Difference between revisions of "Logs:Drunk Dialing K'del"

Lights in Darkness Weyr, High Reaches Weyr

A heavy, brocade curtain separates the ledge from the weyr within, which opens up into a long, wide wallow and a walkway beside it. There's easily enough room for a bronze in here; the ceiling is high enough that sound tends to echo. Down the wall beside the walkway, small circles appear to float within the dim light like miniature moons; a high panel of them that's perhaps four or five times as long as a man is tall. They end abruptly as the wall curves around and opens out into the rest of the weyr.

It's a good sized weyr, and laid out nicely with a fine collection of solid, expensive furniture. A niche off to one side offers built-in shelving and a desk set out beneath it, while much of the rest of the space has been taken up by a couch and several chairs, laid out in front of the hearth. It's reflective, that hearth, made up of squares tiled on point, many of which look very new indeed. To one side of that is a dark opening that might be another niche, or perhaps a passageway.

A tunnel leads off from that dark opening - narrow, if still tall. It turns a corner and then opens out into an expansive room set against the other side of the hearth. Most of /this/ space is taken up by a bed that has clearly been made to fit the space exactly, although there's still room to step around to another niche - this one with a plugged basin above and a drain below. There are more of those moons here, too: moons that glow with light from the room beyond.

It's late. Too late for this. H'kon is too cold for this, has too much snow stuck to him from another flurry that's started up, well after that last bolt of lightning. Arekoth... well, Arekoth was built for this sort of thing. The brown lands on Cadejoth's ledge, only announcing himself with, « Hope he's awake, » and just as soon as he's dismounted and slipped on some snow and fallen and got back up, in lunges H'kon. And with him, the smell of liquor and wet leather and utter loss of faith.

Cadejoth is not often at home, these days, when there are other places to be - mostly places with better vantage points over the weyr (it's important). It's late enough, now, that even he has nowhere else he needs to be; late enough that he is curled up within his couch, inclined to give Arekoth a glance through lidded eyelids (two sets, not three). « And alone? » Cadejoth is calling upon old memories, stolen from his rider's brain, for that: it's been a long time since that was a concern. K'del is alone. He's also awake-- nestled near the hearth with a mostly-empty bottle, and a long, meaningful stare at the fire. Except that... "H'kon?"

« Don't think it matters, » Arekoth admits, the slightest hint of concern - yes really - colouring his voice as well as his eyes. But he settles on the ledge and waits. "K'del." A slight sway, a reach for balance, a shuffle until he's got hold of some furniture (he's not bothered to look at what). "I tried. I couldn't." H'kon shakes his head, and leans more heavily on that - oh it's a couch. "The Weyr will break apart and I can do nothing." Except it's probably more slurred than all that, to hear.

« It would matter to K'del, » explains Cadejoth, in that sleepy kind of way - sleepy, but awake, now, and registering that concern with a small amount of his own. He hasn't forgotten that he was once Lord Of All; Arekoth is still part of his pack. His pack. "Whoa, whoa," says K'del, scrabbling out of his seat. "Why don't you come and-- make yourself comfortable, H'kon. And-- uh, tell me, what happened. We'll fix it." He puts the bottle down: it is clearly not going to be needed anytime soon.

H'kon is so far beyond comfort it's laughable. "It's her. It has to be. Azaylia," he lurches and gropes for the bronzerider while drawing that name out a bit too much on the second syllable, "should know better. She should. But she's too worried about her friend. And Hraedhyth's," that name was surely butchered, "too worried about her mate." And only once he's got hold of the other man and is able to stand up a bit straighter does his brow knit. "I never thought Arekoth would seem sensible in comparison." Also butchered.

K'del's brows knit, as he (presumably) attempts to comprehend the specifics of what H'kon is trying to say. Being groped for is probably not something he'd intended; he's quick to try and, uh, adjust the brownrider's position, straight into the couch, if he can. Sitting is better than standing, right? "I'll talk to her," he promises. "Again. Try and talk some sense into her. Explain. She can't be as blind as she seems. She needs to-- we'll work it out. Taikrin won't win. Brieli won't win. No more lies."

H'kon is easily, uh, adjusted. Once on that couch, his head tilts back much too readily until it's hit the back. "Taikrin won't win," is half-sneered, and he turns to look at K'del. It can't be that much of a focused look. "Wingleaders aren't going to deal with her, not all of them. But what's that mean? If Taikrin's the only acting weyrleader, then does that mean we go against the weyrwomen?" Now he lifts his head, the better to knock it back against the couch, on purpose this time. And slaps the seat with his hands, too. Take that. "Or the only one who's doing anything."

K'del adjusts himself into a nearby seat, leaning forward so that he can regard H'kon, brows furrowed and expression thoughtful. "She's not the only Acting Weyrleader. You are, too. And 'far as I can see, you're doing a better job of it. Not awarding yourself a wing." He's probably not following all of it, but he's trying - a valiant effort. "Azaylia will learn. She can be taught. We'll work on her. We'll make her see."

H'kon laughs at that, a short-lived thing that goes from a bark to an over-load, "Oh no. No, they've changed it now. Well, Brieli has. And Azaylia," and there's betrayal as well as distaste that mixes so readily with missed consonants and elongated vowels, "can't possibly hurt her friend." One hand lifts to flick nothing off his fingers (or maybe it was melted snow), and the brownrider's face contorts into a more recognisable scowl. "She wants someone she hasn't tried to bribe not to say how she tried to throw the leadership to her Fort rider. And she hasn't told that she thinks High Reaches owes her. For what, making her live in snow?"

K'del's squinty-eyes probably say a lot about how much he's not getting... or getting wrong. 'Fort rider' definitely makes an impact, though, enough so that he freezes, and looks suitably aghast. He's evidently not so drunk himself that he can't put numbers together - two plus two equals... well, fuck. "N'rov was there. At the flight. Wasn't he? That was the plan." It's possible that, as his gaze sweeps over the brownrider, he actually registers how stupid it is to properly question him right now. So he adds: "They can't do that. Pick one, not the other. If they're insisting the flights count, then you're still Acting Weyrleader. And Brieli is... she's a liar, H'kon. She... keeps secrets. Don't trust her for a second. She lied about Iolene. For Iolene."

Poor K'del will get grabbed again, H'kon's hand strong and heavy, the hand of a fisherman's son when he shakes the other man's arm. "The only one there. Arekoth found them by chance, I was trying to keep him away... Imagine if a bronzerider, but from another Weyr..." He heaves out a heavy, smelly breath. "She offered me a favour, some debt, to not tell - that isn't why. But even such a goldrider as that... we can't get in the habit of killing them all," almost makes him laugh. The hand tights up again. "K'del," is warning on whisky-sweet breath, all humour gone.

Poor K'del seems less concerned, this time, though that doesn't mean his gaze isn't heavy-- and worried. Maybe that means more concerned, but in a different context. "Fuck," he says, in sudden understanding, grabbing hold of H'kon's arm in return. Maybe they'll just cling to each other for a while. His exhaled breath is long. "No," he agrees. "We can't. Nor banishing them from the Weyr. But she can't be allowed to be Senior. That's what you're saying, isn't it? It has to be Azaylia. When all of this settles down. Or we're all lost. The whole Weyr."

"Indeed." H'kon's nod is as solemn as that word. Until a burp almost becomes more than that, and for a moment, the brownrider is preoccupied in getting control of his innards. A shake of his head is the best he can do at first. After a moment, he can look back to K'del, whose arm he still grips, and speak. "If Azaylia will let herself be in charge. I wonder if she won't carry Brieli with her the whole time, some child and her... evil stuffie." He shakes his head. "Even by installing Taikrin... I tried to make her see, and she would not.

"Then we will make her see." It's a cold, dark statement, by K'del, one made after he has had a moment to reflect on what H'kon has said, burps and all, arm-grips and all. "We need to make sure she understands the truth about Brieli. I'll talk to her. I'll make her see. I will." It's not a normal habit of K'del's conversation for I to show up, let alone so often; now, it must surely seem necessary. "Don't worry about it, H'kon. Going to fix it. Maybe you should..." He glances down at the hand on his arm, "Go home and sleep it off. Or take the couch."

"If she would only stand..." H'kon is losing focus, his words, his eyes. K'del's comment more than anything brings him to some awareness of himself. It has the brownrider retracting his hand, nodding bleakly, and letting his eyes close. "I gave in to it. I shouldn't have." The hand so recently on K'del's arm is now being massaged by H'kon's other. "I will go home. I'm sorry to come like this. I will go..." Soon. In a moment. And it's not long until that little brownrider has passed out entirely, and Arekoth, sore leg and all, edges for what shelter is offered by the overhang of the ledge to wait out his rider's recuperation.

"No," says K'del, though his words may be lost to the other rider's drunken haze. "You did exactly what you should have. You've-- I'm glad you came." It's only after he's spoken that he seems to properly register how unlikely it is that his words have actually reached the other rider. That's the point at which he sighs, and stands, disappearing into the other room for a short period before returning with a blanket to loosely tuck over the brownrider. "Go home in the morning," says K'del, quietly, into the stillness of the dim room. « Come out of the cold, » says Cadejoth, curling up more tightly to offer the brown some room. It's reluctant, but genuine. « Until he wakes. »