Difference between revisions of "Logs:Of Potential 2"

Weyrleaders' Ledge, High Reaches Weyr(#480RAIJLs) A flight of steps worn smooth with time lead up to a broad flat area with enough room for a gold and her consort to sprall and lounge. Openings lead to a room used for conferences, the Weyrwoman's private room, and the hatching sands themselves. A round table of well polished hardwood sits in one corner and is surrounded by chairs. Contents: Leiventh Obvious exits: Hatching Grounds Weyrwoman Weyrleader Council Chamber Bowl

Your location's current time: 14:01 on day 31, month 6, Turn 12, of the Interval. It is a summer afternoon.

S'kris climbs the stairs from the bowl. S'kris has arrived.

It's a warm summer's afternoon in the 'Reaches, and R'hin's set himself up out on the ledge. The table - and indeed, much of the ledge space - is covered in maps - maps of Pern, maps of the 'Reaches - all held down with small stones to prevent the breeze fluttering them away. Leiventh's hunkered down nearby, still as a statue, eyes lidded as if asleep, though his contact with Wrencath would've indicated otherwise. On the table, too, is a bottle of Tillek white and a couple of glasses - empty. R'hin's standing in the midst of the maps, staring down at one with a slight frown of concentration to his expression.

Leaving his lifemate to continue his vigil on the sands -- not that Wrencath would have it any other way -- S'kris makes his way up to the stairs of the Weyrleader's ledge. He mounts the steps two at a time, dragging a hand through his dark hair to smooth it somewhat in a last-ditch attempt to make himself look presentable. He appraises the situation briefly before he takes a few steps closer to the Weyrleader and the map-laden tables. "Well, hello, sir. Wrencath says that, ah, you wanted to talk?"

The slight parting of Leiventh's eyelids imparts awareness of the new visitor, the bronze canting head briefly towards the sands before settling still again. Wrencath and Nabrimeth, it seems, are not the only ones that watch carefully over the future High Reaches' dragons. "Ah, yes," R'hin turns, offers an easy smile, and a slight incline of head in greeting. "S'kris, good. I trust you've found a suitable weyr for you and Wrencath-- you are staying, aren't you?" His words seem an odd, maybe even deliberate, echo of Tavrie's question at the clutching, gesturing towards a seat in invitation. "Wine?"

There's a thoughtful inclination of his head at the question, one corner of the Bitran's mouth twitching into a ghost of a smile. S'kris comes a bit closer, then stops at the offered chair, a hand resting lightly on the back and dark eyes momentarily sizing up R'hin. He drawls, "Ah, yes sir, we have full intentions of staying here until they," there's a slight tilt of his head toward the sands, "have, ah, broken shell. Neither Wrencath, nor I, would have it any other way." He doesn't sit, however, and declines the wine with a shake of his head, "Thank you, but ... ah, I shall have to pass, sir. My apologies."

"Ah, good, good," R'hin says with the distracted air of one who's already assumed the answer, the confirmation of which is a mere formality. The scrutiny he receives is noted, if the faint twitch of lips is any indicator, though politeness, perhaps, means his gaze and attention is on the task of clearing away some of those maps from the table, before he takes a seat. Though pale eyes do settle on the Fortian as he continues to stand, he does not extend the offer again, an acknowledgement of the decline of the wine given with a faint twitch of brows. "This is Wrencath's first?" Again, he gives the air of knowing the answer already, and it's followed quickly by, "Fort, I hope, won't be too upset at us stealing you away." A trace of amusement laces the tone, as if the upset would cheer the Weyrleader far more than is polite.

There's another glance back to where his rather rotund lifemate is lurking, then S'kris' gaze slants back to R'hin with an easy, lopsided kind of smile. "Ah, yes sir. Although, I must admit, it's as much a mystery to me as to him how it came to pass." There's a slight shake of his shaggy head, his other hand coming to rest on the back of the chair so he can lean, just a bit, on it. Gone is that sense of scrutiny, although there's still that sense of a longtime gambler weighing odds or, as in this case, the situation at hand. If the drawl didn't give it away, it's likely his other mannerisms that mark him as a native Bitran. "As to Fort, I suspect they were just glad the eggs waited until after the weyrlings were sufficiently trained." His mouth twitches. "If, that is, anyone can be said to be 'sufficiently trained' these days."

The Weyrleader's lips curve upwards into a smile. "I've always been of the opinion that, dragonflights are as much random - being in the right place at the right time - as they are skill or need." An odd implication, given it means R'hin believes his own position to be one of pure luck. A faint coolness - which could be easily attributed to politeness - settles into his manner, reaching for the wine and pouring himself a glass. "Mm. What do -you- think of what's going on, bronzerider? The random Threadfalls." A quirk of brow betrays inquisitiveness, pale gaze flicking up to study the Fortian just as intently - and not so differently in his own way. A Bitran will inevitably recognize another Bitran, even one that hides it as well as R'hin does.

There's an acknowledging tilt of his head at that, the Fortian rider's nose wrinkling just a touch. The topic shifts and S'kris' expression turns momentarily contemplative, weighing this thing or that before finally intoning, "I fancy if Thread were /truly/ back, the queens would be producing more -- but having seen how Jenna's Niyath and, now, Tavrie's Nabrimeth have fared, I suspect the random Threadfalls are nothing more than a, ah, terrible anamoly. Long odds that, ah, decided to pay out in the worst possible way, I fancy. Though, whether it's going to continue or get worse, I have no more idea than anyone else, sir." His eyes slant skyward for a moment, reflexively. "Faranth help us if it gets worse."

"An anomaly, yes," R'hin agrees readily enough, fingers twisting the glass this way and that before he finally lifts it to his lips, an appreciative sip taken. "One that we have no way of knowing the length or breadth of." He leans back in his chair, eyes shifting from the study of the other man, to the direction of the hatching sands. "I know the inclination of dragons to fight Thread. Should Wrencath feel that urge, while you are with us, we would... welcome you to join us. High Reaches has suffered the worst of the Falls, thus far. Perhaps you could... take that knowledge back with you to Fort." It's an oddly generous offer, particularly since the 'Reachian bronzerider has made his lack of regard for Fort well known for quite some time.

There's a momentarily apprehensive creasing of his brow, S'kris' gaze lingering a bit longer on the skies above before they return to focus more on R'hin ... or, perhaps more specifically, the direction he appears to be looking in. "We will fight, sir. Of that, you need not doubt in the slightest. For as terribly fretful as he is about everything else, Thread is the one thing that he will relentlessly pursue regardless of his own well-being." His mouth pulls momentarily to a side, a sidelong look given to R'hin before he nods, "We shall, sir. I shall endeavour to do what I can to, ah, assist while I am here."

R'hin's slight tip of head indicates a certain lack of surprise at the answer, another small sip taken of the wine. "It seems an ingrained instinct in the dragons. I am not one to hamper instinct," a brief smile is allowed, fading a few moments later. "In that case, I would ask that you train with Glacier. There will, undoubtedly, be some who will resist your presence, so better that you are under me - for far more likely it will confirm their thoughts of me, then damage theirs of you." An odd speech, of reputations, as if it were currency of great importance. "You are getting on well with Tavrie, I hope? Not that," amusement shines in his voice, "She is difficult for most people to get along well with."

Another acknowledging nod, with S'kris finally deigning to pull his chair out and take a seat, hands coming to rest atop the table. "Perfectly understandable sir, particularly given how such resistance can ... ah, sully an otherwise properly working wing." If the matter of reputation bothers him, it doesn't show on the carefully cultured neutral expression on his face. Regardless, when Tavrie's brought up, that neutrality warms somewhat into another of his nigh trademark lopsided, casual smiles, "Ah, yes, sir. We are getting along rather well, which is something of a relief, I must admit."

R'hin's low throated chuckle is immediate response to S'kris' comment about sullying the wing, amusement lingering as he watches the other bronzerider finally seat himself. "The nature... of the falls we face precludes a need to adjust to the unexpected. I welcome it, where others will resent. But I am sure your... natural charm will overcome most reservations." Though it is a compliment, there's something odd in his voice as he says it, a sharpness of eyes before pale gaze drifts to his glass. Of Tavrie: "I didn't expect any issues in that regard, but it is good to have them confirmed nonetheless. She is a lovely girl, our Tavrie." The possessive is deliberate, accompanied by an easy smile.

S'kris gestures vaguely, his expression impassive, but his eyes shadowed with something else. "Alas, there will be those who aren't suited to handling those kinds of, ah, changing situations as well as others. I ... /prefer/ not to have to rely on charm when *integrity* is far more important." At least, that's how it seems to be for him. Integrity. A funny thing for this particular bronzerider to be speaking of. His eyebrows arch briefly at the latter comment, although he nods, conceding, "She /is/ a lovely girl, although I regret not having had much opportunity prior to the clutching to make her acquaintance."

An unbidden grin touches the Weyrleader's lips, though it's hard to say what in the Fortian's response prompts the gesture. "Ah, I see," R'hin murmurs faintly, taking another sip of the white, possibly as much to give him time to compose a response as anything. "Perception is everything. Integrity can be overlooked, if things go well. If they don't--" he trails off with a shrug of shoulders. "That is the... gamble... though, isn't it?" The question appears rhetorical, given he waves it off immediately. "I'm sure you'll have much more time to make her acquaintance, and that of our Weyrwoman, too. Have you met the lady of the spires?"

"Perceptions are ... far more deceitful than some give them credit for. A pity that others can't see them for what they are, but-" S'kris' shoulders roll and his eyes flick to R'hin, a noncommital noise of another being given on the gamble remark. Agreement, perhaps. "I should hope I do. And, ah, unfortunately, I have not had the pleasure of meeting the Weyrwoman, although I had hoped to remedy that -- as well as meeting yourself, sir -- prior to the clutching." So much for the best laid plans.

"Mm." R'hin's murmured response is non-commital, but intent, pale eyes on S'kris declare interest in the Fortian's view. "I'm sure the Weyrwoman will meet you soon enough. In fact, I'll make mention that she should seek you out." And if there's a bit of amusement in the words, well. Another further explanation on that score is cut off as a rider - Wingleader to judge by the knot - saunters up onto the ledge, catching the Weyrleader's eye with a nod. R'hin returns it, then to S'kris: "Mid-morning tactic meeting in the Council Chambers tomorrow, then training. I trust you'll be there?" He manages to convey both order, and dismissal in the words and the gesture to draw the Fortian's attention to the new arrival.

There's a dubious quirking of an eyebrow at that, though S'kris nods, his arms folding a bit over his midsection. "Like as not, I'll be in the galleries or in the living cavern, so finding me ought not be nearly as difficult as it might be at Fort." And if there's a bit of evasiveness there, well ... that's just natural. The newest arrival is noted, appraised, and nodded to by way of greeting, though his response is given only as yet another nod and a subtle twitch of the lips in a wordless affirmation. Then, his eyes go unfocused, head tilting just a bit toward the sands in equally wordless conversation with the fretting dragon on the sands.

R'hin's lips curve into the faintest of smiles. "I'm pleased that Wrencath's a protective sire. Not all of them are, but this clutch in particular-- our future lies there." His hand gestures towards the sands. "Ah, B'ren-- come in. S'kris and I were just finishing up. You know the Fortian?" the Weyrleader's introduction is perfunctory at best, before eyes settle back on S'kris. "I'll see you tomorrow then, bronzerider. Thank you for coming by."

S'kris rises, offering a shallow bow to the Weyrleader before he starts to make his leave. "I have no doubt Nabrimeth will be shooing him off the sands in a few days, to be fair. He is ... ah, exceptionally fretful over the eggs." Enough so, in fact, that it seems that's where he's being drawn now. "It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, sir. Clear skies." And with that most cursory of farewells, the Bitran tips a salute to R'hin, a nod to B'ren, and then he's gone, sauntering on down the stairs.

S'kris wanders down the flight of steps, towards the eastern bowl. S'kris has left.