Difference between revisions of "Logs:Necessary Dramatics: Tayte's 27th Turnday, Part 1"

Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr

At the heart of this oblong cavern is its meeting table: a long hardwood oval with a mirror's dark shine, High Reaches' sigil picked out in lapis and onyx at its center. Twenty chairs surround it, each softened by an embroidered cushion that's just a little too stiff for complete comfort -- meetings need to be kept short, after all -- with the chair at the table's head, facing the ledge, being somewhat larger than the rest.

Interspersed between glowsconces upon the smooth walls, ancient tapestries depict the territories High Reaches protects in a particularly pastoral fashion, all fluffy clouds and fluffier llamas, or else fishing crafts sailing merrily out to sea. Among them is also a natural alcove, its several wooden shelves primarily stocking fine wines and liquors as well as the glasses to serve them, though the lower shelves also hold whatever hidework requires particularly frequent attention.

A narrow wooden door leads to the Records room, while the tunnel that extends to the weyrleaders' ledge is wide enough for three men to walk abreast, with just enough kink in it to block the wind.

Day 20 of month 12 is special to at least one person at High Reaches Weyr, and at least one other person knows first hand what it means. It means that wherever Turnday Girl Tayte is, she's bringing glamour and style. True, it's style far more suited to the most elegant gala Pern can support, and not the Council Chambers of the Weyr, but that's where the author of the note held in her hand is reported to be found. She's a vision in an iris purple dress that must have been a headache to dye to such a vibrant shade. The skirts flow around her as she moves with purpose straight toward her victim. Ruched fabric wraps tight around her torso, bunched attractively but not thickly, acting as the ribbon on a bouquet where appliqued blooms spread north and south from midriff, the blooms attractively following the curvature of her chest and up to where they stretch just off the shoulders forming a wide neckline. The material under the flowers is a fine skin-toned mesh that creates the illusion of only flesh save for where there are dots of sparkled beading across her upper chest. As with her last turnday, no detail has been forgotten. Her lovely features are now enhanced with light touches of cosmetics, her face framed by dangling charoite earrings and golden strands left strategically free from the elegantly coiffed updo. "A note?" Tayte's alto holds appropriate drama for the entrance. And if there are others present? So be it. She's not about to slow her roll for an audience. "It's my turnday, and I get a note?" Nevermind the gift.

K'del's been pretty busy, unsurprisingly, this past seven - not so busy that he can't stop in and see Vali, but busy enough that spending serious time with either mother or daughter has been more difficult. So yes: he sent a note, and yes there was a gift to go with it (a pashmina, one that very nearly matches the shade of Tayte's eyes), and no, that doesn't mean he's not as much pleased as he is surprised when this particular vision appears in the doorway of the otherwise empty council chambers. "Uh," he begins, as though he can't quite get two thoughts together, not enough to actually say something proper. Then: "You look stunning."

As she comes to a halt a pair of paces away from him, skirts swirling, Tayte's face makes a valiant effort to keep a pleased smile from popping briefly onto her face. She's supposed to be annoyed right now, or something. But she can't help it. It's obviously the right thing to say, but a moment later she's forced her lips back to a flat line and she manages to keep at least her tone of drama in line, "Of course I am. It's my turnday." And turndays mean a stunning Tayte. A very slight cock to her eyebrow betrays a hint of playfulness as she continues, brandishing the apparently offending note to touch to his chest as one might use a dagger, sword, or fan to get some straight answers and quickly in a less civilized encounter. (Why didn't she think to have a fan! Just because it's winter. Well, there's always next turn!) "Does this mean," she demands imperiously, "That you are leaving me partnerless for booze and cake this turn? Was my twenty-sixth not enough fun to repeat for my twenty-seventh?" Her gaze suggests that there is a wrong answer here.

"Your twenty-sixth was a wonderful night, though I'll admit I'm still a little hazy on some of the details of it," replies K'del, who has turned from the table enough that he can regard Tayte directly without turning his head. His note, well, he neither glances at it nor reaches to touch it back from her. "Depends. Can there be booze and cake in here, with you looking spectacular and me glancing up from mounds of paperwork and records I need to try and get my head around every few seconds to get another look at you?" He sounds exhausted, but as though he's aiming, trying really, really hard, to be cheerful about it.

The note lingers, Tayte's eyes narrowing as she considers the proposal. Then, decisively, she abandons the note on the table, declaring, "No. You'd ruin a perfectly good time by trying and failing to focus on anything other than me." A focus which is as it should be, her voice suggests. "Between me and the booze, you'd be hopeless. Put the cake in the mix and your brain might implode." For all that she must be teasing him at this point, she sounds gravely serious. With the note out of her hand, she slips around behind the bronzerider's chair and her hands fall to his shoulders, beginning a light rub there. Even on her turnday, Tayte's anything but heartless. "Are they working you so hard so soon?" This question is asked more gently and with compassion.

K'del's shoulders are tense, but not dramatically so; even so, he releases a low, soft sound of pleasure in answer to that rub. "You're probably right," he admits. "I'm sorry, Tayte. It's - timing. Can I take you out somewhere, in that dress in the next couple of sevens, once things are... more settled?" His hands drop from the report he was glancing over. Now, he stares at it, not bleakly, but without enthusiasm. "It's... it's been just short of three turns since I was last in this position, and even the whole Acting Weyrsecond thing wasn't the same. There's a lot to get my head around. Things that've changed, all the rest. Owe it to Azaylia, to the Weyr to do this right."

Just because they're not super tight doesn't mean Tayte stops her attention. "Timing." She repeats, though she makes it sound substantially more ridiculous than he does. Even so, "I suppose I could be convinced into wearing this dress again if the occasion warranted it." Because clearly, her non-plans tonight do, just as they did last turn. "Especially if you're offering to take it upon yourself to plan such an evening." Really, what girl would turn that kind of thing down. "Three turns." She echoes thoughtfully, leaning a little forward to glance at the report. "That's a lot to get caught up on." She admits, "And you should do it right for you, because that's who you are." A hand leaves his shoulder and ruffles through his hair before she's pulling her hands away and moving to his side again. "But you should not overwork yourself. Or I'll worry." There's a threat in the way she looks down at him, as if her worrying would be a serious consequence and not just happenstance of her knowing him.

No doubt K'del could rattle off a list of reasons why the timing is bad, but he refrains from that. Instead, he settles back, enjoying Tayte's hands on his shoulders, his eyes flickering closed. He turns, when she moves away, smiling rueful as he exhales a little huff of air. "Reckon I can find some time to plan something," he agrees. "Once things settle down a little. I promise, though: won't overwork myself. There's no point in that. I just-- well, you're right. Got to do it right. Got to get it right, this time."

Tayte's eyes flick across the table, checking for dress-dangers before she leans against it, her hands folding daintily in front of her. She's got the graces to go along with the glamour, but her expression is gently puzzled. The planning and the not overworking is straightforward enough, so it must be the- "Got to get it right this time?" The implication isn't lost on her, "Kas," She leans forward to reach for one of his hands, intent on wrapping it in both of hers, expression touching with worry. "Talk to me." It's a request; in this she doesn't have any right to demand answers, and she doesn't pretend she does. "What--?" But she doesn't even know exactly what to ask. What does he mean? What didn't he get right before? What-- what? His tenure as Weyrleader has come up before as background for anecdotes, of course, but never like this.

K'del's hand is ink-stained, but dry, so at least he's unlikely to leave marks anywhere. "Oh," he says, sighing. "Shells, I don't know. I was seventeen when I stepped up, and of course I made mistakes. Grew into the job, grew up in the job, and shells, I screwed some things up. Cared too much about what people thought; sometimes didn't care enough about other opinions. A whole mess of stuff. And then I walked away from it all to cry on an island for weeks because my lover was murdered, and..." And no one will ever let him forget it.

The ink does not go unnoticed, but it's evidently a risk Tayte's willing to take to offer that simple physical connection that reflects the thoughtful concern in her eyes. "And you expected more from yourself?" She leaves unsaid the question of if it's the opinions of others that he's worrying over. Fingers stroke his hand at the mention of Iolene, and so softly, she murmurs, "But you loved her." It's a statement, but with a request for confirmation in the lift of her brows. Enough has been said about K'del's relationship with Iolene between them, but not this- not in so many words.

"I loved her," he agrees, words he's somehow always skirted around, though he's been open enough about how betrayed he was, finding out all that he did after she was gone. He stares off into nowhere, rather as though he's been trapped by his own emotions; lost in the past. "She was supposed to be out with me, with my family, the day she died. And I know he," I'kris, "would've found another time to do it, if she hadn't been there, but... she didn't come with me because it was just over a turn since the baby and..." Now the words are tumbling out. "Shouldn't've let it take over me like that. Shouldn't've fallen apart. No matter what. Io would've hated me doing that."

There's a slight movement in Tayte's form, a tension and an almost move to try to be closer to him. Only, because of where they are, her only choice to be substantially closer to him, to be physically comforting is to come into his lap and that crosses a line that she won't, but the desire to be comforting is there. Her lips start to part after his admission, but close again because there's more coming, so she listens, her fingers tightening around his, a pause in the strokes. "Kas..." Where to start? It takes the woman a moment to sort that out, but when she speaks, it's with quiet resolve, "You did what you needed to do. Io would've understood. Anyone who's ever loved another would. You can't let people with hardened hearts and malicious minds make you feel like you should've done better. They've never been brave enough to love, have never known loss and can't understand..." Does she? It's hard to tell if there's some secret she's never mentioned, or if this is just her skill as a bartender for showing understanding and sympathy (empathy?). If it's an act, it's worthy of a standing ovation for sincerity.

K'del watches her fingers, now, focusing on them as though they're a lifeboat, or a bridge. "I let it take me over," he says. "And then I was too proud to come back and admit to that - and do what I needed to. It's not... it's not that I don't think I should've grieved. But," he glances up, now, seeking out her expression. "I did things I wasn't proud of. Not just immediately, but later, too. That's what I mean. I need to prove I've learned things, since then. That I'm not going to let emotion overrule my good sense, this time."

Tayte's expression shifts as K'del speaks. It starts with focused concern, a look of listening, then brows lean together as his words prompt a deep thoughtfulness, and finally lips purse in distaste. The latter is at least explained as her fingers resume their movement against his hand. "Then the only person you have anything to prove to is yourself." One of her hands stays clasped with his while the other pats the back of his hand, "In that case, I approve." And since it's her turnday, clearly he needs her approval. Her lips tug just a little into something playful. "I should like for you to always be proud of yourself from here on out. One of us should be, and left to my own devices tonight, I might do something positively shameful." A single brow lifts as if daring him to tell her not to. (Because, he'd have so much luck if he did. On her turnday.) She pushes gently into a standing position, hands starting to slip free of their position on his.

Exhaling, K'del nods, still rather more focused on his own thoughts than on Tayte, or the fact that-- and then he remembers, and looks rueful for it. "I'll do my best," he promises. "And I want you to go out and have fun tonight. Don't be stupid," his gaze is mock stern as he says that, "but have fun. And we'll do something together sometime soon, okay?"

"I'll do my best." Tayte echoes K'del's promise with a wry smile. She bends at the waist, which might only serve to accentuate just how well her fancy turnday dress fits, and she leans in to press a chaste, but affectionate kiss to K'del's cheek. "I'm going to storm out now, but only because this dress deserves a dramatic exit." The smile she leaves him with as she leans back before straightening is warm, one that doesn't, for all her playfulness bear him ill-will for his workaholic ways. Then the mask of melodrama is assumed as she plucks up his note. She turns, quickly enough that her skirt thwaps against his leg, and strides out into the night. Look out, Pern!