Difference between revisions of "Logs:I'daur Speaks Candidly About Dragonriding"

Nathein and another candidate have scooted their cots closer together, left them crooked with the two ends near to each other where the two of them sit. Between them, a press serves as a makeshift table, and there's no denying what they're doing, playing cards. But the game looks harmless, played literally for peanuts, and the two young men are doing more talking than playing at the moment with Nathein shuffling the cards absently.

Of barracks, I'daur is more frequently found in the weyrling ones, rather than the candidates'. Today, though, he's apparently on the wrong side of the bowl, because it's candidates he seems intent on menacing. He steps into the doorway and stops, frowning and looking mildly uncomfortable there while he scans the room and ignores looks being shot his way by nervous youngsters in favor of... "Nathein." He spots his target after a moment, calling out over the barracks and not moving but a couple more steps into the room.

A look passes between the two candidates, the blatant look of guilt tempered by confusion as two sets of eyes lock on to I'daur. The young man who fancies himself off the hook now scrapes his cot back into line properly, leaving Nathein to drag his palm across the press, pocketing peanuts; "Sir." He stands with an attentive lift of his eyebrows.

"Shanlee says," says I'daur after a moment, studying Nathein, "I'm s'posed to let you follow me around for a while." He shrugs, as though he doesn't really have any opinion on the subject other than what he's been directed to do, though he does add, eyes trailing to the cards and the escaping cohort: "'Less you're winning big, at present."

Nathein holds out the spoils of victory on his palm, bounces them twice with his eyes downcast. "Peanuts, sir." His laugh trails off gradually as he snaps to new attention, eyes lit up now. "She said she wanted candidates to follow riders, since thread is back, and I requested to tail you. Should I have asked for someone else?"

"She bullied me into it," is I'daur's dry take, even as he starts to turn around to exit, apparently expecting Nathein to follow. "And that's one you'll have to figure out for yourself." The limping path he sets is one back toward his own barracks and the training room and office next door to them. "Not real exciting following around a weyrlingmaster while there ain't weyrlings. I figured Shanlee'd of wanted you to see what the day-to-day's like for the laymen, like you'll be if you impress, but." A shrug.

I'daur strolls into the weyrling training room. I'daur has left.

You stride into the weyrling training room.

Weyrling Training Room, High Reaches Weyr(#530RIJs$) This large room was cut deep into the cliff side and is lit only by glows. There are two large stone tables running east and west. Behind each table is a stone bench for the weyrlings to sit on, not very comfortable admittedly, but wood is too valuable to use for this purpose. At the north end of the room is a smaller stone table and chair, used by the WeyrlingMaster. Behind that lies a map of the northern continent, the areas that each Weyr protects carefully marked.

On the east wall is a detailed depiction of a dragon's wing with the anatomy clearly marked. If you look at the west wall, it's covered with many Wing formations. In the back of the room are a couple old, scratched up couches. Originally they were in the colors of High Reaches Weyr, one black, one dark blue, but now it's a little difficult to tell which is which.

Nathein contemplates that, takes the measure of I'daur with a sweeping look. "Bullied you." With one knee, he shoves his cot back into line and follows the weyrlingmaster into the adjacent room. "I haven't had much room to /talk/ to many riders, sir, to be honest with you. Chitchat here and there, but no one wants to impart any wisdom? You seemed to think differently. I'm sorry if I read you wrong."

To his desk, I'daur heads, settling down in his worn-out chair and motioning to the others littering the room. "Make yourself at home. Want a drink?" He's already pulling out the whiskey and pouring himself a glass, glancing across at the candidate. "Don't know about wisdom--Shanlee'll butter me up with that spiel, too, but." He doesn't seem to mind the bullying or the buttering up either one, though, by his wryly fond tone toward the greenrider. "I suppose my... wisdom depends on what you want imparted. Not going to waste your time and my breath trying to paint things rosy for you, because they aren't. If they ever were."

"She does seem to have a taste for butter." Nathein looks the room over, eyes swept across the map and then the anatomy and then back to the weyrlingmaster with a quick smile. "Just a little honesty, sir, that's all that I want. And a drink, now that you're offering." The chairs are considered dubiously, but he finds a way to be comfortable, hitching up one leg with his ankle resting crossed across his knee.

A second glass materializes from the depths of I'daur's well-stocked desk. It's filled and slid across said desk to Nathein, while I'daur takes a long swig of his own. "Well. I guess I can handle honesty," he admits slowly, lips pursing thoughtfully. "I guess... the best thing I can tell you is: forget all that glorious harper crap they teach you. Riding's not like that, not anything like it. It's the one thing I've ever learned, me and Zunaeth, and it's the one thing nobody seems to know when I first get hold of them."

Nathein reaches forward with long arms, catches the glass in hand, and leans back to his chair with a grateful nod for the drink. "What is it like, sir? So far, I haven't seen anything horrible here, but candidacy hasn't /prepared/ me for anything. Heh." He takes a sip, exhaling sharply across his tongue, his voice a little harsher now. "Except dragging around bags of firestone and cleaning out abandoned caverns."

"Well, the firestone's good practice," muses I'daur, with a dry smirk. "You'd be doin' a lot of that with me. But for what it's really like... It's nerve-wracking. These days, especially--got to be ready to go at any time, day or night, for the just in case." He toys with his glass and then finishes it off, moving to refill in a well-practiced motion. "You wouldn't remember a real Pass--back when it was all time tables and efficiency--or the Interval--when it was parties and relaxation and maybe a sweep or two between meals--it's starting to wear people thin already," he tells the young man conversationally. "Don't know how long we can keep this up, and don't know how long we'll keep having people who /want/ to stand. Not when they see places like Lotriet, or the kids coming in looking like raw meat--ending up like /me/, if they even come home."

Nathein brushes his empty hand down the front of his shirt, wearing a droll smile. "I'm not worried about how much firestone I can shuck, sir. And I was ten when the Pass ended, but I wasn't in a place where timetables mattered except when they overlapped our fields." He pauses to hiss down another sip, pulls it beyond his teeth and down his throat. "What happened to you?"

"The Pass," drawls I'daur, snorting at the question. "A few minor scrapes over the turns. This one's the only recent thing--" He lifts one arm, traced around with a scoring lighter still than the rest "--from the first of these rogue 'Falls we ran into." A pause, another sip. "My leg, Zunaeth's wing--that was the last 'Fall of the Pass: we got dumb, careless, and then we got fucked over for it. Spent ten turns being a walkin' warning for the weyrlings down at Monaco in the name of recuperating before I came home and, well. Can't fly, so they got us teaching still, as the old saying goes."

"If you could?" Nathein splashes his glass enough to make what's left reach toward the lip of it, not enough to make it splash over the side. "Shanlee says she owes some kind of debt to the Weyr, and I can respect that as reason enough, I suppose. But what about someone who doesn't owe anything to anyone? Is it really..." He gropes for a word, eyes on the scar on I'daur's arm. Finally, laughter tinged with chagrin; "I think I'm just looking for someone to tell me I'm not being as big a fool as I think I am, sir."

"If I could, I'd be up there with them," I'daur says with a shrug, a wry smile. "Feel damn useless down here, even if I like the teaching, too. Mostly. S'not all fun and games, either. I usually count on losing least one from every class, and with Thread now on top of that--" A shake of his head. "A fool for standing? Well, maybe you are and maybe you're not. Don't think anyone can tell you that. When I stood... I was a fool. Weyrbred and I still didn't know better. But I'd never consider standing foolish."

Nathein, bluntly; "Why not?"

"Thirty years ago," says I'daur slowly, swirling the whiskey remaining in his glass absently, "I'd of said it was some debt I owed the Weyr, too, for raising me, protecting me, all that stuff. And maybe that's true, when you're standing, when you're on the ground watching. It's not, not when you're up there, though. It's about the people next to you, and what you owe them: whether that's your dragon; whether that's the ones that make it, like me; or the ones who don't, like my brother. Or the ones that never get the chance, like Talien's." A pause. He finishes his glass and doesn't even bother with the glass this time, reaching straight for bottle instead. "That's why I'd still be up there if I could, and that's why I'll teach long as they'll let me."

Nathein finishes his drink and reaches forward, puts the glass back on the edge of the desk and retreats again with his hands loose across his knee. "Well, thank you for the honesty, sir. It's food for thought." The likelihood that it hit home is slim, judging by the simplicity in the younger man's voice, but he looks thoughtful all the while. "There's no chance you'll ever fly again?"

I'daur shrugs. "If they asked me? In a heartbeat," he admits. "But they won't, because they can see as well as I can that Zunaeth lists to the left and's lucky if he can stay up for fifteen minutes, and the only thing that keeps me walking is another bottle of whiskey. We're just baggage to carry up there now, and I've... finally had to admit it," he notes dryly. "I'm better use shunting another dozen kids along through here to take my place."

"I think it would weigh heavy on my conscience..." Nathein pauses, looks down so he can relace his fingers across his stomach now. "...to send those dozen kids out there, knowing what you know. That sounds like I'm pointing fingers though, and I don't mean to be." He shrugs in apology. "I guess to the point of all this. Without any weyrlings, what do you do with your days?" He lowers a nod to the bottle. "Besides the obvious."

I'daur nods once, curtly. "I expect to lose least one every class," he repeats quietly. "Best I can do is teach them everything I know, and hope it's good enough, and hope they've found their own reasons to do it by then." But the latter question, that's one that catches him off-guard, causing him to furrow his brows, lips pursed in thought. "Can't fly, can't teach... Faranth only knows. Mope around and drink more, I guess. S'what I did every time I got laid up in the infirmary, anyway."

Nathein essays a quiet laugh and starts to his feet; "Sounds very productive, sir. I don't think that's exactly what Shanlee had in mind when she set up all this, but I'm sure I'll get an education." He stalls on his feet, stays standing in front of his chair. "Thank you for the candor, sir, and the drink."

"Maybe not," admits I'daur, with a smirk and a duck of his head. "But she should have known better if it wasn't. Anytime, though. I'm... usually around here, you wanna stop back by sometime."

"I will." Nathein looks around the room again, eventually with his eyes finding their way back to the bottle, then lifted to the weyrlingmaster. "It's been informative. Thank you." He leaves quietly to chew on the new food for thought.

You stroll into the barracks.