Difference between revisions of "Logs:An In-quin-sition"

Southern Rim of the Bowl, High Reaches Weyr

Directly opposite the sharp spikes of the Reaches' characteristic spires lies the bowl's south rim, from above seeming pinched like a baker's pie crust to form this distinctive lip: a soft curve, several dragonlengths long but only four lengths wide before narrowing into impassable crags. It would have to be an apprentice effort, however, given how even the flatter area is riddled with cracks and hollows, dusted with glittery silicate quartz that is far more gritty than sweet.

Though the view down into the bowl is commanding, the views beyond it can be absolutely breathtaking on clear days: eternally snow-capped mountains descending to high-altitude meadows and the dark brush of evergreens, and greener valleys beyond even those, with only glimpses here and there of human habitation. But the views come with a risk: the wind can blow hard and strong, and whether looking inward or outward, there is no protection from the precipitous chasms that fall away from these heights.

A blanket of cold, dense fog fills the bowl with its oppressive presence and obscures vision.

The fog has lifted just enough that it's possible to see at least partway across the bowl and out into the mountains, now, though the low, dense clouds have a habit of shifting this way and that, and obstructing specific views. There's been a spearminted green perched up here for some time, but now, during a brief period of visibility, she's joined by a starry blue, whose red-haired rider, so like the tall man already standing there, dismounts with a huff that travels some distance through the fog. "I'm busy, dad," Quinlys complains, ducking into the relative shelter of Olveraeth's wing. "What do you want?"

It's fascinating, in a way, the nigh-hypnotic shifting of the fog below: like smoke lying just above a fire, almost, except there isn't the glow, of course. Faranth only knows how Xhaeon got up here - but it likely does have something to do with A'quin, since the smithcrafter is seated not terribly far away from that little cluster. He has his sketchbook out, and calloused fingers manipulate charcoal into defining a personal, aerial impression of the bowl below, shrouded as it is in banks of shifting mist. The appearance of Quinlys and her Olveraeth, looming out of one such bank, seems to take him aback a moment; but soon after, there's only the deepest touch of a chuckle, carrying easily from the far (and likely obscured) side of that spearmint wing.

A'quin doesn't seem remotely apologetic for demanding the presence of his eldest daughter, nor for the startled shriek she makes at the sound of Xhaeon's chuckle, so obviously not belonging to her slender, rangy father. "Who's there?" she demands. "Dad." The greenrider's laugh echoes nearly as much as the smithcrafter's; he seems perfectly happy to stay largely out of sight, as though this conversation doesn't really require visual contact... or perhaps because it's safer for him. "Just a Smith, girl. Don't mind him. But we... haven't I told you lately to stop consorting with that Taikrin? You're a Weyrlingmaster, now. You can't have dangerous politics like that; people need to trust you. Have you met my daughter, Journeyman? Would you trust her?" Hello, deep end.

"She doesn't /sound/ much like Lyarel," comes the reply to that last (more laughter having prefaced it); the tall smith does rise to his feet, however, navigating the treachery of rock and slip with the shuffle-kneed confidence of a native of Telgar. "But he seems trustworthy enough, or so my father says. Do you think it maybe runs in the blood?" High spirits, as Xhaeon materializes as-it-were from behind a dragonwing. The Smithcrafter evidently wasn't expecting such a winsome face to match the shriek: luckily for all male parties involved, he doesn't comment that she isn't a hoyden after all! He recovers from his momentarily surprised expression with aplomb, reaching a charcoal-smudged hand forwards in greeting. "You don't quite look old enough to be a weyrlingmaster, if you'll forgive my impudence by saying so."

A'quin's, "You can't expect me to imply a good quality doens't run in my family!" comes right at the exact same moment as Quinlys starts, and says, "You know Lye?" She seems put out by Xhaeon's surprise, though it may simply be a holdover from her father's interference-- it certainly isn't helped by the mention of her age. "I'm twenty-five," she says. "I'm young, maybe, but I'm good at this job. And my friendship with Taikrin in no way influences my ability to do my job. Meara wouldn't've picked me, if it did!" At least she's been well-trained enough to take his hand on instinct, shaking it firmly in her own, gloved hand. "Just because you're K'del's man through and through, dad, doesn't mean I have to be. He's interfering." That last is for Xhaeon's benefit, blue eyes regarding him squarely. "I think he wants witnesses, in case what I've learnt from Taikrin involves my fists."

A struggle, to keep a straight face at such timely family discussions: but Xhaeon manages such a heroic effort. His own grip doesn't slack on behalf of her being female: firm but not overbearing. "I have nothing but admiration for those who feel that age shouldn't barr the way for talented individuals to succeed," he does manage in a tactful tone in the face of all of this: obviously he wasn't really expecting to be embroiled in the middle of a familial political argument, but he manages well enough. "My father is one of such individuals - and the reason I know your brother. I'm known primarily as 'that's Master Xhaeldred's son, isn't it? The eldest, the one with his nose in a book all the time?'." Self-deprecation comes easily enough. If only he could leave it at that. He avoids looking at A'quin as he inquires of the bluerider, "Do you think all thoughtful inhabitants of a place should be well-attentive to the machinations of leadership?"

From behind the pair, and largely hidden beneath Kianneth's wing, A'quin chuckles, evidently finding this particular introduction an interesting one. Still, his eyes are fastened onto his daughter, listening to her words with what may well be genuine consideration. For Quinlys, understanding blossoms in her expression, and she nods: there can be no question that she's fond of her eldest brother, and it does seem that he softens her temper to some extent. Xhaeon's question may have been for Quinlys, but both answer it at almost the exact moment. Quinlys: "Yes, and they shouldn't be pressured by other people." A'quin: "Yes, and they need to be conscious of how the wind is blowing, and who really has the power." Again, Quinlys scowls. "Dad. I'm sorry-- he forgets that I'm not a kid anymore."

"Both well-thought answers," Xhaeon remarks, in that mellow kind of way that those well-acquainted with seminar classes are: an acknowledgement without agreeing to either points. He taps his sketchbook against his thigh idly, and waves off Quinlys' apology. "I know quite well the type, though it's my mother who forgets that, and asks me if I want my childhood bed turned down when I go home, never-no-mind that I haven't been able to squeeze into that short thing for nearly a decade." The Smith peers around the edge of Kianneth's wing, though; "Yes, I do think she's trustworthy, in that impulsive speak-your-mind-come-hell-or-high-water kind of way. Very girl next door." (He's so ready to get hit in the face.)

Quinlys, mature, responsible Weyrlingmaster that she is, sticks her tongue out at Xhaeon as he so-belatedly answers her father, but she seems smug, too. "See, Dad. You're out of luck. My opinions on Taikrin aren't-- well, though, I guess it does depend on whose side you're on. Do you have a side yet? Can I convince you? Dad thinks K'del's amazing and knows everything, which is hilarious because it definitely wasn't that way ten turns ago. I like K'del, but it's obvious Taikrin and H'kon won the flights, and why shouldn't they get to be Weyrleader? And since it's not like H'kon has been doing much of anything, I mean, until recently..." Her father breaks in, then, lifting his voice to carry to both of the younger people, "H'kon's a good man. K'del has proven himself. One thing my daughter and I do share is that we're not entirely comfortable with Brieli."

"Something that has been made most evident to me since my stay is that there are a great many people who aren't entirely comfortable with Brieli," is Xhaeon's comment, mild-mannered as it is. "She seems to run an efficient weyr. Given that I've heard," and now his voice is apologetic: who really *wants* to hear the dirty laundry aired aloud? "Weyrwoman Azaylia isn't given to excessive amounts of... administrative imperative." His gaze flicks between the two, and he laughs, lifting his hands as if to ward off a physical assault. "Far be it that I pick a side, as you say, weyrlingmaster." He inclines his chin in a nod far too formal for the circumstance, though that semi-formal aura seems to follow him no matter the mess. Perhaps it's simply the confidence of stance or propriety of squared shoulders. "I haven't a stake in it, really. Though if I had to say anything, it would be that Azaylia does seem to be the one who could use support moreso than the others, who jockey about and try to acquire it as personal amounts of wealth, no matter if they piss standing or sitting, if you'll excuse my language," to Quinlys at the last, of course.

It's A'quin who answers first this time, though Quinlys smirk' for that language comes accompanied by a chortle: as if she would be offended. "K'del's got Azaylia's back, of that you can be sure," he says, quite possibly pushing his line of thinking a little hard, as he steps past his green, hand resting upon her forelimb for just a moment as he passes. His chin lifts, gaze suitably appraising as he regards Xhaeon, now. It's also possible he's hearing exactly what he wants to hear. "He's had us keeping an eye out for young men like you." Beat. "And women." His gaze slides, just briefly, towards his daughter. "It only stands to reason - build the kind of Weyr you want to see in the future. Given time, Azaylia'll be a strong Weyrwoman. With the right kind of supporters at your side. Should I mention you to K'del? Get you on board?" Quinlys? She blanches.

"And you think Taikrin doesn't?" Have Azaylia's back, that is - and it is more of a question instead of accusation: Xhaeon is vetting his options. Thoroughly. "K'del was nice enough, certainly. But do you think he'll support Azaylia if her dragon flies before Brieli's, and is caught again by Taikrin's?" He holds a hand, wait; "Don't answer that. You can't speak for K'del. What about /you/? Would you support Taikrin as your weyrleader, if she won a flight fair and square, confirming a senior weyrwoman's position?" He does fall rather out of his perpetu-seriousness to scrunch his nose at Quinlys, grey eyes rather amused: "I do rather think I know your answer on this one."

There's a hesitant dip of A'quin's head that indicates that yes, Taikrin probably does have Azaylia's back-- though he's loathe to admit it, and not entirely comfortable with the idea. Quinlys keeps her mouth shut, though she's clearly utterly amused, showing dimples as she returns Xhaeon's glance. He's got her nailed, clearly. Metaphorically. "The trouble," says A'quin, thoughtfully, "is whether the dragons would follow Szadath or not. Mostly - it's less female brownrider than it is Taikin, though I'll acknowledge I'm not thrilled about the break in tradition, either. But if it were won fair and square," and he seems to doubt that such a thing would happen, "... I suppose I would, yes. Would have to."

In a rather brilliant display of utterly masculine counterintuition, Xhaeon gives a crisp nod and declares himself with little forethought whatsoever. "Then you may tell K'del that yes, I do have his back, in this situation. You have to have the power of conviction, after all, and honor, to be willing to live with the other side, if it's fair." He stresses the last one, just slightly. That's what he's after. Fairness. "I of course speak on a personal level - the smithhall here can't be embroiled in struggles of leadership. But you have honestly swayed me to your cause." He sketches out a bow, first to A'quin and then to Quinlys. "My deep and utter apologies, miss. I'm sure I can be flagrantly fickle once you dissuade me of the error of my ways." There's a gleam, there: why of course she could dissuade him. Her dimples could dissaude him, maybe...

Will a sulky little pout help? No? Quinlys seems disappointed, and executes a well-practiced roll of her eyes, but she seems relatively used to this-- but it doesn't stop her from sighing, long-suffering. "Another one bites the dust," she teases. "I'll have to work on you." Oh. There are the dimples again. A'quin, though obviously and visibly delighted, is not yet finished yet. "Of course. We would never dream of attempting to-- well, the craft as a Hall. Quinlys'll recover; she's resilient. But..." He pauses, head tipping to one side, consideringly. "Can we convince you to Stand for those two clutches on the sands? I know, I know - your craft and all." But this is a man who, as Xhaeon might already have discovered, still dreams of his eldest son returning to the family tradition as a Dragonrider. "Dad." And there's Quinlys again.

Dimples, and a pout, and an oh-so-easily construed double entendre? Faranth. "I welcome any well-articulated arguments against my current stance," Xhaeon returns, so amused: the fact that he's slightly charmed by Quinlys is probably obvious, but that's young men for you. This fact also causes him to pull up short when A'quin phrases the next request as he does. "Are you serious, sir?" The Smith obviously thinks this is a well-articulated jest, eyebrows tilted upwards, rocking back on his feet a bit. He recovers with a wry smile, outwardly cemented in an instance that this is, in fact, a joke: "Don't play with my heart-strings like that!" A hand claps over his chest in feigned pain, a half-stagger for theatrical effect. Grandson of a Harper, to be sure: a sketchbook and theatrics on demand.

Quinlys is not insensible to her own charm, and nor is A'quin, but at least the greenrider's offer curtails anything else she might have said or done. The possibilities were endless, too. Instead, her brows have furrowed, and she looks bothered, shooting glances at her father that are probably largely unreadable, and yet... A'quin is not laughing at Xhaeon's theatrics. Neither is his daughter. "Oh no," says Quinlys. "He's quite serious. Building an army for K'del, dad? I swea--" Whatever she swears, though, will have to go unsaid, because in that instant, Olveraeth shifts beside her, turning whirling gaze down towards Xhaeon; the bluerider groans. The greenrider? He - and his green, alongside him - just look smug. "Quite serious, son. Quinlys is trying to be cynical, but I do believe her blue has just pointed out that she's quite, quite wrong."

Olveraeth may not be the largest of dragons to grace the face of Pern, but he's rather the largest one that has turned to give Xhaeon such a look. He has a rather faint-voiced, "Oh," for the regard when paired with A'quin's smug words (wherever did Quinlys get her attitude, one wonders?). He recovers a moment, obviously taken aback. "I'd-- well, I'd of course have to get it passed by the Masters." He hesitates, a pause notable only for the rather sparce length of it, before continuing. "Though I don't -- I don't think they'd say no, all things considered." He leaves the rest of it unvoiced: the Smithcraft liking the idea of being close to whatever-it-is that is going on up in High Reaches. He seems to find his center and ground again, inclining his chin as he does to A'quin: "It would be an honor, sir, if my craft does allow me to do so." Beat. "Or should I be saying that to you, miss?" The amusement of grey eyes is made more manifest by the crinkles about the edges.

Can a dragon really, properly, look amused? There's some sense of it in Olveraeth's regard, and more of it in Quinlys - who evidently gives up on her frustration to just accept this eventuality, with an over-dramatic sigh of her own. "Both of us, probably," she says, rubbing her forehead with one gloved hand. "We'll just have to call it even. Right, Dad?" A'quin is less restrainedly pleased, though there can be no doubt that he's picked up the nuances of Xhaeon's answer, and is pleased with them, too: this is going well for his horse in this race. "Even. That seems fair enough. It's our honor, too, son. We're delighted to have you - pending your craft's approval, of course. What's the practice, these days, Quin? You'd know better than me." Quinlys shoves her hands into her pockets, and recites, "Report to the Headwoman. She'll get you set up. Of course, they'll let you keep practicing your craft right up until the hatching; there's no point assigning people to chores if they have real jobs. I can take him down, dad, when he's ready. You know how your bones ache."

Oh Olveraeth. Who can stay well-balanced with a dragon proverbially laughing in his face? Xhaeon, perhaps, since he doesn't edge away from that regard. "Even," he echoes; things are fair after all. Trade a son for a son, right, A'quin? There's a flash of thankfulness at one part of Quinlys' monologue - the craft part - and a flash of sympathy at the very end. "I'm sorry for asking you to cart me up here, A'quin. I didn't think past my plotting." He doesn't mean the dire kind, either, hefting his sketchbook as guilty proof of his profession. "Do you have time to take me now, Quinlys?" TAKE ME NOW, QUINLYS. TAKE ME-- oh, he didn't really mean it that way. Really.

"Worked out pretty well for me," points out A'quin, with that smirk that is so like his daughter's. A son for a son - that seems about right. It's probably something he's thinking about, too, when he glances off into the distance, thoughtful. "And for you, I hope. It's fine - Quin worries too much." Just not at this very moment, given the way Quinlys is hiding her smirk behind one hand, eyelashes fluttering in a very over-dramatic reaction to words that clearly weren't meant that way (but it's more fun to tease). "Oh baby," she says. "Hold off on that acceptance thing and we'll take a ri--" Oh yeah. Her father is right there. Snickering, she indicates the blue. "Come on, then. See you later, dad. And see? No fists!"

In case it wasn't obvious by his fair complection: Xhaeon does have a propensity to flush, under the right circumstance. (This is one of those.) "Ah," -kward, "-thank you, again, sir." He sketches a semblance of a salute, a jaunty crafter's interpretation of one, that is, and follows Quinlys with a holdbred's momentary mortification. It'll pass, of course, and soon enough he'll be lost in the process of finalizing it all, too dazed by the speed of everything to think much more about Quinlys... except maybe her dimples.