Difference between revisions of "Logs:Opportunity"

Greenhouse, High Reaches Weyr

A rustic and unadorned vestibule leads in from hewn spiral steps to a refitted ledge, enclosed by limestone pillars. Sturdy wooden framework captures elongated glass panes, tilted to absorb the most light during the day. The wash of heat from within, lush and humid, persists even into the dead of winter; the air is heady with the scent of fresh-turned soil and various flora.

Long, deep troughs of soil line the inner stone wall, planted with an assortment of broad, leafy tropicals - practical and decorative alike. Fruit and vegetable baskets hang from rafters, optimizing space, tempting in reach with a perpetually ripening harvest. A series of stone shelving is devoted to flourishing, aromatic herbs and new green shoots; even the softest touch releases a burst of savory scent from tender leaves. Amidst the greenery, a handful of wooden benches have been scattered, making this a temptingly warm and secluded spot to sit.

Shuttered vents serve to regulate humidity and heat given off from a small hot spring recessed into an alcove at the back; a secondary pool with cooler waters siphons off to provide a constant, fresh supply for irrigation. A small potting station nearby is cluttered with watering cans and gardening tools of various uses, with a wooden bin for composting materials tucked underneath.

Cold coalesces, cumulating outside the glass panes of the greenhouse, contrasting to the warmth that envelopes in this wet, humid environ. Just after dinner, the weyr's quieting down to some degree, even for Ceawlin who seeks refuge in the relative quiet of the Greenhouse. Instrument in hand, the boy plucks at the strings, testing the notes for some composition or another. Faint strains of humming come from almost too-sweet tenor, but nothing that approximates true singing. Just enough to get his mind around the notes he's building. He sits at the bench farthest from the entrance, shaded by leafy fronds of bushy plants.

Perhaps Brieli has nothing better to do than wander the greenhouse, now that there's eggs on the sands and the queens aren't all that interested in visitors anyway. Perhaps she's looking for a change from the dry heat there and the cold outside; possibly, she's looking for someone. It's difficult to tell, as the young goldrider's steps are unhurried, but not meandering, necessarily - though it seems the music draws her, as she makes her way allll that way to the deep of the greenhouse, arching fine brows a touch as Ceawlin's choice of practice location - but says nothing, not yet.

The greenhouse has enough sounds -- burbling water, vented air, rustling plants -- to mask the immediate knowledge of another's arrival. Ceawlin, as observant as he is, is a little lost in his own thoughts, eyes directed downwards at the lute he's got in his hands. It's not until a momentary pause that turns into the slight lift of his eyes to a world outside the world of song, does the boy catch a glimpse of Brieli. Slowly, silence fills the void left behind by the music, and it hovers a shade longer than possibly normal before the harper inclines his head. Greeting comes as, "Evening, Weyrwoman."

Sliding slender hands into her pockets, Brieli explains easily, "I didn't want to interrupt. Does... the humidity not cause the instrument any issues? Or are they somewhat like us, in need of a bit of mist in over the winter?" She has a faint, girlish wrinkle of her nose, as she notes, "My skin ends up awfully dry. I'm not sure if that happens to everyone." As she tilts her head to the side, regarding the apprentice evenly, "How are you settling in? Are there any issues you've found?" Curious, politely so.

"If I were to make a habit of this, especially during summer, it might cause a problem with warping," Ceawlin answers, sliding fingers over the varnished wood of the instrument. "But in extreme dryness like this, a little humidity keeps the instrument from cracking. I can play in here, or I can add little damp clothes to the inside, where the raw wood is exposed." Setting the instrument at rest, a small smile plays on thin lips, "I, too, suffer from the dryness of hands and toes that comes with winter. It sucks." So succinctly put! "I'm settling in," the boy pauses here, pale brows lifting a notch, "quite well." Cold blue eyes glance away from Brieli, to the outside world. "A few here and there," attention returns to Brieli. "I did discover that tunnelsnakes thrive in the deeper confines of the weyr," the apprentice adds, conversationally. "Or at least, where you find one, you might find more."

"Ah. That makes a certain amount of sense. I may have to pass that on to someone I know; I'm not sure he's aware of such things. Not a harper, but he plays. Not terribly well, but..." Brieli doesn't seem like the sort of have patience for poorly played music, but she still seems amused by the thought, a faint smile playing around her features. With a sigh, "Everything. It's terrible, though not as bad as my hair frizzing, I suppose." It's grudging, as if the weather is out to irritate her. As for settling in, dark eyes bright, "I hope you're making acquaintances with many of the people here. They have interesting opinions." That might be a bit wry, though fine brows arch again Ceawlin's way after. "Tunnelsnakes and gossips both, I think. You'd want to avoid one and find the other." She doesn't clarify which is which.

"Luckily, we do not live in endless winter," Ceawlin dryly delivers, though humor touches upon frigid gaze. "It's a shame to let an instrument suffer even if its player is not terribly skilled," is his comment for Brieli's friend. "I suppose so," he continues, tenor even and lacking in any hints of Crom nor anywhere else, "Although, winter breeds them both the most, with little to do other than talk and complain." Giving the weyrwoman a look from 'neath pale lashes, "There's some that swear by tunnelsnakes as a form of delicacy. In fact, you could eat them if times got lean." He pauses, "If you took mind of the poison they spread." Icy gaze does brighten, almost belatedly responding to an earlier statement. "I am meeting quite a few folk. They all have such interesting opinions. It makes for great composition."

Though Brieli's certainly not harper-trained... as far as anyone knows - her calm, cultured voice likewise has no hint of the mining hold, though there's perhaps a bit of the Reaches around the edges. "It would be a shame. Fortunate that I have an apprentice around to answer my questions about such things." There's a flash of a grin for Ceawlin, and she shrugs. "Long nights and unsettled times. But I don't know that it's any less virulent at any point in the turn." Lightly, "I would certainly hope it doesn't come to that. Better to just kill vermin than to live off them." There's another lift of brows, interested. "Do tell. I'm curious what you've come up with. I'd rather not be surprised at a gather sometime."

"Fortune smiles upon you," Ceawlin's humor is dry, but there nonetheless. "An apprentice hears many things. Of course, most of which you know. The rumor mill is rampant with who will be the next Weyrleader and who will be the next Weyrwoman. Really, the indecision is the rot that's chewing away at the foundation." He pauses, then clarifies. "At least, insofar as what I've been able to hear. I think even if an unpopular choice were to be made, at least it'd be a choice... but, some questions have been asked by those who have no concept of the mantle of responsibility that seem to imply a lack of leadership is what's lead to the current state of affairs. It's all rumor and you know how well the gossip mill churns to give much in the way of misinformation." The boy shrugs, almost nonchalantly, "Some are for you, some are for Azaylia, some are for Taikrin, some are for H'kon, but I'll give you something that doesn't come from rumor." Tenor lowers to a sweet whisper, unmatched in icy blue eyes, "For some of those that watch your weyr, a wrong answer /does/ exist."

With a heavy sigh, Brieli seems somewhere between resignation and irritation as she says, "Indecision is not something I suffer from." Perhaps that's enough said for a bright and ambitious harper apprentice. "Tradition, it seems, would not consider either of the flights a leadership flight, but there's only a limited amount of certainty that can come with 'acting' attached to either title. There is only so much that can be done... but do know that the effort is being made." She doesn't have to explain herself to Ceawlin, but perhaps she's not explaining herself to him, but whoever's pulling the strings. Tilting her head, interested in that information, she can summon a slight smile for it; wryly amused, "There's always a wrong answer for someone. But from the impression I get, there are decisions that would bring outside interests to bear, and decisions that will not." A pause. "For H'kon. Even H'kon isn't for H'kon, for Faranth's sake."

Ceawlin is like a sponge, taking in Brieli's explanations without feeling (or showing) like she's explaining to him; he's well aware of this dance they're doing and what part he plays. "That is good that some action is being taken. At some point," he hesitates, but only for a moment, "Someone has to choose. Someone who can choose. Who determines who is acting and who is not?" It's all the chance he takes on that, daring not to step out onto the shaky limb more than he already has. "H'kon is, at least, male." Ahh, the crux of the issue. "Another choice would certainly bring more interested parties than a mere apprentice down upon the weyr, dabbling in affairs no one wants them sticking their fingers in." Not quite a concerned look, not quite a rueful expression, it stands in a place in between: uncertainty. "I suppose time will tell, eh?"

Brieli might note the way he's listening, taking everything in, but she's likewise neutral, dark gaze intent. Quirking her lips a touch, "The Weyrwoman determines an acting Weyrleader. Both Weyrwomen could as well, but it seems that most might be more comfortable with someone appearing to have things well in hand. Someone capable." As for interested parties, there's a faint smirk. "I believe there's some choices beyond the obvious that would be taken well. I am considering options." She is. "What might not be taken well is any particular Craft's attempt to interfere with what's considered Council business - if there need to be such business at all. But I agree that no one wants anyone sticking their fingers in our business." She seems to include the apprentice in that business for some reason, asking casually after, "I imagine your superiors would be interested in what happens with such controversial clutches, yes?"

"Certainly, most would feel that way," Ceawlin agrees, dropping gaze slightly. Almost demurely. "I'm sure there are more options than a mere apprentice might think of and I do not," icy blue gaze looks up at Brieli, "presume to advise anything, merely tell of the rumors I hear. Gossipmongers tend to be notably simple minded." A smirk half-forms before dying on the harper's expression, while wry words follow, "So noted, but most crafts are content to wait if the situation is in hand." So much in that expression; the hard glitter of eyes, the mouth that speaks for someone other than mere apprentice, who's rank really isn't what's in play. "Of course. Especially," he pauses, re-defines with emphasis, "Especially after the chain of events started by the discovery of the exiles."

She might almost roll her eyes at the deprecating words, but it's nearly imperceptible. Brieli folds her arms, considering the young man for a moment before, "Rumors are useful, at the very least. There's often some little truth in them, or - at the very least - it shows where people's minds are lingering. Simpleminded or no. That can also be helpful, yes? If you want the right thing to get around." She'll leave off any discussion of crafts and where they may or may not belong, instead focusing on Ceawlin's last, dark gaze meeting pale. After a purse of lips for 'exiles', "If anyone at the Weyr asks to stand, we are meant to accept them as long as there is no reason they shouldn't. I imagine there's a lot to hear and pass on amongst the candidates. Potential riders." Even if the apprentice has no ambition in that direction, there are benefits, it seems. Interesting knowledge the weyrwoman offers.

Ceawlin, for all the potential of his training, is still on that cusp between manhood and boyhood -- and of course, boys always mature slower than girls! -- but the wisdom behind the use of those he disdains gives him pause. "Yes." Such a simple response is unlike what's he's exhibited so far, and thus carries a heavier thread of truth. However, the weight of her words visibly gives the harper pause. "So, if I were to ask you right now if I may stand for this clutch, you would let me." All interest is focused on Brieli, when he continues, "I imagine it would also help our business to know what's going on with the Candidates." Ambition for a dragon is not what lurks in the sharp features; ambition for something more, and the grasp of knowledge and how it equates to power within his own life, own craft.

One of her faint smiles surfacing, Brieli offers a slow nod. "I should let you. Unless, of course, there are objections that I hear of. But... I can't see that your craft would be overly upset were you to ask." A pause before, with a tilt of her head, "The Weyr would be helped by being aware of what's talked about in the barracks. What they think, have heard from home? And of course, I have no little interest in who might end up with my Iesaryth's children. It would almost be a personal favor." Almost. And Ceawlin's ambition and intense interest in information widens that smile a touch, and she'll just look the apprentice's way expectantly. So?

Ambition fuels the apprentice, and it's easy to see. Hopefully with time Ceawlin will learn to temper this display. "Then I would formally like to ask to Stand." To make things official, lest there be talk otherwise. "And I would consider it an honor to do this as personal favor," this play one words comes partially sly, partially wry. "My craft would have no problems, I assure you. I've been given certain... allowances in my transfer here."

That clear ambition might make Brieli seem amused, but it's not without some empathy; perhaps she understands. Surely a young woman so directed has goals. With a flash of a grin for Ceawlin, "Of course you have. Then consider yourself a candidate. Report to the Headwoman when you're done here, yes? She'll set you up with everything. You're early, so you should have the opportunity to meet nearly everyone we bring in." Fortunate timing, isn't it? "And I'm sure appreciation that will be helpful can be arranged. A word to the Hall, or similar." There's a casual little wave of her hand. They'll sort it out.

Propitious timing, indeed. "I will see the headwoman posthaste." Ceawlin's thoughts are churning, showing in a stormy expression that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with preparing for the best place to position himself within this new role. "A word to the Hall would make it official," he notes, also skimming across that topic. It is the less important, mundane aspect of changing roles. Slowly unfolding from his seat -- it is not lost on him that Brieli maintains a good three inches in height -- he packs up his instrument and snaps the case closed. "Perhaps, the next time I see you, I shall have even more interesting rumors for her." He pauses after slinging the case over his shoulder. "Are there any rumors you'd like fed to the masses?"

"That can likewise be arranged." Brieli seems unconcerned about the Hall being aware of the situation, but she'll send on what's necessary. Sliding hand back in her pocket, she starts away languidly, perhaps to leave Ceawlin to is plotting. It does take some concentration - and that way there is less towering over him. Diffident, she shrugs and notes, without looking back, "If you've heard about H'kon and the flight, that's entertaining to spread around, at least. And true. If you haven't, go ask the kitchen girls." And she's off down the path, undoubtedly with her own scheming to do. Or work. One of the two.

A slight snicker may follow her final words, and while Ceawlin will also be heading out of the greenhouse, he waits just long enough to get himself in order. That or he had momentary short-boy syndrome and didn't want to leave on the heels of the taller Weyrwoman. Then, it's off to the Candidate Barracks he goes!