Difference between revisions of "Logs:L'vae Takes Over Avalanche"

The call goes out with customary brass, with Wyaeth's sudden /presence/ like the bronze had some right to be so bold and demanding. « Council room. Now. » No indication of patience escapes into his gunshot-quickness, no mistake that either he or N'thei will tolerate a delay in L'vae's arrival at said council room. And N'thei is already there. He looks better, in as much as the stitches are out and the bandages are gone and the healing has taken hold. He'll have scars the rest of his life, especially the still partially puffy and jagged line that dives down his face from his forehead to his chin and disappears into his tunic, but it's a clean injury, unfestered. Just now, he stands at the head of the council room table with the forced relaxation of a man too wound up to take a seat-- his hip rests against the arm of the chair, he leans to fiddle with hides that litter the table in careless disarray, and he raises frequent looks toward the entrance starting almost immediately after Wyaeth's summons. Fidgeting ill-becomes the man, but he can't seem to stop presently.

Bremuth bears no challenge for the bronze's assumed right. He is patient, calmly reflecting back Wyeath's demand; in the process transforming it into an affirmation. It will be so. Breaths later, the brown's rangy form appears over the bowl. Long wings carry him gracefully towards the Weyrleaders' ledge, and then back wing smoothly as Bremuth lands at the foot of the stairs. His dismounted rider subsequently takes those stairs two at a time. L'vae already has his folded gloves in hand as he walks into the council chamber. Eyes rove, taking in the scattered hides on the table and the man who toys with them. "Sir." The solemn greeting matches the brownrider's solemn expression. His helmet is pulled slowly off to the side as he comes to stand at the foot of the table, opposite N'thei. "What is this about?" His gaze has returned to the hides.

Not much prelude, certainly no small-talk between these two, is there? N'thei pulls his hands to the back of the chair to rest with seeming calmness. Gray eyes pin to the brownrider when he enters, and it's clear, if only for a moment, that N'thei takes a measure of L'vae-- the briskness, the solemnity, the helmet, the blunt question. "Avalanche." The weight of that word really gives special meaning to the fitting name of the Wing. "Been over it a hundred ways since Melata handed in her knot. Every other rider. /Any/ other rider. Think it's obvious you and I don't, see eye-to-eye on what a Weyr's purpose is, but can't come up with a reason that makes more than self-satisfying sense to pick anyone but you."

Avalanche. L'vae braces himself as the word rolls towards him, his gaze falling with his gloves as they drop into his helmet. A crease forms between the brownrider's brows. He's quiet for a stretched moment. When his eyes lift, there's a touch of a dubious squint about them. "You'd give me the wing." The statement is flat, held out like a shield.

N'thei lets the silence go unbroken, lets it draw out to whatever length L'vae requires. The whole time, leaning against the chair as much like he's holding it up as vice versa, his eyes stay stuck on the brownrider. And his response is slow, amused, put while his brows climb like they'd be happy to peek over the top of that word-shield and see what the man's armor is really made of; "Wouldn't you like to believe you'd earned it?" That smile, on another man, might be called cheeky. On him, it looks... baiting. "Let's be clear though. If there was someone else, someone who worried more about the Weyr and less about the rest of the world, would sooner give it to them." But there's not, the unspoken point there.

"There are many things I'd like to believe." The phrase is said softly, though that does not detract from the dryness of the tone. L'vae is shifting under the other man's amused regard, stance widening a little as his arms cross. The glove-filled helmet juts out from his left side, still gripped in his right hand. "I feel you've made that quite clear, sir." Clear as ice crystal, perhaps, as the brownrider's expression has cooled. "You'd prefer, for example, someone who wouldn't inquire as to whether there are going to be any arrests made before all the traders slip away with their ill-gotten gains?" With the buffer of that big table between them, there's no pause to think better of the question before it slips out in response to the bait.

At the brownrider's words, right as "believe" falls in between them, N'thei drags up a ragged-looking smile, one that commiserates at the same time it accuses. It's a silent "same here." "No, would prefer someone who didn't think they were clever and just said flat out if they've got something on their mind." The table would hardly stop him, really, though maybe L'vae could run fast enough if it came to that? Truth is, the man just doesn't look like he's got enough /care/ to get violent or angry or any of it; he just stands there, holding the chair, letting the chair hold him, and looking at L'vae with tolerant disapproval. "Would also prefer someone who could see beyond the end of his nose, but beggars can't be choosers-- even Weyrleaders, neh?"

L'vae's lips press narrowly together. Tension is held in the lines of his form until one shoulder gives a little roll, dissipating it. "I have a difficult time imagining you a beggar." There is a weariness betrayed in his eyes before they drop back to the paper-strewn table in front of N'thei. "If you'd give me the knot, then I will lead Avalanche." The brownrider forgoes any mention of desire or honor.

"Then it's yours." What more is there to say at this point? N'thei makes no further production out of the matter-- not even to the point of having the knot on hand to deliver to the brownrider right then-and-there. No, he just gives L'vae one last look, one of that continued tolerant disapproval, shrugs his shoulders with helplessness, and adds the simple, somewhat ironic remark, "With the Weyr's gratitude."

L'vae's arms unfold, his helmet coming to rest between the hands held out in front of him. He gives a nod, cautious glance angled across to N'thei. "Thank you." There's a tone of dry uncertainty that colors the statement of gratitude, a reflection of the other man's irony. "Was there anything else, sir?" And, while he's there, the brownrider may as well give that flat-out questioning a go. "Are you going to be making any arrests?"

"No." To which? More? Arrests? N'thei raises his eyebrows drolly while he holds the pause between the single word and any form of clarification. Then-- "There's nothing else." And another pause, this time with his eyes narrowing marginally like he's actually contemplating L'vae's question beyond the blunt dismissal the initial answer implied. "Don't see arrests as necessary. 'I want them out.' That's what you said. That's what you get." Another shrug, the gesture-of-the-day.

L'vae meets the other man's pauses with a sort of antsy frustration, his lips narrowing thinly again. Fingers flex and fuss about the edge of the helmet he holds. The line of his mouth further quirks before he speaks, tipping into an incline. "I also said I didn't think everyone could be held accountable with the evidence I brought you, therefore implying that some of the thieves could be." Even as he points this out, the brownrider's words sound defeated. His stance is breaking, too, one foot stepping back and turning out to shift his weight a little door-ward. "They are leaving," is conceded, though rather wryly.

N'thei watches L'vae backing out of the room, watches him with the unconcerned glaze thickening across his bland gray eyes. A smile looks like it wants to form, that slight warming that begins to stretch the corners of the mouth, the very faint narrowing of eyes that indicate they'll crinkle at the corners soon-- but, like the brownrider, he seems ready to see the interview at its end. "Good luck with Avalanche," he offers in an attempt to sound authentic, though there are no end of fatalistic undertones to his voice, and the smile that does finally creep across his expression is not a pleasant one: N'thei will enjoy L'vae's failure in a way wholly unbefitting of a Weyrleader to a Wingleader.

A downward tip of L'vae's chin serves as an accepting nod, his expression rather wary in light of that menacing smile. The helmet is shifted into the crook of one arm so that the other can lift in farewell salute. "Have a good afternoon, sir." The words are distant but polite. Even before they have died on his lips, before his hands drops from its salute, the brownrider is following through on the momentum of his earlier step. Shoulders turning, the new wingleader makes his way out of the council chambers.