Difference between revisions of "Logs:On The Topic Of Goldriders"

It's not terribly hard to find Irianke lately. She's either meeting with people in the council chambers, working around the Weyr (probably the hardest time to look for her), sitting in the galleries at meal times to be closer to a soon-to-be mother who is fastidiously preparing her home for the next month, or in her weyr unwinding. Given it's lunch time, the goldrider is found in her usual spot at the base of the steps from gallery to sands with her booted feet half buried in the sands. A table has been set up, by request, with pitchers of water and frequently rotated snacks of the as-non-perishable variety as possible. Though she's always reading here, the pretense of it is certainly discernible to those who pay attention or are studying her, those dark blue eyes glancing up and around too often to be truly absorbed in her book. Niahvth is alone on the sands, her magnificently large bulk sweeping sand from this side of the cavern to the other side in an futile effort to make the entire area absolutely flat.

K'del, too, is fairly easy to find; he's at drills, he's in the council chambers, he's in his weyr... or he's at Southern, of course, squeezing in time with his family. Today, however, his tall figure appears in the entrance of the hatching grounds, blue-eyed gaze first seeking Niahvth and her efforts, and then, more slowly, angling back towards her rider. He's silent in his approach, except for the low shuffle of feet upon the ground; and even before he's all that close, he calls out: "Irianke. Niahvth. Afternoon."

Niahvth, with the preternatural, suspicious sense that comes of being an expectant mother, notes all new arrivals, dismissing most as unimportant. The rider of High Reaches' alpha bronze does not get such a dismissal, and K'del's arrival is noticed even before he speaks out. It would explain why Irianke's putting the book aside, her finger holding her place in the middle and a hand reaching to sweep the excess dust from her dark pants, and why she looks up just as he speaks, watching the shuffle of his feet as the visuals pair with the audibles. There's a smile, warm, if guarded in the withdrawn set of her dark blue eyes, and an easier (than her gaze at least) hand that lifts in greeting. "You could almost forget it's still winter out there in here. It must be jarring for you to go from Reachian chill to Southern warmth."

"Constantly jarring. Slightly less when it's the middle of summer, here - it's not as though their winters are cold - but even then. And then there's the time difference-- but, well." K'del's not here to talk about weather or time, it seems, though he does pause now to begin removing his jacket, content otherwise to linger about the railing between galleries and sands. "Wanted to check in. Make sure-- well." An easy shrug.

There's no Lythronath right now. That does not mean it is not on the minds of the gold and rider, for shortly after K'del opens the floor for a check in, Niahvth's head lifts. Interest brightens the rainbow swirls of her eyes while agitation deepens the orange hues inherent in her prismatic gaze. Irianke, too, looks to her dragon, her head tipped to one side as if listening, and a slight shake of her head culminuates their communication. "It's harder than I expected," the goldrider finally says after her tongue sweeps her lips in thought. It's not what they must have spoken of. It certainly has Niahvth visibly disgruntled, the irritable chuff she exhales disappearing at least an hour of hard work for her massive body as sand resettles into more natural dunes. "I imagine it'd be the same for any temporary, solo transfers at any Weyr."

Visibly conscious of Niahvth and her agitation, K'del lets his gaze linger upon upon the queen for a few moments, even as her rider is speaking. Those words, though, do ultimately have him straighten his posture, expression more solemn for it. "Imagine so," he agrees. "Doesn't make it any easier for you. And--" A pause. "Know people haven't necessarily taken everything well, since you've been here. I'm sorry for it."

What her rider does not say, Niahvth has no qualms, « We do not like Lythronath nor his rider. » (To Cadejoth from Niahvth)

To Niahvth, Cadejoth is not in view, but still: present. His thoughts are full of the chilly air outdoors, though those chains tighten and clink at Niahvth's words. « Shall we order them away for you? »

"There's no need to apologize," begins Irianke, her tone uncharacteristically brusque. The hand that waves now is dismissive. "It is hardly your fault that the riders of High Reaches feel it is within their means to protest loudly enough to exact change. Or suss out information." Dryness envelopes the goldrider's voice in that last statement, an odd mixture of curious bafflement, discomfort, and admiration all wrapped into her low, accented voice. "Your riders are particularly vocal and demanding."

To Cadejoth, Niahvth is humored at Cadejoth's response. As if a bronze could do such a thing that she couldn't do herself. « No. We are capable. But there are many here, » other than the dragonpair spoken of, « Who believe my children belong to them. »

Subtle, now, is the way K'del tenses; it's not quite a bristle, though there's something slightly darker in his expression all the same. No doubt that odd mixture in her tone does something to alleviate what could otherwise be taken as offence. "My riders... it has always worked best, for me, to be approachable. Though there is always a line between approachable and... the demanding bit, that bothers me more, certainly. Imagine that's all very different to Igen."

To Niahvth, Cadejoth is unbothered. It's his weyr; he could do it if he wanted. If she wanted to keep her metaphorical hands undirtied. Still. « They belong to their riders-to-be, » he says, surprised. « And to your keeping, until then. »

"It is markedly different from the way I was trained and the way affairs work at Igen. I'm afraid," Irianke concedes, her own failings uttered in a defeatist tone, "It is something I am ill used to and am unsure how to handle. It makes me fear for the next time another rankless someone approaches me demanding answers that I do not have, that I would not seek, and seems insulted by and insults in return when truth is handed to them." The brunette pushes herself off the step with one hand, her other still holding onto that book. "How do you do it?"

To Cadejoth, Niahvth agrees, without comment on her metaphorical clean hands. « Yes. As you belong to K'del and I belong to Irianke. As long as the two of us are together, wherever we might be will be home. » The orange wash that tinges her thoughts dissipates, now that she's spoken her piece. « Thank you. » And if that needs explanation, adds, « For offering. And for listening. »

That summarisation of the problem removes all potential for bristling from the equation; K'del seems visibly startled by it. "Send them to me," he says. "I favour approachability, but not... not demands. And not insult. Respect for rank is still something we value; it's still instilled into riders, and... was it A'rist?" That's an abrupt shift, the question intended to be blunt. "Cadejoth implied..."

To Niahvth, Cadejoth can only approve; they belong together, he and his. Just as she and hers do. « Home is wherever he is, » is his quiet remark, made - for once - without a rattle or clatter; it's too important for that. « You are welcome. Some will join my pack, and others will not. But they all belong. We are all connected. »

Not privy to the draconic version of tattle-taling going on, Irianke abruptly looks to Niahvth who, in the mean time has claimed her spot in her home right here. It's a spot Lythronath claimed often in the past. Warning heightens the gray coloring of her eyes, as do the brows that climb up in their steady gaze on the gold. "Among," is Irianke's far too political answer. "But it did bring me back to my initial concerns, which I'm afraid I also mucked up with your weyrlingmaster team." The source, the start of all these problems. "However." The woman climbs the steps to come to the same level as K'del, her book-holding hand resting on the railing. "However it is decided who shall return to Igen, it is important to me that. Oh, fuck it. It's important to me that no one has as much of a culture shock as I did when Impressing at Igen or when arriving here. It isn't meant as an insult to your program or to how you train your riders in respect. Please," the normally poised Igenite looks about ready to cry, but doesn't, "Whatever you might think of me, please know that I would never insult your home."

Although surely well-versed in dealing with crying women, it must be a source of relief to K'del that Irianke does not give into the temptation. Even so, there's a shift of his hand that makes it look as though he'd like to reach out, but stops himself. Instead, awkward; "Oh, shells. Please-- it's easy, sometimes, for us to read insult into comment, and I am sorry for it. Truly." That, certainly, seems genuine. "It's something I've been thinking about. About-- what if we invite Igen to send mentors? A handful of riders who can be there, officially unofficial. Would that help?" Please let it help.

She has those ugly red-rimmed eyes that threaten tears, but the self-possession of turns kicks in, as well as a well-timed clenched fist at her side. Maybe the teeth that bear down on her lower lip does the final trick, along with the audible breath exhaled. "I don't know how to convey that to anyone. That our Weyrs are fundamentally different. K'yan was friendly and Nimae is... I would die for her, but if you had asked me what I thought as a weyrling, and even up to a few turns ago, I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"Complicated," is K'del's assessment of the Igen Weyrwoman, though there's no sense that he's using that as an insult. His gaze studies the goldrider, well aware of those red-rimmed eyes, and perhaps even of that fist. "It's important to me that no one has that culture shock, too," he adds, quietly. "Don't want anyone to think they're being sent to exile in Igen; it's not true, not on any level. But you're right, our Weyrs seem to be as different as it is possible to be."

"How do you do it?" It isn't the first time she's asked the question. It probably won't be the last. Irianke looks at K'del, then away as she pretends to stretch and wipe her back hand across her eyes. They're no less red, but less watery when they look back at the Weyrleader. "How..." she's searching or the words to use, looking first at K'del's face and than all around the cavern until they finally land on a pair of people in the back who are pretending so hard not to be eavesdropping. "Does it work? It seems like a method with good intentions that could only drive you mad in the end. Where is the line between approachable and being a leader? I've," she looks at the book she holds, a lighthearted story by the looks of it, and then ventures a rueful smile up, "Read as much of your training program as I can, and I don't know when that sort of independent spirit gets instilled. Or how."

K'del's own eyes close, and when they do open again, it's to stare past Irianke, and off towards the distant wall. "It's not infallible," he admits. "There's an awkward line, when you have to cross from-- from friendly, to laying down the law. It causes problems. But it's the only way I know to be; not sure I could stand being remote from people, for better or for worse." Glancing back at Irianke, he attempts a wry smile. "Reckon it's my fault, that some riders mistake approachability with-- with whatever. Don't think it's something we teach them, not specifically. And Azaylia... can you imagine anyone being afraid of Azaylia? Wary of her?"

Irianke, politely, does not comment on Azaylia, though she says enough with the smile that twitches, threatening her face in the same way tears threatened just a few minutes ago. "And me? Which camp would you put me in?"

That smile's enough to make K'del's more genuine, although perhaps it's Irianke's comment, too. "You-- you're harder to get a read on. You don't want to be unapproachable, I think, but you also wear your rank in a way a lot of people at High Reaches haven't, not in turns."

His answer satisfies Irianke enough. "There are good people here," she says to the sands where her dragon sits, slumbering now with little flower petals fluttering in the idle torrents of her breezing thoughts. It's unshielded in its asolute mellowness, more heavily present in the mind of the last dragon she conversed with, Cadejoth. Quieter, "Rank is what fuels our society. How to own it. How to attain it. How to lose it. How we use it to help those we would like to and how others might use it against us. It isn't always a bad thing."

"Rank has defined my adult life," agrees K'del, as quiet as Irianke, his own gaze turned towards the slumbering queen. "The gaining of it, the losing of it. The wanting it. It does fuel our society, but there's also a sense that... that wearing it too openly implies you see yourself as better." He may be speaking of himself; he may not. In either case, his thoughtfulness is genuine. "If it were a Pass, no one would hesitate to follow orders. We've lost some of that. At High Reaches, that is. We've... it's been a difficult decade." And more.

"No, it means you are responsible for the lives that report to you. Food, shelter, and the good graces of the other areas." Irianke's book hand gestures to the ceiling and the sky above. "Responsibility is a bitch and those who shoulder it well, I don't begrudge them the little details that keep their life fluid. Whether it's breakfast brought to them, or respect due their position an the responsibility they carry. Though," she concedes with another smile, cause laughing is just not in the cards so soon after almost crying, "Those who don't shoulder their rank well do disservice to everyone else. One bad seed." It's in line with the conversation, but tangential enough that the question has been weighing on Irianke's mind for a while. "Do you hope another catches Hraedhyth next time she rises?"

Quietly, "One bad seed." It's not a denial. If anything, K'del seems more thoughtful and reflective than ever for the repetition; as if he's thinking of circumstances in particular, perhaps. Seeds in particular. Equally quiet, but still fervent in its way, is his, "No. This job... it calls me back, every time. Like I can't help myself. Service to High Reaches is in my blood, if you like, and as long as it is required of me-- not sure I can quit it, for all it would be simpler. And you?" Surely K'del must have recognised, by now, how little response his questions to Irianke are liable to get. And still: "Do you dream of the day Nimae's knot passes to you? Or... dread it?"

"The weyrwoman who replaces Nimae will fail," is Irianke's succinct response.

"Fail to be Nimae?" K'del lets that hang for a moment, then shakes his head. "Fail to capture all the threads, perhaps. Fail to..."

"Fail." Irianke flips open her book, earmarking the corner and closing it without her finger. "Do you remember who was Benden's Weyrwoman after Lessa or Fort's after Sorka? I don't envy who comes after Nimae. No one will measure up and she'll alienate half the Weyr while the other hopes to have an easy mark." Such a dire outlook on life post-Nimae. But there's a smile visible just before her hand comes up to wipe at her face and smooth back her hair. "I don't know if I dread it. But I'm realistic if I should become Weyrwoman after Nimae, it will be a difficult few turns."

K'del's, "Mmm," is thoughtful. And, "No, I can see that. Tiriana struggled with that, I think. After Satiet. Although Tiriana was..." Tiriana. He seems to think that's explanation enough. "It's interesting, the differences between weyrwomen. The ones that are impossible to follow; the ones that aren't. And it's not that the ones that aren't are bad. Just..." Just.

"Just." It's enough. Irianke understands and repeats the word with camaraderie in the look she gives K'del. "Is that part of why she sent me here?" The goldrider who doesn't ask questions dares to ask this one, a curious innocence lightening her eyes.

"I don't know." K'del seems - seems - genuine in that admission. "Azaylia would know more, maybe. From the sounds of it, she wanted you to get experience in another Weyr; a different one. Away from her." It's a little awkward to say this, to tell her this; he doesn't look at her as he speaks.

"I wondered." That is to say, she surmised, given her non-wondering tone. Irianke pushes her hair out of her face again, the curls continuously falling from their tucked position. "The last flight, well, she wouldn't appreciate me telling her tale for her." The tantalizing almost gossip is tucked away, Irianke, instead, offering K'del a personal factoid, "It was my birthday yesterday."

K'del can speak from experience in acknowledging, "No one wants a teenage Weyrleader." That there was more to it than that-- well, he bypasses comment. Instead: "I didn't know." As if he should have. "Happy birthday, Irianke. For yesterday." He's looking at her again, now, his smile is warm as his tone. "I hope... it was a good day, as good as possible."

"I made it pleasant enough." Irianke leans up from the rail and reaches out to pat K'del's shoulder amiably. "I didn't tell you so you'd feel bad. Just, I don't expect anyone here to know and I thought it'd be nice if someone knew." A diffident shrug implies all the caring she doesn't say outright. "I'd feel a little less alone if someone here knew. So thank you."

The shoulder pat makes K'del smile again, at least, and is promptly followed by a nod: he understands. Or at least thinks he does; one or the other. "I'm sorry you feel alone," he adds, though it's not as though he sounds surprised about it. "Know it can't be, isn't, easy. Just... we are glad you're here. Regardless of everything. Goldriders aren't supposed to work alone."

"It is what it is and I knew what I was agreeing to when I came. Though," Irianke finally allows herself to laugh, "I daresay both of us know I'm telling a pleasant falsehood when I imply I had any option to agree or disagree in this matter." Which is also a situation that is what it is. "I am impressed at how the Weyrwoman has gotten this far, but it is not a job for one person, not with a Weyr still above half its strength in numbers. To shoulder the responsibility for the lives of that many people and making sure they're fed, clothed, and sheltered in a humane fashion... She's young."

The upturned corner of K'del's mouth confirms that pleasant falsehood for what it is; he makes no further comment on it. "No," he agrees. "It's not. A Weyrleader - even without a Weyrsecond - has his wingleaders to back him up. Any of them could step up at a moment. But a Weyrwoman without a junior... all that responsibility. Lonely. Has Niahvth ever laid a queen?"

"Do you hope she will?" Irianke asks in return, the smile playing on her lips some sort of answer.

"Imagine many at High Reaches would prefer Hraedhyth did, next time she rises; keep the bloodlines High Reachian. But," K'del's smile is even enough. "Yes, I do. No pressure, mind."

The internal debate of what to say is self-evident on Irianke's face; whether because she wishes K'del to know this or K'del is adept at discerning it is an entirely different matter. Her mouth presses firm, and she looks directly at K'del as she states, "We are encouraged to allow brown dragons to win flights at Igen. It helps keep our Interval numbers lower."

K'del's nod is sharp, confirmation writ in his features. "It's a sensible approach," he says, simply. "Especially given how many queens Igen boasts. Guess we'll see, then." He glances away from the goldrider and towards her queen, then shakes his head. "I'm sure it'll be a solid clutch, regardless."

"She has some Benden lineage," replies Irianke, though worry doesn't darken her expression. "And her clutches have always produced well, in spite of the color of the sire. I hope," the weyrwoman crosses her arms over her chest, the book trapped against her body. She sighs and smiles as she gestures to the bowl, "Selfishly, I hope she doesn't produce a gold. I am learning unimaginable things while here and being away from the drama Igen must be these days... Selfishly, I hope she produces a gold, her first, and we can return home to see friends and family. Buy me a drink, K'del, and you can tell me stories of what your children did on this visit and how your weyrmate is faring down south."

K'del's nod for that first 'selfishly' is short; the one for the second is longer, and followed up by several others. "In that case, we should drink to it being a good clutch, regardless of composition." He offers his arm, hooked in such a way that the goldrider can take it - if she so chooses. "A clutch, in my mind, is always good news."

"Hear hear," says the goldrider, far more jovially than might have been expected given their initial encounter. Irianke takes the arm and steps together towards the bowl and the Snowasis for a drink and superficial chitchat before the inevitable parting. Work, rest, sleep, bathroom: pick your goodbye poison.