Difference between revisions of "Logs:Benden Transfers"

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.

Outside, the snow is falling, slow but steadily so. Inside - well, it's warmer in there, if not stuffily so. Mid-morning finds the glows lit; there's a jacket slung over the back of one of the chairs, puddling onto the ground, and a pair of boots sitting just outside the door, and then there's K'del himself, short-cropped curls dark with damp, his face pink with recent chill. With papers spread out over the oval table, and a mug carefully positioned just out of the way of his elbow, the Weyrleader is flicking his pen between two fingers - back and forth, back and forth - as he peers down at the report in front of him. Above, at the rim, Cadejoth surveys the Weyr as a whole; guards it, too, perhaps.

One moment, open air. The next, one pastel-hued blue dragon, with rider. « We have arrived, N'vad. » It isn't a weyrling's lack of discipline in speech, or at least not exactly--the booming declaration just seems to be intended not only for rider but anybody in the vicinity. His mindvoice is almost slimy around the edges--not in a metaphorical way, but in an almost-tactile way. Anyway, he manages to keep the rest of this conversation to himself as he lands, and his rider laboriously dismounts. Riding, fine. Getting off the dragon, less easy. Once he's on the ground, N'vad's got a cane, and no long way to make it inside. "Yeah, they know we--no, you can't--" N'vad's narration might not be as intentional. He pauses and lets the cane lean against his hip as he doffs helmet with both hands. "N'vad, Liardith's rider. I'm... from Benden."

Cadejoth rises up on his haunches as the blue pair arrive, interested - it seems - in this audible declaration. He's non-verbal in response, though; there's a rattle of chains, half-warning and half-welcome, and those big eyes whirl as he watches them all the way down. He's likely enough the reason that K'del's already glancing up when N'vad enters, pale blue eyes taking in first his face, and then that cane. "N'vad. Hope the weather at Benden's no better than it has been here. Seat? Something to drink?"

"Misery loves company?" N'vad's voice has significantly more rough edges than his dragon's, and there's not much indication in either tone or facial expression whether he's wary or amused or something else entirely. "More ice, there." There's no particular rush about removing his gloves, unbuttoning his coat and removing it to drape in similar fashion to the other man's; the bluerider takes his time with these things, before regarding the offered chair. As long as he's standing still, the leg doesn't seem to be a problem. The process of sitting brings a hint of a grimace. "Ain't gonna say no to a drink."

In another man's Weyr, there might be a convenient drudge to pour drinks; here, K'del simply nods, rising from his own seat to pour. It's whiskey, the glass slide across the table towards the bluerider without further comment on that the subject. "Ice. Slippery. But that's winter for you." His own drink he nurses between his hands, holding it while sinking back into his own seat. He has no injuries to get in the way of that, after all. "So," he says, finally, once he's sitting, gaze seeking N'vad's again. "Understand you were a wingleader."

There's a sniff, an approving noise--if not actual words giving voice to the gratitude--before N'vad drinks, and then he sets the glass back on the table and looks across at K'del. "Things change." A pause, appraising look. "Reckon you know that, but maybe it ain't the same. Didn't know when--if--I was gonna get back on my feet, at first, wasn't any point in calling him 'actin', just undermines authority. My 'second, trained him myself, good kid..." But? There's a but in there. Maybe it can successfully be drowned with the contents of his glass. Maybe if that worked, N'vad wouldn't be sitting in this chair.

The wryness on K'del's face, and the short, sharp nod that accompanies it, certainly seems to confirm how well K'del knows that. "But it's hard to watch someone else do what you did; hard to take orders from someone when you're used to giving them." There's feeling in his voice, feeling he acknowledges, after a moment, with a shake of his head. "And so you want to start fresh. Can't blame you for that. What is your longer-term prognosis?"

The way N'vad's eyebrows work just there, it's reasonably transparent--there is a temptation, here, a man who is not exactly fond of that stick he's walking around with, K'del's not a Healer, what could he get away with saying? But, no, N'vad takes a swig from the glass and sets it down more heavily this time. "He," firmly, "flies just fine." Start off with the positives. "Ain't gonna lie," okay maybe he almost was, "I got good days and bad days, but pain's manageable and I move better'n I did. Off the fellis, now. Healers reckon maybe another six months it'll stop acting up when I put weight on it." They probably also had things to say about rest. It is not hard at all to read between these particular lines. "Not after anybody's job, here, not any time soon. Down the line--well, earned it once. Just know them too well, there, now."

K'del transfers his glass from one hand to the other, and then back again, gaze never leaving N'vad. His expression is impassive; if he's got a reaction to that transparency, he is obfuscating it well. "And you don't need to walk fine to fly," he concludes, the fingers of one hand lifting to tap idly across his mouth, which only slightly muffles his words. "Not my business, telling riders how to manage their injuries; even your wingleader's only got so much clout, there. Let's be frank, though: interval can be lean enough we've no need to build the strength of our wings. Rather my riders fighting fit. But you've experience, and I respect the need for a fresh start."

"Intend to be back there myself, soon enough. All due respect--" It's not just a phrase; there is respect in it. K'del might be a younger man, but not so much so as to warrant patronizing, evidently. "But reckon I don't care how short their memories are, don't believe men of our day have the luxury of believin' in Intervals. All we got are Turns Thread ain't fallen yet." Is that a distinction? Clearly N'vad thinks it's enough of one to be worth drawing, anyway. He straightens in his chair, sits forward. "Long as you'll have me, I'll pull my weight. Have my word on that. World might go soft, but I ain't goin' with it."

K'del's young enough not to have fought thread, but old enough to have memories of it; his expression sobers, the line of his mouth thin, as he listens to what N'vad has to say. "Can't argue with that," is his own conclusion, which comes after a careful sip from his glass, and a nod. "All right. You're assigned to Glacier; see how it fits for you, and we can review that in future, as needed. Headwoman's staff will get you assigned to a weyr, and hooked up with anything else you might need. I'll get the paperwork done. There anything else you need from me?"

When N'vad smiles, the expression doesn't seem quite settled on his face; it doesn't last very long, but it was there, anyway. Approval, as though a test has been passed--as though he had any entitlement to such testing. "Yes, sir." He finishes off the drink, leaves the glass be. "Reckon some idea of what to expect of the wing wouldn't go astray."

That question earns the glimmer of a smile from K'del, as though he approves of it. He's more prosaic about explaining the politics of Glacier, though. "Glacier's... a boy's club, in a way, for all it's led by a woman. Taikrin's got a bit of a sordid history at High Reaches, and she and I don't much get along," understatement, "But the truth is she's good at what she does. Work hard, play hard. More... traditional, now, than they used to be. Militaristic is the word, maybe." One brow raises; has he gauged it right?

No more smiles, but the word 'traditional' brings a nod that might not even be an entirely conscious response. "No problem with a woman leading so long as she's competent." Casual sexism, sure; actively? Apparently at least not enough so to complain. "Will report soon as I'm settled--thankfully have a few favors to call in to get my things over." Nobody in all of history has enjoyed moving, surely. "Much obliged for the opportunity," N'vad says as he pushes up to his feet, hands flat on the table. "Will see as you don't regret it."

K'del's expression doesn't flicker in answer to N'vad's comment on women; nor does it shift after that, not until the other rider is standing. "Good," he says, then, firmly. "Welcome to High Reaches, N'vad. Look forward to seeing what you've got to offer us." The nod that follows probably counts as dismissal, if in a casual sense; K'del seems cheerful, and for the moment, quietly relaxed.

A more brisk nod in return, although it would be more so if N'vad could stride out with some confidence, instead of requiring a minute to put his coat back on and then making his way back out with the previously-mentioned assistance. Out in the bowl, mounting is relatively laborious, too, which gives the opportunity for an overly-loud-to-nearby-dragons argument as to whether "going home" is not a goal that has already been achieved. Home or otherwise, it's back to Benden they go, to make their own arrangements.