Difference between revisions of "Logs:L'vae Gets His Flask"

Wyaeth> Bremuth senses that Wyaeth keeps it simple, direct-- « Send L'vae here. » Here being a hazy, gritty look at the galleries.

L'vae strolls up into the stands from the entrance to the bowl. L'vae has arrived.

There's N'thei, passing time in empty galleries, perched forward on a bench up up up at the highest row from the sands, his elbows to rest on his knees. There's literally no one else in here, the slightest sound echoing oddly in the distinctly empty tiers.

Wyaeth senses that Bremuth's respect is evident within the calm touch of his mind. There's a moment of placid stillness before his thoughts warm. Shared assurance that what has been asked, will be so.

L'vae pauses as he appears at the entrance, a hand lifting to undo the collar of his sweater. The weyrling starts scanning the lower rows, so it is a while before his gaze makes it up to the far perch N'thei has claimed. A hand lifts to sweep back over the short brush of his hair, and then he begins the climb. Silent and steady. He skips a step here and there, crosses along a row somewhere in the middle before rising some more towards the other man.

"You look like a dead man walking with that pace, lad." N'thei calls it louder than he needs to, considering the tendency for voices to carry forever and every in a big-empty-room, probably the cause for the bemused raise of his eyebrows that follow. He lowers his volume to continue; "I like it here when there aren't eggs. Probably the quietest place in the Weyr on a night like this." By way of explanation.

L'vae's eyes, often on the stairs before him, lift to N'thei as his words echo into the cavern. Though there's little in the way of reaction on his features, his steps do quicken. The following explanation is received with a slight nod and an upward tug at the corner of his mouth. "Probably," is agreed congenially. "Good evening, sir." His hand lifts in a proper little salute as he arrives at the other man's side.

N'thei touches his two fingers to his forehead, like a salute but lacking formality, drops his hand back to his knee to reclaim his slack posture. "I'm supposed to be your mentor." So pronounced, it really sounds like he's apologizing for the fact. He even couples it to a sucks-to-be-you smile at the weyrling.

L'vae seems at a bit of a loss, in the face of all this. His hands fall behind him, clasped loosely behind his back. There's a questioning tilt to his head. But, "yes, sir," is stated confidently enough. The curve of his mouth deepens slightly as a smile of his own hazarded. "I am honored. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me." His gaze dodges out a moment to the empty sands, returning again with polite curiosity. "You probably don't have much time to yourself, after all?"

"You'd think I wouldn't." N'thei shrugs a heedless shoulder, flies a look around the room to land back upon L'vae with the same half-apologetic expression from a moment ago. "Are you honored? Why?" He offers, then, a silver-flasked drink toward the weyrling, that being the occupation of his salute-free hand; it's unscrewed, looks new except where his fingerprints stain the polished surface.

"You are Weyrleader, sir." Such obviousness lends itself to a rather stilted delivery. L'vae blinks a moment, looking from N'thei to the flask. His hands unclasp, his right reaching forward to accept it. For the moment he does not drink. Eyes return to the other man. "That, at the least, ought to be honored." He pauses a moment, a deeper light of curiosity allowed in his eyes. "Do you disagree?"

N'thei, mild; "Whether or not I agree isn't really at issue, is it. I could see a man to be honored with a mentor he knew, one that had a good reputation for looking after weyrlings. Shanlee would be a good one for that." He releases the flask to L'vae's keeping, waves his now empty hands to dismiss the whole subject. "To the obvious. Any great myths I can dispel for you? Anything eating you that I could set right?"

There's a slight firming at the back of the weyrling's jaw that betrays his teeth tightening together. But L'vae isn't about to object to the subject's dismissal. As N'thei continues the younger man's eyes drop to the flask. His hand flicks a little shake to test the volume even as the mouth is lifted nearer his nose. That it's not too near is an indication that he expects it's something strong. His gaze lifts again. "I can think of a few questions, sir," he starts. "What prompted your change in policy towards Crom?" On the tail of the question, he takes an appraising sniff of the flask's contents.

"Policy." N'thei repeats the word a few times over, the last time finally lilted into a question; "Policy? Which policy?" Yes, the flask's full; yes, it's the hard-smelling aroma of whiskey. "You won't get drunk sniffing it," is added as an amused afterthought, edged by a rough chuckle at L'vae's nose-tasting.

"The one that changed from being aggressive against holders to compromising with Telgar Weyr," L'vae returns evenly. There's a deeper quirk to the edge of his mouth and then the flask is lifted. More of a sip then a swig, a taste of the whiskey rolled back on his tongue. "I didn't think we were supposed to get drunk."

N'thei goes to the trouble of putting a crease in his forehead while he inquires, "When have you known me to be agressive with holders? Don't be forgetting that I inherited the Crom mess from R'hin; he made the bed, I was just the one laying in it by the time you got here." With a sideways look at the sip, with a derisive snort, he shakes his head in answer to L'vae's drinking habits. "At that rate, you won't be, no need to worry about it."

L'vae tilts his head, hand giving another little roll to the flask. With what little dent he's made, there's not much sound of slosh. "It seems to me that compromise isn't particularly consistent with actions that would land a man in jail. Sir." His brows lift fractionally, a hint of truer emotion allowed into his expression. "I was pleasantly surprised to hear you had brokered a deal. It is certainly a more preferable situation then one involving theft from holders." His chin tips slightly to the side as the flask comes up again, allowing the weyrling's eyes to stay on N'thei as he takes another sip. Rolling his lips on the moisture afterwards, he reaches the drink back towards the other man in offering.

"You heard wrong. I didn't broker any damned deals." N'thei unfolds himself from his long sojourn on the bench, his knees popping some while he straightens them. "If it was up to me, we'd have burned the place down and warmed ourselves on the flames of Crom instead of the coal they wouldn't give us." With a wave of his palm, he shakes off the offer to collect the flask, concludes simply, "Yours. Keep it. Enjoy."

"I see." L'vae's expression smoothes again. He looks to the flask, out there at the end of his extended arm. It is a moment before it is slowly drawn in. Index and thumb holding it securely enough, his other fingers arch in little strokes over the silver. ""Thank you, sir," the weyrling says with a deferential tip of his head. "It's beautiful." His next breath is drawn out, pulling deeply into his chest before it is exhaled through his nose. "Did you... were you given a silver knot-thread, as a weyrling?"

N'thei glances at the flask-- is it beautiful?-- just prior to the very little shake of his head that answers that last question. "Don't even think the option existed when I was a weyrling. Matters?" He gives L'vae a doubtful look downward to that, gravely certain to answer his own question: It does not matter. He's leaving presently, that much is obvious as he climbs over the bench down from L'vae and pauses, half-turns back to conclude, "A silver thread isn't going to separate the men from the boys. Wouldn't worry about it if I were you. --Don't get caught with liquor on your breath." Parting words.

L'vae silently looks up into the bigger man's doubt, the wideness of his eyes the only crack in his dutifully attentive expression. As N'thei moves on he drops his gaze down, to the flask, and then askance as the weyrleader speaks again. There's the tenseness back in his jaw. "I won't, sir," the weyrling promises as his chin lifts back to level. "Good night."