Difference between revisions of "Logs:Welcome to the Madhouse"

Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr

At the heart of this oblong cavern is its meeting table: a long hardwood oval with a mirror's dark shine, High Reaches' sigil picked out in lapis and onyx at its center. Twenty chairs surround it, each softened by an embroidered cushion that's just a little too stiff for complete comfort -- meetings need to be kept short, after all -- with the chair at the table's head, facing the ledge, being somewhat larger than the rest.

Interspersed between glowsconces upon the smooth walls, ancient tapestries depict the territories High Reaches protects in a particularly pastoral fashion, all fluffy clouds and fluffier llamas, or else fishing crafts sailing merrily out to sea. Among them is also a natural alcove, its several wooden shelves primarily stocking fine wines and liquors as well as the glasses to serve them, though the lower shelves also hold whatever hidework requires particularly frequent attention.

A narrow wooden door leads to the Records room, while the tunnel that extends to the weyrleaders' ledge is wide enough for three men to walk abreast, with just enough kink in it to block the wind.

Things are both better and worse at High Reaches Weyr than rumor might suggest. While the Weyr hasn't fallen to anarchy, strange dragons are challenged upon arrival with fervor... and the dragon who interjects to give directions to Iyniroth is neither gold nor bronze but instead the gruff brown Szadath. He emerges from the hatching caverns to supervise. There are directions to the Council Chamber, clearly relayed from his rider who is waiting, alone, in the Weyrleader's chair. She's got the accouterments of a leader, at least: sheafs of papers, a wrapped charcoal stick, and a perpetually tired look.

Iyniroth proved himself to be a passive presence in those first few moments, and polite in the face of negativity; whatever words he offered would have been aimed at announcing himself and his rider and their business here in as truthful a tone as possible and for Szadath his mind turned relieved and thankful. Once landed he takes up less space than a larger brown and lesser space still because he's trying to be Not Here, Don't Mind Him. His rider, Liv, is as honest in her presentation, walking into the chamber as directed with obedience and poise. From where she stops just inside she offers respects. "Telgar's duties, Liv, rider of brown Iyniroth."

"Welcome to High Reaches, Liv," Taikrin greets with a broad smile. Her accent harkens to the more distant mineholds in the Crom region. Though she doesn't rise, she does set aside her work and steeple her hands over her paperwork. "Reckon you know who I am-- Taikrin, Szadath's. Glacier's Wingleader, and I'm acting-- well. The weyrwoman have put me in charge of these things. So. Telgar's sent you over to us. Want to tell me about it?"

"I do," Liv confirms, "and thank you." The brownrider remains likewise mostly unchanging, choosing to stand rather than take a seat, but she doesn't carry a soldier's posture. Instead of tense and rigid she seems calm, like she shows up at new Weyrs to ask to live there every day. She smiles a small, tight smile for mention of Telgar and nods once. "Yes. Well. I'm not overly proud of being sent away like this, to be honest. I guess it's been decided I'm no longer a 'good fit'," air quotes, "for the Weyr."

"No longer a good fit, eh?" the brownrider asks, her smile turning coy. "Well, reckon you could have done worse than High Reaches. We do things a little different around here." She swipes at her short-cropped hair, which leaves a streak of black across her brow. "I got the record they sent over for you. So you got leadership skills? We ain't afraid to use those around here. As it happens, I got a spot open in Glacier seeing as how we've taken on a lot of extra work guarding the queens and the clutches. Reckon that might work out for you?"

Whatever tension there had been before Taikrin's response melts away some when it turns out to not be as bad as she might have thought and a more pleasant smile results. "I was hoping that was the case." The swipe and streak of black give her pause and she stares, almost lifting a hand to point out the mark but hesitating perhaps due to uncertainty. Do you tell your potential new boss that she has charcoal on her face? "...yes. I do. I was wingsecond for the past three years. I'd be happy to fill in wherever I'm needed you have something here, I'm sorry." She taps a finger to her own forehead to help.

To Iyniroth, Szadath doesn't have the all-encompassing presence of the queens, or the natural force of one of the bronzes, but his authority pulses in time with the drumbeats of gold Hraedhyth's mind. « So. You want to join my team? » His voice is loud, strangely echoed, and wreathed faintly in acrid smoke. « Will you? »

Taikrin's pleasure at Liv's response is jolted into surprise. The hand she raises to echo her gesture only makes it worse, at first, but then she's guffawing and pulling out a handkerchief from her pocket to deal with the mess. "Thanks. Reckon maybe you are useful to have around, yet. Here." The handkerchief goes away, and a Glacier rider's knot comes out instead. She tosses it across the table with a crooked grin. "Glacier hasn't got a wingsecond, traditionally, but reckon you might have noticed we're not so found on traditions around these parts. We'll have to see what the future brings us. Welcome to Glacier." That sounds, if anything, more formal than he welcome to the Weyr did. "We have a drill coming up later this afternoon, so you can meet the rest of the wing then. The headwoman ought to be able to find you an empty weyr, in the meanwhile, and show you what's what around here. Stuff for your weyr. Whatever it is you need?"

To Szadath, Iyniroth has been waiting, perhaps not watching but certainly present. And some other dragon might think to challenge Szadath for being a brown, authority as clutchsire or no, but such things are far from Iyniroth's thoughts and it is as clear as if written out on the walls of his mind. His reply is a warm tenor, a pleasant summer rain. « If you would have me. »

That guffaw is echoed in the quick grin that shows Liv's bright teeth and she finally approaches the table to accept the knot that Taikrin produces. She plucks it up, looks down at it to examine the cords, nodding compliance to lack of tradition. "I've heard tell. That might be a nice change though. Less traditional." When she looks up she smiles again to show her appreciation. This could have gone a lot worse. "Thank you. I'll be there, to meet them. And I'll find the headwoman. ...thank you."

Everything there is to Szadath is on display, though it's hard to say if it's a return courtesy or his own natural inclination. Aggression, loyalty, protectiveness: especially as he asks, « If you will serve to protect Hraedhyth and the eggs, we will have you. You will be one of mine. » The feeling he extends is weak but omnipresent, one of a tenuous welcome into a link forged by Szadath over the all-encompassing rhythm of Hraedhth's own force. « Welcome. » It feels clumsy, perhaps a little unnatural, but the link exists to bind together at least Iyniroth's new fellows in Glacier-- and perhaps, tenuously and only on the edges, more. (Szadath to Iyniroth)

To Szadath, Iyniroth spends only a very brief moment considering that offer, as his rider inspects her new knot in the physical world. And just as quickly as she is to accept her new position, Iyniroth too takes that link and winds himself up in it, forging together the two chains that are SzadathHraedhyth and Iyniroth and welding them together in the heat of a metaphor. Something swells, some calm before a storm feeling. « I am Iyniroth. And I am at your service. »

"We're glad to have you. Not so many women on browns-- reckon we need as many as we can." Taikrin stands, finally, graceful despite however long she's been stuck in that Weyrleader's chair. "And don't be afraid to bespeak Szadath for anything you need. We're all heading to the Snowasis -- our own bar -- after drills, so you'll have friends pretty quick if you've got a decent head for beer. Reckon we can introduce you to the weyrwoman afterwards, too, so's you know who to look at for. Welcome again." It's a dismissal, this time, instead of a greeting.

Sparing words now for the most part, and recognizing the tone and what it's directing her to do, Liv nods again and salutes with ease, no doubt happy to have something familiar to do. She will say, before turning to go, "First round's on me," with a twisted smile. Her exit is as subtle and quiet as her entrance, the atmosphere no different for her absence.