Difference between revisions of "Logs:The New Weyrleaders"

It begins with, "K'del," and ends with a choked sound. Irianke's arrival in the council chambers is mere steps after K'del's. Has she seen the fire struck bazaar? There's the smell of smoke on her clothing and in her curls, but it isn't a deep-rooted scent. The goldrider's throat clears and she finishes her steps in, claiming the back of a seat for her hands to run up and down along, until finally she grips the sides of the chair to forcibly still them. "What happened." Let's start with the easy question first.

K'del smells, unreservedly, like smoke and fire and ash. His shirt is untucked. When he turns, his face is streaked with ash and he looks-- no, not lost, not wholly, but certainly as though it is taking sheer force of will not to be. "Irianke," he says, thickly, as he stands behind his own chair, as yet unable to sit. "Wasn't there when it started," he says. "Fire broke out. In one of the tents. It spread, and-- she was trapped inside. Hraedhyth tried to get to her and couldn't." His voice falters. "We all knew and we couldn't do anything."

"Jays." The less emphatic swear word falls from her lips, somehow carrying far more emotion and meaning in its innocuousness than other expletives. Irianke holds her cheeks, sliding those hands down her neck and looks to the skies. "Burned alive. Any other casualities? I've asked Giorda to keep a straight head on this evening and start," yet another, "Census. The Weyr is locked down, Niahvth won't let anyone leave or arrive. I... K'del. Your Weyr." It sounds too silly to say, but what she wants to is written in all the dragon-induced grief, shock, and fear sketched into her face. Cursed.

Burned alive. K'del flinches, though of course it's an accurate description. There's no second flinch for that word she doesn't say; just a nod, barely present, that more or less acknowledges it. "Injuries," he says, quietly. "Don't know more than that. Cadejoth's watching. Fire's dying down, I think. It-- fuck, Irianke. Will you stay?" It gets followed, his gaze suddenly downcast, by, "Wouldn't blame you for wanting to run back to Igen."

A shiver shakes her shoulders and draws her hands more tightly about her waist. Tiny movements give away what Irianke is thinking. The open mouthed, inaudible exhale. The nervous slant of her eyes back up to the ceiling before dropping quickly to look past K'del's shoulder. The visible swallow that ends with her teeth down on her lower lip. Finally, her hands from around her waist to up into her hair once more, taming the bed-tousled curls inadvertently with the rake of her fingers. "Do I have a choice?" asks the duty-bound goldrider, a wry tinge to her exhausted voice. "Even if I had a choice," which she clearly doesn't believe she does, "I would stay. Will you?"

K'del holds his breath as if he's not sure of Irianke's answer-- and perhaps he's not, not given everything-- his eyes flickering open and closed several times as he waits. It's only once she has answered that he releases that breath, his shoulders easing back to more manageable levels of tension - which is to say, far from relaxed, even now. "For as long as High Reaches needs me," he says, quietly.

"I am very sorry for your loss," is finally said. "I can't claim to mourn Azaylia like the Weyr might nor have I had such loss in my own life. But I can feel it, running in my veins from Niahvth absorbing, feeling, returning all the grief of the Reachian dragons comingled with her own. She is," Irianke says, her voice quiet and her fingers returned to dance delicately on the back of the chair, "Reaches. I'm so sorry, K'del."

Hesitating, K'del licks his lips; he looks as though the act of speaking, now, might be enough to tip him over the edge into the grief that he shouldn't-- yet-- give in to. But he swallows, nodding mutely. And then, finally: "So am I. Knew her since long before she Impressed. Been a long time since we were good friends, the way we used to be, but-- it's just too much death." But he shakes his head, and when he speaks again, his voice is firmer. "But we need to focus. There's too much to do. How can I support you?"

Something he says speaks to Irianke on a level he might not have meant, the weyrwoman looking, for a moment, puzzled at the Weyrleader. How can I support you? might be the mantra of her life and to hear them back at her. "I... We will survive the night. We should have a full investigation of the bazaar and discover the cause of the fire and the cause of death. Given the Weyr's history and the recent murder at High Reaches Hold, I can't rule out murder. So, for the time being, I'd appreciate you not leaving the Weyr and always keeping a body man at your side."

'Murder' is another word that sends the little hairs on K'del's arms standing up, but he manages to restrain his reaction to a simple nod. "Of course," is what he says, after only a moment's pause. "On all counts. A full investigation." A pause. "We'll have to write to the Holds. Formal introductions can wait until after the hatching, to give us time to focus inwards, but-- after that." He presses his hands more tightly against the wood of the chair in front of him, focusing his gaze upon the grain.

There's a nod for the introductions, an approving light brightening her stone blue eyes. "There is one more matter I can think of now that can wait until later for further discussion." Irianke begins this with delicate words phrased just so.

K'del's brows raise, a question written there that-- at the moment-- he lacks the words to say aloud.

For all her nerves up to this point, Irianke's voice is surprisingly cool and controlled. "I plan on informing Nimae that the death of Azaylia has negated the deal and that our Weyr has more need of our dragons than Igen. She may renegotiate with High Reaches' new Weyrleaders if she wishes."

K'del is too surprised by this pronouncement to properly register the details, although no doubt he would appreciate those two 'ours' for all that they are, now, only to be expected. His, "Nimae won't be pleased," is not, when it comes, condemnation; it's more thoughtful, and the nod that accompanies it does appear to be both supportive and approving. "But you're right. It's too important, now. I'll back you up unreservedly."

"Thank you." Irianke holds out a hand. "I know I'm not your favorite person, but I promise," the goldrider says, earnestness pushes past the fatigue of the last few weeks, "I will take care of the Weyr until the next gold rises. Let's hope Niahvth's daughter selects well."

K'del's eyes linger on that hand for a moment before he reaches to take it, shaking-- and then squeezing-- it carefully. "I don't for a minute doubt your capability," he says. "Or your intentions. Thank you, Irianke." He means it; all his exhaustion and grief is tangled up in those words, but they're tempered by hope-- small, quiet, but present.

Irianke, impulsively, turns that hand shake into a pull that draws him into her arms for a hug. "Try to sleep tonight. Drink if you have to. Rest," she advises in a murmur, "Tomorrow will be an exhausting day. Good night, K'del."

K'del is, in the end, easily pulled, his own arms wrapping around the goldrider in return. It's only brief, but small comforts are comforts, all the same. "I'll try," he promises. "You, too. And if you need anything..." But for now? "Good night, Irianke."