Difference between revisions of "Logs:Taken To Task"

Visigoth's Weyr

The weyr, too, is spacious with its vaulting dragon-couch that might fit three of those greens, outfitted with felted wool mats and plush hangings; it's made even more inviting by the chandelier hung not /within/ the attendant inner weyr, but in the large archway between the two, so that dragon as well as rider can enjoy its spangled glowlight.

Otherwise, the place is furnished sparsely: a large, elaborately-carved armoire in the dragon-area, and in the inner weyr, a low table and long couch set before the hearth, plus a flat-topped storage chest. That's all. Still, two smaller archways mark what must be additional rooms, one with a partially pulled-aside tapestry that leads to that miracle of miracles, a bathing chamber, while the other might lead to a private sleeping space... only it's closed by a door which is wooden, and solid, and locked.

It's a rare afternoon when Val is home, but here she is, humming, as the afternoon sunlight glints off the dunes of snow all about. True, Visigoth left some pawprints on his ledge from his earlier roaming, but mostly it's white, white, bright white, the big brown stretched out upon his couch and idly watching his rider... sweep. With a broom. That she is not riding.

It's polite to announce your intentions before invading someone else's space, and so Cadejoth does, using an exploratory tendril of chain to rattle in Visigoth's direction. « We're going to drop in. You're at home. » It implies that they've been paying attention. « We have a bottle. » Important things.

Yeah, but what's in it for Visigoth? « Fine, » says he, underscoring it with a noisy lack of interest in such a thing. But: « Good. » He doesn't have to go anywhere, Cadejoth can hang out, his rider's entertained, whatever. Val, meanwhile, is quickly stashing that broom behind the armoire and hotfooting it to the more human-sized couch, so she can fling herself upon it like she's been there for hours. She has a reputation to maintain, after all. Oh, she'll rise up on an elbow so she's all set to give the ledge an expectant look, and then yawn and stretch upon K'del's entrance, but meanwhile, Visigoth's all deep baritone laughter.

Cadejoth's appreciation is the silent kind, the kind that doesn't involve words. He arrives on Visigoth's ledge moments after receiving approval, rather as though he was already in the air-- but he's not inclined to linger: there's flying to do. K'del brandishes the bottle as he enters, quite oblivious to anything but the obvious: there's Val, lazing about. "Whisky delivery," he offers, abruptly cheerful. "Just for you."

No hanging out. Visigoth reflects dour acknowledgment: he'll just have to survive, somehow. In his comfortable weyr, in his big couch with his wool mats and plush, plush hangings. Where it's warm. All that makes Val laugh as much as K'del does, but it's his delivery that has her sitting up all the way and extending one slim, elegant hand, dark sweater-sleeve riding up her forearm. "Is there an occasion? Not! that there needs to be." No protests about drinking at this time of day, either.

« As if you'll miss me, » says Cadejoth, smugly amused, his thoughts already full of ice and wind and the sheer gloriousness of flight. He's not interested in warmth, not when there are things to do - Visigoth's welcome to all of it. "Occasion? No. I'm just in a good mood, and I figure-- why not visit Val? Say hello."

Been there, done that. « One... two... Done missing, » Visigoth replies cheerily. « You can go now. » But send back the odd picture, all right? And now his rider is really smiling, drawing herself back to sit in a corner of her couch, legs languidly stretched partway along it. "You must have had good news, at least. Or... did you get laid? Oh, K'del, please tell me you bathed before coming up here. I can't have smelly men about."

Cadejoth would probably stick his tongue out at VIsigoth, but-- well, distracted. Other things to see and do, baby. "Val," scoffs K'del, disapprovingly, sniffing at his armpits experimentally, just in case, though of course that's not what she's referring to. "No, nothing like that. Just - feeling good. It's allowed, isn't it? Can I pour you a drink." It's not a question.

Between him and Cadejoth, all that not-requesting is raising those delicate brows of Val's. "You reassure me," she does say of the sniffing, as grandly as her, "Please do. You know where the glasses are." Evidently she trusts him to delve into the storage chest without supervision, even, though blankets and a few other oddments are there as well.

Blankets. Such racy things for K'del to find in the storage chest, which he digs through without hesitation, digging up two glasses to bring back to the bottle. He pours, then hands one over to Val, propping himself up into a seated position on the arm of the couch. "How are you, Val? Any pretty greenriders in your life at the moment?"

They are clean glasses, at least, and not hugely breakable, so long as no one tosses them at a wall. Val takes hers and rolls the whisky around in it before sipping, smiling. "The one problem with having my own bath, there's no excuse to bump into them at the baths. But I've managed. It's a bluerider this time, though, can you believe it? I'm branching out," and she sounds quite proud of herself, too.

"A bluerider, my goodness," says K'del, teasingly. "Good for you. Hope she's pretty." Silly statement: of course she's pretty, and he knows it. He sniffs at his whisky, glancing at it, then sidelong at the brownrider. "What do you think about all those rumours of wing rumpuses? Seems like things are falling apart." Is he... smug?

"She has the most darling coral..." Val begins to reminisce, only then K'del makes with the mood-killer, and dark eyes narrow on him. "It sounds horrible. What did you do? And," she says more lightly, "why didn't you tell me, so I could bet on it?"

Maybe that's an apology in K'del's expression, but only barely. He can't seem to help himself: everything comes back to politics sooner or later. "For once, I didn't do anything. No, this is all Taikrin. Give her enough rope, she'll hang herself, that's pretty clear. Won't be long now, before she's out for good."

It's his whisky, or was, but Val gives him a long look from beneath those ong lashes. "K'del," she begins quite sweetly, "tell me, with a straight face, that you'd cheer this on if she had a dick."

"Val," he says, taking only a moment's pause before formulating his answer. "Don't give a flying fuck what she's got between her legs. She is not the kind of person that should be in charge of a Weyr. Not even sure she can be trusted with a Wing, though I acknowledge Glacier is not - presently - unhappy with her."

Her lips purse. "I'm sure," the brownrider says at last, "you know that some people learn." She cocks her head, that glossy braid falling over one shoulder. "Are you telling me that you'd support such uprisings if it were a bronze between her legs? Really."

This time, K'del lets out a long, low sigh. "No," he says. "All of this - it's a mess, whoever involved. I want to see this Weyr with solid, responsible leadership. Right now, don't think we have that. That's all. You about to turn against me, for the sake of a fellow brownrider? It's not-- I mean, you know what she's like." He looks kind of like a wounded puppy.

A puppy who just piddled on Val's carpet, by her expression. "It's this sort of thing that reminds me, you never fought Thread." Her legs are still crossed at the knee, but less languidly now, the upper foot having taken on a slow swing.

He winces, for that particular reminder. "No," he confirms. "I never fought thread. Not old enough. Never will be. What am I supposed to do about it, Val? Not like I can fix that. Not like Taikrin ever did, either."

"Not have fucking left!" Val's leaning forward, now, and though she punctuates it with a long swallow of the whisky, it's not that fire that's in her eyes. "I know, I know, you were hurting and all, it was awful, you weren't much good to anyone then anyway. But you didn't just have B'sil warm your seat while you got better, you gave it over. You bailed instead of getting the weyrwomen to fall in with you, so they'd keep listening to you, and they didn't show up in the living cavern the next day and announce 'This is how it's going to be, this is who you're going to report to,' whatever, and it's still a mess, without even any duels to at least make it a good story, and now you're encouraging them to tear things apart."

K'del turns away, discomforted by this. So much for his good mood. So much for-- well, so many things. He swallows, and then, throws back the entirety of his whisky, letting it burn down his throat; he gasps. "Good to know what you think of me," he says, bitterly. "I did what I had to. I still do. I'm trying to fix things, but clearly, it's not enough for you." He stands, moving towards the table to set down his glass.

"Oh, don't run off again," Val retorts, coming to her feet in one sharp move, her own whisky sloshing until she saves it with a couple hard swallows. "It's like what you just said, all dramatically about 'was I turning against you?!' when what I was doing was disagreeing with you. This place might still crash and burn but shells, K'del, I don't want to transfer again and besides, you don't get rid of me that easy. Tell me what you're doing that actually helps and isn't a bunch of cronies sitting in the bar and giggling about their clever, clever plans. Tell me."

There's a hard line of tension in K'del's shoulders, but he doesn't try and leave. Instead, he reaches a shaky hand to the bottle, and refills his glass, not turning back to look at Val. "I'm backing up H'kon, who is actually trying to be responsible," he says. "Sent Z'ian out to Telgar to find out what was going on, to track information down. Fixing that." And yet, it's not his own successes he's focused on - it's Taikrin's failures. "Going to put my weight behind Azaylia, give her the support she needs to learn." He stares at his whisky.

So she pokes at his ribs, not gently, and rounds him to look up at his face instead. "Before when you were talking," because Val's quick to pick up on that, "it was all Taikrin-Taikrin-Taikrin." Her tone, at least, is kinder than either the poking or her words.

K'del winces, just lightly, and lifts one hand towards his arm, rubbing at it absently, as though there's an unrelated hurt there. "Taikrin bothers me." He's at least able to admit that, and do it while meeting Val's gaze squarely. "We've never got along. Like me and Brieli, I guess. Yes, it feels kind of satisfying when she screws up. And I don't have tangible results-- yet. But I'm working on it."

"At least you can admit it," Val unconsciously mirrors, and aims to punch that arm more lightly for good measure. "Not there isn't usually a shake-up when there's a new weyrleader, out with the old cronies and in with the new ones, yeah? So if you and Brieli are still on the outs, what I don't get is how it's going to go with Azaylia. People say she's tucked into Taikrin's pocket."

K'del pulls his arm away, deliberately. "Bones punched me," he explains, quite as though that actually explains everything. He rubs at it again, twisting his expression thoughtfully as he considers his answer. "She's uncertain. She feels abandoned. It's-- I need to do more there, too. Our conversations haven't been as productive as I'd like. But that can change. Taikrin - think that's partially because of Hraedhyth's feelings for Szadath."

"He did? Why?" Val sounds far too intrigued, even if it is a distraction, but at least she leaves off more poking. Back to Azaylia, any reiteration of should-have-stepped-in-before bitten off, "No, Hraedhyth very much does not strike me as squishable as she does," and the way she says it, it's a compliment to the queen. Less so, to the queen's rider. "I don't know how you're going to swing that, but I wouldn't put it past you. I won't pretend I know about all these plans, either. But talk them up, would you? Because just tearing her down, that's a dick move." Even if, she must know, he might feel the same way.

"He--" K'del breaks off, clearly working out how to phrase it. "Took me to task for upsetting Azaylia. We came to an agreement, though. We're square." He sips - more restrainedly - from his glass before adding anything more, swishing the liquor through his mouth carefully. "I - right. You're right. I'm sorry. It's not helpful. Makes me as bad as them." Them. who started this by not liking him - and even in saying that, he winces. He knows. He gets it.

"Upsetting Azaylia? Smooth." But he winces, which means Val doesn't have to hit him again. Though she may be tempted. She busies her hands, however, with retrieving the bottle and pouring for herself. "I accept your eloquent apology and, because I'm feeling especially generous today, do not even require that you go down on your knees on my ledge and proclaim how you're but a mere grub beneath my heel. Have some more," of his, "whisky."

"It was information she needed to know," he says, explaining his actions, though that doesn't stop him from looking contrite, even now. His mouth twists, too, as he says, "You're generous, indeed. Relieved to know that. Will have to make sure I'm better in future, in case I run into you in a less generous mood. Rather not kneel in all that snow, thanks very much."

Uncharacteristically reticent for a few moments, Val speaks quickly when she speaks at last, "You do know I'm poking fun, yeah? At both of us, though." It's that twist.

It surprises K'del - and then he laughs. "Yeah," he says. "I know. Guess I'm taking a lot of things more seriously than I need to, maybe. Or - maybe it's just that so much is serious. It's all good." Good enough that he's aiming for the whisky again, for another few sips, one, and then a second, and then a third. "Bet you'd have a more public humiliation in mind, if you were really serious," he teases.

She relaxes in a little full-body shake that, this time, doesn't do much more to her refilled whisky than make it quaver. "Good," Val agrees, and leans back enough that she can perch atop the back of the couch, legs dangling. "Too right I'd think of something." And if worst comes to worst, there's always that broom.