Difference between revisions of "Logs:Lessons In Trust"

Riders' Lounge, High Reaches Weyr

About as high up the bowl wall as it is possible to get before hitting clear sky, right up against the rim, this ledge is tiny, narrow and not terribly inviting. Though angled towards the sun, there's not enough room to properly stretch out, and that same angle ensures it receives the worst of bad weather, with no shelter whatsoever. From above, there's not even an obvious passage inside, as if this particular ledge is, in the end, nothing more than a natural outcropping. It's only from atop the ledge itself that the cleverly concealed entrance becomes clear, angled into the stone as it is.

Inside, there's a cavernous space, more than making up for the stinginess of the ledge. There's one large main room, and a much smaller back room that could probably be used as a bedroom - if this weyr were in traditional usage. Instead, the main cavern is largely filled with a collection of mismatched tables and chairs, with a trolley at the far end that contains a prodigious amount of liquor. Old, but still impressive, hangings cover the walls, all depicting scenes of High Reaches in glory. The back room has been turned into a storage area, with several cases of whisky and a variety of other spirits ready and waiting.

A strange pipe contraption comes through the ceiling and towards the stone floor, where a large bucket sits beneath it. A lever turns on water from the pipe: fresh rain or snow, ready for drinking.

What began as a playful visit and unexpected donation has turned into one trapped Weyrwoman. First, she had to stay for a drink. Then at least one game of cards, of which she lost her small pot of careful bets. Now? Now it's the heavy, freezing rain outside that makes the rider's lounge appear oh-so cozy and inviting. It wasn't easy to deliver the armless couch to the weyr, what with its small ledge and sunken entrance, but Azaylia managed. Now she's claimed the long stretch of furniture, lying mostly on her side atop the old, patched up fainting couch. In her hands is the same drink that stopped her escape, not so much as nursed as politely neglected, given its quality. Set apart from the poker table, the goldrider is more than happy to people-watch from her little niche.

Savannah's certainly making a night of it -- the loud cheers (and equally loud jeers) echoing in the weyr. Other than the Weyrwoman, there's a handful of other non-Savannah riders who have been playing, despite the fact that R'hin's no longer sponsoring the event with his early purchases of beer. For once, Savannah's Wingleader doesn't have a drink in hand -- perhaps a shock in itself -- less so than the fact that he makes himself at home on Azaylia's claimed couch, which involves some manoeuvering of her legs with a casually familiar touch of strong hands, settling down, and replacing her legs atop his lap. One hand stretches out across the back of the couch as he half-leans to regard the goldrider with a glitter of amused, pale eyes. "Your mistake," he begins, "Was playing it careful. There's no fun in that, kitten." At least he's saying it quietly enough that it might not carry.

Given that the couch is a sickly green and patched with squares of mismatched color, the donation is not a terribly selfless one. Even the stores have something of an expiration date. R'hin's approach is eyed with gentle suspicion, and if it were any other rider Azaylia would have politely moved her legs out of the way. Instead, she allows him to move them as he likes, slippered feet giving a faint toe-pointing stretch after. "I think my mistake was gambling at all," She argues with a smile, "I've just never been very good at it." There have been exceptions, but not when the goldrider has been self-aware.

"You just need more practice," is R'hin's own conclusion. "Come back next seven; I'll start the table off with less sharks and more... baby fish." There's definitely a chuckle there, half under his breath. His other hand moves to settle comfortably near her ankles, presumably to stop her legs sliding off his lap. "Did you wear those slippers on purpose, so you'd have to be carried across the puddles?" he asks, with a knowing smile.

"Kitten, baby fish..." Azaylia mutters, not quite accusatory, but there is a little twist to her lips as she says it. There isn't much concern about her being overheard, voice as gentle as it always is, "I didn't expect it to rain. And it's rude to be bare foot in someone else's weyr." Despite her obvious preferance for it. It seems she's forgotten how terrible her drink is, taking a sip only to have it drop back down as she hastily swallows. Speaking past the burn, "Why? Are you offering?"

"Technically," R'hin corrects, while conveniently ignoring her muttering, "It's not any one particular person's weyr. It's the Weyr's weyr, which -- if you think about it, makes it your weyr." Which may well be why his hand is sliding down her leg with an aim to push those slippers off the ends of her feet. A dark chuckle slips from him at her question. "Offering? No. But I've had many a night where things haven't gone as planned so..." he turns his head back to watch her expression, rather than her feet. "How are you and K'del getting on?"

"If I thought like that, every weyr would be my weyr." There's a sparkle of amusement in her dark eyes, "I'd be Hraedhyth." Her good humor dulls the faint glare she gives R'hin for trying to remove her slipper, shifting enough so it won't be such an easy task. He'll likely succeed when his question has her legs falling still, brows pinching in thought. "Fine. It's always fine. I worry, but..." Doesn't she always? Especially as her eyes snap back to the bronzerider's, "Why? Have you heard something?"

"Hraedhyth does enjoy making her presence felt," R'hin agrees, though it doesn't seem to be a criticism as much as an agreement. "Mm. Worry about what?" His gaze is still on her face, taking in her reaction -- nevermind he's succeeded in freeing her foot of the first slipper meanwhile. Instead of answering her question, he asks one of his own, "Are you worried about what people say, kitten?"

Azaylia abandons her drink, setting it aside on the floor and carefully tucked up against the couch, "I've tried to convince her to leave Leiventh's ledge alone..." But only so much can be done. She'll avoid his gaze in order to consider his question, looking pensive and not terribly bothered as he busies with her footwear. "I've already spoken with him about his... being involved with the Fortian junior. But, if he says he puts the Weyr first, I trust him." It still doesn't keep her from worrying, but not many things can. Azaylia glances at R'hin with faint confusion, "People? No. I just know you and K'del are friends. I thought he might have said something to you?"

"Does it help," the bronzerider wonders aloud while his pale eyes linger on her, "Or hinder that Saindyth's there more often than not?" It's not exactly a secret that R'hin and Bristia are occupying the shared ledge space, after all. There's surprise from R'hin, however, at her mention of a Fortian junior. "What does it matter if he has a girl elsewhere? He wouldn't be the first. Shells, Satiet had a Harper Master and for all I know, others stashed away here and there. It doesn't get in the way of the job." That other slipper is freed with a hint of satisfaction, before he grunts a little at the last question. "About you? Not this time." Which might well imply there's been other times.

Hraedhyth's habits are easy enough to answer for, "It doesn't matter, really. She'd snuggle with both of them if they'd stay still long enough." Or if there were enough room on ledge or in the wallows. "If he had others it would make more sense... to me." Azaylia answers evenly, looking down at her hands and likely wishing she was still holding her drink. "It's gotten in the way before." There's a pointed look for R'hin, involving R'hin, as well as Monaco. His implication is what draws her legs away, the goldrider tucking them beneath herself as she glances toward the card game, "I trust him to do his duty." Now. "We're fine."

There's a furrow of brow from R'hin, as much for her pointed look as her words. "K'del's a big boy," he says, simply, though her drawing her legs away, conversely, makes him grin and push to his feet. He stretches a hand towards her in invitation, silent and perversely amused.

Strained, "I know." Azaylia narrows her gaze, the expression lingering as she glances at R'hin's hand, "You asked what I was worried about." Whether or not the mild concern is justified or not. It's not easy for her to cross her arms, hesitant to be so rude, as she looks up from the bronzerider's palm to his face, "What?"

"Do you trust me?" R'hin asks, simply, his hand still outstretched.

Azaylia's youth shows in that stoked temper, "I don't trust anyone." A flat murmur, statement having lost its bitterness long ago. Eventually, her expression softens and she reaches for R'hin, "At least with you, I know why." Which is about as close to the sentiment as she can get, when he's involved.

"No?" R'hin clearly does not believe that. "You trust Hraedhyth's judgment, I assume." And for him, that counts. There's definitely something curious in his expression, and while his grip on her is gentle at first, as she rises, there's a bit of a pull towards the end that conveniently requires a steadying hand to her waist. "And just what is the why, kitten?" he asks, with tilted head, pale eyes fixed on her intently.

"That's different." Still carrying some heat, "And you know it." Or he should, being a dragonrider himself. Azaylia bites back a squeak at that unexpected tug, resting a hand on his chest in order to find her footing. Matching his gaze, R'hin is given a much softer variation of her stare, "You're you." She could just leave it at that, well aware of that fact as she moves to take a step backward.

"Mm. Not really an explanation, but--" when she moves to take a step backward, R'hin stoops long enough to scoop her up, with one hand behind her knees and the other around her back, held closely against him for steadiness. "Can't have you walking out in the wet in bare feet, can we?" And if people are going to talk about him stealing away the Weyrwoman, he's going to make a show of it, grinning down at her as some hollering and laughing comes from the poker table, directed at them.

"Now you know what it's li--" Another squeak as the bronzerider scoops her up, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. "R'hin!" Banishing any doubt as to the identity of her abductor, for those who might not know Savannah's Wingleader. The Weyrwoman drops her head back, peering around him at the hooting poker table and giving a resigned sigh, "At least let me get my shoes." An arm drops limply to the side, fingers stretching for those discarded slippers. This won't be the first time Azaylia's fed the rumor mill.

"You don't need your slippers," R'hin says, carelessly, turning deliberately so that her fingers slip past and just shy of catching them. "I'll make sure they find their way back to you," and he's already striding for the ledge, where Leiventh's dark, silent bulk waits for them. Clearly his intention is to take her on Leiventh, presumably to not bother Hraedhyth. Of course, to do this he's required to set her down, or... not. He moves close to the straps, clearly intending to allow Azaylia to climb up first, which should be relatively easy given the marginally relative size of Hraedhyth to the bronze.

Another breathy surrender, and Azaylia aims one last look back at her shoes. The rain makes it easier to remember that she's upset at him, squealing at the icy drops attempt to soak through her once-warm dress. It also makes arguing difficult, once R'hin's intentions are made obvious. "Hello, Leiventh." She'll chatter, scrambling out of the bronzerider's arms and climbing her way up with an almost primal urgency. Wet kitten, indeed.

It doesn't take long for R'hin to climb up after her, settling in behind her. His warmth does much to counteract that coolness, and his arms sliding around her moments before Leiventh pushes aloft. The bronze isn't given to showiness, with or without passengers, and his steady glide is perhaps comforting, except for the fact that he's definitely not headed down to Azaylia's weyr. Instead, he wings up, over the rim of the spires, and slightly northward. It doesn't take long -- a few minutes sees them coming on a meadow, and an overhung rock ledge, which Leiventh angles for. It's dry under here, and R'hin's quick to descend, shrugging out of his jacket and holding it ready for her. It's warm and smells of dragon and oil and just general R'hin-ness. The moons are bright enough that, once eyes adjust, it's not too bad to see, and quite pleasant apart from the steady rain outside.

Hraedhyth's drowsy heat suddenly flares as Azaylia is gone, panic masked by her fury at who would dare. Those flames stretch beyond her heart's hearth, invading her rider's mind to find the who, why, and where.

The answers are offered swiftly, delicate flower petals caressing her lifemate's mind to sooth that not-fear. Who? Leiventh. Why? R'hin. Where? Just outside the Weyr. All is well.

Hraedhyth's is obvious as she shifts her focus from Azaylia to Leiventh. All had better be.

Azaylia doesn't seem worried, although she does lean side to side in order to look down at where they should be heading. Turning her head, R'hin might notice her watching him out of the corner of her eye as Leiventh flies on. It's just before he lands that Hraedhyth, only slightly soothed by her rider, bombards the bronze's thoughts with threats. Azaylia's influence burns like a floral incense on the queen's smoke, drums rumbling ominously with a demand for her rider's eventual (and safe) return. The Weyrwoman looks less bothered by anything but the cold, reaching for R'hin's jacket and nestling in its warmth as she clutches it to her shoulders. "She's not happy, you know." Sounding only faintly amused, "You could have warned us."

« She is safe. She is with me, » Leiventh assures Hraedhyth, his calmness and certainty perhaps serving to mollify the queen somewhat. R'hin, meanwhile, is less apologetic, his mood oddly serious as he glances at Azaylia. "Life is dull without a surprise or two. That's true especially for queens, to keep them on their toes. Come," he reaches out a hand to rest in the curve of Azaylia's back in order to guide her, his other hand brushing the stone wall as he moves further along. A little ways over, he stops, as an odd protrusion juts out in front of them. The lack of light might make it difficult to discern at first, and R'hin comes to a halt, regarding it as he speaks: "I still remember vividly the first time I came here, and saw this, when I was a weyrling. It made me -- angry. Furious. For a time after I made all candidates come here, before they stood. I'm sure there were some that turned their back on standing as a result of that. At the time I thought it was justified, that it was the right thing to do. Then thread fell, and we lost so many...." the longer the shape is stared at the more eyes adjust, the easier it is to see the fold of the weyrling dragon's wing, the rider still atop him, immortalized in stone, forever. "It made me wonder, if I hadn't made my opinion so widely known, if other candidates had impressed instead, would things have been different? Better? Less deaths?" His other hand reaches up as if to brush the wing, hesitates, and falls shy of doing so. "It didn't always earn me friends, but there were some who saw what I was trying to do, who believed in me, who trusted in me. Who still do to this day, amazingly." Strangely, he's not looking at Azaylia to try and gauge her expression, but then it might be difficult to see in the gloom anyway.

Hraedhyth doesn't recall ever having her rider stolen, but with Azaylia and Leiventh's combined efforts, those drums ease into a steady rhythm. She's still alert, very much aware of what's happening despite the distance. "I think you're looking for reasons for her to dislike you again." Argues Azaylia, an echo of her gold's emotions bleeding into her own. She recovers easily enough, allowing R'hin to guide her past the stone and away from the rain. As he speaks, her wide eyes search the bronzerider's face, flicking between him and the protrusion. "R'hin? What are you..." His jacket nearly falls off her shoulders at how quickly her hands fly up to her mouth, muffling her horrified hiccup. Once the shape is recognized, it can't be unseen. She turns away from it, visibly shaken and confused, "What..? Why?"

R'hin, by contrast, doesn't take his eyes off the figure, though he is mindful enough of Azaylia's reaction that he reaches out to resettle his jacket around her shoulders, hands resting there to presumably hold it in place, yet his voice is gentle as he murmurs, "You're in charge. Everyone's looking at you and wondering what you think. About Nabol, about Crom's marriage, about K'del, and about Savannah and Monaco. You can't worry about those you lean on; they'll find their own balance. Your job is to have a strong opinion, whether it's official or unofficial, so people can back you, or set themselves against you. Either way, you'll never have the whole Weyr. That's just a fact. Even Josilina, whom everyone loved, never had the whole Weyr with her." There might be a fleeting trace of guilt at naming the once-senior, but it passes swiftly. "Once you take a stand, the supporters and detractors will make themselves more obvious, and you'll know better who to rely on." Leiventh remains a solid presence, soothing with his lack of alarm, the chill winds of High Reaches moving steadily around those drums.

The Weyrwoman keeps her back to the remains, struggling with keeping herself and her dragon calm. The spike of horror is enough to send Hraedhyth into the skies, and soon she'll join Leiventh outside. The warrior queen's eyes whirl with the same hues as her flames, shifting back and forth with half-cocked wings. Azaylia fights back tears, the unexpected shock just as jarring as the harsh reality of the lost weyrling. "I don't like any of it." She all but hisses, an effort to speak past her tensing jaw. "It's not--" Fair? She knows that, and has known. At a loss, she scrambles to make sense, "How can you make a stand when you know you're wrong? And I won't know who to rely on. I thought I knew, and they all..." Azaylia bites back the rest, trembling beneath his hand as she stares out and away from both R'hin and the once-weyrling.

"You have to find someone to trust. Which is, granted, easier said than done. But, Azaylia," and there's a faint smile from R'hin as he says it, like using her name and not the nickname is deliberate, "You'll drive yourself crazy otherwise. Sometimes, you do the wrong things for the right reasons. You took in Nabol refugees. Was that the right thing? Would it have been better to turn them away, to protect the Weyr above all else? Nothing in this life is black and white, and there will be people who will dislike you for whatever choices you made. And no, it's not fair," he finishes her unspoken sentiment with a grimace. "But you can't shoulder the burden yourself. K'del, Taikrin, H'kon?" he's taken a guess here, watching her carefully as he does, "Trust that they won't always agree or support you, but as long as they have the same interests at heart, that's a good start." After a pause -- a glance over his shoulder -- where Leiventh crouches still and sure against Hraedhyth's agitation -- R'hin steps closer to pull Azaylia against him. It's intended to be a comforting gesture, but there's certainly no apology for the shock.

Azaylia is quiet as he speaks, expression drawn as she reaches to keep his jacket firmly set on her shoulders. She'll look back up at him with that raw stare, all three names passing by without a flicker of emotion. "K'del is a fine Acting Weyrleader." Her disagreement with the rest of what he says is subtle, but it's there, in her quiet murmur. The goldrider doesn't fight his embrace, burying her face into R'hin's chest with her hands still clutching the leather around her. A hoarse whisper, "I lied." The rest of her confession comes after a long pause, "I trust someone. But he can't help me. Not with dragons. Not with the Weyr."

"If you trust someone, then they can help you," R'hin disagrees, firmly. "The person I thought could help me least ended up helping me the most -- and all he had to do was listen to me, and be firm enough to disagree with me, and tell me I was being an idiot when it was needed. Perspective is the most valuable commodity in a job like yours. You can't find it yourself; that's why you need someone else you trust to give it to you."

There's a little shake of her head, rubbing her brow into R'hin's chest, "He'd never say I was wrong." Not that she sounds terribly certain, but it's a muffled guess. Azaylia shivers, bare feet and damp dress outweighing the warmth of his borrowed jacket. Finally, sounding defeated, "I'm trying, R'hin." With an audible swallow, "I'm never going to be perfect. Not like... like Josilina or Sa--" Pulling her head back, she aims a guilty glance up at him before turning back toward the entrance, "I'm just me."

That actually earns a genuine, throaty laugh from R'hin. "If you think Josilina, or Satiet were ever perfect -- you're far off the mark, kitten. Josilina was far too nice for her own good. She wasn't a Weyrwoman of change, and she struggled transitioning into the Pass. In some ways she valued her family above the Weyr, which is why it was... good, when she stepped down." Whether he pushed is a subject that is occasionally brought up, but not by him, not now. "Satiet was... she was fiercesome and frightening and determined, but also weak in other ways. And she farted in bed." He might've just made that up -- his eyes are glittering with amusement -- but then maybe he didn't. "They were all just them striving to do better. Which you will, too."

Azaylia aims a narrowed-eyed glance at R'hin for his laughter, still somber and struggling with herself. "I was too nice." And now she's not, or so the Weyrwoman seems to hint at. His amusement is met with a third shake of her head, this time with some distance put between them. "I'm cold." A flat announcement, she continues toward the entrance. Hraedhyth's wings spread wide at the sight of her lifemate, and whenever R'hin decides to show himself-- he'll get a snarl full of oversized teeth.

"Being nice isn't always a bad thing. As long as nice doesn't equate to walked over, or pushover, or bends over, although that last," R'hin's eyes lift as if considering a moment, though his amusement is largely kept in check, given she's leaving. Silently, he paces close behind her, felt if not seen, reacting to Hraedhyth's snarl with a respectful bow, keeping his distance, though his eyes track Azaylia all the same. The Savannah Wingleader seems to intend to let her take his jacket with her, although he adds, "I look forward to seeing you at poker next time, kitten. If not sooner."

Even Azaylia has her limits, and R'hin has the very rare gift of testing them. The Weyrwoman doesn't even rise to his last comment, walking to Hraedhyth and soothing the gold with murmurs and stroking hands. The queen presses into her bond's touch, although one rapidly whirling eye is kept on the bronzerider at all times. His response is a glance over her shoulder, "You'll get your jacket when I get my slippers." It's as if the icy rain has seeped into her voice. There's no promise of next time or a farewell, the woman mounting her dragon and taking to the skies. Ever innocent Leiventh is offered a wisp of perfumed smoke as well as all of the friendly warmth that his rider is denied as they depart.

That might just be the sound of R'hin's low laugh chasing the pair as they launch for the skies, Leiventh's cold wind following them until they reach the Weyr proper, before withdrawing wordlessly.