Difference between revisions of "Logs:The Call"

It's been raining all day in a steady, droll downpour that didn't seem like it was going to stop until recently. Now that it's had the good courtesy to become a drizzle, the area is mushy and muddy but at least tolerable, and Faryn has perched herself on one of the fences with a hide to watch the beasts within. They're coming from beneath the shelter at the rear of their enclosure, slowly but surely, and some are even nosing through the mud and muck to find whatever tasty scraps of grass weren't drowned. For once, there are no dragons; it's just the herder and her hide, hunched with a rake leaned on the fence beside her that is soaked through. Whatever she's scratching onto the hide is important, or at least must be, if her grumbled invective is any indication when a group of the beast startles and sends half the herds thundering to the other end of the enclosure, mixing them all back up.

Along comes an Igenite, his stride purposeful and measured. Zadkiel's checking the fence methodically, pressing on posts and rails with a periodic grunt of judgment from time to time. A hooded cloak does a fine job of covering the bulk of his person, with fleeting glimpses of his brightly colored tunic beneath being revealed. A matching kerchief is tied around his head like a bandana and he may or may not be wearing a sash - it's hard to tell. Boots and breeches finish the outfit and he couldn't possibly look less uncomfortable for it all. At least the hood is back, now that the rain has settled down; considering how soaked he is, he must have been out in the mess for a while beforehand. The shifting of herds is enough to draw his attention and he pauses in his duties to watch the flow of beasts as they mingle together. He's not so far from where Faryn's perched - easily within conversational range - but it's hard to tell if he's even noticed anyone else is here.

With a sigh, Faryn is nimbly up, balancing precariously on the fence but not climbing down. She seems to be ready to start again, and from the beginning, so without ever really dismounting she balances on her rail, making her way towards Zadkiel, with her eyes focused alternately between the beast - who settle, as is their wont - and her footing, especially when she's stepping over a post. Or isn't, as the case may be. "Hi," she says, startled. "What are you -" she looks at him, at what he's doing and then more critically of what he's wearing, before realizing, "You're fixing the fence?"

There's only a slight sidelong slide of his gaze at the first sign of movement in his peripheral vision. Zadkiel rests a callused hand on the rail and considers her from that oblique angle. The queerly melodic hum-grunt he offers will have to suffice as greeting. "No," and, even with that one word, his accent is brazenly Igenite. "I am checking to see if fixing is necessary. Someone mentioned a couple of weak rails. Not sure where." Brows lift slightly, matching the upward jerk of his chin. "And you? Counting the stock?" It's less a question and more a presumptive observation - but there it is.

There's a spark of recognition in the woman's eye, but instead of commenting on whatever sparks it she points a ways down, nearly to the end of this particular track, and says, "They're over there. One of them's eaten almost straight through." She adjusts her balance, settles on the fence near him until he's done, just in case he doesn't see fit to take her word for it. It's not like her foot's gone straight through that particular section. "As you can see, they're not sitting still. I'm just waiting for a dragon to overfly them, the idiots." She's watching him, though, so very curious, even when she pulls her hide into her lap again and starts counting. After a moment, "You got searched the night of the clutching party, yeah?"

There's another of those grunts and Zadkiel thumps the bit of rail he's next to. Wordlessly, he goes to inspect that section of the fence; equally wordlessly, he pulls a small bit of hide from his pocket and starts to sketch. "Thank you," isn't the afterthought it seems; clearly, the need to document the situation is paramount to his task. Only when he's done does he tilt his gaze toward her, keeping her just in the periphery of his sight. "Beasts just do what the blood tells them to do. They can't help it. All we can do is observe - and learn." One shoulder rises and falls in a shallow, lopsided shrug. He jots a little more down - or, rather, would be jotting, were it not for that query. He sucks his teeth. "I was. The rider that Searched me suffered for it."

The herder is content to count, glancing at him every so often just in case he needs help finding it better than her vague pointing. When it's clear he doesn't she scratches out her entire original count, starts again. "It does not change their intelligence," she acknowledges, watching a pair of herdbeast lumber towards the fence. "The herdbeasts aren't the best to learn from, regardless. Unless you need to learn how to startle over any changes to your environment and run like a coward. There are better creatures. Smarter ones." To Faryn's great benefit, she doesn't even smile at the recollection of the fight, such as it was and could have been. "I'm pretty sure that was his own fault," she says, neutrally.

"No," he intones. "Their blood is smarter than some people. You can learn their patterns. What sets them to stampede. Why they go in the directions they go." Zadkiel ventures further down to make a few more notes, but he eventually comes back around to where she is. He pulls himself onto the fence with ease - and a sense of grace that might seem incongruent with his height. He clicks his tongue and leans forward, elbows on thighs, while he watches - beasts and sky alike. "Perhaps," he ventures. "But if he had not done what he did, that situation would not have existed. He is..." here, he pauses, only to give up his search mere seconds after it had begun, "... concerned that they might try to send me back." His tone, like hers, is neutral on the idea.

Presumably, Faryn is still working while she listens, her eyes on the bovine. At least one of them finds something tasty below the mud and digs in, chomping on whatever it comes up with - mostly mud. She's scratching on her own hide, but glances up to watch all but the two bovines close to them wend back into a loosely-formed herd again. "Smarter than some, yes." But not all, she doesn't say. Probably not even most. "I've not heard that," she says, "but that doesn't mean anything. It'd be pretty cruel, even if you're Igen." Her way of saying things makes that particular gem sounds more brusque than she means it to, but if she notices, she doesn't correct. "There are Candidates now who will be sent to Igen, after they're Impressed and able to go, whether they want to or not. Is your situation worse than theirs?"

His attention drifts from the herd to the nearest beasts. It's little more than a subtle tip of his head and a slight shift of his gaze; just enough movement to look and nothing more. Zadkiel is otherwise unmoving, settling easily into hunter-mode when there's little else for him to do. "Cruel? Irianke's beast was the one that wanted me sent back. I do not know this place well, but I know Igen - and those of it - can be among the cruelest. Harsh land; harsh people. But-" a slight movement of his arm reveals his twin knots - 'Reaches at the shoulder, Igen at the hip "-they will have to take those from me if they intend to send me back before I Stand." Another motion and the cloak settles over the knots again. "They chose to answer the call, despite knowing that they might be sent there. I answered knowing that I would be returning home after - on borrowed wings or not. My temporary situation? Worse for now - but it will be better. I cannot say the same for the rest." A beat. Two. Then: "Do you dread the idea of going there?"

His revelation gives her enough pause that she is chewing the inside of her cheek, somewhat anxious. "Did she, now?" Faryn asks, rhetorically. Her hands fold in her lap, the hide forgotten for the moment, even though the herds will drift always from one place to the next, even in such a small enclosure. She looks at his knots, and their respective places, giving him a smile that doesn't quite touch her eyes. "That's odd. I would have thought a guaranteed Igenite would be more than welcome, if they're sending people anyways." She makes a small sound in the back of her throat. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe they won't send you back? Maybe you'll be on borrowed wings in a borrowed weyr, until you're allowed to transfer." She cuts him a sideways look. "I wouldn't want to go, no. But, well," she flicks her knot, softly, "I'm not Standing yet."

"That is my understanding of things," which is as honest about it as he can be. Shoulders rise. Fall. "You would think so. You would think, too, that the riders here would be Searching Igen Weyr and the area around it for those who would be happy about the idea of going back. And yet." He turns his head away and spits to a side with disdain. "Politics." It's her next question that pulls his gaze back around to her and his expression is a grim one. "I will be going back." And there is no room for discussion. Something sharp and savage cuts across his features in that moment, only to settle again. To grow subdued. Slightly. "I've started asking that of anyone who is of age to answer the call - or ask to Stand. I understand that is how some do it. It is interesting to hear of how few would want to go. How few are willing. It does not bode well for Igen." He clicks his tongue and leaves it at that.

"Politics," Faryn snorts in response. At least their impression of those seem to match, though she doesn't feel the need to spit about it. Still busy watching the horses, contemplative, she catches his expression when he surprises her with the ferocity of his claim. "We'll see," she says. "If Irianke didn't want you here, what's to say she'll want you to follow her back? I half wonder what you've done to make her so mad." One of the cows is close now, and it noses at her leg, tries to take her pant into it's mouth, and it's shoved away without regard. "Over there, stupid," is for the cow, and then for Zadkiel, "That's it, though. It feels like everyone wants a dragon when they're young - I did - but now that I'm older?" She hitches one shoulder in a shrug, her indifference plain. "I could Stand, sure. But if I don't impress gold," her tone is clear what she thinks of that particular proposition, "I'm going to be another political pawn. Probably one baking in Igen."

"Irianke's desires are of no concern to me. She is not the Weyrleader." Zadkiel pushes up to stand on the railing for just a moment before he drops down, outside of the feeding grounds. As for what he did, that's not a matter he seems able - or willing, to discuss. It's worth another round of spit to the side. "I answer the call," he replies blandly. "But I never hold my breath. I cannot understand those that hope and dream of becoming a rider. Those that would sooner die than live without a dragon." His mouth twists to one side. "Perhaps it is a quality of youth." The resulting shrug is indifferent. It's to the last that he finally issues one of those nearly musical hum-grunts from much earlier. "You would be. On both counts. Same as the rest of those that Impress - gold or otherwise. The question is: whose pawn would you rather be?" His decision has already been made - as has another, as he starts to turn on a booted heel, in preparation to continue down the fence line.

"Maybe not," she acquiesces, "but I'm sure he won't make the decision alone." The herder's brows have dropped down above her nose, all the better to knit them together while she listens to him, watches him stand and drop off the fence. "Maybe just one that has some autonomy left, whatever I choose to do." She says it quietly, her gaze following Zadkiel as he stands to go. "Nobody's would be preferential. I'm not sure there's a lesser evil in handlers when you're just there to make way for another piece." She takes up her hide in direct response, not making any attempt to keep him any longer. "It was nice to finally meet you, Zadkiel," she adds, though there is some strain on the word nice that says maybe it's not he word she was looking for. "Good luck, while you're here."

"Or maybe he'll be replaced by then." Still, his thoughts are concealed behind grim neutrality. For good or ill, that reality is also entirely possible. Zadkiel listens - but there is no response to the rest of what she says. No need. There's just a purposeful press of one booted foot against a post to test its fidelity, a test that it passes satisfactorily. It's not until the very end, when farewells are meant to be dispensed, that he speaks. And his words are condensed into a single, utilitarian: "Likewise." He lifts his chin slightly, then turns fully to take his leave.