Difference between revisions of "Logs:Suireh's Dad"

The weather's rather pleasant this time of Turn around Nerat -- not completely overbearing, a pleasant sort of afternoon warmth that one can really enjoy a cold beer at the local bar with. One might well be forgiven for thinking this is some sort of secret fight club style bar. After all, most of the patrons are of the bulky variety, many sporting injuries -- though perhaps that's just an affliction of the nearby farmcraft. R'hin blends in quite well with them, all told, with purple discoloring his jaw and a split lip, and certainly no knot to be seen. He's seated with an older man -- a Master by his knot -- a pitcher of beer about halfway completed, the two chatting in low tones.

Though K'zin has been known to sport similarly colorful facial wounds with relative frequency, today, sadly, his tanned skin is unadorned by such badges of machismo. Maybe it's this lack that brings him here, hoping for a fight, what with the spread of those in patronage. Besides the lack of injuries, the 'Reaches bronzerider bears a build that lets him blend well enough, even if his clothes are a little heavy for the warmth. At least he didn't try to wear his fancy leathers. His entrance is unremarkable and his path takes him first to the bar to order a drink before brown gaze is sweeping the place to take in the other patrons. The first pass they make over R'hin and his companion has them continuing on. After all, he's not really all that familiar with R'hin, and in this out-of-context locale? Who can blame the teen.

Certainly, the pair aren't overly interesting enough to attract attention -- not like that rowdy bunch laughing in the corner. So it could well be easy to miss the exchange they make -- the farmer dropping something on the floor, and R'hin casually bending to pick it up with a motion towards the Master to return the small package -- yet it is not that that the rider passes him, but something small enough to palm, instead. There's a bit more low-voiced talk, before they shake hands -- R'hin standing in a show of respect -- before sinking back down to refill his beer as the Master waves to the bartender and makes his way out. The Monacoan, meanwhile, turns his gaze on the occupants, looking everywhere other than the rowdy group as he refills his mug.

The second wandering pass of K'zin's eyes over the room while he waits for his drink yields no more interest results. Once he has his drink in hand, though, and has exchanged his thanks and marks for it, his third sweep has his eyes catching on the Monocoan man. The look on his face isn't recognition, but rather the look of someone who's trying to remember something - something probably important - and just can't quite seem to get there. His gaze, as a result lingers over-long, as though looking at R'hin will somehow trigger whatever he can't seem to remember.

The Monacoan's aware of the look. It's kind of hard to ignore the lingering gaze, and R'hin smoothly rolls to his feet, striding towards the bar. He looks not at the other bronzerider, but the bartender, "Another glass, please." Then, finally, towards the teenager, with an amused twist of lips. "K'zin." Perhaps the Monacoan really is that good at names, or maybe that brittle-cold sense of another dragon's brief presence near Rasavyth's thoughts for a moment was not just coincidental. "You're going to give people the wrong impression about me. Come sit. Drink." It's more command than request, but perhaps that's just a reflection of a rider used to getting his way -- taking the fresh glass from the bartender with a silent toast as he retreads his path towards the table and that half-filled pitcher of beer.

K'zin doesn't have enough turns to his credit to be nearly slick enough. If he had a few more, maybe he'd be able to smooth over his expression of surprise and the faint flush that touches his cheeks when he's addressed by name. "Sir," He manages after having to too-quickly swallow the mouthful he'd just started to swallow. Then, "Sorry, I was trying to place your face. You look familiar, sir." The usage of the sirs probably stems from nervousness that is ill-hid. There might be a rekindling of his surprise when he finds himself pushing away from the bar to follow the older rider back to the table, sliding into a seat. Rasavyth certainly doesn't miss the brittle-cold that abuts his oozy warmth, momentarily amused by the contrast even as his mind starts to reflect the sensations of the other's mind as a vague mirroring. He (almost) never objects to the presence of another and thus there's a standing invitation for conversation.

Said usage of sir elicits a look from R'hin that is probably doesn't help with the nervous thing, but is clearly intended to stifle the use of said address. K'zin might well have his own drink, but R'hin nevertheless fills the clean glass and nudges it in the other bronzerider's direction. He lifts his own in a silent toast, grimacing a little with a fist pressed against his split lip after he's swallowed. "If you're going to try and go incognito," at least he seems to assume so for the lack of a knot, "You oughtn't use addresses of rank to those who are probably trying to do the same." Meanwhile: he hasn't confirmed his own identity, so it seems like he's intent on leaving K'zin to flounder in that respect, if the glimmering of amusement in pale eyes is any indication. Whoever skirts the distance edges of Rasavyth's awareness doesn't seem to be in the mood for conversation. There is a sense of movement, as if he's being examined from all sides, but his observer remains distant.

"Sorry," K'zin apologizes again, at least leaving of the 'sir' this time, after he's lifted the second drink to the man's toast and drank. He stares briefly down at the glasses, one now in each hand. Then the nerves get him, "To be fair, I've been sir-ing people my whole life, though, and here it's probably not too far out of place, and you are a lot older than I am, and so probably no one would think anything of it." Babble babble. Bad bronzer. He manages to catch himself at this point and bite his lower lip looking awkward. Rasavyth, on the other hand, is anything but awkward, even once aware of the attention. His mindscape is a stretch of nearly invisible ooze that shimmers here and there, a sense of warmth, welcome and comfort, with just that tiny edge of amusement and that certain something wrong as an aftertaste.

"There are certain habits of weyrlinghood that it is best to break as soon as tenable," comes R'hin's low-voiced advice, his gaze casually flicking around the room, as if more interested in the other occupants than the one across from him. Despite his casual demeanor, it's clear he's paying close attention, however, for after he runs his hand gingerly along his purpled jaw, he says, "Relax. Drink your beer. That is what you came here for, isn't it? It can't be the company... although I suppose knowledge of farming is useful to High Reachians these days," a twist of lips is followed by a dark chuckle.

It's probably for the best that R'hin is looking around, because K'zin's eyes have settled on the older man again and in a way that still might give some the wrong idea. "Yes." Beer. That is why he came. Surely. It doesn't sound convincing. And the lift of the beer to his lips is too swift. Of course, it's as he's swallowing-- well, chugging, more like, that his brain seems to put the pieces together and he backwashes into the mug, coughing. "Oh, Faranth's filed forepaws, you're Suireh's dad." His face is turning red, and not just from the coughing. As such, he doesn't have a chance to comment on the knowledge of farming. At least not yet.

R'hin's pale gaze snaps back towards K'zin, tipping his head consideringly. "Can't see why that'd get you in a twist, unless you've been fucking my daughter." A beat. Something darker in his voice: "Have you been fucking my daughter?"

"What?!" That's loud enough to draw eyes, which K'zin seems to realize too late, but enough that he modulates his volume for the next and successive denials. "No. No. No no no no." There were really too many no's for it to sound entirely innocent, if emphatic. As if that weren't enough to get him into trouble, there's the nervous babble coming to help out, "Not that I haven't thought about it, I mean--" Someone unseen helps K'zin get his mouth to shut tight as he blushes bright as a ripe redfruit and looks like maybe he's contemplating a spontaneous death right here and right now, as that might be a better option than going on living.

A slight narrowing of pale eyes, as if R'hin's further scrutinizing the response from the younger bronzerider. Forget watching the others, it's now the Monacoan's turn to stare at K'zin, though his gaze is less one of consideration of his identity and more consideration of just what to do with this particular problem in front of him. His fingers tap at the table, rhythmically, before he murmurs, "You're not going to fuck my daughter. Say it to me." Is that a glimmer of amusement in pale eyes, or just a trick of the light? His expression certainly doesn't seem to support it, intent and demanding as it is.

K'zin hasn't, apparently, made up his mind about dying in time to get on with it before R'hin's command is uttered. Or maybe he has, and he just hasn't sorted how to make it happen since wishing himself Between isn't doing it for him. The glasses are left on the table as K'zin's hands sink into his lap, his posture contrite. "I'm not going to fuck your daughter." He'd probably have been okay if he left it there, but, no, "I don't think she'd fuck me anyway. I mean, we grew up together. I'm just the boy that followed her around and carried her things for her and had a crush on her a million turns ago," And maybe still does, since he's still blushing.

"Good." And that seems to be that. R'hin apparently takes K'zin at his word -- disturbing daughter-stalking-talk aside -- and leans forward to fill up the other bronzerider's drink, rather pointedly. Once he sets the pitcher back down, the older rider leans back with his own mug in hand, taking a gulp -- suppressing, mostly successfully, the wince that follows -- then says, "Tell me what you've been up to since graduation, you and Rasavyth." Pale eyes continue to study the High Reachian, intently, taking in blush-and-all.

"Oh, you know. Just, riding with Taiga. Helping out in Nabol." Sneaking around behind the backs of his wingleaders and the Weyrleadership to get nosy with the politics of the sweep. "Being the best bronzerider K'del can get me to be," K'zin tries to color that with humor, but it probably falls a little flat since those nerves are still at work.

"That sounds completely dull," is R'hin's summation of K'zin's bronzerider-life-to-date. "Is that all you've done?" he says, like he's presenting some sort of 'This is Your Life, K'zin!', and is coming up particularly short. "You understand there's a bronzerider legacy at play, and you're letting down the team, yes?" The mention of K'del, though, has his brows rising in surprise and interest, leaning forward. "Mm. K'del is your role model?" Hard to tell whether he considers that a good thing or bad.

"If it helps, I drink, fight, and fuck a lot of women." Beat. "But not your daughters." K'zin tentatively reaches for the glass R'hin had poured for him. "K'del doesn't approve of some parts of those activities. Which I'd say means that he might be a role model, but that we don't always see eye to eye. But I try not to punch him anymore." This last might be related because maybe it will help him with that bronzerider street cred he seems to be lacking.

"Mm," is R'hin's reaction to K'zin's listing of his bronzerider bona fides. The comment on what K'del doesn't approve of earns the most reaction: a surprised sort of chuckle, and an amused smile that follows. "Well, K'del is a late bloomer, but it's not his fault. Gaining Weyrleadership so young can have a significant effect on one's... development." He rubs a hand along his jaw again with a snort. "Fighting isn't always the answer, but finishing it certainly is." It might be praise, but if it is it's faint and fleeting.

"A late bloomer to the fighting, you mean?" Since K'zin's seen K'del drink and heard the tales of what percentage of 'Reaches women have spent time making boot-to-boot contact with the Weyrleader. "I think he'd prefer I have more discretion in the fights I choose. To have purpose to them. But if you never practice, you rarely win." Or so has been his experience. "Probably good that he ended up with it young, since he keeps on ending up with it back." K'zin manages to stop his eyeroll just after it's started and ducks his head to drink. Maybe R'hin didn't catch that.

The twitch of lips seems to be R'hin's assent on K'zin's guess, while the Monacoan takes a genial gulp from his mug. "Then find someone willing to practice with you. An aggressive woman is good; you get to apologize for inelegant hits after." The glimmer of eyes suggests he speaks from personal experience. As for the Weyrleadership: "He wants it. He puts the Weyr first. That's more than many bronzeriders I've met in my lifetime can claim; it makes him good for it."

"Jo used to spar with me. Alida before her. But not of late. And apologizing to either of them isn't any fun." Probably because he's not sleeping with either of them, so apologies are really just apologies. Sigh. "Don't know any other aggressive women," This, he sounds regretful about. "I never said he wasn't good for it. But is it good for him?" A flicker of a deeper concern, of deeper thought than's been required for previous topics slips across the young man's face. "When he was just wingsecond, he was happy. I mean, you could tell that at first he was disappointed," Well, you could if you were K'zin, who may have just seen what he expected to see, "But then he got wingsecond and he really loved his job. He had time for the people in his life. Now? Hard to catch him for more than a pair of words not in an official capacity."

"Jo," R'hin echoes, with a sudden, warm recognition in his voice. "Alida. Mm. Yes, I imagine apologizing to them would be difficult. Not to mention painful. But worth it." The Monacoan's gaze is wandering again -- though it skips back to K'zin at the end of his inspection. There's a vehemence, an intensity when he speaks, emphasized as he leans forward as if imparting some wisdom: "Some people are born to do specific things. Oh, they can get by without them, but they'll pine for what they're missing. K'del might've been happy, might've tried to fill his time -- and trust me, I spent some time with him after he stepped down -- but it was just that, filling time. He was born for this. It's meant for him, and he won't be truly happy unless he's doing it."

"It was." Painful. K'zin assures R'hin with a wince for even the memory of all the times apologies were necessary. The bronzerider quiets and listens to the older man, his expression thoughtful, but troubled. "And if the job continues to rip loved ones away from him? Makes him an absentee father and friend? If he keeps making choices he lives to regret that make him carry secrets that could destroy him if they're whispered too loudly? If it kills him? Will it make it a worthy death?" There's some anger there, some feeling. K'zin lets go of the glass lest his grip tighten too much and he be out the marks to replace the thing.

"One can't be a leader without having some regrets. I'd worry more if he had none. We've all... all leaders have to sacrifice things. It's part of the job." R'hin says it with aplomb, like it's a truth he's long accepted and is comfortable with. "There are worse deaths than dying in service to one's Weyr. A rider during a Pass lives that test every day of their lives." It's a statement that comes out hollow, not for a lack of truth, but more a decided attempt at neutrality, taking the time to drink afterwards, setting down his empty glass. Rubbing at his stubble of a beard, his voice is light in response to the other rider's anger: "K'del's a man, not a boy -- he knows what the job is, and that he's willing to walk back to it suggests he accepts those risks. You can worry and flail and fret uselessly on his behalf, or you can help him in the best way you can. Buy him a drink now and then. Be normal. Be a friend."

"Well, I think it's selfish." So there. "A man putting his family through that." K'zin's sliding out of his seat, because apparently he's not staying. K'del putting the needs of the Weyr above his own, imagine that. K'zin apparently doesn't approve. "It's one thing if his dragon had flown the queen, but he didn't. And he just keeps throwing away the people who care about him to do the damned job." The anger is mounting, but there's an oozy blanket to toss onto the smolders trying to fan into flame. "Thanks for the drink." He adds before turning to stalk toward the exit. As he does, the oozy warmth with its thin veneer of brittle cold reaches for Leiventh with regret. « Please pass my apologies onto your R'hin. My K'zin has recently suffered a loss and regards Cadejoth's K'del with similar esteem. He's not looking with open eyes. » It's a succinct, and perhaps partially vague, but it's an explanation the bronze seems to feel the need to offer. « Later, I hope he will appreciate the wisdom your R'hin offered him. » But he's not certain of that outcome. A grieving rider is something he's never had to deal with before a pair of months back.

Either R'hin doesn't have a come back for that -- which, given it's R'hin, seems unlikely -- or he doesn't see the value in interrupting the other bronzerider's righteous anger. There might be a glimmer of a smile, though it's so faint as it be unrecognizable, tipping his glass in the departing rider's direction by way of farewell. Leiventh is a cool bulwark: neither welcoming nor dissuading, and while he takes in the younger bronze's words, and there's a chill wind that slithers through that heat as acknowledgement, there's no further verbal response; just a distant image of the spires of High Reaches as he recedes.