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R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Suireh/ST{{!}}M'lach, R'hin |what=R'hin approaches M'lach to try and make peace over the incident at Igen's senior flight. It's not easy. |where=Island off the Coas..."

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Created page with "{{Log |who=Suireh/ST{{!}}M'lach, R'hin |what=R'hin approaches M'lach to try and make peace over the incident at Igen's senior flight. It's not easy. |where=Island off the Coas..."

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{{Log
|who=Suireh/ST{{!}}M'lach, R'hin
|what=R'hin approaches M'lach to try and make peace over the incident at Igen's senior flight. It's not easy.
|where=Island off the Coast of Southern Weyr
|when=D7 M5 T36
|gamedate=2014.11.23
|quote="Who do you think would have made the best Weyrleader for Igen?"
|weather=
|mentions=Z'ian, Lia, Nimae, F'rain, K'del, Ali
|ooc=Thanks to Suireh for STing!
|icons-new=
|icons=
|desc=
|log=Nioreth is nowhere in sight, though his mental presence, with as much subtlety as an erupting volcano, ''leans'' in on Leiventh. The anger the rider might not betray, or truly even feel, simmers deeply to this bronze's core. M'lach doesn't deign to answer R'hin immediately, finishing reading the page he has on his knees, annotating as needed, and then rifling through his bag to file the hide away in the proper spot. Then, and only then does the lanky man lift his gaze up to the intrusion. An inscrutable look shadows his brow and tightens the bronzerider's jaw before he gestures. "Sit. This is a favor for Z'ian." Not Lia, the negotiator in between. "Say your piece."

It is not the first time Leiventh has endured such things, on his rider's behalf; the cold breezes of his thoughts remain tight, not attempting to fuel the other dragon's anger. R'hin's gaze shifts, marginally, in Leiventh's direction, then back to the man before him. Prompted, he seats himself, leaning forward, the picture of genuine regret as he says, "I wanted to apologize to you and Nioreth, for myself, and my riders. I'll apologize to Weyrwoman Nimae too -- ''if'' I'm allowed back by either her or my Weyrleaders," there's no wryness in his tone as might be his usual habit, just a brief grimace. "Things got out of hand."

Those expressive, and full, brows lift at the understatement. ''Really?'' M'lach's palms fall flat on the sands, burying one set of his fingers to the mid-knuckle, and then turning the sand over to let the grains fall. Mildly, he inquires, "Who do you think would have made the best Weyrleader for Igen?" While there's no acknowledgement or acceptance of the apology, there's also no refusal or dismissal of it. It is, from the neutral set of his features, what it is, and this Southern wingleader's moved on to other thoughts in his head.

R'hin shakes his head slowly. Instead of answering directly, the Reachian bronzerider says blandly: "I don't think ''F'rain'' is. No rider is ready at that age, but Nimae is more than capable of bringing him up to speed." He's used to the heat after Turns in Monaco, and yet he's spent winter in High Reaches, tugging hand through already damp hair. Finally, comes the measured answer: "If I knew the answer to ''that'' question, M'lach, I'd be a ''queen''. I don't know you personally well enough to say if it'd be you. Igen might've resented a Southern Weyrleader," with a brief grimace, he adds, "Then again, they probably resent a ''Benden'' one, too."

"Nimae," the hand M'lach uses to rake the sand lifts to his hair, what remains of it, and graces it with golden granules. The Southern bronzerider's face cracks, the veneer of neutrality giving way to an odd mix of affection, fear, and exasperation. "Nimae will run that poor child into the ground and have him either resign or break his spirits so much he won't remember who birthed him, let alone where he is." Another of M'lach's dry looks passes to R'hin. "Flights are what they are. By nature, it's an extension of our more animalistic tendencies given a condoned outlet. There's nothing to forgive on my part. There's nothing for you to apologize ''to me'', unless a guilty conscience drives you, or the idea that I might soften my weyrmate's heart."

"He has a bronze," R'hin counters, as if that might account for something. "Some riders come out of the fire tempered. But you know Nimae better than I," he says, with a spread of hands as if conceding to the other rider's opinion. Then: "Feel like, if you hadn't helped try and break things up, it might've been... different. I know K'del struggles with it, with Ali," a slight tip of head is given in the vague direction of the Weyr.

The mention of High Reaches' Weyrleader in the same sentence as their still flying solo Weyrwoman tightens M'lach's jaw. But he, perhaps wisely, says nothing. The subject of his weyrmate is something he can broach, and the mention of Nimae and what R'hin does or does not know of her draws out a pressed-lip smile. "We'll be at the Woodcraft fair at the end of this week." It's not in Igen territory. "Try not to be charming."

R'hin lets out an exhale of breath, relief and gratitude rolled together. The latter makes him laugh, a genuine, low-throated response. "Will do my best. Thank you, M'lach." He offers a palm to the other bronzerider. "I'll leave you to it." With a nod towards his hidework.

"No," says the bronzerider flatly, "I'm serious. The second she whiffs charming, she'll shut you down. Anything less than or more than absolute frankness is not something she tolerates in her capacity as Weyrwoman." Even if all is forgiven, nothing is completely forgotten, and the hand that R'hin extends isn't pressed into immediately. "Tread lightly, bronzerider. Good luck." Only then, does M'lach cross his palm and return to his work. One assumes this matter is as neatly filed away in that head of his as his hidework is.

Nodding his head, R'hin makes it clear he comprehends the other bronzerider's warning. After that brief cross of palms, he stands, making his way back across the sands towards Leiventh. He tugs on his jacket only, leaving the rest of his gear in the bags as he mounts up, rising for three wingbeats, before they disappear, the cold of High Reaches' winter departing with them.

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