Difference between revisions of "Logs:Mixed Messages"

It's not been long since Flurry became Cirrus, still headed by Meara, when Iolene's distinctive steps (light and prancing-like) bring her into K'del's weyr. Still cold, though spring is on the horizon, there's the flush of a chill to her cheeks and over her shoulders is a pair of skates. "K'del, K'del?" Propriety skids her steps to a stop just a shade too late as she's already mostly into the Weyrleader's not-so-new-but-still-new weyr. She's certainly enjoying her freedom in this in between stage of weyrlinghood, add to that no duties of being a weyrwoman and life is good for the blonde exile.

This time of turn always finds more work for the weyr, as isolated cotholders start crying out for help with this and that, as the weather begins, slowly, to warm. Still, this afternoon does find K'del at home: lounging, even, his boots kicked off toward the hearth, his long legs lazily extended out over the length of the couch. By the time Iolene comes to a halt, he already seems aware of her, shifting his position so that he can peer up and over hte back of the couch, and then, wave her in with a lazy gesture. "Iolene. Come on in. Hi."

"Boyden," begins the lithe teenager, a touch of belated breathlessness catching her off guard enough to pause and breathe deeply. "Boyden was showing me how to skate for my turnday. It wasn't quite as hard as everyone made it out to be." A quick smile turns to find K'del lounging on his couch. "I thought- I thought you might want to have some fun, instead of working like you always seem to be lately." She doesn't round the couch to approach, instead leaning across the seat's back to peer down at the bronzerider with wide, unblinking blue eyes.

K'del tilts his head up so that he can meet Iolene's gaze, the book he was reading set down, face-down, on his chest so that he can drum his fingers upon it. "It's not so hard, at least to get the basics," he agrees. Her offer, however, seems to surprise him; he searches her face thoughtfully for a handful of seconds before he admits, "Haven't made as much time as I'd like for that kind of thing, these past months. Guess I could spare an afternoon." Given he looks so, so busy right now? Yes.

"Or we could just stay here," replies the still weyrling, one thin shoulder lifting in a careless, who-am-I-to-care action. It is, indeed, a sign of some impishness to come as instead of just staying leaned there, the skates fall backwards to clunk to the ground and in the same beat, Iolene leans forward even more to fall in a laughing sprawl over the edge of the couch either on or beside K'del. It's really more how quick the Weyrleader's reflexes could be than anything.

Surprised, K'del neither moves out of the way nor adjusts Iolene's trajectory; that doesn't mean he doesn't fasten a quizzical expression on her after she does. "Or," he agrees, "we could just stay here." He doesn't seem wholly uncomfortable with her presence, but nor is he as relaxed as he was. "Something on your mind, Iolene?"

"I want to be Weyrwoman." It's such a simple statement and paired with those dark blue, wide, still unblinking eyes, seems a genuine sentiment. Iolene looks at K'del. "Or a weyrwoman," is a correction, but moments to late for that lengthy pause not to have been deliberate. "I'd like to be your weyrwoman," is a second vocal editing of her initial sentiments.

K'del's mouth opens so that he can say the almost predictable, by now, "Oh, Iolene." Except that his mouth is moving rather faster than his brain, apparently, because it takes him a few moments to catch up and register, and then-- "My weyrwoman? You want--" It makes his brow furrow, a shadow darkening his expression even amidst the so-obvious sympathy (empathy?).

"If Tiriana won't have me, I feel-," in spite of herself or perhaps because of herself in combination with Ysavaeth, the skinny goldrider's learned soemthing of the mainland ways if not all. "Being paired to Ysavaeth makes it something I should do. I must do. Elgin tried to explain it to me when we first Impressed and I didn't understand, I don't think-," she shifts her weight forward, hoping a bit to allow her leg to worm itself more comfortably beneath her. "I mean. I don't know. I mean... if Tiriana won't have me, won't you? You could use a gold dragon to reinforce your directives, can't you?" Never mind that's Iovniath's job. Never mind it's not Iolene getting to do anything. "And I could work with you instead. Is there a rule that says I can't?" The last, added quickly, carries a prodding tonal quality with it, as if she's daring him to come up with an actual written down statement saying she can't do this.

K'del's own legs shift, allowing the weyrling more room; he does so without letting his gaze shift from her face. "Thought you wanted," he says, very quietly, "to be a craft liaison? Not that-- I mean, shells, I don't know. It's never come up before, this kind of thing. The riders of queens all work together, with the Weyrwoman. But clearly, you've got to do something, right?" That troubled look hasn't disappeared - if anything, it's gotten worse. "It's just... tradition, I guess." Which, even as he says it, seems less than sure; he seems less than sure.

"I do." She hasn't forgotten, and now that they've joined Cirrus and left behind the days of schoolbooks and lessons (for the most part), there've been definitive mumblings in the caverns of a nosy little goldrider with too much time and not enough things to do. "But." But there's nothing more and Iolene's face, so cheered as she entered, gains hints of a troubled cloud darkening her visage. "It's ok. I only thought that maybe... Maybe we should go skating instead."

He swallows, looking, for a moment, as though he's torn, trapped in indecision. Then, both hands reach out, aiming to rest one on each of her shoulders. "We're going to work something out for you, Iolene," he says. "Even if you're the least traditional goldrider who ever lived. No rider in this weyr is useless, and whether-- whatever Tiriana thinks, you're still a goldrider. If we lost Iovniath, Ysavaeth's flight could still make you Weyrwoman one day." He's suddenly quite firm: quite determined. "And don't think for a moment that I'm not keeping that in mind."

There's a beat that Iolene takes, her breath not quite caught but still held for just a second. She knows what K'del means and probably knew fully well what she was saying before. Then, a quieter, so un-Io-like voice interrupts the silence. "And I should wait for that day then." Somehow, the evenness of her intonation conveys a mutually-agreed statement. The tiniest lilt at the very end is the rider's uncertainty.

"Not--" K'del breaks off, and after a squeeze of her shoulders, he lets his hands drop back towards his sides again. "No. Because you need to be ready for that day, should it come. I need you to be ready for that day, because-- well. Won't necessarily be me around, if it does happen. Shells, I don't know. I wish I did. Wish I had a good relationship with another senior to send you for lessons somewhere or-- I just don't know, Io. Wish I did."

Her head starts shaking even before her words emerge. "I don't want to be sent away," says Iolene. "I've been moved around too much without any say and I want it stop. Please?" Those lashes drop and her plea is quiet, "Don't send me away." She plays her thumbs against each other rather than look up to K'del. "Quinlys tried. And Riorde tried. And E'gin tried. But none of them know what goldriders really do, except Quinlys, but she's never done it herself so... They just make eggs," is the blonde's overtly frank assessment of her dragon's capabilities; a dragon who now stretches forth her mind to touch against Cadejoth's to lean just so, to let the bronze know she is fully aware of what else she can do.

"No!" K'del's firm on that one, and his position shifts so that he's properly sitting up. "No, didn't mean to send you away. Just-- send out for lessons, sometimes. Ongoing learning. And then you come home again each day." His expression is serious: intent. "They do more than that. But. Eggs, yes. Those." He swallows, regarding Iolene levely, but without much joy. Cadejoth reacts to that lean, his mental chains going jangly in a ripple effect: yes, he feels that, Ysavaeth. He sees. He notes.

Ysavaeth, still a child in many ways, delights at the reaction and the surge of affection for Cadejoth comes from places not entirely her own memory. Still, he's her papa and she'll be his little girl for as long as Iolene will remember. Those lashes lift and with it comes a relieved smile. "I didn't think so, but... I don't want to learn from anyone else. And I don't think," says the frank girl, frankly, "I would want anyone else to be my Weyrleader. To win Ysavaeth's flights." Oh, dragon incest.

That pleases Cadejoth, whose fatherly affection is unfeigned; he's proud of her. His girl. His-- little girl. For now. K'del's mouth opens again, presumably to begin saying /something/ pre-planned, but Iolene's frankness leaves him wordless. "You... want me to win-- Cadejoth to win her flights? Thought you just wanted me there to help." He's still looking at her, but his expression is unreadable. Then; "He doesn't chase often. But we can try." Iovniath will not be pleased.

"Who else could there be?" is Iolene's most simple inquiry, as if interested in what K'del's appraisal of the Weyr's various bronzeriders and their dragons might be.

K'del scrubs at his face, finally removing the book from his chest and dropping it to the floor with the other. "I don't know," he says, honestly. "One of your clutchmates? Plenty of other bronzeriders. There's no... I mean, it's hard to pre-plan, I think."

"Is it?" Even with mating flights lectures under her belt, Iolene has to ask this question. And then follow it up with a grimace. "I already went over why I don't want either of Ysavaeth's clutch siblings to catch." The bronzes. The browns, she makes no mention of, brainwashed as she is by her dragon's preferences.

"Sometimes," says K'del, with a shrug. "I mean, you can try, and sometimes it works, but... sometimes it doesn't, necessarily, I guess. Tiriana tried to pre-plan, Iovniath's first and--" He breaks off, suddenly simply nodding: her clutchmates, yes, of course. He remembers now. "Things can change, between now and then. It could be turns away. But if you need us-- we'll try."

"K'del." Iolene shifts yet again, a restlessness to her constant tiny movements.

Again, K'del's mouth opens, and it looks as though he's about to launch into something long and complicated-- an explanation, a conclusion, something. But Iolene's use of his name stops him short. "Iolene?"

Iolene, nearly eighteen in a day or two, looks to the adult K'del is. "Never mind." She must come bother the Weyrleader often enough that the turn of her lanky frame from seated to leaned against Cadejoth's rider is easy enough. The sigh that comes thereafter isn't quite so easily released. Nearly eighteen, after all, is not quite old enough still.

As the goldrider shifts to lean against him, K'del moves to put an arm casually around her shoulder-- a friendly gesture, nothing more. "You sure?" he asks, gently. "You know you can ask me anything."

It's a friendly gesture that could be misconstrued by a girl so young and for a second, those fluttering eyes shut and Iolene snuggles in closer. But it's only a minute. It's not the same, and perhaps some tiny part of her blonde little head realizes this, and shortly, those dark eyes open to look at her wiggling toes at the other end of the couch. She's sprawled now. Her toes wiggle in sucession, up and down from the smallest to the biggest and then back down again. "I've asked you so much before," at least she's aware, and able to put some amusement into that statement.

And K'del? K'del is largely oblivious, though he seems pleased at how comfortable Iolene is with him. Her words make him laugh, and given how they're sitting, he's almost laughing into her hair as he does so. "Mm," he agrees. "And have I ever minded? Gotta get those answers somewhere, right?"

"Do you. I mean, would you? I mean. Never mind." Of all the bad habits to pick up since moving from their island, this never mind and whatever business has got to be the worst. Iolene kicks her legs a little and looks up to the ceiling. "Do you like Tiriana?" This wasn't her question, that much is clear from how easily this one slips off her tongue. "Do people think she's a good Weyrwoman? For real, I mean. Not what they say in case they think she's listening in."

Never mind. K'del's eyes bore into Iolene's head, as though, by staring hard enough, the text of that question will suddenly appear in his own head. He doesn't push, though. Instead; "Yes and no. She is a good Weyrwoman, in some ways. She'll defend this weyr to the death, you know? Her way isn't always my way, though. I'd never lead the way she does. She's-- when I was your age, all I wanted, sort of, was her respect. Wanted her to like me. I admire her, in some ways, but I don't think that's quite the same thing."

Iolene stills as K'del speaks of Tiriana. The back of her head gives no indications of the flash of jealousy that briefly darkens her features. K'del may have wanted Tiriana's respect. Iolene wants his. It's such a odd little triangle. "But," and is it overly astute of her to even consider this? Is it her thoughts or that of her dragons, or has that line long been crossed where their thoughts comingle too much to separate. "But. Doesn't she sometimes create the problems she has to defend the Weyr to the death for?"

"Sometimes," admits K'del, not unwillingly. "But sometimes, my genuine good intentions do, too. Can't always predict what will do good, what won't. There's those as would say my decision to let you all Stand caused more problems than it solved. There's always other angles." His expression, now, as he stares down at the back of her head, is fond, and somehow pleased -- approving, even?

"I see." Iolene doesn't have an opinion on that whole subject, at least none she's ready to voice quite yet. Her, "Damned if you do, damned if you don't then," is a lot more lighthearted than anything just prior to it, a forced sort of sentiment that, nonetheless, sends her tipping her head back so she might look up at K'del with a small smile. "Do you ice skate? Do your sons?"

K'del allows himself a released breath, reminiscent of a laugh-but-not for her damned-if-you-do, and agrees, "Something like that. Just one of those things, I guess. In life. Can't ever really be sure what will happen as a result of your actions." He meets her smile, that expression of fondness still visible about the corners of his mouth and in his eyes. "I do. Learned my first couple of turns here. The boys don't, yet-- they ride on my shoulders, but that's about it. Maybe next turn, when they're a little older."

Abruptly, "What do you think of me," it tumbles out of her mouth without warning, as if it's taken some measure of twitching while K'del speaks fondly of his sons, to get out.

This question, like so many others in the past, takes K'del by surprise. "What do you mean by that, Iolene? Surely I don't come across as-- I mean, obviously I like you, right?"

"Oh, never mind." Iolene's probably long past puberty, but she can't belie the emotional age her upbringing's left her at in many ways when she eases herself off K'del and gets up, her thin features all woebegone and hurt. "I have to do some... something for someone." And walks out without more of a goodbye, leaving her skates behind in the process.

Poor K'del. He's clearly utterly confused as to what he did - or said - wrong: he stares, open-mouthed after the departing weyrling, hazarding a, "Iolene? Wha--?" rather too late to really catch her. Women!