. They're one and the same, right? "Time to go?" "There are many who see it that way." A point that once might've been argued with the bluerider is now left alone. Force of experience. But H'kon manages a thin smile, as much for the finishing of her drink as any words spoken. « You would, » agrees Arekoth, a thin response that comes without much int he way of probing or borrowing from H'kon. But surely the brown knows what he's talking about. "Time," agrees H'kon, standing. He's got the drinks covered, at least. A little dip of his head to Savartha. "Thank you for seeing me." The smile that answers H'kon is equally one of long exposure and experience; Savartha's well aware of their differences, and plainly amused by it. "Thank you for bringing it to me," is genuine. "No doubt we'll be in touch, mm?" For now, though, there's nothing more to be said: just a smile, before she saunters away, back to her blue - and back to home. « Burn well, » says Asvrath, as they depart. « Burn well. » "Indeed." Even, "I look forward to it." And while H'kon waits for someone to pay, Arekoth offers Asvrath a cheerful farewell of, « Stay frosty. » |
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