Difference between revisions of "Logs:Capable"

The day after Azaylia's death is a somber one for many. The Snowasis is open again, and many have found solace in harder and better liquor than the one provided by the Weyr overnight. Today is a day of mourning and midst them the mourners sits Irianke, the interloper, nursing a drink at the bar with a stool on either side of her kept clear. Whether it's by her wishes or a deliberate ostracism by those with red-rimmed eyes is not clear. The summer evening is far too nice for such moroseness.

For the better part of the day, Reisoth has been checking in with Niahvth in regards to both her rider's whereabouts and state of business. H'vier has wanted to speak with her. By the time he ends up in Snowasis, the bronzerider isn't in the best of moods and it has very little to do with the fact that the senior Weyrwoman burned to death in a fire the day before. Well, a little to do with it, but not in the way most other people have been affected. "Weyrwoman," comes the bronzerider's deep baritone, deeper for the agitation that's been nagging at him most of the day. "We need to talk."

Busy busy busy, that's how the day went. Irianke has just finished a sip, her tongue licking at her lips to taste more of the liquor's earthiness when H'vier arrives, and though she was prepared for it due to a draconic heads up, the agitation in his voice tenses the set of her shoulders. Still, the goldrider turns and smiles briefly at the bronzerider. "Here to buy me a drink finally?"

"I think we ought to talk in private, Irianke," H'vier tells her, eyeing one of the people closest to her as though he expects that to make them get lost. "Surely you have alcohol in your weyr." Everyone has alcohol in their weyr. This is High Reaches.

"No. We'll just end up having sex," says the goldrider bluntly. "Angry sex. And tonight, I don't think I can handle that. You can speak your piece here." Irianke continues to nurse her glass, sipping from it slowly and turning away from H'vier, her smile fading as she turns. "Take the sit next to me and if you scowl enough, the others might run away. Just don't scare the bartender."

His jaw tightens at her answer, but it's not as though H'vier could get away with dragging her physically from the bar. So he won't try. Yet. He moves closer, but he doesn't sit. "Do you not think I'm a capable man, weyrwoman? A capable dragonrider?" It's kind of a weird jump, but it seems important to him.

"You're still alive and you lead your wing well from everything I can tell." Irianke, unfazed by this shift, does, however, turn back to face H'vier. Her only slightly glossy gaze climbs up his jawline to his eyes and looks at him frankly. "Capable dragonrider, yes. Capable man? I'm not sure what that even means, wingleader." If he's using titles, so will she!

There's something like a growl that rumbles in H'vier's chest. He's not entirely pleased with her answer, but he leaves that be in favor of, "Reisoth caught your Niahvth. Their eggs have yet to break shell. By all rights, the Weyrleader's knot ought to be on my shoulder. So why is it still on K'del's!" It's a question. Really! A question at the end of an increasingly angry raise in his voice.

There is absolutely stunned silence from Irianke, her eyes widening with each of H'vier's words until he says K'del's name. The increasingly angry voice has an audience of more than just the goldrider, and the people who do overhear are quick to look away, move away, do anything but linger long and risk the wrath of H'vier, or, for that matter Irianke. An Irianke who, though she bursts into laughter, looks less amused now. Never one to waste liquor unless she has to, the goldrider downs the rest of her glass in one burning sensation, puts the glass down, and swivels on her stool so she can look right at the bronzerider without turning back. "Now I question your capableness as a thinking person."

Laughter is certainly not the way to calm down a bronzerider with known anger issues. But, all things told, he has not hit anyone yet, and that blood vessel popping out of his temple has not yet exploded. He's almost too angry to speak. Almost. "The fuck you do, woman. The only thing standing between me and that knot in a Weyrwoman who didn't have the decency to die a few months sooner." He sounds disgusted. Probably not unlike everyone who hears him feel about him right now.

Horror should be how Irianke reacts. But it's not. She looks up at H'vier from her stool perch, her gray-blue eyes sad, though it's not a sorrow made up entirely of pity for him alone. Her gaze drops and one hand balls up, embedding nail marks into her palm upon release. Quiet, "If you'd like the chance to chase after the gold when she rises in leadership after graduating, then you'll stop this nonsense and never speak such despicable thoughts aloud again. Is that clear, wingleader?"

The furious bronzerider stares at Irianke as though he's trying especially hard to rein in thoughts of violence. Surely he would never raise a hand to a weyrwoman, especially in public. Especially while the Weyrleader's knot is in the hands of a man who would, you know, probably transfer H'vier to the Red Star if he could manage it. "Reisoth will chase whoever he damned well pleases," he practically growls before he's starting to turn away. There's a few people who already start parting a path for him so he won't have to hurt any of them on his way out. Except he pauses half way to turn back to the goldrider, "You support him?"

"He is the Weyrleader." It's no answer at all, but is aided by Irianke standing now, tall and with a proud lift to her chin. But maybe nothing more needs to be said. She'll stay standing there until H'vier leaves. Until she can no longer see his head above everyone else's.

Nope. Wrong answer. H'vier's jaw clenches so hard it's probably a wonder he doesn't break any of his teeth. But he asks no more questions. He leaves, only physically shoving past anyone too slow to get out of his way.