Difference between revisions of "Logs:Whatever Little Nibbles"

Weyrleader's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr As low to the ground as this ledge is, the view it affords is not an especially spectacular one, simply the bowl spread out in front of it, still some distance down. The ledge itself is a large one, easily big enough for a full grown queen and at least one, if not two, others, the stone worn smooth by turns and turns of steady use. A brocade curtain shelters the inner caverns from the outside.

Rank certainly has its privileges, and among them are amply appointed apartments. The short flight of stairs from the Weyrleader's Complex opens up into the larger of two chambers, formally decorated and clearly designed to cater as much to important guests as the occupant's personal living. Old, but obviously expensive, llama wool rugs dyed blue-and-black cover the stone floor, leading towards the second chamber, the stairs, and the rush-filled dragon couch and ledge beyond it. A formal seating arrangement - a sofa and chairs, all blue-and-black - sits around a large, tiled fireplace, whilst along the other wall, a finely made, if now somewhat antique, desk sits between a bookshelf and a tall cupboard to which tack-hooks have been attached, riding gear arranged neatly inside. Two tapestries hung from the high walls depict overdone splendour for High Reaches Weyr, one a long view of the snow-covered bowl, and the other a hazy impressionist piece of dragons flaming over a springtime countryside.

The inner weyr, made up of a sleeping cavern and a private bathing area, is smaller and cosier and distinctly less ostentatious. An oversized wooden sleigh bed fills much of the space, the mattress piled high with overstuffed down pillows and comforter, their covers dyed in varying shades of navy blue, light blue and bronze. There's a nightstand on either side, both with reading lamps, and against one of the other walls, a tall, heavy wardrobe made from a dark wood that matches the bed. The bathing area is part of the same cavern, a folding screen shielding the toilet and slightly raised, double-sized bathtub built into the stone, and a small shelf holding toiletries, shaving equipment, and clean towels.

More and more, Taikrin has been using (abusing?) the ground weyr allocated to the weyrleader. Her 'door' is often open, and many of the wingleaders have been called in at some point or the other to discuss the ongoing drills and future formation plans. The desk has been pulled away from the wall and given over entirely to maps and charts and rosters-- it is over one of the latter that Taikrin is bent, grumbling and complaining to herself as she makes notations. Leadership has not done her any favors; in her own weyr, wearing only a tank top instead of her bulky riding jacket, it is clear that she has lost mass and definition in the muscles of her upper body. There are squint-wrinkles appearing in the corners of her eyes, and the lines of frustration in her forehead appear permanently embedded.

This isn't a place that Z'ian is used to coming, possibly ever. He enters, glancing around as if he's not laid his eyes on this weyr more than a small handful of times. It's summer now, so when he's not in drills or working with the wing, the bronzerider isn't wearing his riding jacket or knot. It's simply not that necessary, so he looks exceedingly casual when he approaches Taikrin. He raps his knuckles against the wood of the desk, even if she's likely noticed his entrance by now. "Have a few minutes?" He asks conversationally, eyebrows hitched up.

Either Taikrin was expecting someone, or she hasn't got the energy to be startled; she looks up from her work slowly, and only then waves Z'ian on in. "Got plenty, especially if you feel like taking a look at a thing for me. I was going to-- well. Reckon your eyes are as good any." She straightens gingerly, knuckles at the small of her back, and only then takes a long, measuring look at Z'ian. "What's the story?"

"Sure. What's the thing?" Z'ian asks, glancing with a quick flicker of his eyes over the maps and charts that are spread out over her desk. He leans both ends onto the wood, knuckling them back. He returns the long measuring look with one of his own before he takes a breath. "I want to have a conversation with you about D'nis and Iceberg. Do you think that we could do that, talk about what happened?"

Taikrin's head tilts to the side, just a bit, as she considers Z'ian. "Just working on tomorrow's plan-- it can wait," she says to his first comment. "D'nis and Iceberg. Sure. We can talk about it." Both her voice and expression are carefully bland, now, without their previous casual tenor. "I thought you might have some thoughts about that."

"Alright, later then." Z'ian says on the plan for tomorrow. He remains leaning on the desk, his body posture largely relaxed except for a tension settling over his shoulders. To her reply there comes a short laughter from him, not amused exactly. More wry and distinctly uncomfortable. "You knew how D'nis would react to the news, you were waiting for it. It seemed like anyway." It doesn't come out as an accusation, but more observation. "You haven't replaced him yet. I wanted to say, that I think it would be unwise to not promote from within Iceberg. There are many that believe you're going to raise up one of your cronies."

"It ain't like D'nis likes any words that come out of my mouth," Taikrin points out with a sour smile. "Don't take a masterharper to figure out he weren't going to like this, either." She rests her hands lightly on the desktop, and particularly over one paper upon which are scrawled a list of names-- quite a few Iceberg riders, if Z'ian knows the names at sight, but mixed in with a few from several other wings as well. "You mean, like K'del and H'kon did when they put you atop Boreal?" she asks mildly. There's no accusation in her voice, though, no heat. Only resignation. "You got a thought as to who in that flaming wing is going to be capable of taking orders from a woman?"

"D'nis is a tough old bastard that doesn't give any quarter. But he does what he thinks is good for his riders." Z'ian isn't here to fight with her, that much is clear by the measured pace of his speech. "Doesn't take a masterhaper to figure out most people don't like what you're doing right now." He lifts his shoulders, the wry smile he has for her almost apologetic. "But you knew that." Again an observation. He doesn't glance down at the paper, so he doesn't see any names scrawled on it. The bait in regards to Boreal, mild and accusation-less as it is met with a slight shake of his head and a simple, "This isn't about me." As for the topic he did come for, there's a sigh. "It's not about anyone being a woman. D'nis didn't choose riders to fly with him that were incapable. If it's sexism that's bothering you, raise up one of their own women to lead the wing. There has to be one that would be acceptable."

"I'm trying to hold them together against their own stubborn idiotness until the queens are old enough to take care of themselves," Taikrin shoots back, but tiredly. There's no heat left, tonight. "Pissed off because I ain't K'del or a bronzerider or a man. Because they liked the way we were going, with queens dying or being run off left right and center. Whichever. It don't matter." She rakes one hand through her short hair, and taps the fingers of her other on the paper. "Why are you so keen on this, exactly? You sure you ain't got someone specific in mind?"

"The wings aren't going to just leave the weyr, Taikrin. You have the support of the golds, it's not as if they can just elect a new Weyrleader over Aishani and Azaylia's wishes. Unless you're worried about something that I'm not privvy to." Z'ian points out, using that same measured pacing. "You're trying too hard. There's too much grasping for control. They're not buying it and it's taking its toll on you." He shakes his head at her other words, taking a breath for his next and a roll of his eyes is directed at the ceiling. "They don't like you because you're a convict. They think you have a temper. That you're crazy. They think you're uneducated that you'll ruin our relationship with the Holds." One of his hands comes off of the desk, held out to her in a staying motion. "I'm not saying it's fair or right. But that's the truth and it's more that than Szadath's color, what's in your pants and that you're not K'del." The tap of her fingers draws his glance down finally. "Because we may not be fans of each other or trust one another, but we have one thing in common. This place. I don't want to see the wrong thing done."

"I see. Better I let them do whatever they want then, yeah? Let the wingriders say whatever they want and do whatever they want? Funny how I don't recall blatant disrespect in any of the teaching songs I learned. Next time a rider tells me to my face she ain't got to listen to me if she don't want to, reckon I'll just smile at her and bend over, then? Take my due?" Taikrin's smile is bitter, so bitter. But her sigh is also tired, and she doesn't even seem to realize she's sagged against the rim of the table. "Let's be straight, Z'ian, 'cause I ain't got energy to play games. What do you really want? 'Cause what I want ain't that complicated-- to keep Azaylia and Aishani safe for the next however many turns, and to hand them a Weyr that remembers how to follow and honor its weyrwomen. A Weyr ain't healthy without a strong, living goldrider. So, this's it. That's what I got. All my terrible criminal plots." She spreads her hands, palms up, and gives a snort of laughter. "What do you want from me?"

"No. That's not what I was saying." Z'ian is back to shaking his head again, his hand returning to that position on the table. Knuckled down. "There's a line between being tough and being a tyrant. The wingriders largely haven't just been doing whatever they want." Her question doesn't get anything from him other than a flash of confusion over his face. "What I want? I don't want you to fill the empty spot in Iceberg with one of your friends. It's not any more complicated than that." The snort of laughter registers on his face with a lift of his eyebrow. "What do you think that I want from you? Since you seem to think that I have some sort of ulterior motive besides wanting to consult with my Weyrleader about the well-being of our wings?"

"Everybody wants something from me, whatever little nibbles they think they can sneak away. You know how many bronzeriders are sudddenly interested in talking to me? How many riders are looking at that spot in Iceberg and suddenly telling me about how maybe my ideas are okay after all? B'ren was in here not but yesterday to tell me all about a pair of promising brownriders he's got." Taikrin's smile is full of dark humor. "You don't want me to put a Glacier rider on top of Iceberg. Fine. I don't ever want to see a pack of your wingriders blatantly disrespecting the Weyr and its leadership in public again. Think we can come to an accord?"

"No." Z'ian suddenly shakes his head. "No. And not because I think it's a great idea for riders to revolt in the living cavern or because I have some secret thing that I want from you. But because I came here to talk to you. Not to strike some deal over you doing something that you should realize is for the best of everyone." He pushes his weight off of the table and straightens. "I spoke with you respectfully tonight. You spoke to me like I was your enemy. I'll continue doing what I've done, smoothing out the problems that come up with Boreal as they happen. Like they have happened. But I won't make the mistake of this again." There's something distinctly regretful in his voice, not angry. "I'll take my leave?"

For once, for maybe the first time tonight, Taikrin hesitates not out of exhaustion but out of clear indecision. Caught somewhere between irritation and contrition, her voice is gruff. Clipped. "You're not my enemy. Appreciate you being straight with me." Even if it takes an enormous, painful effort to drag it out of herself, to judge by the flush of pink in her cheeks. Embarrasment? Anger? "Still need your eyes on tomorrow's formation. Didn't like the way Icicle flew across Boreal yesterday." By the end, the terse sentences are practically a grunt, and she's watching Z'ian with a tentative wariness.

Z'ian watches her carefully, mindful of the clipped tone and the flush in her cheeks. There's a simple nod from him on the manner of being straight, the appreciation. He's settled into quiet for a few long moments, the stretch of silence maybe uncomfortable given the circumstances. Taking a long breath he draws his thumb up to his mouth and bites down on the nail. "Show it to me? Icicle's always been sloppy." He shrugs his shoulders and offers a rueful smile on the matter of the other wing before glancing down at the table.

Taikrin certainly seems uncomfortable-- it manifests in how the fingers of one hand unconsciously twist and re-twist in the hemline of her shirt, and the tight line of her mouth. "Here." This business, at least, is familiar. Easy. Manageable. She sweeps scattered paperwork aside to bare a decently-done diagram. "Too sloppy for the close coverage to plug the hole between Boreal and Polaris above. Don't want to stack them both, but..." In this at least she can function... so long as the talk remains on formations and drills and figures. But that line of tension never quite leaves the set of her shoulders.

That makes two of them. But for as long as Taikrin wants to go over the charts, Z'ian will stay and go over them with her. "Boreal's not as bronze and brown heavy as it used to be either, so that's a consideration." He's at least moderately helpful in most areas when it comes to the formations. He's not some tactical genius but he's been flying long enough to have a healthy knowledge of how it all should work in the best of circumstances. And for tonight at least, he'll avoid any more red button issues for the remainder of his time working with her.