Difference between revisions of "Logs:Properly Introduced"

Weyrleader Complex, High Reaches Weyr

Only about a man's height from the ground, this low ledge is wide and flat, reached by a set of timeworn steps that hug the cliff face. As the ledge stretches back away from the head of the stairs, it simultaneously broadens out over the bowl and tunnels into the mountain to become a sort of antechamber, from which a passageway winds back to the Weyrwoman's weyr, the council room, the records room and the hatching sands. A small round table is set in a shallow alcove here, surrounded by four chairs that provide a waiting area for those seeking one of the weyrleaders.

Another short flight of stairs leads upward from the tapering end of the ledge to the Weyrleader's quarters, while others lead to the further recessed junior queens' weyrs. While it's hard to get a good look at the lake from here, the view does encompass the majority of the bowl and the comings and goings across its span.

If all this recent snow wasn't enough, now there's thunder to go with it. No doubt that's part of the reason why I'kris is standing, looking doleful, at the mouth of the passage that leads towards the Weyrwoman's weyr, council room and hatching sands-- though what he's been doing down there is anyone's guess. This morning's footprints are already disappearing under the new snow, fading away to nothing; it's nearly lunchtime, now, and the skies show no sign of clearing.

Not only is there thunder, but there is Hraedhyth. The rumbling in the sky is left to do just that, for the most part. It's only when the rolling turns into a roar that the queen feels the need to answer the challange- much to the annoyance of her neighbors. Azaylia skips down the short flight of stairs leading up to the juniors' weyrs, doing so while walking with a platter gripped in her mittens. The dress and coat ensemble she wears is fur lined, leggings warm enough for her, if not for a visitor from sunnier lands. She's startled by the sight of I'kris, who isn't in her way, exactly. He's just there when she expected no one to be, is all. Mugs and plates clatter at her sudden stop n' squeak in front of the passage, peering in. "Afternoon."

In the weeks (indeed, months) he's been in residence at High Reaches, I'kris has kept himself largely out of the way of the Weyr's goldriders - with the obvious exception of Lujayn. Perhaps that has something to do with why he freezes so awkwardly as dark eyes catch sight of Azaylia; and why his expression turns so stunned mullet when she peers in to the relative shelter of his passageway. "Uh," he says, attempting to recover his composure, which largely seems to mean straighten his stance and lift his chin. "Good afternoon, weyrwoman. Does your snow... often do this?" That might come off better if it weren't one of Hraedhyth's replies his words come immediately after.

Azaylia waits with eyes that have ceased their widening, head tilted to the side expectantly. His words have her giving a gentle smile, blink held for a second or two longer, "Azaylia. You're I'kris, yes?" If she recognizes him from the hot springs, the junior isn't going to be the first to remind the brownrider of that day. "Do what?" Asked as the young woman takes a few more steps inwards to escape the increasing snow fall. She does peer outwards before her attention turns back to the teen, "It's like any storm. Uhm, I don't know how often." One just gets used to it after a while. "Ah...Hraedhyth might- she's never liked thunder." Clearly.

"I'kris, right," agrees the brownrider, lifting one gloved hand to run through his spiked hair. "It's a pleasure to meet you properly, Azaylia." There's dubiousness in his expression for her explanation of the storm, and it shows, too, in the way he shakes his head, bewildered. "Your queen," he says, an audible self-reminder: putting things together, keeping his thoughts clear. "It's-- I mean, we have plenty of storms at Monaco, but no snow, obviously. I didn't realise it was possible to have storms like this. She's an interesting dragon, your queen."

Azaylia adjusts the tray in her arms, bringing it up to make sure the snowflakes haven't made some of the pastries soggy. There's also pitcher of something cooling the longer she stands outside, as well as a pair of mugs. "Oh. Uhm, likewise." She glances up from her inspection at the mention of her queen, smile already growing. In her attempt not to gush, "Monaco is much warmer, isn't it? Would you like a cup of klah?" She's walking further in, finding that little waiting table so she can set things down. "She is, isn't she?" The junior speaks of Hraedhyth with that gushy fondness she was just trying to avoid. "What about your Sss... Svissath? I don't think Hraedhyth has visited him yet." Or will, given who he "belongs" to.

I'kris turns on his heel, eyes tracking Azaylia as she moves to set that tray down. It's rather as though this is the first time he's even noticed that tray and its contents; "It's not... intended for someone else? I was out on the sands," which is a good, and perhaps very deliberate, explanation of where he's been, "and it's quite a lot colder out here." Unsurprisingly. "Monaco-- yes. Much warmer. And it's summer, of course, at the moment. Svissath is - self-contained. Neutral, I suppose. He prefers to observe, rather than involve himself. Your queen enjoys the company of thers, I've noticed." He's noticed a lot, hasn't he?

"I was on my way to see K'del," Azaylia admits with only a smidge of guilt, "But since it was a surprise, he won't miss it." A self conscious laugh, perhaps worried about coming off as heartless, "I'll make it up to him tomorrow." One hand rests on the handle, the other finding the lid of the pitcher as she waits to see if he'll accept her offer. "I remember my first winters here. I... think I'm finally getting used to them." It only took four or five turns. "At least have a sweetroll? Oh, yes. She loves the weyr, and that means everyone that's a part of it." Still somewhat bent, ready to pour a mug if he wishes, "Besides the weather, you're enjoying your stay?" Ever hopeful.

Expression twisting (is that amusement and pleasure, at stealing the Weyrleader's treat? Or a return to awkwardness, embarrassment at the same?), I'kris allows, finally, "Sure, I'll have a mug. I was going to head to the caverns, but... here's closer, anyway. As long as the Weyrleader won't hate me for it." His expression is even more unreadable as he glances in the rough direction of the Weyrleader's weyr, around the corner and up those stairs. "I ought to visit him myself, at some point." Despite the shelter of their alcove, I'kris looks cold, edging just slightly further down the corridor, though they're too far from the sands for there to be any more warmth. "It's - an experience. Eye opening. High Reaches is very different to Monaco. It... everything is different. The way things are run. The wings."

Azaylia gives a smile as he accepts, pouring a mug of klah that has cooled enough not to burn tongues. It still steams, and she straightens quickly to pull her face from the humid cloud, however warm. She giggles, "I can't imagine the Weyrleader hating anyone." Besides, K'del would want her to help I'kris feel welcome, right? "You really should." Not quite hero worship, but the brownrider is clearly stealing the snacks of a great man. Handing him the mug, it's quite possible that the junior has forgotten the drops of whiskey mixed in with the klah. "Different..." Quiet voice trails off, obviously curious. "A good sort of different, I hope?" And she begins to pour for herself after he's freed her hands.

I'kris accepts the mug with a crooked smile that seems genuinely warm, and leans up against the wall with it, rather than sit in one of the chairs. He holds the mug close, in both hands, and considers his words carefully before replying. "You respect him a lot," he concludes, thoughtfully. "And your Weyrwoman?" But it's not an interrogation, nothing so serious. "It's - a different sort of different. I don't know. Monaco tends to be more traditional in many ways, though there are, of course, exceptions. I'm certainly not unhappy. Everyone's been very welcoming. Lujayn... is remarkably tolerant of a boy nearly young even to be her son."

Azaylia ends up tugging one of her mittens off with her teeth, pushing it into a pocket so she can pluck up one of the pastries. "Of course. He's my Weyrleader." The other glove is allowed to stay, holding the handle of her mug steady. Realizing how that might sound, "I mean- uhm. He always has been, since I first arrived." K'del has had a pretty long run, after all. Through a klah-dunked bite, "Iolene is a lovely person. It feels like she's starting to get used to being Weyrwoman." And Azaylia certainly isn't going to blame her for that. Curious, and perhaps a bit naive, "Are you staying in Lujayn's weyr then?" Since everyone's been so welcoming and all.

I'kris blanches at the very idea of staying in Lujayn's weyr, and shakes his head vehemently. "Oh, no. No. I've been assigned a weyr." One that, from his expression, is not perhaps as nice as he would like. But it's clearly better than staying with Lujayn. He backtracks, rather than stay on that particular topic, and says, "It's good, I suppose, that he has earned loyalty like that. A Weyrleader ought, and... it's hard to imagine someone my age being able to. But he's older now, of course." Old, even. "'Get used to'? I suppose, given her background... One hears things, of course." No pastries for him, though he takes a tentative sip of his klah.

Azaylia is startled by his vehemence, blinking rapidly and eventually deciding not to pry. That would be rude. "Your own weyr. That's nice too." There's a look of surprise which crosses her face, and using a mouthful of klah to swallow, "Oh my. You are young." Her tone is obvious: He's just a baby! "If you were as old as K'del when he became Weyrleader." Which he is. Both hands are used to cradle her drink now, "I don't just mean Iolene being an Islander. I couldn't imagine being Weyrwoman." Which is probably not comforting to hear, given the color of her dragon's hide. "I try not to pay attention to gossip. It just hurts people, and it's usually not true." She might gain a slight huff with those words though not directed at him.

There's a hint of pink about I'kris' cheeks at the recognition of his age, but his smile is easy enough: he's young, he knows it, he's not ashamed. "You can't be that much older than I am," he points out, giving Azaylia a thoughtful glance. "And Brieli, too." Her remarks on the topic of Iolene give him even more thought - and he busies himself with his klah rather than reply immediately, as if he needs the time to formulate his reply. "I hope you're never called to be Weyrwoman," he says, sincerely. "I-- there are times when I am glad my Svissath is brown. Though, of course, it is harder to prove one's self, and I do intend to. I don't mean to speak ill of your weyrwoman, of course. Or gossip. It's refreshing to know that she has the loyalty of her juniors, of course."

Azaylia ducks her head for a moment, giving a shy laugh. "You have a point. Though as far as age goes, I think it's... Brieli, Iolene, Me, and of course Lujayn." As if he needs to be reminded of her age. In the time it takes I'kris to put his thoughts together, she's nabbed another pastry- this one with spiced fruit filling. "Oh." His wish could be seen as an insult by some, but with this junior, "Thank you. I'd much rather be in the background, supporting a capable Weyrwoman." Of which she seems to finally think Iolene is. She tilts her head some, "Prove yourself? Why would you need to- I mean, it's good to want to do right by the weyr." High Reaches or Monaco, whichever. "But what do you have to prove? And browns are just as important as bronzes, and greens and blues." So there. She takes a moment to clean her fingers, fanning at the air afterward, "Oh, don't worry. I didn't think you were. You seem far too nice a boy."

She may take his remark the correct way, but I'kris is hasty in adding, "Though I'm sure you'd do the job very well. It's-- simply that I understand. I need to prove myself. My Father... I was supposed to Impress a bronze. My sister is a queenrider, after all. It's important. But as one of your Brownriders said... as brownriders, our achievements mean more, somehow. Because it's not simply expected. Because opportunities don't end up being handed to us quite as often." His smile is earnestly genuine, and his words hold enthusiasm that allows his intensity to appear less so. "Parental expectations can be difficult to manage, but I'm doing my best. I intend to make my Father proud."

Azaylia purses her lips, uttering a quiet: "That's silly." It's even longer before she realizes what she's said, fingers pressing to her mouth. "Oh! I'm sorry. I meant, nobody is supposed to impress." Shrinking some, she's not one to easily recover from embarrassing herself. Eyes lowered to her mug, "Some could say I wasn't supposed to Impress Hraedhyth, in that case." Which has the gold giving another one of her roars, angrier, and with no need of thunder this time. "I'm glad talking to our brownriders has helped." And she means that, taking a step forward and patting his arm if she can. "It's important to do what's best for you, sometimes." A lesson she still has trouble with. Maybe he can do better?

I'kris doesn't move away from that pat; he even seems pleased with it, or perhaps even quietly relieved. Perhaps that's partially because he jumped so, at that roar from Hraedhyth. "No," he agrees. "No one is supposed to Impress. But my Father... there have been Weyrwomen and Weyrleaders in my family line. It's hard not to feel expectation." Smiling across at her, he adds, "I try. I want to please my Father, though. I want to make him proud of me. You're-- between you, and Brieli, and Lujayn, I can see High Reaches is in fine hands. It's nice to know. Changes of leadership can be-- I'm told-- difficult."

His jumping earns him another soothing pat, and even a squeeze. In one breath, "She's protective." That's all. In another, "I'm sure things will work out with you and your father in the end." Azaylia speaks from experience, though everyone's tends to be different. She'll pull her hand away, taking a step back to tend to the tray with a distracted, "And Iolene." Of course, "Though there probably won't be any changes like that in a long time." Which brings a smile to the young woman's face. "Thank you, though."

"And Iolene, of course," agrees I'kris, hastily. "It's only that of the four of you, Iolene is the one I don't really know at all." His expression has turned thoughtful again, but the words keep tumbling out, one after another. "You've had your changes, now, of course. I was referring, of course, to how things had to change after Tiriana," his mouth tightens slightly, "and then when Iolene took charge. Anyway. Yes. Thank you. I hope they do work out. I... think they will. It just takes time, and we've only just graduated, so..." The rest of his klah is drunk in a single gulp before he adds, "I ought to go and collect my Svissath. We've sweeps to fly, this afternoon, and he's with Rielsath again."

Azaylia places her mug on the tray, hovering over the pastries as if making a big decision. Hmm. "She's very nice." Which is meant to encourage without the junior being bossy in any way. The spilling of words steals her attention back with only a faint expression of surprise. She manages to keep up, "A-ah. Yes, it was difficult." She steps forward to take the mug from him, "Awww. That is so sweet." His brown, sticking close to Rielsath and all. "He sounds like he'll be a good clutchpapa. But, now I'm keeping you from your duties." Half turning away, "Clear skies during your sweeps." Or better weather than at the weyr, at least.

I'kris gives up the mug, and fastens a brilliant, white-toothed smile on the goldrider. "Thank you, Azaylia," he says. "It was nice to meet you. I'm really glad I finally did. Properly, I mean. I'm sure I'll see you around soon." And then he bobs his head in her direction, and hurries off out into the snowstorm... though he doesn't look especially thrilled about that.