Difference between revisions of "Logs:The Problem with Boreal"

Books. Scrolls. Bound hides. Maps. If it's a record pertaining to the Weyr, it's likely to be in this roughly oval room with its floor-to-ceiling cherrywood shelves, its multitude of slots for scrolls, and its wide drawers for materials that shouldn't be rolled up or folded. A scribe is usually on duty at the tall desk up front with its good view of the room, and is able to help visitors find what they're looking for via the big bound index on its rotating stand. Past the desk, several tables stand in neat rows for note-taking, each stocked with glowbaskets, scrap hide, paper and pencils. Additional lighting is provided by a many-armed wrought-iron light fixture, its glows gleaming through luxurious glass containers in fluted shapes instead of baskets.

To one side of the room, a gap between two sets of shelves outlines where another set once stood, now replaced by a tapestry-covered aperture. Peeking behind the tapestry reveals another cavern, this one likewise full of shelves, but occupied by only a few boxes of older records and a somewhat musty air of disuse. As well, two narrow but solid doors are locked when the room is unattended and a discreet staircase provides direct access from the Weyrleaders' weyrs.

There hasn't yet been a scheduled meeting of the Wingleaders since Taikrin took over-- one is scheduled for early next sevenday. Still, it was only a matter of time before a runner -- an actual weyrbrat, not a firelizard- or dragon-delivered message, but an actual weyrbrat with an actual slip of paper -- came to find Z'ian to inform him that he had a meeting with the Weyrleader in the Records Room just after lunch. Taikrin is here, holding court over an entire table all her own that's been covered over with flight formations, coverage maps, and what looks to be a list of the sweeps for the last sevenday.

That note probably made his lunch very appetizing... or maybe not. Because Z'ian shows up just a few minutes earlier than Taikrin might be expecting him to. He arrives in her little section of the records room quietly, eyes grazing over the table covered with all different things. He raps his knuckles against one of the shelves to announce his being there before he begins to pull his gloves off, stuffing them into the pockets of his jacket. He's not an antagonistic presence like some of the Wingleaders might be, he's more of the carefully neutral variety.

"Z'ian," Taikrin greets as she looks up, unsurprised by his presence whether a few minutes early or not. "Come on over, pull up a chair." She doesn't rise, nor does she make any effort to conceal what it is she's working on. "Hope I ai-- am not interrupting anything too important?" Her own smile is carefully neutral, cautiously professional.

He moves away from the shelving, crossing the room with another casual glance for her work. But it doesn't prompt any verbal response from him. There's Taikrin, a chair and then another chair and he chooses the other chair. Not far away, but enough to leave space. Z'ian catches the slip in speech and shakes his head. "You don't have to do that. Correct, you know, whatever." The ain't for the am. It's not said unkindly or brusquely, but carefully still. "But no, nothing that's really important." He watches her expectantly, waiting for her to move the conversation forward.

Something in Taikrin's expression tightens at Z'ian's reminder, but she only offers a tight smile before barreling on forward. "Good. So-- it's been a wild couple of sevendays for the both of us, looks like. I wanted to have a chance to talk to you, one-on-one, private-like. Get your thoughts on what happened with you and S'varis. Hard thing for a Weyr, losing three Wingleaders in the span of a couple months."

Z'ian doesn't comment so much on the wildness of life that he and Taikrin apparently share right now. His eyebrows lift and expression remains expectant, curious for her purpose all the way through her deliver of what the conversation is to be about. "Me and S'varis." He exhales slowly through his mouth and rolls his shoulders. "Was there something you specifically wanted more details on? He went to Telgar to try and sway Teris to return. Spoke to her Weyrleaders. I found that out when I went looking into rumors that it was K'del. Took a friend and went to have a chat. He didn't take kindly to chatting, but we found out what we needed to know. That he got backing from N'mos." He purses his lips briefly, "The rest is known. Boreal is hurting from the shake up. Their pride is cut and the Weyr is watching them." The last is carefully put.

Did Taikrin know about all this before? Maybe, maybe not. She manages to keep her expression mostly impassive, except for a short inhale when Z'ian reveals how far up the Telgar chain the conspiracy went. But then she's clearing her throat and nodding, all consummate control once more. "Taking action was the right thing to do-- we can't brook outside interference. Can't say I'm overly pleased you all went around me to do it, but... I ain't going to argue it was the right thing." Her fingers fold together atop the maps, then, and she fixes Z'ian with a look. "It does put me in a bit of a spot, though, with you and Boreal. Puts Boreal in a difficult position, too, as a wing. Bad enough the situation with Iceberg, but..."

"You weren't named Acting Weyrleader at that point." Z'ian points out, smoothly and without much emotion. "H'kon and I are wingmates. It seemed the logical choice given the variety of options I had available to me at the time. Something I wasn't sure I had a lot of." Time that is. If being fixed with looks is something that sets the bronzerider on edge, it's difficult to tell. He appears to be relatively relaxed. "Can't see as how, if I can be honest." He stretches his legs out under the table and takes another breath. Maybe it's a steadying one. "There isn't a person in this Weyr more invested in turning Boreal around than me," This time he fixes her with a look, something more alive. Assessing. "And yourself, perhaps. If the well being of the wings is truly important to you."

"No? You sure? Not another Boreal rider, or a rider that's been in the Weyr at all for more than a turn?" Taikrin's not making accusations, and there's no heat in the way she musingly lays out the facts. "As said by our Weyrwoman, H'kon and I had equal power of the wings. Well, now it's just me as much as I'd like to have his help. I got the best interests of the Weyr and Wings and Weyrwomen at heart, more'n most around here. I'll be straight with you-- I've had nothing but trouble with a lot of the riders of the bronzes Szadath beat, and I'm all out of time to be buying more. You say you want to turn Boreal around, well-- are you going to work with me to do it, or are we going to have more trouble?"

"Taikrin, I've been riding for High Reaches since I impressed here sixteen turns ago." If they're coolly laying out facts. "I broke Boreal when I went digging around. There are riders in that Wing, if given the chance would go to Telgar or another weyr in a heartbeat. I started down this path when I confronted S'varis and I've every intention of seeing it through. I don't want those riders known as traitors. I'll turn Boreal around." One eyebrow arches, "I don't see how it is we're here to talk about H'kon." Z'ian leans back in his chair and unbuttons his jacket, digging in it for a piece of folded paper. "Honestly, I'm getting tired of the fight. For what good it's done a single one of us. Which isn't much." He bites down on his lip, possibly the only real sign of a troubled expression he's let show so far. And the real answer to her question comes when he pushes that smoothed out sheet to her. Summarizing what's on it out loud, "I filled the Wingsecond spots. Two riders from inside, been in for at least a decade both. I'm working with Avalanche and Taiga to see what we can do about moving around the riders that are trouble."

Taikrin remains more or less impassive, save for little tells: a twitch at the corner of her eyes, small tightening of her lips, slight increase in breath rate. When he concedes the list, though, she breaks gaze to glance down at the paper. "I don't want to see us fight each other," she clarifies after a moment. "I ain't interested in it. Done is done. My interest is in moving forward and making this work-- with people who will work with me." When she glances up again at Z'ian, her gaze is expectant. But then she's also adding, "... Snowdrift. Rather than Taiga. Mielline runs a tight operation, and I reckon it's an easier transition if they're staying in the same flight."

There's that tension that hangs in the air, until she breaks it herself to look down at the information provided. "I'd rather they be forced into a longer transition in Taiga. It's harder to mutiny when you're still adjusting to life again, it's more about everyone else and less them exactly." Z'ian is looking down at the paper, his eyebrows drawing together thoughtfully rather than disagreeably. He glances up at her, "K'del is in Taiga." He takes another breath and leans forward, dropping his elbows onto the table. "Snowdrift, alright." The bronzerider watches her a moment and looks like he's about to say something before he gives his head a quick, shuttling away whatever thought was there. "I'm not going to work against you. But my focus is in fixing the mess I have right in front of me."

Their wingmate started out in drills, yesterday. Halfway through, after challenging the lines too many times for her rider's sanity, she left. Since then, she's lurked above the caverns, a condensed exhale that, minute by minute, becomes a fizz of static. (Vrianth to all Glacier dragons)

"I'm aware," Taikrin says flatly, about K'del. "Part of fixing this mess is making sure we ain't keeping on with this us versus them business. Some of you supported H'kon. Well, fine. Done is done. But you got me now, and I ain't about to let the Weyr keep sliding into two halves. I been thinking about doing a few other transfers-- some Glacier for Iceberg, maybe. I ain't got it all figured out yet." A hand sweeps idly to indicate the papers she's been working on, before she purses her lips again at his paper. "If you got names of likely sorts, I'll see what I can do to help find the right places for 'em." Taikrin leans back in her chair, then, and for a moment looks tired before she manages to put the public mask back on. "I ain't asking for your undying loyalty or your firstborn, only that you work with me for the good of the Weyr. I can't fight you lot and protect us al--" Whatever else she was going to say is lost when she half-jumps out of her chair in genuine surprise. "Scorch it!"

To Vrianth, Szadath surges, instinct making him push ice-cold tendrils against the reach of that static. Challenge rises, rises, and then-- deflates. Drums. Drums in the deep.

Z'ian shakes his head quickly. "I didn't mean it that way. I was just grappling with the idea that you wouldn't feel comfortable with the Boreal riders of that inclination around K'del. That's all. It was thinking I should have been doing inside my own head." She sweeps her hand to the papers and he offers a very brief, but honest, "My apologies." He observes the tired expression that takes her but has the good taste to not comment on it. "You wouldn't want my first born anyway. He's got a mouth." It's a flash of wry humor for her, just a flash because she's jumping out of her chair suddenly. Slow and cautious, "Are... you alright?"

There, on the wind: a drift of static, sharpening. (Vrianth to Tsanth)

She senses it, shivers against it, that cold... and lets him feel it, the sensual tinge of might-have-been. Of what-won't-be. And then she abandons him to the drumbeat. (Vrianth to Szadath)

Taikrin takes in a shaky breath, then slowly sets herself back down into her seat. "Yeah. Fine. Vrianth's just taking off, looks like. Szadath's chased her before, and-- well. Apparently she felt it necessary to tease." There's a flush in her cheeks, and for a moment the look she gives Z'ian is painfully genuine, the exasperation of one male-rider to another. Greens. "I'm sorry. Where were we?" She scrubs a hand briefly back through the bristly hair on her head, and attempts to re-focus on the papers. "Boreal. Yes. I'd rather not make that particular situation with Taiga any worse. I do appreciate the thought." This, too, is genuine-- Vrianth must have been impressive.

To Vrianth, Tsanth is aware, always of the wind. It stirs the sands and the static, alerts him. Wakes him.

There's something like laughter, now, a teasing frisson that's passing by, siding by, away and soon to be gone. She just has one little thing to do... first. (Vrianth to Tsanth)

PROTECT THE EGGS. The drums thunder on, drowning out all else as Hraedhyth's fury rages like an inferno. Within bright flames she shares the face of one who dares battle so near their precious eggs. HUNT. She is bound to the sands, she must protect, but the queen knows her mate and His will find the one who dares. (Hraedhyth to Szadath)

"Damn it." Z'ian twists and stares around to the exit. "Not. Now." His voice is very firm. Much more than he usually is with pretty much anyone ever and the target of his attention is very clearly not Taikrin. He taps his fingers along the top of the table and takes a breath, "Sorry. I think that Tsanth is aware and..." He is apologetic, really and does try to keep the conversation on topic. "Agreed. I don't think anyone wants that. I came from Taiga before Avalanche, I spent almost all of my turns there. It seemed like a good idea from that perspective, but." He's at least able to see the vantage point from it might have been all awesome and great.

To Vrianth, Tsanth pushes back against his other half, a flash of the man in the records room. One little thing to do first, he could join her. Wants to join her. Such a short drop down from the ledge, to follow.

Such a short drop, such a long plummet... there she is, skimming out of another dragon's shadow, another bronze's, and towards the feeding pens, trailing a nascent, phosphorescent glow in her wake. If he looked, he could see. He could leave his rider there, abandon him to the hides, not take him to the wine and the quickened breaths that begin to warm the round cold cave. (Vrianth to Tsanth)

Likewise, Taikrin's snort is probably not meant for Z'ian. "If he's gonna go, let him go. We can catch back up afterwards. Szadath's got Hraedhyth holding him well down, now, and he don't--" She jolts again, passing quickly through an expression that might be rage and then into one of indignation. "Blood and crackdust, someone's fighting on the sands." There's a moment of surprise when she finds herself on her feet, but it doesn't last. "There ain't enough scorching hours in the day." Funny how her accent comes to the forefront when she's angry. "Get me that list, and I'll check it later on tonight after I drop whatever idiot candidate we've brought in from the flaming spires."

"Oh, for fucks sake. Tsanth, I'm trying to do what we talk-" It's likely that the outloud part of their conversation wouldn't be happening if this green flight wasn't an issue. And then it's obvious that the bronze is gone, joined to the chase with the others. His expression is pretty irritated at this point. Z'ian drags himself out of the chair, not looking happy in the slighest. And then, "What?. On the sands- Go. Later. The list." It's short, agreement to everything. And then likely they're both gone at the same time. Damn dragons, damn candidates.

To Vrianth, Tsanth abandons his ledge, down and down to the feeding pens. He's likely got a late start on everything else, but that's never stopped him before. His rider, where is he? Records still, what a shame. The bronze has little to no regard for him now, focus attention on Vrianth. He's a blast of hot beach sand, pulling the heat off of her onto himself. Hot enough he could almost begin to melt those grains with it.

She bites into that vulnerable neck, puncturing it, and ichor spurts hot and pulsing between her jaws. Can he taste it? She can. (So she's not abandoned him entirely, perhaps.) (Vrianth to Szadath)

This time, Vrianth's sending rebounds off a wall of ice-cold fire that thumps in staccato battle rhythm. Eggs. Eggs eggs eggs eggs! Hraedhyth's mind entraps the essence that is Szadath, directing and channeling him away. (Szadath to Vrianth)

There's an echo of a woman's smoky voice. 'Hurry. Or you'll be late.' It's almost laughing, almost sing-song, threatening to pull that heat right back in a flying tug-of-war. Or, no: she's, Vrianth's, trapped prey. A wherry. Its plumes fly. So do others, closer and closer, from the Starstones and the floor of the bowl and beyond, and they might even beat him, too. They might take it all, before he even has a chance to bite. (Vrianth to Tsanth)

To Vrianth, Tsanth isn't worried, he's all bravado. Are there a few here larger than himself? It doesn't stop him from flinging his smaller bronze form into the fray, pushing sturdier dragons out of the way. Can she see him still, notice him in the crowd? He's there for her, pulling that incandescent heat away once more to himself. Allowing it to turn his sands to a scorching, glittering expanse. For her. For Vrianth. He bloods on a herdbeast, tearing it at the neck, coloring his muzzle red.

Comments

Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Tue, 26 Feb 2013 08:35:54 GMT.

< Aw man. I'm so proud of how they both handled this. And then- VRIANTH'D. Poor riders-of-male-dragons. ;)