Difference between revisions of "Logs:Frank"

It's an astonishing feat given just how much stuff she came with that by the morning after she's arrived, everything is in its place. The five hour time difference likely helps make it seem like magic's at play, even if it is mid-day by Reaches' standard. The weyr is cozy with rugs to provide color and throw blankets tossed over furniture not of Reachian make. Chaise lounges have taken the place, and then some, of couches that were once gathering dust here. Turquoise, teal, and golds dominate the color scheme with its central focus a large, intricately woven rug in the center of the room. On top of it is a small stone table and iron wrought chairs with cushions. Irianke is seated at one of those chairs polishing off the remnants of a breakfast that appears to have included two runny eggs, toast, and a pile of fruit, judging by the leftover peels. A well-used napkin rests on the table next to her elbow, which is attached to the hand that holds up a singular hide sheet.

Despite the effusiveness of Cadejoth's welcome, yesterday, K'del made no appearance yesterday to offer his in person; the fact that he was at Southern last night may be partially to blame for that, though perhaps, too, it was even more deliberate. Today, Cadejoth extends a mental chain towards Niahvth, wordlessly querying for wakefulness and - in the image he shares of his rider, heading down the stairs into the complex - readiness for visitors. It's not much warning, though, given the sound of footsteps a few moments later, and the bronzerider's clearly enunciated, "Irianke?"

In the mean time, between Cadejoth's warning and the voice that sounds into her weyr, Irianke's poured two cups of tea and sits waiting. The hide she had been holding is now tucked beneath a folder, likely the folder that contained it, and her hand now has a writing utensil that writes against a blank sheet of paper before her. Her script, for the record, is lovely and careful and slow. She takes her time with each word. "You're welcome to come in. Please leave your shoes by the entrance," she calls back. "Have you had breakfast? Shall I send for some?"

There's a pause, there in the doorway, but only for a moment: K'del sets the bottle he was carrying on the floor beside him, unlacing and removing one boot and then the other before reclaiming it and entering. "I've eaten, but thank you," he says, as he crosses towards the table. "You've... done a lovely just in here," holds only the faintest uncertainty; as if he's remembered, now, the way it looked last time he was here... and, indeed, why he was here at all. Quickly, "Welcome to High Reaches, Irianke. We're glad to have you. This--" The bottle, now extended towards her in offering, "--is from my own vines. Can't promise it's any good, mind, but it's better than it used to be."

"A ringing endorsement..." There's a noticeable pause, Irianke getting to her feet as K'del approaches. "Do you have a preference on title? Sir? K'del? Weyrleader? O Great One?" The last is absolutely filled with humor. Look, she's even smiling, expectation laden in that expression for him to smile back, or something. His compliment nets the room, and her all-nighter decorating of it, a pleased once over.

"That last one, definitely," deadpans K'del, though a smile's beginning to twitch into place by the time he finishes. "Spent the morning with my youngest kids, so at the moment I'm most used to 'daddy,' but... let's go with K'del." It's safer. It makes him grin, too. "Figure there's a time and place for titles, but we're all still people, too. You've everything you need, I hope?"

Irianke's smile turns into an open-mouthed affair of silent laughter. An impish twinkle claims her grey-blue eyes as she tries on, "Daddy," for comic effect. "Sit, please. There's some cold tea. It'd have been warmer if you'd shown up three hours ago. I did bring my flamethrower from Igen if you want it hot." Having invited him to sit, she takes her seat and glances at the paper she was writing on. "I'm impressed you have time for your children. They're very lucky."

The bearer of that sobriquet barely holds back laughter as he follows the goldrider's direction, and sits. "Cold is perfect," he assures her, taking up the cup in both hands to reinforce his words; he sips, once, before adding, "Not as much time as I'd like, and never as often as I'd like, but I try. It's the biggest sacrifice of this job, for me." Studying Irianke, unashamedly, he wonders, "Is flamethrower usage something goldriders at Igen practice regularly?"

"I never have the time." Irianke's words are flat, regretful without actually having any emotion set in them. She shakes her head, gaze falling to the pencil which she claims in one hand to twirl on the backs of her fingers. "Between the duties delegated to me at Igen and wing drills," which segues nicely into his question, the baffled blankness replacing the most recent flat and the less recent smile completely, "We practice. What happens at the next Pass if no one knows how to actually use a flamethrower except in theory?"

K'del, then, will have emotive regret enough for the both of them, his own sorrow painted so-clearly upon his cheeks though he refrains from making further comment on the subject. Setting his tea aside, he continues to consider Irianke, a short nod offering immediate answer, before, "There's that, of course. We certainly maintain drills in the other wings. And, if we're being honest, I've not paid much notice to how much our goldriders," pause, "goldrider most recently, I suppose, drill. Or don't. Difficult when there's only the one of you your wing, of course. Do know they at least get taught how, as weyrlings." Wryly, then, "Tiriana used hers to burn my weyr out, once, after all."

She betrays herself and her knowledge of those events with a tic at her eyes and twitch of her mouth. Irianke secrets that bewildered amusement behind a cough and more words. "High Reaches," not just K'del, "Has had some interesting tales told around Pern. It's sometimes hard to tell what's fact or fiction or an odd conglomeration of both. I had heard that you hold onto the Weyrleadership for dear life through whatever means, and yet meeting you, that wouldn't be the first thought I'd have." She slides the written document forward on the table, letting it come to a stop equidistant between the two. "Is there anything you hope I can accomplish at High Reaches? Something you've noticed amiss in all your turns as Weyrleader?"

The writing on the paper is lovely, the kind of script that takes time to fashion out. It's legible even from a distance, unless glasses are required: a list of names, Azaylia and K'del's on the top followed by the beginnings of everyone who is someone at High Reaches. There is space between each name for notes.

Thus betrayed, thus caught, Irianke's knowledge and awareness is answered in the twitch of K'del's mouth, acknowledged in the so-obvious truth that, even now, he can't begin to understand the pecularities of his once-Weyrwoman. "Is that what they say of me? I'd answer, only, that High Reaches has my loyalty; I want the best for her, and I'll do what I need to, to try and look after her." His gaze has already dropped towards the document, blue eyes deciphering it as he speaks. "Help us build stability," is what he says, finally, looking up again. "Azaylia doesn't trust easily, and that's not entirely difficult to understand, but it... she doesn't trust me. She Impressed just after Tiriana. Lujayn was fine, but then there was Iolene, and Aishani, and... maybe it'll help everyone, having someone from outside to bring us all together." The words are quiet, but frank enough in their way. He rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Feels, sometimes, like nothing has been stable since Satiet. Shells if I haven't tried, though."

The sheet is drawn back, an easy reach for Irianke, and the pencil she holds hovers over K'del's name, but then is set down. She won't write this, not right now. Her hands clasp into each other, finges weaving together like one of the tapestries on her walls. "You've been a leader longer than I've been able to write like this. Shouldn't I be asking you for advice?" Gently chiding, though there's a heavy dose of sympathy there, the Igen goldrider sinks back into her seat, those clasped hands falling into her lap and parting. She picks invisible lint off her pants. "Have you ever thought of just... not being here when she rises? You sound... tired."

For that, at least, K'del can smile, drawing his hand away from his nose and letting it rest, instead, upon the edge of the table. "You've an outsider's perspective," he points out. "Guess I value that, here and now." As to that question, that last one? He's slower with that, gaze flicking up and away from the goldrider and on, instead, to walls and floors; anything and everything. "I've tried walking away," he says. "Turns out I'm not very good at it. I'd have to know I was leaving her in good hands... and if I could end up Weyrleader at seventeen, and your F'rain at, what, eighteen? Nineteen?"

"Can I be frank, K'del?" Irianke looks to the Weyrleader with level eyes, the blueness of them shining more for the turquoise beads around her neck.

K'del's pause lasts only a moment. Then, nodding as he speaks, "Yes, of course."

"It's what is rumored Nimae said to F'rain when she discovered he was her new Weyrleader." Irianke shares a bit of Igen gossip, the blind lint picking continuing as she does so. "You're too nice to be effective." She's not unkind in saying this, her voice soft and warm. It's just a fact of observation. "Don't hide behind being nice, K'del. Not everyone has to like you. Granted," she concedes with a wry twist to her mouth, "Not everyone has to dislike you because you're an ass. But you're not seventeen anymore. You enjoy being Weyrleader and I think that frightens you." There's barely a pause, her voice turning airy suddeny, "Too frank? Too much? Should I have saved that for our third encounter? Or do we need something to drink or a smoke now that we're sharing our darkest secrets and thoughts."

K'del's mouth opens to reply before Irianke has finished, but though he's clearly eager to say his piece, he manages to stop himself until she's finished... by which point he's laughing, wryly. It doesn't stop the pink flush from holding pride of place in his cheeks, nor the way his shoulders have tensed, involuntarily. An exhale, now, finally, before he speaks. "You weren't lying when you mentioned frankness," he says, in its wake. "I'm not always nice," has a hint of defensiveness in it, though he does manage to follow it up with, "But I'm not ruthless, no. And you're right; I do like being Weyrleader." The lines in his forehead are back, and something in his expression suggests there's a lot more he could or would say... but won't. There are limits. "What about you? Your job is your life; do you love it?"

She's too quick to fall for this question, the trap of oversharing. The left side of Irianke's head tips forward, and her smile swings the opposite direction, lopsided. Limits. "See, now if I share that with you, we will have to share a smoke while lying on my bed post-coital, a fact I doubt your weyrmate would be very happy about. How about we make a deal?" Irianke finally reaches for the pencil to make a few notes under K'del, quicker than her early script, but by no means quick period. She's silent as she writes.

"It'd at least have me living up to the worst of my reputation," answers K'del, laughingly. "Haven't you heard? No goldrider is safe from my seductive ways." His gaze drifts towards her paper but without any particular intensity; if he's attempting to decipher her script, he's doing so very casually indeed. Then, abruptly, he leans backward in his chair, reaching for his cup to take another sip of the cold, cold tea. "A deal?" he prompts, after what must - to him - feel like a reasonable interval.

She carefully dots her i's and crosses those t's. "I'd heard. Bedding your way through most of the goldriders on Pern isn't the worst reputation to have. I don't recall you ever coming to Igen. I'm sure some of us could have shown you a decent time before you setted down." Irianke purses her lips to survey what she's written: a concise list of the things K'del said before as well as the word 'frank' with a question mark after it. Her smile, however, starts with the lift of her lashes and the upward return of her face to look at the Weyrleader. "A deal. You tell me something about me that's deep, soul reaching after two weeks observation, and I'll answer any three questions you may have. Any."

K'del doesn't make further comment on the topic of his reputation, though the way he purses his lips suggests that there's something in it that bothers him... even if he's at least faintly amused by the comment that follows it. His amusement grows rapidly in answer to her smile, and the deal she proposes. "Not sure I'd rate my chances of succeeding at that all that highly; you're too canny to give much away, aren't you? Layers upon layers. Nimae's stamp all over. But." He nods. "All right."

"Oh, we all have our tells. Even the ones Nimae thinks are perfect steel traps. Besides," Irianke doodles a figure eight over and over again near K'del's name. "My daddy would've had your hide for implying it's all Nimae that made me as such." Here might be her first tell, a sudden coolness to her otherwise warm demeanor. "The Weyrwoman has me looking over some of the storerooms paperwork, supplies, tithes, and the like. Tomorrow, I plan to meet with some of the lower caverns workers to familiarize myself with their mode of operation and so they can get used to me hovering. I have a favor I'd like to ask of you in the mean time."

K'del's gaze, observant for the moment, not especially emotive, focuses in upon the goldrider. His fingers twine together upon the rim of the table; his head inclines forward. "A favour," he prompts. Go on, his gaze encourages.

"I'd like to shadow your wings for a few weeks. Go out with them at least once before the month is through and see what it is they do. Particularly," Irianke leans forward, the smile on her face suffusing her cheeks with color and her eyes with a bright eagerness, "When they visit your Holds. I've heard and read so much about them that I'd love to pair faces with names and history. And then," she takes a breath, steadying it on its release and sinking her shoulders, "There's the celebration for Lady Issedi's turnday. I'm not sure what protocol would be for me to visit. Should I ask the Weyrwoman? Do you have any advice? Dos, don'ts, musts?"

K'del is visibly surprised by the eagerness, though that impression lasts only a moment or so. "Of course," he agrees. "I've no objection to you shadowing; I'll make some arrangements." Of High Reaches Hold, he hesitates longer, only partially covering that in the way he rubs at his nose, runs his fingers through his hair, and adjusts his cup upon the table. "By all means, attend; Azaylia'd say the same. If you have the opportunity to introduce yourself to the Lord and Lady, take it. Lord Devaki's never been our greatest fan, but politeness will serve." A pause. "If you'd like, I can escort you, or have another rider do so."

"If it's acceptable, I'd prefer to navigate the celebration myself. It'll be freeing, in a way, not to be Igen's goldrider." Freeing not to be recognized is unspoken, but tangible in her expression. "And you must have someone to escort that's dearer to your heart than I, no?" Irianke reaches to pour herself some more tea, only realizing once it's precariously too full that she hasn't drunk any yet.

It's a kind of freeing that K'del must understand well; certainly, he seems to understand the point quickly, his nod abruptly flourishing. "Of course," he agrees. "I hope you thoroughly enjoy yourself, Irianke." His own cup, not yet empty, is pushed just slightly away. "And you're right; there may be some small other people that call me 'daddy' who require my escort." It's now, as he says that, that he draws himself back towards his feet. "Ought to leave you to it. I've a wingleader meeting to attend to. You'll say, though, I hope, if there's anything I can do to assist your... transition?"

"I will call on you when I require something you could help with." Irianke takes the cup being pushed away and then his subsequent words as a sign to rise. She takes a half step to the side. "Oh! Before you go." The half step becomes several more steps and then a turn as she disappears behind those beads that clatter when moved, and then back quickly. "For you. From Igen." It's a narrow box, just large enough to fit a small bottle. "From the Weyrwoman's private stash."

K'del hesitates, as Irianke disappears; as she returns, he laughs, gaze sliding from her box to his gifted bottle. It doesn't mean he won't reach out to accept the gift, offering a formal, "Thank you. Guess that means it'll make my gift look all the more paltry, by commparison, but... thank you. Welcome to High Reaches, Irianke. Hope-- hope that you'll be happy, while you're here. That it'll be good for all of us."

"If it makes you feel any better, it's not from me." Irianke grins. "And I'll make sure your gift gets used well tonight in front of a toasty fire. Alone." Alas.

It does seem to make K'del feel better - or at least it makes him return the grin. "Glad to hear it," he says. "I-- hope you make friends soon. New places are hard." It's surely not something he has much experience of, though his words seem genuine enough. In any case, after another bob of his head, he takes his leave, turning to reclaim his shoes, and then head for the stairs.