Difference between revisions of "Logs:Day of Memories and Revelations"

Riders' Lounge, High Reaches Weyr

About as high up the bowl wall as it is possible to get before hitting clear sky, right up against the rim, this ledge is tiny, narrow and not terribly inviting. Though angled towards the sun, there's not enough room to properly stretch out, and that same angle ensures it receives the worst of bad weather, with no shelter whatsoever. From above, there's not even an obvious passage inside, as if this particular ledge is, in the end, nothing more than a natural outcropping. It's only from atop the ledge itself that the cleverly concealed entrance becomes clear, angled into the stone as it is.

Inside, there's a cavernous space, more than making up for the stinginess of the ledge. There's one large main room, and a much smaller back room that could probably be used as a bedroom - if this weyr were in traditional usage. Instead, the main cavern is largely filled with a collection of mismatched tables and chairs. Towards the back, there's a bar made out of old, recycled wood, manned during peak hours; there's plenty of alcohol on display behind it, though most of it tends towards the cheaper end of the range. Old, but still impressive, hangings cover the walls, all depicting scenes of High Reaches in glory. The back room has been turned into a storage area, with several cases of whisky and a variety of other spirits ready and waiting.

A strange pipe contraption comes through the ceiling and towards the stone floor, where a large bucket sits beneath it. A lever turns on water from the pipe: fresh rain or snow, ready for drinking.

As rumor promised, the Riders' Lounge is replete with drinks, snacks and already more than a handful of people dot the tables engaged in conversation. Many of them are older riders, but there's a fair few of the younger sort as well. Every now and again a voice will rise above the sedate dim to speak a name, and glasses are raised in answer. There's the opportunity each time for the speaker to tell a story or give more detail, but sometimes it's just a name. K'zin's glass lowers from the latest toast and he brings it to his lips only to find it empty. Rising, he moves toward the bar where the drinks have been laid out by the older, bearded rider manning the bar for the purposes of the event.

H'kon is here, and has been for at least some time. He's stayed nearer the older riders, those who'd seen Threadfall in their youth, those who remember losses well before H'kon's clutchmates as well as those after. The rider behind the bar is one of them, and he and H'kon have been sharing space, if not too many words, for a short time now. Alpine's wingsecond has been nursing the same whiskey since his arrival, and makes no move for another. Nor to finish. Even when the bartending rider moves forward to see to K'zin.

K'zin's drink is the weakest of the weak of the offerings so it takes the bartender a moment to find the right bottle to do the refilling. It seems at first that K'zin might try to ignore the fact that he is within an arm's length of H'kon, but after he's taken a sip of the refreshed drink he glances toward the older man and without preamble says, "Did you know Teris before?" Before she came fellis-hungry to 'Reaches and met her final demise.

H'kon has watched K'zin, so much as the bartender. The question put to him gets the slightest lift of his eyebrows, acknowledging engagement, more than showing surprise. There's one short nod. "Not personally. Arekoth and I had been together a few turns, then. Her brother was my clutchmate." It's a lot of words, but each sentence comes short and efficient, point form more than a story. "We saw her impress." And wasn't the whole Weyr watching that one?

"I remember the hatching. I was nine. It was the first one I ever saw." K'zin relates quietly, looking at his glass more than the brownrider. "I like to think she was a good person before..." He trails off and then reaches up a hand to rub at his face. "But I don't really know." He shakes his head a little and sips. "Do you?" It's almost hopeful, almost.

H'kon presses his tongue to his front teeth, thoughtful. "She seemed to work hard," he finally offers of Teris, shaking his head. The glass of whiskey he's been nursing since his arrival, some time ago, is turned on the bar, where they both stand. That bearded rider tending bar has been distracted by others who've come for refills now, leaving H'kon and K'zin to share their words alone, at least for the time. "She was a dragonrider," he says, finally. "The end was undeserved."

"I know." The two words mean more than just that he knows, that K'zin quietly, but fervently agrees. "I'm glad someone helped her. I hate that it took so long as it did." These words are more than that too. There's regret there and a touch of shame, perhaps wishing he'd been brave enough or clever enough or just enough to have been the one to help. His eyes flick down to his wrist where there's a leather band with panels of cantering runners worn and then back to his cup before taking another swallow.

Leova's been making the rounds for some time, herself, to the point that she's another who's in line for a refill. Even if hers is ale, it's still a wait: wait enough to glance over at H'kon and K'zin, though it's on the brownrider's side that she stands. Wait enough to greet, "Afternoon."

"It should have been sooner," H'kon agrees, voice pitched a bit deeper suddenly, thoughtful. He contemplates his drink a moment, then scans out toward the ledge, brow furrowed. Leova... he doesn't seem to see her arrive, but she receive her name in greeting. Even without his looking to her. No, he considers his whiskey once more.

Leova's arrival seems to make K'zin so much more the boy and less the man he's (theoretically) become. One boot toe can't resist scuffing the ground as he continues to look guiltily at his glass for a moment. As has been his tradition for too many turns, interrupted only by the most recent ones, "Rider Leova," is his dull greeting, no one mind the turns of history there. "I think I need a stronger drink." His eyes flick to H'kon's. Surely, he's not thinking of taking it, but maybe to see what good idea the brownrider might have - after all, he's older and wiser, right?

The greenrider deepens her lean, elbow half-slid across the scarred wood. However long she might have been listening, she doesn't immediately jump in. There's H'kon's whiskey to consider. There's, then, that old phrase, and amber eyes lift without correction. Rather, "That sort of day."

H'kon offers no ideas or wisdom. He lifts his drink, takes a bit, and decides, "They've found peace now. Steps are taken that this ought not occur again. This delay," he adds, with a careful look over the young bronzerider. The one who'd approached him about all this, what seems like some time ago, now. Leova, finally receives a sidelong glance.

K'zin reaches for one of the pre-prepared other cups (yes, he's dirtying two, for shame!) with whiskey. H'kon's wisdom need not be spoken to be apparent, evidently. His hair which has started to grow long flops over his brow as he nods his head. "I hope Master Madilla's training program works. She promised... but it's not her infirmary anymore, is it." It's not really a question. "So she might not get say. If it happened." Again. He grimaces and takes a long sip of the stronger drink. Two fisting it is a sign of the weight of the day and the topic, no doubt.

"Who gets say, now. Who it's going to be, who they pick. Going to say a lot right there." Leova's got her ale, now, in trade. Leova's got her ale to drink. She does. "Surprised, and not, it's not gone down yet."

"The point of this," says H'kon, voice quiet, "is that her say would not be required." May be, those aren't the words he means to go out on. But there's an old bluerider who has just entered the lounge, and catches the wingsecond's attention. H'kon's posture changes, alert now. "Excuse me," is offered to K'zin and Leova. He takes his leave with no more fanfare than that.

K'zin has an uncharacteristic grunt in answer for H'kon's words. That is the point, isn't it? And yet... The bronzerider does not look particularly comforted. He turns to look back at the room himself now, back to the bar before saying to the greenrider, "Would you like to sit?"

"Aye." It's brief, strong, before H'kon goes. Before that greenrider's gaze turns to the other rider who's left. "Don't mind if I do." She has those at the bar to consider then, something more than the state of her glass, before she pushes away. With plenty of places free, she doesn't intrude on anyone else's. There's a place not far off, by another table with an older, silent pair. It'll do. She nods their way on the way in. Says wryly, once K'zin's sat, "And the Turn's not over yet."

"So we should be wondering who's next? Or what?" K'zin's attempt at wry falls short and lingers somewhere near morbid bitterness. He sighs as he settles into his chair, setting the glass carefully on the tabletop. "Maybe," the bronzerider tries harder, "the rock of the bowl wall will sprout limbs and develop an appetite for unsuspecting bronzeriders." He casts a side glance toward Leova, "Or maybe knowledgeable greenriders will be more to its taste." One never knows with imaginary rock monsters.

"Should hope not." Though when he goes on, said greenrider chuckles, low and rough. "The blueriders, the brownriders," she glances after H'kon, "get off scot-free?"

"Well, of course, goldriders have to make the best eating, but I doubt Hraedhyth would think twice before charging in to rend the thing apart with her bare claws, if it came to Azaylia's safety. Bronzeriders are more plentiful, but still a relative delicacy." K'zin seems to be giving this some serious thought. "I can't imagine blueriders or brownriders taste very good. I mean, I'd pick a greenrider to ea--..." Then he seems to remember who he's talking to and trails off in a blush. He clears his throat, "Anyway, good thing there's no chance of rock monsters. With tentacles." As it must have had in his wild imagination.

Leova considers him, and all those places she's not going. "Would put my bet on Hraedhyth, aye." Even against stone, it seems. "Tentacles or no tentacles." That might be humor, there. "Rock monsters with talons, though? Got to have those."

"But dragons have talons," K'zin sighs, looking to his glass. That dragons have them evidently makes them boring. "I suppose there are worse ways to go than being eaten by a rock monster. I-- well, let's not talk about them because you'd know them all, for sure, as far as dragons go," he babbles. It's a hiccup of time later when he asks, "Do dragonhealers ever do mindhealing?" He asks it as if it makes perfect sense within the conversation. With rock monsters, maybe it does.

That's definitely humor, that crinkle about her eyes. "Maybe they have extra talons." But. "Mindhealing? How's that?"

So broad a question seems to have struck K'zin dumb. For a moment, he stares at his glass. Then, "Iesaryth." Does this explain it? No? Another breath later, "Ras was close with her. And I thought about when I lost my dad. There was a mindhealer that visited my mother afterward and talked to some of us. Do dragonhealers ever do that kind of thing? Do dragons ever need that kind of thing?" His voice is wondering aloud, but of all people, Leova's probably the right person to wonder such things to.

"Mm." The dragonhealer sips. "Most times not." But he'd know that. "Most times, we might call it mindhealing did we know to, their company: perching close, leaning in, touching more than hide to hide. Keeping the bonds, reinforcing what's frayed till it can heal. But. Nigh on a Turn, aye?"

The bronzerider is quiet for some moments before a slow, almost imperceptible nod. "He doesn't... He's pretty private," K'zin explains slowly. "But I don't always know how to help him. It's... different than it was."

"Mm." It isn't, noticeably, the same. "And he was grievously injured before that," Leova says with care. "Can make it harder for a body, dragons included. To recover."

"Yeah," K'zin's answer is distracted as he lifts his glass. It's good timing in that he's interrupted by a brownrider standing and lifting a glass to name another. The brownrider's greenriding mother who flew and died fighting Thread when he was a boy. This distracts him. "I always feel a little... disconnected on this day." K'zin says quietly after the toast's finished. "I mean, when I was younger, I didn't really get what this day was about, and now I do, but I don't feel as much a part of it as I should. The people I remember didn't die in Thread." He's frowning at the glass.

So Leova lifts her glass too, Tradition and all, though she grimaces at the man's explanation. For K'zin, "Not like it has to be about Thread. Just that it's so common. Unexpected. Not like old age and a last gasp with healers around, and then you wet the bed."

K'zin winces, "There are better and worse ways to go, I guess." He takes a sip of his drink. "Lightning's gotta suck." He observes sensitively. He's starting to get that glaze that's indicative of the effects of the drinks he's had so far, so perhaps that explains the bluntness of his tongue.

"Don't know. Quick, you know?" Leova's got a one-shouldered shrug. "Together. Faranth."

"Yeah, but-" K'zin starts to protest, his face pinching up. "Lightning, Leova." This is a cogent and compelling argument, isn't it? "Wouldn't it... like... hurt, a lot?" He squints at her, the glass coming to be nursed again by the lips he's now worrying idly with this teeth.

"Not for very long." Might be, that's Leova's version of cheerfulness these days.

A horribly drunk - already!? - V'ros gets deposited on the lounge ledge by his incredibly disinterested dragon. He almost falls but usually the power of knees, manages to balance and take the first, overconfident step into the lounge. His narrowed eyes sweep the interior, ignoring any gawping stares, and hone in on the liquor on the bar; it's ample. It's during his path to the alcohol, where he clearly means to get even worse, that he brushes by the table K'zin and Leova are sitting at. Whatever he overhears, he's doesn't look too happy with, as he stops and grips the back of the nearest chair with his fingers. "O' course lightnin' hurts, if it were even'n lightnin'," he slurs through, giving K'zin a desultory stare.

"Well," K'zin starts to answer Leova when V'ros' voice cuts in and his eyes lift to the brownrider. "Oh, it's you." The bronzerider looks briefly uncomfortable, "Then it's probably best that they didn't survive, isn't it." He's frowning when he says it, but it's still a statement. Then he wrinkles his nose because he has to address V'ros if he wants his question answered, "If it were even lightning?"

"Depends on how bad," but Leova stops, brows lifted: part her own version of question, part her chair.

"It's for the best!?" V'ros chokes out, staring at K'zin, and equally ignoring the part where he's holding Leova's chair with an iron grip.

So long as he's not moving Leova's chair, the dragonhealer initially settles for twisting enough to keep an eye on V'ros, if not so close as to get high off his fumes. If that's even possible. She spares a glance at K'zin. Then, "Sit down." Wearily.

"Aishani and Iesaryth are dead," the brownrider retorts, deadpan. His grip on the chair hasn't gotten any lighter, and it's only Leova's prompt that gives V'ros any pause in his liberally hateful gaze on K'zin. He doesn't immediately submit, but eventually, does, pull out the chair on the other side of Leova and lower him, rigidly, on the seat.

"Yes," K'zin helpfully confirms looking at V'ros now without really following. And? He glances to Leova, perhaps she knows!

"Still." It's a sober agreement, following the short angled slide of Leova's seat. "You got a different story?"

Where words fail, the heated glare V'ros is giving the bronzerider should be enough to envy his disgust. He glances askance to Leova, momentarily broken from his K'zin-hating, and offers a brief snort. "Yeah."

K'zin's brow wrinkles as he look at V'ros and his heated glare. Clearly, the bronzerider is still missing something. Rather than intruding on the conversation which is part of the question he asked earlier, so he just looks to Leova with the 'a little help?' look. Does Leova speak Clueless Bronzerider?

"So go on." Dry. Leova may or may not speak it, but it's something.

Eyes flicking back to K'zin, intense, V'ros provides more details than his vague assessment. "Wasn't lightnin'. They did it on purpose.. how could anyone do that? Or wish them dead?" His last bit, pointedly, directed at the bronzerider.

"What?" The word pops out of K'zin's not entirely sober mouth before his brain can think it might be detrimental to getting more information from the brownrider. His tone is surprised and not really buying it, but also not rejecting of it out of hand. Thankfully for anyone who might want to know more that's the only word that escapes.

Leova, immediate: "'They.' Not 'the two of them.'" Not quite a question. Making sure.

"They," V'ros growls, though not directly at anyone, "Nothing we can do now. They're all dead." Cryptic.

It might be time for K'zin's, "What, by Faranth's flaming foundlings, are you talking about, V'ros?" Then again, the very direct, not even a little cryptic demand might be a little premature. Maybe that's the booze.

That's enough of a question for Leova. Her gaze, on V'ros, does not waver.

"Sailors," with one fist coming down to thump loudly on the table top. "They.. they did it on purpose." V'ros laugh isn't humorous, nor is the way his shoulders sag and he stares over K'zin towards the booze lined up on the counter top. "He said.. he said it was a flare, not lightning."

K'zin is on his feet now, glass forgotten on the table, hands flat on it's top, leaning forward and looking down at V'ros. "Make sense." He urges. "Who said what? When?" It's maddening to have drunk V'ros telling this tale, this tale that could be important, or could be the drunk ramblings of an overly emotional weirdo brownrider. The bronzerider spares a glance for Leova with that silent request for help. Maybe he wants her to shake V'ros.

"Been rumors all along," Leova notes into that. Where K'zin has risen, she's leaning towards the brownrider, counterpoint. "Faranth stole her. Whatever."

In the distance, electricity flows through the aether, it always does. Prickles. Flows. (To Cadejoth from Vrianth)

"Fuck you," V'ros shoots up at the now-standing K'zin, and to Leova, a grimace. "No, Faranth didn't take them. A sailor shot a flare at them. From a ship we rescued. He saw it, from his ship," he grounds out, annoyed by the insinuation that he's talking nonsense.

Here, in the here-and-now, Cadejoth extends his chains; let the sparks be conducted. He's here, sentinel upon the rim; watching out. (To Vrianth from Cadejoth)

Cadejoth, the chain-bringer. From that flow, still of that flow, a spark. She's making sure. (To Cadejoth from Vrianth)

K'zin looks like he might reach over and shake V'ros himself now since Leova didn't read his mind and oblige him. "What is he talking about?" He asks the greenrider then, as if she might have some clue. "I thought they died in an accident in the storm."

With the next scrape, Leova's slid her chair that much further. She doesn't, yet, stand. She's got a shake of her head for K'zin. For V'ros, maybe for both men, "People say lots of things. People think they see lots of things. What makes you believe him, believe his story."

She should. She should always be sure. Cadejoth is; sure of his place, his Weyr, and the subtle net that draws together his pakc. Sure, too, of that spark. (To Vrianth from Cadejoth)

"They died in the storm alright, but it.. it wasn't lightning!" V'ros is still glaring up at K'zin, his mouth compressed into an unfortunate line. "I saved him off the ship. I heard him say it when we got here. I tracked him down to confirm. He says he saw it, and I believe him. I don't need you to believe it," to K'zin; at least, where he's not really speaking to Leova, he's not mad at her, like he is at K'zin, either.

After so much glaring, a man is entitled to glare back, so K'zin exercises his right to do so. "You weren't the only one in the storm, you weren't the only one out there. I'm going to go find someone who makes a lick more sense to ask." Because there's totally more people than V'ros who must have seen it. Heard it? Been there? No one gives K'zin credit for brains (rightly so). The bronzerider, leaving his drink behind, begins to stalk toward the ledge.

That ledge. Vrianth's on that ledge, that narrow ledge, newly so. Leova swears, low, and then she cuts through all that glaring with, "V'ros. Have you told K'del." Not even a beat. "Does he know."

V'ros' face says "good riddance" when K'zin gets up to leave. "No," he admits to Leova, "I hadn't.. I hadn't the courage to bring it up to him.. yet."

It's for the best that K'zin is far enough away to not hear V'ros' last, though he doesn't make it as far as he must have intended, having been headed off briefly by the older man playing barkeep. Let it not be said that those responsible for the event aren't taking care to keep riders from going off without a sobriety check.

There. A hiss. Sparks, different sparks. « Your rider, Cadejoth. This is for you and him. » She will bring it, does he tell her where, trussed up if needs must. (To Cadejoth from Vrianth)

To Vrianth, Cadejoth's interest? Captured. Caught. « At home, » he reports. Today... today is not a day for visiting elsewhere. « Unless you would have us come to you. »

Hers is a stablehand's coarse swear. She's standing, reaching for V'ros. "Come." She'll collar him if she must. After him, K'zin: no gossip to escape. Vrianth's waiting.

He's caught. She's pleased. « We come. » (To Cadejoth from Vrianth)

"Wh-what?!" V'ros' arms flail before he's pulled and he's stumbling to his feet, looking embarrassed by having the greenrider cart him in her wake. "I'll go tell him now! I will, Leova, just.." He's beseeching.

K'zin's surprise is voices with an embarrassing sort of squawk that he'll probably deny having made later when the greenrider latches onto him. That he has a designated flyer seems to make all the older rider's concerns melt away and there is no help for him to be had, even if he had wanted to stay. That he finds himself uncomfortably close to V'ros for the flight is his greatest objection, and even then he manages (somehow) to keep his hands to himself.

Weyrleader's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr

Rank certainly has its privileges, and among them are amply appointed apartments. The short flight of stairs from the Weyrleader's Complex opens up into the larger of two chambers, formally decorated and clearly designed to cater as much to important guests as the occupant's personal living. Old, but obviously expensive, llama wool rugs dyed blue-and-black cover the stone floor, leading towards the second chamber, the stairs, and the rush-filled dragon couch and ledge beyond it. A formal seating arrangement - a sofa and chairs, all blue-and-black - sits around a large, tiled fireplace, whilst along the other wall, a finely made, if now somewhat antique, desk sits between a bookshelf and a tall cupboard to which tack-hooks have been attached, riding gear arranged neatly inside. Two tapestries hung from the high walls depict overdone splendour for High Reaches Weyr, one a long view of the snow-covered bowl, and the other a hazy impressionist piece of dragons flaming over a springtime countryside.

The inner weyr, made up of a sleeping cavern and a private bathing area, is smaller and cosier and distinctly less ostentatious. An oversized wooden sleigh bed fills much of the space, the mattress piled high with overstuffed down pillows and comforter, their covers dyed in varying shades of navy blue, light blue and bronze. There's a nightstand on either side, both with reading lamps, and against one of the other walls, a tall, heavy wardrobe made from a dark wood that matches the bed. The bathing area is part of the same cavern, a folding screen shielding the toilet and slightly raised, double-sized bathtub built into the stone, and a small shelf holding toiletries, shaving equipment, and clean towels.

She's agile. She's swift. It's a cold, quick flight to Cadejoth's ledge, to Cadejoth, to Cadejoth's rider. Leova hadn't even had to truss them up. Now she walks them in, hard on their heels, herding.

No doubt K'del has intended to get out and acknowledge the day at some point... but that point has yet to arrive; there's work to be done. There's a low-burning fire at the hearth, but the Weyrleader himself is - or rather, was - at the desk, shoulders bent over some task or another. He's up now, though, striding across to meet the incomers; "What's going on?"

Being herded doesn't seem to be a thing V'ros likes very much, given the annoyed expression on his baby face, but it could be the proximity to K'zin, who he keeps side-eying as he tries to not-stumble his way through the Weyrleader's weyr. He comes to a halting stop when he sees K'del, and turns a little pale. That courage he was talking about? Yeah, it's still not there.

K'zin might not be sure why he's here himself. He didn't hit V'ros or shake him or do anything particularly drag-to-K'del-worthy, but he's not entirely sober, so maybe that's enough? He looks first to V'ros, but since the brownrider isn't talking to K'del when he asks, K'zin's purpose becomes clear: he's here to talk for V'ros. That'll make everything better! "V'ros says the sailor he rescued in the storm says Aishani was shot by a flare off his ship, not struck by lightning." He glares at V'ros for good measure. That's how it's done, brownrider!

Leova eyes their backs, and not in a way that suggests she's guarding them. After K'zin, flatly, "News for your ears, Weyrleader. Might be true. If it's not, still naught for gossip's mill."

K'del's pale eyes flick from Leova to her two charges and then back again; he's glancing in that direction when K'zin speaks, those words enough to send his foot down awkwardly. He grabs for the back of the couch, turning, now, more focusedly towards the two younger riders. "Wait, what? You'd better tell me the whole story, then." And, "Thank you, Leova." It's heartfelt.

"I didn't want to tell you this way," V'ros says miserably, before giving K'zin another glare (reinforcing his hatred). "Me and A'rist.. we, ah.. we found this sailor that I.. I saved, from the storm, and that night he.." He tries to look at K'del, he really does, but it's hard to get over his own reservations. "He was talking about it that night but I didn't remember until.. recently.. he said he saw something.. and I know it sounds crazy, but we.. we talked to him. He said his ship.. he said.." He grapples for the words, fidgeting his hands around the end of his jacket. "He said he saw someone shoot a.. firework.. a flare.. at her.. Iesaryth." This late bit is just as miserable, and he hangs his head; deed is done.

K'zin's arms fold across his chest and instead of glaring he just adopts a stony look in the face of V'ros' hatred. Since it's not his story and the brownrider has found his tongue, the bronzerider shuts it and listens.

Leova's nod is crisp. If it's meant as a cue to excuse herself, she doesn't take it. Her gaze stays on K'del through the brownrider's recitation.

Brow knitting, K'del hesitates, a sharp starkness visible in his expression. It's a long pause. Finally, "Sit down. All of you." He'll even take the lead, moving to sit in the armchair, feet flat upon the ground in front of him. It takes some time to settle himself; as he does so, not glancing at V'ros, he adds, "Why is it always you."

Relief floods the brownrider's face, mingling with his guilt, but his gives the couch a long, contemplative look; he's been here, he knows that cough. When he does sit, V'ros's face is flooded with color this time, showing signs of obvious embarrassment even before K'del makes his assertion. He hangs his head again and stays silent until prompted otherwise.

"Because I grew up and it had to be someone," K'zin contributes helpfully, but at least he offers a brief grin as he settles on the couch, on the opposite end of the brownrider. Well, K'zin grew up some.

Leova takes over one of the remaining chairs: the one between the youngest men and the exit.

K'del shoots K'zin a warning glance; no grins, please, this is serious, but his gaze doesn't linger there-- not when there's a V'ros to focus on instead. "Who else have you told about this? Want the rest of the details, but first... everyone here, plus A'rist. Anyone else?" He rests one hand on each knee, leaning slightly forward.

"No one! No.. one.. sir," V'ros grumbles, not bothering to give K'zin any type of reaction. "There's a bar.. at the docks at Tillek. We were there and we were.. talking about it.. but," he frowns, "they all seemed to know and not.. care." His eyes lift, quickly, to K'del, and then drop. "No one else here. I was going to come to you first and.. but K'zin," here, the bronzerider gets a grumpy stare, "had no business talking about Aishani that way. She didn't deserve to die." Accusations.

K'zin's hands rise briefly from his lap to show his acquiescence. If K'del looks at him for long enough, the little bit of a glaze that enough alcohol will give a man before he gets too stupid or too dangerous. The look he gives V'ros is surprised, "I never said Aishani deserved to die," he glances to Leova since she's his witness now. "I said I wouldn't wish on her to live after being struck by lightning. The recovery and all." It's totally different, see?

"How long ago." Leova, right after V'ros and that 'talking about it.' How recently.

"Hey," is K'del's warning tone, aimed at both of the younger riders. "None of them. Don't much care who said what; more concerned about what actually happened." For Leova's comment, he has a nod of confirmation, and an arch of his brows; that question, yes. And, "What makes you think they didn't care? Details, please."

"Three days." V'ros shifts uncomfortably. "It's the bar right off.. off of the docks. Old sign. I got the.. the uh.." He flushes, again. "I checked healer records in the infirmary.. got the sailor's name, that I saved, and knew he was from Tillek. So.. we went down there and we.. found him. He's sick.. can't work.. but he says he swears he saw it. A flare. From.. from.. the quarterdeck. By the wheel. Went off and just blam," he makes the striking motion into his own chest. "They didn't.. they were.. they made fun of him. They thought he was.. seeing things." The brownrider averts his gaze then; sounds bad, for his story.

The only sound coming now from K'zin is the drumming of his fingers on his knees. He's listening, but the bronzerider knows three warnings from the Weyrleader is too many, so he's watching where that line is with all the focus he can muster.

Leova's silent. Still. Until the end. "Did you ask him what kind of flare it is, exactly. How strong theirs is, how it works, what kind of impact it has."

She paces, there on his ledge, and then she stops. Her rider moves, speaks, is still. She is still, then, too. (To Cadejoth from Vrianth)

K'del's glance hovers in K'zin's direction for a moment, in a way that almost suggests there's something he would say to the other bronzrider; but he does not. Instead, allowing his words to follow on from Leova's, "'Seeing things.' So they think he's mad, but you believe him?"

To Vrianth, Cadejoth, from afar, watches. Vrianth, yes; also the riders, seen through his rider's eyes. A rattle sounds; bone and chain. No flares here.

"No, I didn't ask about the flare. We left." V'ros looks from K'del to Leova, and back to K'del. "Yes, they thought he was mad, and yes, I believe him. What reason would he have to.. to lie.. about that? That's a lot of.." He sighs, heavily. "Details for someone making up something. He insinuated.." Another pause, his fist thumping on his thigh, "If they were going to die.. they might as well.." Pained, he looks pained.

She sends assent. Silence, then. Near-silence: sometimes the pop and crackle of static, not unlike an expensively-fed hearth. (To Cadejoth from Vrianth)

"Didn't you say it came from his ship? The sailor's?" K'zin asks of the brownrider with furrowed brow. "Wouldn't he-- I mean, would he know if they had things--" his hand moves in the air to imitate a shooting motion out into the space in front of him, "on board?"

Leova nods at the follow-up, the replies, brief and without satisfaction. Her gaze passes from V'ros to K'zin, then back to take them all in.

K'del repeats, without enthusiasm, "'If they were going to die, they might as well.'" K'zin's suggestion, too, draws his attention. "Mm. That would be worth knowing, wouldn't it? If they had something like that. But; everyone else on his ship died, didn't they?" There's hesitation to K'del's voice, and a faint awkwardness in the way he glances towards Leova, almost abashedly. Almost as though he fears her disapproval, deep down (deep down).

"I didn't ask, but.. he can't work.. probably still sitting there.. in the bar.." V'ros broods, in his spot, and glances shiftily between the three other dragonriders. "Yes. Everyone else.. died.. he's the only survivor."

"If they had it," K'zin starts, thoughtful in that drunken brilliance or total absurdity sort of drawl, "Wouldn't it follow they might not have been the only ones? Maybe Tillek has whatever it is. Wouldn't finding out just what it is be a first step? I mean, why would a ship have a reason to fire on Iesaryth anyway?" That's perplexing and he settles into silence to contemplate, looking at his knees now rather than any of them.

If Leova recognizes anything like trepidation in High Reaches' Weyrleader, who was her weyrling... she doesn't interrupt. Just: "Likeliest to fire in the air, for warning." But. It's a weighty but, right there.

"Which means," says K'del, on an exhale, "if someone really did deliberately fire on her... he or she is already dead." They can't catch him. By his expression, it half seems as though K'del would like to leave it there - oh well, too bad! - but in the end, after a moment's pause, he says, "They already had Iesaryth's attention. Snowdrift's, too. Didn't need to fire for attention. Don't know much about ships, mind, but-- up near the wheel? Captain, first mate, maybe. We'd want to know about them."

Everyone else can play detective. V'ros has bowed out for now, sitting with his arms tucked up and crossed over his chest, and remains broodingly silent, staring at the floor with interest. Crickets.

K'zin leans forward, arms crossing and resting on his knees. "Sounds like this sailor is in need. Is he sick, V'ros, or lazy?" Then to K'del, and Leova though he doesn't look her way, "My brother or his wife might be able to find him work." He reaches up to rub his brow. "Maybe if we could do that for him, make the connection anyway, he might be up for talking about the captain of his ship." He looks to K'del with a cant of his head.

"Want to make sure that man stays safe," Leova confirms. "And known." Beyond that, carefully: "Got to know what this would stir up." 'Would,' not 'will.'

K'del, if only for a moment, looks utterly sympathetic to V'ros as he glances in that direction; poor kid. Poor, poor kid. More firmly, "If they can find him something, K'zin, that'd be a good start. If you can try? Keep him safe, and keep him... yes, exactly." Leova. "Keep him where we know where he is. Less inclined to stir anything up. Don't want anyone grabbing hold of this and turning it into anything. We don't know anything, yet, okay?"

"Said he was sick, couldn't work anymore. Kept.. coughing," V'ros notes mildly, lifting his shoulders in a careless shrug. He doesn't offer to do anything more than he already has done, and looks, undeniably, like he wants nothing to do with it anymore. His arms tighten across his chest. "Sure."

The younger bronzerider gives a nod to his Weyrleader, hands rising to scrub across his face. "Think you can find him again, V'ros?" Whatever animosity might exist between them, there's no trace of it now in K'zin's addressing of his fellow rider. Evidently this is going to be a group project! (Or at least partner.) Then Leova's given a glance, "How fair a gauge of fakers are you? Madilla's probably too well known to take along." His hands scrub across his knees, "But maybe one of the other healers would ride along. Oliwer, maybe?" His eyes slide from person to person to person.

"Aye." To K'del. Leova shifts further forward in her seat, doesn't yet rise. When she looks from that bronzerider to the other one, it's with a one-shouldered shrug: "Tolerable."

K'del nods his approval, first in answer to V'ros, and then, more firmly, for K'zin's words. To Leova; "We'll have his records from when he was here, won't we? Go ask... uh, whomever is in charge in the infirmary these days. If you would?" He frowns; shrugs. "If having a healer along would help, we can worry about that then. Oliwer, sure. If you trust him."

Grudgingly, "Yeah, it won't be hard." V'ros shakes his head and scoots to the end of the couch, as prepared as anybody else to leave K'del's slice of the Weyr. "Simiron's.. his name." Just so they know, just so he can get it off his chest.

"It's just that..." K'zin frowns, looking reluctant a moment before saying to K'del, "I can't ask my brother about it if he's just a drunk who doesn't want to work, you know? If he's faking." As people have been known to do. "Having an opinion would be... helpful. Oliwer's always seemed like a decent sort," from his meetings with the healer. He nods to V'ros then. "You and I will go. When we're sober." Probably the best plan, which will also give him time to approach the healer.

"Aye." Not just agreement but commitment, confirmed by Leova's rise, by what will become her departure at the Weyrleader's cue. She'll nod to the others first, but then: gone.

"Of course." K'del's hesitation - if that's what it is - is brushed aside. "When you're sober, yes. Report back. Come to me, if there's anything you need. And-- thank you, all. For your discretion." It's a dismissal; the Weyrleader begins to rise, smoothing down his trousers as he does so.

V'ros doesn't make a sound, but rises and jerks his head in a little nod of acquiescence; notably, he doesn't tell K'zin a no. He lingers only long enough to listen if there should be more information to pass along, and if not, he'll exit less dramatically, presumably to go drink the rest of the day away.

K'zin's head is a mimic of V'ros' at least so far as the nod is concerned. "I'll see Oliwer and my brother before we go. Would be best to know what I can offer the man." If anything. He lets that go unsaid. Up he gets, one hand pushing though his hair. Instead of immediately following though, he looks at the Weyrleader. "I know you don't care, but I really didn't mean that Aishani deserved to die. Really did mean just that crashing was--" Awful. He shrugs, "And I'd think recovering from lightning would've been worse. Which I can't even imagine." He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "I didn't even shake him when he wasn't making sense." Grown up. Really. Also tipsy. Lingering and tipsy. "Probably bad timing," is the last, mumbled, before K'zin glances toward the exit and back at K'del as if a little uncertain if now really is the moment to go.

K'del, who is sober, unlike (apparently) most of the rest of the Weyr, pauses; clearly, he'd not expected anyone to linger, and it takes longer than perhaps it should for K'zin's words to properly permeate his brain. "Shells, K'zin, I know that. Don't think anyone in this Weyr thinks she deserved to die, whatever our feelings about her. It's fine." The forward tip of his head is - perhaps - a signal of approval. "You know what V'ros is like."

"An awkward weirdo." K'zin confirms his knowledge of the brownrider. "You should've seen the way he acted when Tela and I joked that he'd been kidnapped for Search." Beat. "He ran away." Beat. "From Tela." Then the muscular, manly bronzerider can't keep in his giggle. It would be generous to call it a snicker. He grins, but it fades pretty quickly, "We lost good ones this turn. Aishani might've not always been good, but she did some good things in her time. Helping Ienavi. Helping us all. Weird how you don't always see it when it's happening but when there's time to look back..." He looks awkward himself now, and takes a sidestep toward the exit, still lingering.

K'del shakes his head; perhaps he doesn't want to imagine V'ros like that. Perhaps he doesn't need to. A swallow, and then, "Mm. It's always the way. It's been a hard turn." He can't help himself but glance towards the rug, and then off towards the stairs that lead back to his bedroom, and the bathroom beyond. Two crime scenes; two losses. "It's good that we acknowledge it, even if it is too late. Good to remember, too. As long as we don't get trapped in melancholy, in the end."

"Yeah," this is slow. The younger man is frowning for a moment before he directs his brown gaze back to K'del. "Must be sort of rough," for him. For he who has lost so many that he's known. "Anything I can do?" It's his friend asking.

K'del's head shakes. Once; a second time. "Just need to get these reports done, and then... Cadejoth and I, we'll go somewhere. The island, maybe. Io's island." It's not a day for visiting Ali; that much is plain. "I'll be fine. Thanks."

K'zin's head, by contrast, nods, accepting. Thankfully, the next step is toward the door and not toward K'del, otherwise there might've had to be an awkward man-hug and neither of them are drunk enough for that. "I hope the best for you, then," with whatever he needs to do. "And swift report finishing." That gets a ghost of a smile before the younger man is truly turning and letting his feet lead him out.