Difference between revisions of "Logs:Blind, Stupid Dedication"

Bijedth reaches out in search of Isyath, his mood cheerful but not concentrated on the task of calling out to her - as if he is busy elsewhere and absent-mindedly passing on a message for her. Or rather, for Ali. Nonetheless, he does so happily, the hum of his electric current buzzing quietly through his tone. « If Ali has no objections, N'muir would like to meet with her in the Council Room at her convenience. » And just in case he must wait some time, N'muir has brought to the Council Room a collection of reports to read through as he sits with a cup of wine at the table.

For the last few days, Isyath's been showing all the hallmarks of an impending flight. While it's not unusual for her to gather dragons to join her in flight, she focuses particularly on bronzes and browns, the glow to her hide ensuring she gets her way. More than that, though, it's the radiant, constant sense of heat she shares in her thoughts, spreading across the Weyr like a distracting irritant, that makes it most obvious. « Come and fly with me, Bijedth. The air is warm and the wind endless this high. » Whether that answer means Ali's arrival is conditional on her passing on the message isn't immediately clear. Whatever the response, /eventually/ there's the sound of footsteps at the council room entrance, nothing tentative about it.

Bijedth doesn't linger under that heat, his voice more distant when finally he provides a response to her invitation. « You have plenty of companions. » It isn't said harshly, just a cheerful answer to her request. « And I am so far away. » And his voice gets further still. « So... » He is so quiet now he is surely on the other side of the planet. « Have fun! » N'muir looks up at the sound of those footsteps, his mouth opening to say words until it's Ali's features that come into view. "Oh," is uttered with a thread of genuine surprise. "Weyrwoman Ali. Of course it would be you. I just-" He stops himself and shakes his head, frown appearing in the very corner of his lips - a frown that isn't for her but rather in spite of himself. "This probably isn't a good time for this but I had to speak to you about the letter you left for me." He pauses and gestures at the table. "Do you... want to sit or... are you in a hurry?" An awful lot of uncertainty and accommodation coming from a man who is usually very certain and not very accommodating to most people.

« But you are not here, » Isyath points out, as if this should be an obvious conclusion that he needs to fix. Like, right now. If dragons thought in emoticons there would be plenty of sadfaces and broken hearts right now; as is, fact of the matter is that the queen is easily distracted at the best of times, and even moreso at the moment. It doesn't take her that long to forget about the rejection. (But maybe she'll remember later.) Ali's frowning, which isn't uncommon, just- an unusual way for her to greet N'muir. "Sir," she murmurs, moving towards the table to join him. She looks flustered- or at least hot- working hard to focus on him. "No," she says, slowly, after a moment, choosing the chair next to his, crossing and recrossing her fingers. "The- letter, yes." Recognition in her tone, and attentive gaze fixes on him, expectantly.

N'muir places his hand around the bottom of his cup to turn it with absent attention using his thumb and forefinger, filling their brief silences with the quiet sound of the clay cup rubbing against the stone table. "Right. The letter." The cup is turned again and then his hand comes to rest flat against the table, his eyes turning up and over to her. "Do you have some sort of explanation for why you are accusing my wingmates of cheating in a tournament held in a place that I'm not entirely sure I'm supposed to know exists?" Bijedth doesn't so much think about Isyath's statement as he does try to dissuade more statements from following. « Yes. I am not. But... neither is Wroth! I wonder what /he/ is up to right now? You should find out. »

Ali opens her mouth and- stares at him blankly, for long enough that it might be worth checking in- though Isyath seems unbothered: she's wheeling around a group of Malachite browns. Eventually, with a strained voice: "Because- because it was supposed to help fix things. Get some cross-wing interaction happening. Break people of their blind, stupid dedication to their wing and /they ruined it/ all to win a stupid tournament. Did you even talk to them?" By the end, the sweat on her brow is obvious, and the press of lips to try and suppress her growing irritation moreso. Why, yes, Isyath is that easily distracted, brightening at the suggestion from Bijedth, « I should! Wroth? Wroth! Come and fly with me. »

Bijedth must take the opportunity to run while Isyath is looking the other way, but it leaves N'muir looking a little more than just a little agitated. His hand on the table grabs his cup again and leans forward slightly only to release the cup and lean back in his chair. His brows knit and he emits a frustrated sigh. "You are missing the point," he counters with firm enunciation. "But to reply to /your/ question, I spoke with N'rov - and are you really serious? /E'ten/? Cheating? What evidence do you have?" He leans forward again, expression contorted with genuine confusion and disbelief. "And feel free to tell me at any point why I should care about a tournament that I know nothing about and have nothing to do with in a place that isn't officially sanctioned by the Weyr."

"No, /you/ are missing the point." There is no 'sir', this time, and the exhale of breath from Ali is frustrated as she pushes to her feet. "Vhaeryth confessed that they worked together. Yes, there was no explicit rule saying 'please don't cheat by pooling all your resources together', but that doesn't matter." With a sharp shake of her head and a press of lips: "You know what they're saying? Oh, the Weyrleader's boy's club won, /again/. Just like they won Elaruth's flight, and Isyath's before that. You /always/ win. And if it'd been fair and square, I'd have backed Hematite. E'ten's my friend, too. But," She lifts a finger, then pauses, narrows gaze and exhales: "You don't care, do you?"

"Why /should/ I care?" N'muir snaps back. "This whole thing was done behind my back but when it doesn't go the way you or whoever is behind this intended for it to go, it becomes my problem?" It's his turn to lift a finger and he points it firmly down at the table, punctuating the beginning of his sentence. "You talk about wing dedication like it's a bad thing but have you ever thought that maybe the reason my 'boy's club' works so much better than all the other wings is because we /are/ blindly, stupidly dedicated to each other?" That finger becomes a part of a fist and he bangs it down on the table. "We win because we're better!" he barks back, the fire of his old self filling him with angry, intense energy in that moment. There is no more speaking in calm tones, only angry, harsh words thrown across the table. "You know what really bothers me? That you care more about what 'they' say than you do about anything else. You admitted there were no explicit rules against pooling marks so they didn't cheat. Why are you so pissed off about this? What are you hiding from me?"

There's fury gathering in Ali's gaze, now, and though she /jumps/ as his fist slams against the table, she doesn't sit down, hands against her hips. "/You/ might not care about what /they/ say, but I do. All we seem to do here is fight. Sandstone and Jasper. Hematite and everyone else. You need to get over yourself, and realize you're responsible for the /Weyr/, not just your wing. It's about time you got them all in hand, and stopped coddling your precious favorites."

That shuts N'muir up - at least for a little while. He sits back in his chair, letting his broiling anger be expressed in the slumped, undignified way he consumes the entire chair with his body, stewing. He glares up at Ali, and there is a glimmer of fight returned. "If I'm responsible for the Weyr," he begins, "then I want to know why there is an establishment in Fort that I've not been made aware of. And I want to know why Fort's weyrwomen are supplying prizes for gambling tournaments."

"Because it's funding the Weyr," Ali says, with only the briefest of pauses. "And it wasn't about the gambling. It was about- /meant/ to be about people, not wings." Until your boys ruined it, her pointed look and folded arms are implying. « Biiiiiijedth? » Mercifully, Isyath's tone is sing-song and light-hearted, suggesting her rider's keeping their discussion tightly in check. « Come fly with me. Elaruth won't mind. » Or she won't tell. Something like that.

N'muir's brows knit tightly together and he lifts his chin. "What are you talking about?" he demands. "Gambling doesn't fund the Weyr." Bijedth won't be coming out of hiding with such light-hearted attempts to lure him. He is clearly torn, that part of him that obeys his queens forcing him to listen and respond in turn but his reply is nothing more than the buzz-and-crack of his electric current, snapping and whizzing through the air with intense frenzy.

"It does since I- since Boll." There might be a slight skip there, but Ali doesn't intend to linger, not on that point and not in the room. She passes a hand across her forehead, "I think I need a drink. It's far too hot in here." It's clear she intends to walk out, without any of her usual pleasant farewells. Isyath is patient. Well, not really patient so much as easily distracted, and so it'll be another few minutes before she tries again, « Vhaeryth says you're boring. » She might- okay, yes, she's taking liberties with what's probably a loose interpretation of something that might've been said offhand in some cryptic fortune-cookie-way.

Bijedth remains quiet but there, listening closely, hiding in the shadows just beyond the temptation of Isyath's trap. Whether in part due to Ali's apparent condition, N'muir doesn't try to make her stay. He watches her leave, glaring at the back of her head from the security of his chair. His hands curl over the armrests, fingers digging into the wood, and a string of curses are muttered under his breath. "I've got to get out of here." After brewing in the Council Room long enough to finish his wine, the Weyrleader abandons Fort to Ali and Isyath, hitching a ride out from an older green. The Weyr is hers. For now.