Difference between revisions of "Logs:Debts Paid"

The tail end of dinner finds Irianke in her weyr once more, shedding her work clothing and donning on the Pernese equivalent of yoga pants, tank top, and a high ponytail. A glass of wine is already in her hand and a light hum resonates in the large cavern as she does random dance steps from wall to wall, furniture to furniture. A mop left behind by a cleaner fills in for a partner.

It's not the sort of scene that Rafevan expected himself to walk into, that's for sure. It's there in the pause of his footsteps on the stone, in the half-open-to-speak mouth that doesn't begin its thought. Instead, he smiles, slow wondering, watching the Weyrwoman dance for several long seconds before he clears his throat to announce his presence. "Weyrwoman."

Towards the end of her dancing, she's whirling rapidly, her feet moving with an otherwordly sort of grace and when he clears his throat to interrupt, she's winding down enough that the word Weyrwoman does not careen her into a wall. "Oh," the slow die down halts completely and Irianke turns slowly to catch sight of the intruder. For a half breath, she's completely devoid of the trappings of her rank and life, some semblance of her younger life visible. And then, it's gone, and the warm smile that surfaces is no less genuine in spite of the cultivated mask quality. "You're the smith apprentice. What can I do for you, Rafevan?"

"Don't let me interrupt," nevermind that he already has. Rafevan still puts on the appropriate apologies, glancing from her to her mop with bemusement in his eyes. "I'm not sure your partner's interested in letting me cut in. I'm sure he's better at it than I am, at any rate."

"You'd be surprised, good sir," responds the goldrider archly, "What a good mop is, in fact, capable of." Thankfully, she doesn't elaborate, the mop set against the wall she's nearest. Irianke wipes her hands against her casual pants and gestures towards her chaise area. "How have you been? The last I saw of you, you were significantly in your cups and oddly morose. Though," she concedes with a considering downward pull of her lips, "The last month has been an exercise in not being terrified of our own mortality."

"I'll take your word for it, ma'am," Rafevan tells Irianke then, though he follows her gesture to seat himself on the edge of her chair. He doesn't really relax into it, though. "It has been that," comes his slow agreement with her latter words. "Though, I think, in some ways, it's been... not good, but..." Shy the word, he stumbles for a moment and finally offers, "A different light makes so many of our differences seem petty. Even the weyrlingmaster seems less--vitriolic." He slants a look over at Irianke, calculating.

After offering Rafevan the chairs, she seats herself on the floor, dropping with grace into an immediate criss-cross leg style. "It's been enlightening," she fills in the word he might have meant, only the slightest hint of question in her tone. As for the weyrlingmaster, she says nothing, but his calculating look is met with a level stare, the unspoken question or encouragement resting in brows arced up.

Rafevan touches his lips for a moment before gesturing to Irianke: she's stolen the word from him. He ducks his head a moment later, though, with an expression more sheepish than anything. "I hope I didn't overstep my bounds, with my note," unsigned, but damning for Quinlys, "but it seemed... something you should know."

Was she aware? She must have been, but there's no change on the absolute neutral of her expression. "Thank you. I did. It was a difficult position to be in, but I approached the Weyrleader who," Irianke purses her lips and doesn't continue. No apologies. No explanation. Just an ending of words. "But you do have my thanks for looking out for the best interests of the Weyr we are both interlopers in."

A nod acknowledges that thank you; Rafevan doesn't press about K'del. Instead, "This place is... somewhat unexpectedly, more home than I thought it would be," he ventures after a moment. "Which is why, in light of everything lately, I'm reluctant to leave. My craft, however, feels a return to the Hall would serve my education better." He doesn't agree, judging by the unhappy twist of his lips.

"Oh?" Interest brightens Irianke's countenance, her consideration of Rafevan deepening. "But you've done extraordinarily well here. We've read your report and am fully committed to discovering what structural damages there might be and how the Weyr might aid in making our Weyr a safer place." It's clear she considers Rafevan an instrumental person to this whole process until another thought occurs to her, "An early promotion perhaps?"

"No." Rafevan works hard not to let that simple answer sound bitter; he's halfway successful, at least. "My craft and I don't seem to share a vision for my future much at present. I've found myself somewhat less interested in the things I thought I enjoyed, of late." Considering his mopery after the cave in, it's not quite so much of a stretch to believe, maybe: is the stress of such crises too much? "I had hoped that I might be able to ask a favor of you in return."

"For the weyrlingmaster." Irianke is forthright about what the returned favor would be for. "You may ask."

A pause. Rafevan lacks her bluntness, but he agrees to it in the end, nodding: "For the weyrlingmaster. I would like to stand for your lifemate's clutch."

Irianke's pursed lips expel a soft hiss at his ultimate favor. She leans back, her crossed legs unfolding and spreading out in front of her. "That," she begins, "Is highly irregular. As a crafter here, technically this is your place of residence, but you do not have the right to ask to Stand as a non Weyr resident." The explanation is as much for her benefit, to piece out the train of thought going on in her head, as it might be for him. "Are you using my dragons to escape an unfavorable Hall situation, Rafevan?"

"Let me rephrase, then," suggests Rafevan after a moment, blowing out a breath. "I would like to be searched for your lifemate's clutch." Technicalities. The latter question is less easily worked around, though: Rafevan has to think about it. "I had someone--one of your candidates--tell me the other day that she considered her craft the equivalent of 'putting sheets on a bed.' Necessary, menial, but nothing more. Is a crafter not appreciating her craft less damning than my belief that mine doesn't appreciate me?"

"Was she honestly Searched?" is Irianke's quiet question, her limbs starting to move in all sorts of limber and stretchy ways. She is not still in this conversation, slow, deliberate movements twisting her torso to one side and the other and lifting her arms above her head, only to have them come down to stretch to her feet.

"The dragons would know." Rafevan does not, his shoulders lifting in a faintly apologetic shrug. He's silent a moment, then rubs at his face. "They want me to return to the hall. They want me to wait months, maybe a turn or better before journeyman. If they saw a brighter future for me with the craft, neither of these things would be true. But they are. And I like it here, and I have been useful here. I'd like the opportunity to stay." A pause; he considers. "I hope Niavth will forgive me any offense in the request."

Dryly, "It is less Niahvth's forgiveness you'd need than mine." Irianke brings her legs together, knees bent and slowly rises. "I do not forget my debts, Rafevan, and will consider this one paid the moment I ask, will you do me the honor of Standing for my dragon's clutch?" It is done, and she looks down on the seated man, expectantly.

"Her teeth are bigger," says Rafe by way of apology. "And I've never seen her dance with a mop." The attempt at levity is a little flat, his smile rueful when he meets her expression and nods, once. The die is cast. "I will, Weyrwoman."

"What," asks Irianke, "Will you do when you do not Impress?"

Rafevan hesitates, for that instant the concern visible in his expression. "I don't know."

"You cannot run forever." Irianke says this while walking to her table and writing out something on a small slip of paper. "Know I don't approve of this, but you have asked and I am in no position to deny you your opportunity for a different, possibly better, life." The goldrider turns and holds the paper out. "Present this to the Headwoman and she will situate your. I will write to your mentors here and explain that you have been Searched, without the details of who Searched you and hope they will not care to investigate further." The acting Weyrwoman pauses. "Should you Impress, I will want to hear your actual reasons for switching your life's goal as your smith talents are immeasurable in their worth."

There are many things he could say right now. Rafevan opts for none of them, accepting the paper mutely until he can read over it. He folds it next, sliding it into his jacket pocket for the time being. Then, "Thank you, Weyrwoman."