Difference between revisions of "Logs:Faranth's Comet"

Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr

Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground -- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers, and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black.

The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks, however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat.

Morning. Early morning. The news is out despite the lingering dimness of the sands that stymies even the most avid of bettors, because of course Vhaeryth would have to tell just one dragon, make that two, make that all of Fort and half of the Reaches and a good portion of his acquaintances elsewhere because his other sin is pride. Rukbat hasn't even bothered to show itself yet, but there's N'rov dragging himself out from the tunnels that eventually make their way to the weyrleaders' complex and Iesaryth's weyr; the Fortian's as yet attired in anything but fancy hatching duds, what with the patched cut-offs, the sailor's shirt whose wear at the elbows exactly matches his, the sandals and the scowl. "Yes," he says to his bronze. "Fine." His gaze swings to Iesaryth. "Look at her. She's relaxed. You could too, you know." Vhaeryth all but scowls back at him, every line of his body expressive, not to mention the mental weight that has N'rov melodramatically clutching his forehead and staggering towards the galleries, crying out for klah.

The fact that Rukbat isn't up and the way the shadows cast in the hatching caverns, there's a spot, even with the glows, on the benches that lets Gallagher be unobtrusive. He doesn't look tired. He doesn't even look like he's wishing he was still in bed. His even blue gaze is sliding from one egg to another to another. When N'rov appears, blue eyes are drawn by the voice. Perhaps he can't make out the words at first, but the melodramatic approach is noted with a raised eyebrow. Then he reaches for his mug of klah that was set with a second mug inconspicuously beside him on the bench.

Up the stairs N'rov staggers, clutching at the rail with a shameless lack of gravity, and he doesn't even have to look back over his shoulder to see how Vhaeryth is taking it. No, no doubt he can feel how Vhaeryth draws himself up, all four paws together and tail lashing once, the bronze turning away as though far more interested in how the little silver egg is rubbing up against its rusty neighbor. Which doesn't stop N'rov from fixing upon Gallagher as though he were haloed by that light, the rider's next steps taking him just far enough forward to be able to reach with one outstretched hand whose fingers just barely edge out of dimness. "Klah, by your mercy. Klah." Surely he can't really be so weak as to not go any further.

"You're lucky I got stood up." Gallagher's baritone has more inflection than usual: humor. Just a little. He reaches with his other hand to pick up the second mug of klah and rises just enough to stretch across the distance and hand over the klah mug. "Think you'll live long enough to see hatching?" The candidate asks, looking serious, but again, there's a tiny edge that seems to indicate some levity as he mercifully relinquishes the mug.

N'rov might be better at tugging his forelock if he'd only keep from clipping his hair; "Thank'y, yer lordship, thank'y. Very kind, an' a blessing on all your folk." Once he's retrieved that mug, he drapes himself on the railing and stares into it for a moment before allowing himself a swallow of that sweet, sweet-or-maybe-bitter nectar; black or creamy, sweet or anything but, he does not refuse. In much more of his normal tones, "That's the plan. If I don't, Shani'll kill me. How about you?" Gray eyes take on that much more light, observing the candidate. "Almost done."

"Has anyone ever told you you're a little dramatic?" Gallagher asks with raised brow. He might be amused, but now it's harder to tell. Truly, his eyebrows are probably the facial muscles that get the most exercise. Still, Gallagher must not find the drama too repugnant because he doesn't move to leave, simply shifting so he's better able to converse with the Fortian clutchsire. "I'm fairly surprised you're still alive now with the way she wields those looks." But then, as a candidate who's never really met the goldrider, he's probably been on the receiving end (or near it or heard about it) more often than the woman's beau. "And knives." Because, of course, the story of the flight has gone around the barracks. He doesn't answer N'rov's question immediately, his expression subtly changing to one of deep thought as he looks to the eggs. "Honestly? I didn't expect to still be here. I expected I'd've found a reason to leave, or they'd've kicked me out, or Aughan's captains would've called me back." His lips pull toward a tight line. "It feels... surreal, now, to know that I'm actually going to be out there. You know, unless you want to kick me out now," He lifts his brows half-offering the option to the man.

"Would you believe me if I said 'never'?" may be too amused to be a real question, but then again, N'rov leaves it open; he's also got an easy chuckle that might well be agreement for his girl and her knives, one that lingers into a reminiscent smile. Whatever he might have spoken of Shani, though, gets bypassed in light of the candidate's other considerations. He drinks. "Not on the to-do list, I'm pretty sure," he says with more seriousness. "At this point, unless you went and stabbed yourself or someone else, or turned out to be Tillek's between-timed heir (or maybe even then), you're in. If one of those eggs has your name in its heart, I don't want to see it looking and looking for you, or never hatching at all." That last, it doesn't sound like a hypothetical.

The things N'rov says sound like things Gallagher should respond to. They're engaging. There's lots to be said about what he might do that could change the clutchsire's mind between now and however many hours (or days) from now the eggs start to crack, but... In the end, the candidate doesn't respond to almost any of it. "I wonder," He starts, spring-boarding in his philosophical musings, "If the hatchlings can feel it now. If they already know if the one they want is out here. Or if some could go with one or another person, depending on who's on the sands. I wonder if the ones that don't hatch know their person isn't here, or and if the ones that do and look and look are the ones who know their person is near, or could be near if everything went exactly right, and it just doesn't." He's staring at the eggs. Maybe he's not even registering that he's talking to N'rov, only then he casts his eyes toward the bronzerider. "How much is predetermined and how much is discovered in the moment of hatching?"

Through this contemplation, N'rov leaves the other man be; he has, after all, his klah to drink. Sweetner hangs heavy at the bottom of the mug, fallen out of solution and mixing with the dregs, but he's not there yet. "Don't know," he says frankly, there at the end when Gallagher looks his way. "I'm inclined to think some of them are more flexible than others. But even the flexible ones... might need different things. Vhaeryth, last time, it seemed like he was picking up on that. But what I would say is, stand your ground."

"Must be interesting," Gallagher comments after a thoughtful pause and then slight nod, "To be privy to his thoughts as the hatching goes on. Does he think much about the pairings or the dragonets? Or is it mostly feelings rather than assessments, with him?" The candidate asks, tone holding a definable degree of curiosity.

"It's not just feelings," N'rov says, less definably disparagingly of that illogic but there all the same; then again, it's not defensive, just there. "It's a sort of knowing. What I was able to get out of it, anyway; keep in mind, we were dealing with chaos, more than usual, people on the sands that had been kicked out." Audibly it still chafes; audibly he's not reconciled. It may go some short distance toward explaining how protective they have been of their charges, along with the better-known thefts from that even earlier clutch.

Gallagher's nod this time is slightly smaller, "Some of them Impressed, right?" Maybe he thinks about asking something else, something more. Maybe it's the undefined disparagement that silences his other musings.

"Some did." Audibly, too, even less happy. N'rov hasn't been looking towards Gallagher for a while now; he still doesn't, even when he says, "It's not you. It's just hard not to wonder if the barracks collapse wasn't an accident, either. The queens' theft sure wasn't. We need to be able to count on each other, not-- that."

"Seems like there are too many things to wonder about these days. Too many untrustworthy and not enough of the opposite, if you ask me." Which, of course, N'rov didn't. But Gallagher volunteers it anyway. He shifts his gaze from eggs to man, "If it helps you sleep at night, this bunch of candidates seems solid. Only one or two, or maybe five I'd lose winks over."

"Definitely." But N'rov laughs then, shortly. "'Only' five." He surveys the clutch. He could use a shave, his jaw rough and dark like that; if his nose has ever been broken, it's been particularly well set. "Were you here, did you see it when both queens were on the sands? Imagine what it would have been like in Pass. The barracks full. Raiding the caverns, younger and younger until the place about ran out."

"I saw the hatching, but wasn't about before that." Gallagher answers the first, and then a smile slides onto his lips. Yep, an actual dimple-revealing smile. "I've actually imagined several times. At least about the barracks being full and the younger candidates. Did you know one of ours is only thirteen?" Beat. "My sister's Standing, too. She's only fifteen." He shakes his head, "Sometimes I feel out of place in the barracks. Too old by comparison to almost all the rest. At least one of them's twenty-three, but, still..."

N'rov gives the other man a second look at that, then investigates his mug: it may just be the sweetened dregs, but he'll drink them anyway. Until, "I did hear about that. Yes." Not pleased there either. "There was one of those at Fort. Or maybe she was fourteen, but then she went and Impressed green and Vhaeryth..." He slides a look at his bronze and lets his dark shrug speak for him. "At least fifteen, that's nigh on a woman, especially after another Turn." Though he doesn't say it covetously; if anything, his tone is subtly distant, more even than a man might use to speak of another's sister. "There were a few of us in our twenties, some who Impressed. It was easier. We wound up staying together more after the hatching, too."

Gallagher frowns. The source is easy enough to guess. It's not much of a reach to imagine his thought process that took him from 'young girl Impressing green and getting flown too soon by a bronze' to 'his sister Impressing green and getting flown at all.' Time for a topic change! "I imagine some get close with their weyrling groups. I can't imagine being particularly close to any of these candidates, even if we all share the common experience of Impressing and learning together. None of them seem to mesh with me." He glances to the eggs, "Another reason I wonder sometimes what I'm doing here. It's not like I didn't have a life. I wasn't just some stablehand or a handyman. I had a whole life. A whole fulfilling life. And yet... here I am. Taking this chance on letting it all go."

Topic change, yes! "Maybe you won't, if you Impress. Maybe you'll wind up getting along better with the weyrling staff, or the grown riders. Or maybe you'll change and they'll change too." And N'rov will be gone. He is eyeing Gallagher rather dryly, though not without sympathy, given that uptick to his mouth that isn't quite a smirk. "In the meantime, here you are, you and your life, maybe or maybe not looking for that reason to leave. Another comet, say, sent down from Great Faranth herself."

Gallagher's lips twitch. "You think she would oblige?" He questions, deadpan.

"Someone's going to bet on it." But N'rov's gaze is drawn inexorably back to the sands; for all the cabin fever Vhaeryth's exhibited over the past few sevendays, and N'rov himself for that matter, today... today is different. The dragon paces; the man can't slouch any longer. He straightens, reaching to offer an easy clap to the other man's shoulder. "I'm needed." It could be hyperbole; his tone suggests, just subtly, it might not be. "Good luck down there, yeah? It won't be much longer." One way or another.

"Thanks. I'll try to dodge the comet when it comes for me." Gallagher answers, his smirk sliding onto his lips. He raises the last of his klah and adds, "Here's hoping this hatching's less eventful than your last." And down the hatch it goes before he, too, is rising and forcing himself to walk to the exit. He didn't come here to while away the hours watching eggs, not even when it's this close. Right?