View source for Logs:Plottin', Plannin', Drinkin'

{{Log
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|type=Log
| who = C'wlin, N'hax
| where = N'hax's Pad
| what = Pirates inspire a plan of interro--questioning.  The boys plot.  There's whiskey.  'Nuff said.
| when = Day 27, Month 11, Turn 31
|day=27
|month=11
|turn=31
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
| gamedate = 2013.05.29
| quote = Jhorinth kind of ... sunk one of the ships.
| weather = A layer of patch clouds covers the sky. The air feels cool and damp, but there is no rainfall today. 
| categories = 
| mentions = Quinlys, D'kan, Devaki, Aishani, Taikrin, Azaylia, H'kon, Madilla, Z'ian, PIRATES!!, K'del
| ooc = 
| icons = c'wlin_gloating.png, n'hax wtfery.png
| log = Half-Finished Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
The couch looks like some ages-past worker began on it and gave up halfway: the end by the ledge is deep and smooth, while the other is shallow and as rough as the cold stone floor. Even inside, no one has taken the time to smooth out the rough patches on walls and floor; were there furniture inside, it would wobble and tilt every which way on the uneven surface. Though the ledge is broad, the room inside is only about three quarters of that width. Even the ceiling has a feel of never having been completed: it barely hits six feet high, well below the usual standard for dwellings. At least the weyr's free of dust and debris--in fact, it doesn't look like anyone's ever lived here before at all.
Contents:
N'hax
Obvious exits:
Ledge 
------------------------------

You can certainly tell a Smith in one aspect - the aspect of dwelling. N'hax had a few sidelong looks when he chose this particular weyr, but one thing is absolutely certain: how it was when he got it isn't how it will be when he's DONE with it. The man is clothed in rough work gear, and his gloved hands are wielding a chisel and hammer as if he was born to it. Well.. maybe he was. Jhorinth isn't on his ledge, but rather interesting things are happening to the entire area around the ledge and weyr -- already the ledge itself has been expanded by some two feet by prodigous removal of stone in a semi-circle around the entrance to the weyr inside. Currently N'hax is working on widening the weyr to fit the broad ledge, dust and debris and rock-chips falling around him.

Rukbat's slow ascent into the morning sky sees a cool autumn morning with bright skies shining through a patch of clouds, diffusing the normally buttery yellow light.  Athimeroth does a swinging drop by which leaves C'wlin standing, alone, on the newly remodeled ledge.  As the bronze flies away -- likely seeking out the highest point of the weyr's seven spindles -- the bronzerider gives the ledge one last, approving look before ducking inside.  "Smith-y," he sing-songs, calling out the name that lives in the space of 'internal joke'.  "Where are youuuuuu?"  Not too much sing-song is given lest it give too much away of his /voice/ which N'hax is /well aware of/ how much he detests.  "You are one busy little vtol, aren't you?"  This once-harper stays clear of the debris.

"Little harpist," N'hax returns in droll turn of call-and-response with the long experience of one familiar with a particular inside-joke. Grey eyes flicker askance behind safety goggles - wait, are those his RIDING goggles? Well. If they work, they work. Hax positions his next strike in a way that sends stone scrapnel scattering towards C'wlin. "When I'm done, this is going to be the most ridiculously fantastic weyr to ever grace this side of High Reaches," N'hax states with satisfaction in his tone. He shifts a glance over. "I'm also going to throw one hell of a weyrwarming, once it's... done." Which may be TURNS from now.

C'wlin snorts, but good-naturedly, before jumping back as stone shrapnel comes flying. "''N'hax''!! What the shards, man?!" Tenor screeches upwards on that last syllable before he's diving out of the way and shooting Hax a (not so) dirty look. "Trying to kill me and all I'm doing is dropping by to see how you're settling in." He surveys the chaos, "Which seems to be well. Weyrwarming party, huh? Invite all the pretty girls." A sharp-little grin is flashed, a little too snake-like to be robustly comforting. "I have a pole in mine." By now, N'hax is allllll too aware of this. "I heard you saved the day with the pirates." Why wasn't C'wlin there? "Too bad I had to hold down the fort here." It's unclear, but there was a really good reason at the time!

"What the shards? Didn't you get some? I tried to send you some. Shards. You know." N'hax's expression is angelic, a touch of humor lying just beneath. "You can invite all of the pretty girls to ''your'' weyr. They'll invite themselves to mine." It's less of a boast and more of a matter-of-fact statement, probably because several have already done so. "I'm not sure if you could say that I saved the day," he replies, working at removing chunks in a pattern that only he can see -- for the moment. "Quinlys did most of the hard work. Coordinating all of it. Olveraeth did very well, considering he didn't have any training for that... kind of thing."

"I got enough, ''thank you''," C'wlin mutters, kicking away some of the debris.  Icy blue eyes roll when N'hax comments on girls coming to his weyr, "You man-whore."  Still, it's not said with rancor.  Wandering closer to get a better look at what N'hax is ''doing'', he continues.  "That's the story I'd tell, Hax.  Why not claim some credit for saving the day?"  A sly look is shot N'hax'wards.  "Quinlys is a good weyrlingmaster," the harper-boy gives her that.  "So..." he pokes at some of the work N'hax is doing, "... what did the pirates ''want'', anyway?  Targetted attack at the Lord Holder announcement?"

"Could have fooled me," N'hax cheerfully returns to C'wlin's got-enough comment. He gives a mild shrug of his shoulders at being a man-whore; a man's ... gotta eat? Ahem. "Well," a bit embarassed at this - a rare emotion on the big man's face - "Jhorinth kind of ... sunk one of the ships." Beat. "It was already sinking! But he ... kind of helped." Evasive, N'hax pauses, eyes the pattern of chippage he's managed to build, and turns his chisel about to just SO and gives a gentle-solid-gentle-SOLID set of tapping, so that a chunk MUCH bigger than the ones before pops out of the grooves he'd set around it. It barely misses his toes, but it doesn't seem to bother him overmuch. "You'd have to ask the pirates, I guess." Generic Political Answer #1, DELIVERED.

"Wish I could have seen it."  Is that sharp jealousy in the bronzerider's tone?  Nah, couldn't be.  C'wlin can't help but pat N'hax on the back -- of course at the right moment when N'hax could be chiseling away -- and say, "Good job, then.  See?  Saved the day.  Own up to it, Hax!"  Encouragement from one of the most self-entitled folks surely is encouraging, right?  "I would if I knew them."  The boy seems almost serious.  Maybe he is.

N'hax shoots an irritated glance at C'wlin as if suddenly ''remembering'' something. "You would have done some good had you been there when the drum codes ran in. The grammar here is hideous - absolutely atrocious." He'll be brushing up with his grandfather no doubt, if he hasn't already. A hint of nostalgia hits his voice. "If only they ''would'' let us interr... interview them." Between C'wlin's cruelty and N'hax's innovation, they would be one hell of a inquisition team. He shakes his head and goes to grab a footstool, stepping up and starting to work on the seam where roof meets wall, widening and deepening the ceiling interior.

Just imagine C'wlin with a bow and arrow.  A touch of eagerness alights upon the bronzerider's features, but dissolves when reality crashes in.  No way they're getting near those pirates.  "Like I said, I wish I could have been there."  He pauses, watching N'hax -- never expect C'wlin to ''offer'' to help, even if he would ''be'' no help -- "I bet I could have done it better."  Not quite boast as there's enough truth in that statement to sink a ship.  (Or so he perceives, anyway.)  "What happened to the pirates?  They get away?  Or did they get caught?"  Or die.  Dying's an excellent option, here.

N'hax wouldn't let many of his old apprentices work on his living space -- C'wlin is good companionship, not workmanship. His scornful look is rather un-politic, a strangeness on N'hax's typically-genial face. "I'm ''sure'' you could have done it better." Sar. Casm. "At least where sinking the ship was concerned. You'd have done it deliberately." His eyes roll in good humor, and he switches chisels, the last one having gone blunt and useless. "I have no idea what happened to the pirates. Quinlys gathered us up and sent us home before we had time to well and truly snoop." And he well-and-truly sounds regretful at that.

C'wlin snorts, amused.  However, he bathes in Sar. Casm. on a regular basis.  REVELS IN IT.  Ahem.  "Say..." Now the younger bronzerider leans against N'hax's wall, like rubbing his scent ALL OVER his friend's place.  "Wouldn't it be rather awesome if we just... you know."  Pause.  Pregnant pause.  Pregnant pause that gives birth to: "Scouted about for those pirates?"  To ''interrogate''.  "I'm curious what these 'pirates'," the boy air-quotes, "wanted.  What if they weren't pirates at all?  What if it was a GRAND SCHEME to take over High Reaches?  Or a decoy while something else happened."  Harper's are good at the dramatic pause; C'wlin no different.  DUN DUN DUN.

Tap-a-tapping slows (slowly) to a halt, N'hax considering the rough wall in front of him with the look of a man who doesn't quite see what he's focused on. "We... could," the noise comes cautious, but thoughtful. "We'd have to hide our dragons." Since Ath and Jhor are kind of ... large? "I wonder if we could find our way through the Hold. We could always pass ourselves off," beat, "As Harpers." There's a gleam of amusement in grey eyes as Hax glances over his shoulder to C'wlin, challenge writ across the broad plains of his face.

"I bet we could," C'wlin comments, "find our way through the Hold.  Our dragons," who are large, "can stay far enough to the outskirts that we could say we were practicing our lessons just outside of the weyr."  Almost visibly whirling, the harper-boy's mental gears are at play here as they SCHEME.  "Harper -- we could do that.  Say we are there to get their 'official' story for the Hall."  Teeth nibble his bottom lip.  "I might even can forge an official signature."  Maybe, that part is dubious at best.  "So long as we don't get ''caught'', we'll be fine."  Confidence in spades.

"I'm sure I could get gramps to help us, if we needed ..." And there's a curl of lip, bemused, "... official sanctions." By-the-book N'hax? Plotting devilry and intrigue of THIS scale? C'wlin is such a bad influence. :( Needless to say, it doesn't take long for the young man to shake his head and laugh aloud. "We'd never make it. And if we were caught..." But then a look crosses his face - a very interesting one - and he ducks his chin, lowering his tools a scant handswidth. "It may be worth it." And what praytell would change his mind? (Politics, of course.)

"Then between the two of us, we have multiple ways to be legit," C'wlin plots, "At least on the surface."  He ''is'' a bad influence!  "Of course it's worth it," the once-harper comments, "''If'' we don't get caught.  We need a really good plan for getting ''in'' and then getting right back ''out'', again.  I don't fancy being held in some Hold's dungeons," do they even have those?  "While the Athimeroth tears the place down around the negotiations between the Weyr Leadership."  Change N'hax's mind?  C'wlin waits for the Smith to mull over whatever thoughts the man has -- patience yields far more than just pushing for someone to reveal ''all'' their thoughts!

"I'd like to see them try," throwing N'hax into a dungeon. "Jhorinth would rescue us. He's a touch smarter than your antsy lark. Find someone Blooded and hold them ransom for our return." He would, too. "There is a very pertinent line of question that will also need to be hammered out," pardon the pun, "Before we go haring off." At this he does turn to stand half-squared to C'wlin's location. "If we find something out - something critical - who do we take it to?" His eyebrows rise with significance.

"Athimeroth is highly intelligent," C'wlin pops, "They'd both rescue us or bring down the hold. Besides, I suspect both of us could fight our way out of it if we had to."  Obviously, with the big guy in front and the little guy taking pot-shots from the back.  "I suppose this is where we figure out which side of the fence we're on, eh?"  Shoving his hands into his pockets, "We pick who's the most likely to be a strategic victor?  Or do we pick the ones with the heart for the weyr?  Or."  Here brows raise, though N'hax might have scruples, "Do we sell the information at cost?"

"And by 'both of us' you mean 'me'," N'hax barbs back with amusement. The ethical question -- well, past the morality issues that they CLEARLY don't have -- does draw him to a stop, and he shakes his head, settling down his tools for the moment and moving deeper into the (admittedly shallow) weyr. Around a curve in the wall lies a hollow with a makeshift bed of scattered pillows and covers, and a wooden clothespress that he opens to take out a bottle of something and two small glasses. He seats himself on the (slanted) ground and stares out the mouth of the ledge to the spires beyond, obviously in thought. "I don't trust Taikrin." Beat. "Or H'kon." Beat. "Or K'del." Who the hell does that leave? He doesn't even bother addressing the idea of ''selling'' information.

Quiet.  A limb is broached.  "There's one I'd trust."  Simple statement that's affected in the cautious way C'wlin holds himself.  Whether or not the 'I trust' statement is ''true'' or not is negotiable, but... At least insofar as this conversation goes, it holds true.  Does he say?  Not yet.  Waitin' on N'hax.

"Oh?" is queried, uptick of eyebrow. Mexican standoff; N'hax isn't talking. Yet.

"Mmm-hmmm."  C'wlin isn't afraid of a stand off.  You first.

"If there's one you would trust, and I've said that there are three that I don't, I think you'd best just say it." N'hax isn't afraid to make subtexts explicit, either. Awww bromance.

"Mmmm."  C'wlin considers.  "Quinlys."  Pause.  "Madilla."  Seems a little too quickly given to have been his original person in mind, but still truth ''enough''.

"Quinlys is a cheat-y answer. It wasn't your first pick. Besides, anything we tell her will go right back to Taikrin and Aishani. Don't get me wrong, I love the curve of her ass, but I'm not sure if I trust her to... not be her."

C'wlin laughs. "I've given up two I'd trust, you want a third. Hmmm." Another cheat-y answer comes up: "D'kan. Even if he's not in power." Tap, tap, tap goes C'wlin's fingertips against N'hax's stone wall. "I suppose the real question is, do we not /want/ the information to get back to the 'leaders'?"

N'hax rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, gestures with the bottle - he's poured C'wlin a libation, albeit belated. "D'kan's solid," he admits. He swirls the whiskey in his own, thoughtful expression still in place. "Azaylia, perhaps," is the name he finally drops.
(And doesn't that express his entire doubt about the current regime?)

Libation is much appreciated, C'wlin's hands now full of whiskey in a glass.  "Azaylia?"  Cue a touch of surprise to his expression, brows lifting.  "I can't say that I have had too much interaction with her."  Much, anyway.  Nothing deep beyond seeing and knowing who she is.  A gift for a gift, he takes a hefty swig, makes the 'augggh' sound that comes from really good whiskey.  "Aishani's one I can understand."

"Of course she is." There's a touch of exasperation there, resignation beneath. "Too many secrets," is N'hax's only statement, a shake of his head. "Z'ian," he adds, absently. "He's a good guy."

"Is he?" C'wlin stares into the whiskey as if it'd give up secrets.  "Can't say I know him all that well either, beyond hearing the stories 'round the weyr's campfire."  Teeth flash.  "We've all got secrets, Hax."

"Yes," N'hax replies, pointed, "But our secrets don't involve being the scion of the weyr's erstwhile archnemesis and, you know, jockeying to RUN it." His very exasperated look towards C'wlin says it all.

"''Your'' secrets don't," C'wlin teases (or is it a tease?).  "I say we keep the information to ourselves until we find someone worthy of it.  Besides, which, you never know ''what'' the 'pirates'," airquotes again, "might say.  They may say they're all in it to conquer the holds."  Hey, it could happen.

With humor, "Maybe they'll say that /we're/ the ones out to conquer all the holds." If N'hax had ANY CLUE... But he doesn't. Not about that. "Then again, maybe the pirates are just..." He executes a simple sleight-of-hand, waving with his left and snagging a piece of rock with his right. "Misdirection."

"Now wouldn't that be some juicy knowledge?"  C'wlin smiles a serpantine smile over the rim of the whiskey glass.  "See, that's what I think.  It's misdirection for something else."  Pause.  Sip.  Brow quirk.  "But for what?"

"Why in Faranth's name the Conclave would allow an exile--" N'hax doesn't cut corners or offer concessions for his completely politically incorrect (yet operationally correct) term, "--step up to become a ''Lord Holder'' of a ''major'' Hold?"

"Marks.  Power.  The guy's got something going for him.  Maybe he knows the awkward secrets of the entire Conclave," C'wlin muses.  "Something's up.  But anyway, c'mon, Hax.  I know you got more of this stuff.  Let's plan."  /Plan/.  Because that's what bros do; they plan.

"You just want more of my whiskey. For free." The accusatory note is halfhearted at best. "They say he killed someone." Devaki. Not his whiskey. N'hax twirls the very last bit of his own, thoughtful, then shakes his head. "Fine. But we need to have this down forward and back and plan for every contigency. Every one."

"Of course I do.  Free's the best shit."  C'wlin grins, unrepentant in stealing more of N'hax's whiskey.  "I'm sure he did at some point, otherwise the rumors wouldn't be around.  Either that or he helped someone kill someone or is hiding a dead body somewhere."  He shrugs, unconcerned with Devaki's potential murderous spree.  "Yes."  Down to business, C'wlin finds himself something to sit on -- chair, rock, debris -- and says, "Now, scenario one..."  Candlemarks pass, as the first set of scenarios are worked through.  Candles after glows after candles melt and die; it takes a ''long'' time to come up with a good plan.  Plus, there's whiskey involved.  Gentleman Telgar or something.  Some of those plans might even include stick-figure drawings of two fools just waltzing in to the Hold and stealing all the secrets.  Either way?  There's planning gettin' ''done''!





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