Difference between revisions of "Logs:We Seek"

The spring damp still weighs heavily in the air at the High Reaches, but today is a glorious day nonetheless: clear skies, a hint of real warmth in the air, plenty of sun to laze in for those who have the time. 'Those who have the time' would include Cadejoth, who is surprisingly boneless and mostly still, dozing in a sunny patch upon his ledge; those who don't would include his rider, who has, at least, pulled back curtains and opened doors to let the fresh air into his weyr as he works his way through wing reports. Bare toes, currently hoisted onto the chair opposite, reach idly towards the outdoors, but the Weyrleader's attention remains firmly on his work. Well. /Mostly/.

Work's something that shouldn't be done on days such as this. At least that would be the philosophy that V'teri would tell K'del, had the Monaco bronzerider known the High Reaches Weyrleader prior to this day and moment. It would've been said in breezy, carefree tones tinged with just the slightly southern drawl. So it's a shame their first encounter should be this moment, when the lean man vaults off his dragon with a file crushed between his riding gloves, helmet still tightened about his head and under his chin, and takes the steps up to the Weyrleaders' ledges two at a time. It's there that he stands, slightly puzzled, his frame deviating back and forth from would-be entrance to would-be entrance before he finally settles on one, then backtracks almost instantly. "No," says that bemused tenor, "Not that one, unless the Reachian Weyrleader has a penchant for girly things. Well, maybe he does." _But let's try another one, just in case,_ says the amused shake of his head, and off he goes, the second one bringing him just two steps short of the immense vaulted cavern designed for important guests. "Hullo," he greets somewhere up those two steps and into the weyr, the singular word extended as if V'teri expects an echo to return back to him.

On another day, in another life, K'del would no doubt agree wholeheartedly - his feet would probably agree /today/, but the rest of him isn't listening to /them/. Even so, he's not working so hard that the sound of a voice outside doesn't catch his attention. More to the point, he's not so dedicated that a distraction like that is not immediate grounds for putting down the reports, and hauling himself to his feet. Not that he makes it to the entrance, though, nor anywhere closer to the outdoors: "Hello?" And then, as he's hastily smoothing down his crumpled shirt with one hand, while the other does something similar to his hair, "Come in?" His efforts won't, it's safe to say, make him look properly presentable for visitors, but at least his expression will be inclined towards welcoming.

Neither sheepish nor apologetic, « We should've sent our greetings, » imparts a sonorous voice, colored in all sorts of bright gypsy-like colors. « First, before he barged in. » At least Riuscyth makes an attempt, however belated, to be formal. It is what it is. Venturing up those last two steps to the Weyrleader's quarters, or what V'teri must only naturally assume is the Weyrleader's quarters due to the male voice greeting him back, the Monaco-almost-Reachian's square face brightens in a cheered smile. "Was beginning to think the only weyrs along here were bedecked in pink and lace," never mind he only walked into one and that wasn't pink or lacey. "Hail," comes along with a lazy salute, two finger tips to his forehead and then back down to clutch his file. "Oriane and M'kar send their regards and hopefully have already let you know I was supposed to come? It'd be only a little inconvenient if they hadn't." A mental sigh breathes its way on over to Cadejoth, colored in a new wave of gradient purples. « We are Riuscyth and V'teri. »

« You should have, » agrees Cadejoth, whose voice is wreathed in the wraith-like remains of sleep, not that that stops the quiet jangle of metal-against-metal. « But you didn't. I didn't notice you arrive. » In the weyr. /His/ weyr: he can show that, too, in that expanse of metal mesh that binds them all together. « Still, you're welcome. Riuscyth. V'teri. » Curiosity draws a probing chain, to inspect the newcomers. K'del's inspection of the human half of the pair is a quick up-and-down affair, followed, after he matches the older rider's salute, by a calm: "V'teri. I'm K'del. If there are /any/ weyrs along here bedecked in pink and lace, I'll be--" Pause. "Surprised. They did send word. You're safe. Come on in? Or we could sit on the ledge." If he sounds a little hopeful at that last suggestion, it's only a /little/ bit.

The cheer deepens in order to split V'teri's face into a broader grin at K'dels response: in regards to pink things, in regards to word sent, whichever. Just the slightest change, where his shoulders roll back, as if a human sigh were also exhaled and an actual weight has been taken off his shoulders, precedes the bronzerider's affable agreement to the Weyrleader's suggestion. "It's not a long flight, between and all," says the older man, his long strides bringing him closer to K'del, "I didn't quite expect this kind of day ever existed at High Reaches Weyr. But I guess you must have the same weather as we do up at the Hold." The probing chain might inspect all it would like, for as open foreign bronze might seem, it's still a polite veneer that carries a suspicious caution behind formality. "Here's my paperwork." The file is waved and gray eyes cast about to where K'del must have come up from (all that work being too telltale of a sign after all), and motions to put it there. Suggestive; "Don't really need to look at it just now?"

"Reckon it can wait a while," confirms K'del, with an eye to that paperwork, and the pile beneath it that can /also/ wait a while. For now. On to the ledge, then, where there are conveniently two chairs and a little table, currently bathed in part of the sun that Cadejoth is not taking up. "Unless," the bronzerider says, after a moment, turning his head back to consider V'teri, "There's anything in it I ought to know immediately?" He offers the chairs with a wave of his hand, not leaving immediate space for a response so that he can add, "Ah - the hold. You're a local, then? Think M'kar did say something of the kind. Wanting to be close to your family? But yes, our weather gets similar enough." Cadejoth's inspection is mostly cursory; with a merry ringing of chain against chain, he remarks, « You're going to be joining us. Part of us. Who are you, Riuscyth? You and yours? »

Riuscyth sends a wave of rainbow colors, and shares an image of himself, all dark and lean out in the bowl, as well as the soon-to-be visible features of his rider. « That is us. » Never mind that's probably not what Cadejoth meant. There's a very audible pause, obvious for the sudden lack of a immediate return from V'teri. He's even stopped moving, almost as if his entire body has to still in order to consider K'del's comments. "Aye," comes his slower response, "Local. Da just passed. Sisses and brother are too busy with their crafts to see to his affairs." An easy shrug and two hands lift in the air after he's dropped his paperwork onto K'del's desk. He seems almost bashful about his predicament. "'pparently being a dragonrider means I have more time to spare. These days, 'least." Pensive, that last.

No, no, says Cadejoth's mental touch, though he doesn't use words. « We: » he begins after a moment, trailing off into imagery and sense: Cadejoth the hunter, the enthusiastic, the chaser, the leader of the pack. K'del the lover (which is, at least, tastely alluded to), the father, the whiskey-drinker, the cheerful and friendly, reading history. That's them; who are /they/? K'del pauses, not stiff, but somehow cautious, to watch the reaction from V'teri. "Suppose it's not-- unreasonable," he allows, after a moment. "Sorry to hear about your father. Hope you're not, ah, unhappy about the move, at least? It's not been forced on you?" He seems genuinely eager to hear an answer. The right answer, anyway.

"It's been a long time coming," says V'teri, at first distant but shaking off his trance with a full body rumple as the pair come up upon the ledge. "Kind of missed being home I guess, haven't been back to this area in... oh, jays, almost a decade?" Shading his eyes with one hand, he turns to slant a quick smile at the Weyrleader. "It's different than I expected." Bluntly, but not really offensively impolite, he also notes, "You're different than I expected. Mentor of mine back Monaco-ward used to live here." Riuscyth will have to take a few minutes to consider that, allowing the full length of V'teri's prattle and subsequent emergence on the ledge where Cadejoth sits to pass before he allows a slightly mischievous, psychedelically hued, image of K'del the lover (not as tastefully alluded to) with a question mark? But beneath the jibe, lies the undercurrent of who V'teri and he are: V'teri surrounded by pigs that are fired away by a cast-in-flames bronze (himself). A still flame-backdropped V'teri, just recently out of weyrlinghood. V'teri, relishing flight. V'teri, musing a dying sunset. « We seek, » states the bronze, finally.

A quick nod; and then, another. K'del is silent as V'teri speaks, though with the hold his gaze keeps upon the other bronzerider, there's no question that he's listening intently. K'del drops himself lazily into one of the sun-warmed chairs, stretching out bare feet, toes wiggling idly in the sun. "Am I? Different. What did you expect of me? Of my Weyr? And this mentor of yours, who was that?" He lays on his questions without pause between them, lifting his chin as he considers V'teri again, apparently awaiting the answer with interest - if not eager impatience. « ! » is Cadejoth's thought on that image of K'del; after a moment, he extends the image, adding in several heavily-bosomed women to dance attendance. He's amused, jibe or no. More serious, though, is his contemplation of the rest of what the bronzerider shares. « What is it you seek? » he asks, with a clatter of bone against bone.

What do they seek? Riuscyth huffs smoke in varied hues of a sun setting, painting a scape of overlapping colors and what lies to that west with the sun. Does the world end? Does the planet have an edge? What is at the end of this world of theirs? On the other hand, V'teri smiles first, an expression that seeps into his then speech, "R'hin, bronze Leiventh's." If that doesn't suffice, the bronzerider continues, as he shades his eyes as his attention turns from K'del's reaction to Cadejoth's boneless laze - perhaps considering the bronze before him and what must be being shared by his own dragon and attempting to merge the two images, particularly that of buxom babes. "He's quite-," a beat, "Intense," is the word V'teri decides on ultimately. "I somehow figured a Weyr that spawned either of them would be just as passionate." It's not a rebuke, though the words themselves might sound like one. Cradled by the spirit of both observation and surprised delight, the Monaco bronzerider slants K'del another of his quirked grins. "And with news of your trials of the past decade..." The voice trails off, quizzical, but not broaching any real question yet. "I gathered you might be a more formidable and scary overlord."

Cadejoth follows that imagery with eagerness; on the ledge, his tail thumps at the stone apparently without him noticing. « /Oh/, » he says, delighted. « Iskiveth would say there might be treasure out there. » K'del doesn't even glance at his dragon as that tail thumps, nor as V'teri considers him. He doesn't /seem/ to be aware of that image being passed between dragons; if he is, it certainly isn't showing in his expression. "Ah," he says, calmly. "R'hin. And those-- trials. Yes. Well." He waves a hand at himself, rueful. "Tiriana's more the formidable and scary one. I'm the-- teenage Weyrleader grown up. Getting through things by the seat of my pants, mostly." He's honest in that, and despite his cheerful smile, that rueful note is still in his voice. "Anyway. We are what we are, aren't we? Whatever people expect."

"I like when the expected turns unexpected," V'teri offers as a balm for his possible gaffe. "It's nice to know that the Weyrleader's a guy who another guy could go get a beer with. Or ale. Or," he grins about his teeth, "Wench with?" The light teasing that colors his words add sparked glimmer to his gray eyes. "'N I'm the too old candidate who somehow stumbled across a dragon at the last possible moment. Don't remember life prior to Riuscyth though it's naught even 4 turns. /We/ are what we are." The return is slightly changed for the emphasis. "If my paperwork is in order, a comely lass in the bowl mentioned I might be able to see the empty weyrs and pick one for myself?" The last is a little quizzical, as if it's just too weird for a rider to not just be assigned things. "Then I might seek out your records, see just how much of what your previous Weyrleader said was to pull my proverbial third leg, or not. Fascinating stories."

K'del's lips twitch merrily at mention of wenching, though he neither confirms or denis it except to, laughingly, tell V'teri, "S'generally what I try and aim for. Good." He's got a long, semi-serious nod to confirm most of the rest of what the bronzerider says, punctuated by a couple of smaller, shorter nods. "Sure. There's plenty vacant. Lots of choice. Figure there's no reason why people can't get something that suits, right? But-- what's R'hin been saying about our records, mm?" Because he's definitely interested in this, whatever it is.

For that, V'teri has an easy answer, even if it's after just a second of hesitation, "The Crom trials? It's nothing that's ever happened in Monaco, and there's facts, and then there's-," well, whatever R'hin's been feeding him says that easy going shrug. "I'd like to draw my own conclusions. I'm getting too old to stare starry-eyed up at a mentor, don't you think? We even heard a bit of it out where I'm from, but it seemed more like my da's old bedtime stories. More akin to Fax than reality." The answer will suffice for now. "Nothing bad," adds the older, but far more junior man, reassuringly. "If there's anything I could say of R'hin, his love for High Reaches makes me wonder how he's stayed away so long. And why." Though he could probably guess why; a shadow casts across his usually merry face briefly before clearing.

Too relaxed, too lazy, too-- something: K'del certainly doesn't seem to notice that hesitation. A smile - not relief, as such, but not so far off it - curves about his mouth as he grasps the nature of this study; he nods quickly, cheerfully. His smile fades, though, as that shadow crosses the other man's face; his cheeks are sucked in, and he pauses, carefully, before responding at all. "Ah, yes, of course," he says, then, nodding his head quickly, quick enough that his curls bounce up and down to match. "Reckon we're allowed to keep our mentors - though you're right, there's something to be said for making our own opinions on things. Well, I hope you enjoy it. All that. In an academic sense, at least."

"Right. Academic." Cause V'teri in all his former-pig-farmerness exudes academia out of his every pore. Well, maybe not, but he at least is jolly about the whole prospect. "I hope we can catch a drink sometime together. Maybe after you've figured out what wing to subject me on." But business talk is boring and the day is light, the girls are cute, and he has a restless, now non-communicative bronze digging holes in the bowl floor with his talons.

The word might be incongruous, but K'del lets it hang. "I'd like that," he agrees, with a cheerful grin, amusement returning. "We'll get that wing assignment sorted shortly, anyway. And everything else confirmed and signed off." Later. Because now that he's out in the sun-- K'del might never leave. He gives V'teri one last lingering glance, then breaks off to say, "Suppose I ought to let you go. Get that weyr sorted, get settled in. I'll be in touch, right? Or your new Wingleader will be. Welcome to the 'Reaches."

V'teri's knit brow is at odds with his bemused smile. "Welcome home to me," he says after K'del's official welcome. "/Quit/ making wells in bowl," is his suddenly raised voice, verbal when he doesn't have to be, and returned in kind by a not very patient roar that might have accidentally singed the hair of a passing herder. Oops. "I need to go keep him in line. Thanks for the welcome, o'teenage Weyrleader grown up'o mine." And off the man trips, another of his lazy salutes in lieu of a formal goodbye. It's shortly after that Riuscyth's up in the air, awkward upon take off, but marginally more elegant when flapping about. At the very least, he seems to be enjoying a freedom found not being tied to the ground.