Difference between revisions of "Logs:Figureheads"

Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr

Partly sheltered by the curving stone overhang, partly exposed to the weather, the wide stone patio serves as a balcony for socializing or just plain drinking on a sizable scale. The repurposed ledge might once have let two large dragons land, but now there's too much furniture for that: two rustic tables with attendant chairs, plus a couple more in particularly good weather, and a wrought iron bench situated to make the most of the view of the western bowl and the lake beyond.

Other changes include rough little niches carved out of the stone walls to hold glows in colored bottles at night, the climbing plant that's being trained to grow up along the overhang, and the blue ceramic pots of flowers that dot the edge of the ledge as a colorful reminder not to fall off.

An archway leads to the Snowasis itself, housed in the ledge's former weyr, while a few wide steps descend along the wall to the bowl.

It'll be winter, soon, and though it's not presently cold enough to freeze the heavy, driving rain, it's far from warm. Most of the Ledge has been abandoned to puddles and pools, but one or two of the tables nearest the entrance to the Snowasis are relatively dry, thanks to the overhang. K'del has settled himself at one of these, tucking his long legs out of sight beneath it, feet curving around the empty chair opposite. His mug of beer is mostly empty, but there's a whole pitcher waiting beside it. For now, however, he stares out over the wet ledge, apparently deep in thought.

For a while, safe from wind and water beneath that overhang, Kh'mic says and does nothing to interrupt that deep thought. He stands quietly in the archway to the Snowasis, his hands curved greedily around a mug out of which steam rises up into eyes squinted against the weather. After a sip proves it's still too hot to drink, after a few moments when it's each man to his own thoughts, he finally steps out onto the ledge proper, moving to place an empty hand on a chair at K'del's table. "Sixteenth for your thoughts."

Thankfully, whatever K'del's thoughts are, they're not so deep that he can't pull himself away from them easily enough, when called to. His blinking gaze shifts towards the other rider, even as his feet withdraw beneath the table - mostly, it seems, so that he can straighten his stance. "Not sure they're worth as much as all that, even," he says, in that Tillekian drawl of his. "Maybe a thirty-second. Don't know that my thoughts are so hard to guess, these days." His head tips forward, encouraging the other rider to that chair.

Kh'mic's lips pull down into a crooked grimace while he asks, "As bad as all that?" There's sympathy there, for what it's worth, though the brownrider's too conscious of his own pride to be overt about pitying someone else. "Never been much of a guesser, really, but I'd wager they aren't about whiskers on kittens, your thoughts," he comments while sliding himself into that chair, arranging his cider (for that's what's steaming in his cup) on the table before him, attention on K'del rather than the beverage. "At least it's not snowing." Yet.

K'del's hasty, then, in his, "Not for my own sake, honestly. Much more concerned about the Weyr as a whole than my pride. Anyway, snow's not so bad, really. Cold, but people seem enthusiastic about it at the start of winter. It's only later-- well." He reaches, now, to grab for the pitcher and refill his mug, setting it back down again once he's done so. "But no: no whiskers on kittens. And no 'oh, isn't the rain beautiful', either."

Nodding like he's following along with K'del's quick revision, though it's plain to see in Kh'mic's face that he either doesn't 'get' it (not entirely) or isn't buying it (not at that price). Anyway, what he says is, "No? I might be feeling a little down in your shoes, so good on you." There's a lengthy pause following the comment about the rain, while Kh'mic tests a sip and turns his eyes outward, toward that rain, and his thoughts inward, away from it. After a spell, he adds, "The Weyr as a whole. Is still in one piece. Surprisingly."

And so, K'del cracks a crooked smile and allows, "Which isn't to say my pride isn't hurt, at least a little, but--" But. But. He's unbothered by silence, and though he also stares out into the rain, he's no longer so deeply lost in his thoughts. "Surprisingly. For now, anyway. Early days. Which isn't to say I wish everything to fall apart and the Weyr to be destroyed, but I'm not - confident." His words meander, unpracticed, but as he reaches for his mug again, he sounds more sure. "This arrangement won't stand. The Weyr won't follow them. Or the Holds."

Kh'mic lifts his mug and tilts it on its way to his mouth, nodding ready agreement to those last three statements for sure. "'Course," he begins after swallowing, showing his teeth to breathe in cooler air after the hot drink, "it doesn't do us much good to not follow them with no one else to follow. It's not even the blind leading the blind so much as..." He pauses, looking at K'del for a second then back out at the bleak weather, trying to put his brain into metaphor mode. "So much as the blind just all milling around aimlessly and bumping into each other and not getting much done." He walks his fingers on the tabletop to mimic people walking around and crashing into each other and falling down.

K'del pauses, after that metaphor, his eyes lowered towards the table and those walking/crushing/falling finger-people. "Which is," he says, finally, after a deep intake of breath, and the eventual exhale, "bad for the Weyr. Bad for our reputation with the Holds, too, and it's not like we can afford to lose their support, in Interval." It's not clear, from the way he says it, whether he's thinking out-loud, or attempting to make the other rider offer a solution to the issue, though certainly, his brow has furrowed.

A brownrider who doesn't think brownriders should be Weyrleaders is meant to offer a solution to a bronzerider that used to be Weyrleader? That's a confusing thought, and one Kh'mic probably hasn't even come close to realizing. "Yeah. Yeah, I hear you. But it sure doesn't seem like anyone's rushing into fix things. H'kon said there were," derisively, "circumstances. Only circumstances I see, though, are the ones that make the Reaches look like assheads." He drinks, he sighs, he looks at K'del like he's waiting for the man to share some greater wisdom.

"H'kon--" But K'del doesn't have anything to add to the description of that particular brownrider, in the end, and so he ignores it and moves on. "I want to fix things. If I can." At least he sounds more certain, now, abandoning his mug so that he can use his hands to gesticulate, albeit in a relatively controlled fashion, as he speaks. "As far as I'm concerned, the senior queen is the first queen to rise, and the Weyrleader is the bronze who catches her. Since neither was the first to rise, neither is senior - they're still Acting. And I am going to make damn sure that Taikrin," the loathing is audible in his tone when he speaks of her, "has no opportunity to destroy this Weyr. Even if it means-- even if it looks like mutiny."

Kh'mic, the choir, answers back to the preacher, "It's not mutiny if there's no proper captain, is it? If neither of them are the Weyrleader, then - well." He shrugs eloquently, like everything is so neatly encapsulated in that one simple gesture, like no further harm can be done by tearing down the fragile set of blocks comprising the Weyr's so-called leadership. "What will you do, if you don't mind my asking?" His own hands, now relaxing around his cup again, are still except where his thumbs drum against the side of his mug, witness to contained agitation, someone who'd rather it was /done/ than still in the works.

A tiny smile curves around K'del's mouth. "If neither of them are the Weyrleader, then anything that is done is only filling a void," he confirms and agrees, reaching once more for his mug. Kh'mic's question leaves him without immediate answer, his expression turned thoughtful all over again. "Talk to the Wingleaders, first of all. Make sure they work together to look after their side of things: cover sweeps and watches and the usual rotations. Encourage them to report problems to both goldriders. Offer my help, wherever needed. Think I'll talk to some of the Holders, too, on an unofficial basis. Just reassure them that everything is in control."

The quickest he's come back with a response so far, Kh'mic asks, "Is it, though?" He looks around, turning to see beyond K'del to the Weyr, his bright eyes scanning the caves in the walls, lifeless-seeming a rainy day with everyone hiding indoors. "Just because it hasn't gotten /out of control/ doesn't mean it's under control, does it? Feels like a pile of firestone just waiting for a spark to send it all up." Looking back, smiling thinly, he concludes, "Or maybe that's just me."

"No," admits K'del. "That's not just you. But I've dealt with the Holders; know what they're like. Someone like Aughan, he'd use any opportunity to try and move things in his favour. Imagine he's got his spies reporting back as it is, imagine all of them do. But we need to project calm and composure." He rubs at his temples with his fingers, closing his eyes with a quiet sigh. "It's in everyone's best interests to keep things together. Azaylia and Brieli-- they won't let Taikrin run roughshod over everything. If it's possible to control her, they will. That's good."

The lowered brows, narrowed eyes, and puckered forehead don't speak to someone who's totally convinced, but, after a few seconds, Kh'mic nods slowly. He does so without looking at K'del, though, keeping his eyes trained on the mug he's been slowly draining. "I guess so," is what he finally decides sounds credible enough to utter aloud. "In the meantime, I guess we just keep sitting around holding our di-rinks." Changed his mind on that last word, yepper.

K'del is not so confident in his own plan that he can't register Kh'mic's expression, and it's even likely that he takes that into consideration, though he blows a long breath out of his mouth rather than answer immediately. "Holding our drinks. Yes." Or other things. "Might also talk to Azaylia, encourage her to... use my experience. Since neither Taikrin nor H'kon has ever led so much as a wing, if she really is so intent on keeping them on." Such delusions. "I'll do what I have to. If it means being more... if it means I need to make myself into a figurehead, a leader appointed by the Weyr itself, I'll do it." Though he doesn't seem to especially like that idea.

"Someone," not that he's naming any names! "Might ought to tell Azaylia that there're some people who won't call two brownriders Weyrleader any more than they would one. It doesn't sit right." Kh'mic looks deeeeeep into his mug for several seconds, like he's contemplating saying more, but quits at that. Draining the last of his inspiration, he lifts and empties the rest of his now drinkably cool cider, wiping his mouth with the inside of his wrist afterward. "Anyhow, you look pretty morose out here," he imparts as an FYI.

K'del's chin lifts. "I'll let her know," he says, though the way he says it suggests he's pretty sure she already knows that, whether or not she wants to believe it, or react appropriately to it ('appropriately' having a very narrow definition in this case). He's got his eyes fixed oh Kh'mic, and though, for a moment, they look like the might drop to the table after his 'morose' remark, they stay put in the end. "Spent ten turns doing my best for this Weyr," he says, with a shrug. "Hard, seeing it come to this. Imagine it's best I start looking confident and self-assured, though."

Kh'mic pushes back from the table, collecting his mug while he stands, holding it by handle and base. He nods with as much understanding as he can for K'del, sympathising if not empathising, and saying, "Even a figurehead'd be better than nothing right now." His breath starts like he's got something else to add, but then he replaces his words with a quick smile and, a second later, concludes, "I better get going. No matter how many Weyrleaders and how many Weyrwomen we've supposedly got, there's still only one of me."

"A figurehead," repeats K'del, half musing, and apparently giving him enough to think about that it takes him several seconds longer than it should to register the rest of what the brownrider has said. "Oh-- right, of course. Thanks - it was good talking to you. Useful." He seems to mean it pretty genuinely; he even smiles, crookedly.

Kh'mic takes it as authentic, /seems/ to anyways. "Don't mention it," he agrees, swinging the mug by the handle while he strolls back inside.