Logs:A Difficult Situation
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| RL Date: 12 June, 2011 |
| Who: K'del, V'teri |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: K'del wants to know wtf V'teri's game is. |
| Where: Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 4, Month 13, Turn 25 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Tiriana/Mentions |
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| There's no warning with Cadejoth drops in, and no characteristic rattle of chains or bones. Instead, he shares an image: that set of islands, those distant blob-like figures on the shore. He wraps it all up into a question, wordless and not, somehow, particularly friendly. Finally: « Treasure? » /That/? Oh - and, « Mine needs to see yours in the council chambers. Now. » (Cadejoth to Riuscyth) To Cadejoth, Riuscyth is radio silent; no color, no images, not even the draconic version of mental breathing to signal awareness or aliveness. Maybe he's willfully ignoring Cadejoth. Maybe. Who is this bronze other than the mate of the Reachian senior queen, whos rider put his in the infirmary for weeks. So maybe, maybe- he's being willful, stubborn, and overly proud. To Riuscyth, Cadejoth paces out that silence with a dull beat: one second, two second, three second, four. He can keep going like this. Indefinitely, if he needs to. Except, finally, with exaggerated politeness, « Do you need directions? Or perhaps we should come and find /you/. » There's an image of his rider, too: he's not smiling. There's a flicker of life, the red fiery streak of a comet through a night sky as Riuscyth's wounded pride rouses his anger, and thus emotions which then leads to this reaction. While his rider may have years on this would-be Weyrleader, he does not have the age to back up such insubordination and after a lengthy pause where there's at least the crackle of acknowledgement to retain the link between Cadejoth and himself, a begrudging, « He comes. » But not Riuscyth. No, that distinction is made quite clear as he abruptly shuts down. (Riuscyth to Cadejoth) As Cadejoth withdraws from Riuscyth, his rider makes ready in the Council Chambers: tidying up papers, organising files. He has a half-full glass of whiskey in front of him, though the decanter is out of sight, as are any other glasses that might be lurking about. By the time V'teri actually arrives, however, he's terribly busy, for all the world deeply entrenched in whatever record might be in front of him at a given time, taking diligent notes as he works. There's a decided mess to V'teri's sandy-colored hair and a flush about his cheeks. The buttons of his shirt are oddly mismatched to the holes and, quite apparently, he's been cleared for strenuous activity by the healers. But he's here within moments of Cadejoth's second attempt at summoning him through his dragon, if a little disheveled. "Damn, fucking dragon," is his expletive as he steps across the threshold from the records room, hands busy trying to straighten his clothing. "I don't know what he said to you, but damn, I'm sorry," is then added, fervently apologetic once the man spots K'del. "Told him years ago to never bother me when I-," a beat. This is after all the Weyrleader. "Well. Sorry in any case." It's obviously K'del's intention to appear too busy to talk, despite the summons - to leave V'teri hanging. But something in the older bronzerider's tone of voice, not to mention what he says, has the Weyrleader raising his gaze to consider him. He isn't smiling, but there's something around the eyes that might, were he less serious, suggest that he's holding back a smirk. "He's not got much respect for authority, your dragon," he says, finally, setting down his hides and leaning back in his chair. "But evidently, neither do you. What have you got to say for yourself, Bronzerider?" V'teri's, "Not even my authority," is rather rueful, if muttered under his breath as he stares down at his shirt. A hint of red colors the tips of his ears as he finally spots the wrongly buttoned shirt, lingering there and only there even after he lifts his head. He misses the eyes and the would-be smirk that threatens on K'del's face and is left with only the solemnity of a Weyrleader with business to conduct. A long moment passes as those gray eyes study the younger man, before Van is ready to inquire curiously, "And how have I disrespected your authority, sir?" Normally - well. Normally, K'del would have plenty of sympathy for a man with lifemate problems not completely unlike his own. But today, he is unmoved. Unmoved by the red on V'teri's ears, and unmoved, too, by the curiosity he displays in asking that question. "Want to tell me how we ended up with a hundred and sixteen-- no, wait, I think we're down to more like eighty, now-- people in our candidate barracks? Want to enlighten me on this 'treasure' of yours? Did you /enjoy/ putting the weyr in a difficult situation?" A longer moment passes than the one before and V'teri's mouth works, then hesitates to speak, and then works some more. It's clear he's not thinking precisely, there's no glazed look or shift of his eyes that indicates a search for something to say. It's rather, at least it seems from the way his mouth opens and the flicker of confusion in his light eyes, that he's trying to figure just how to put int words a lifetime of problems, other than just Riuscyth. So he'll start with the last question, those pale eyes trained onto K'del's baby blues and his shoulders squaring back. Forget the ridiculous deshabille ensemble; he takes a rider's stance with feet apart and hands behind his back. "No, sir. It was never my intention to put the Weyr in a difficult situation." Meeting V'teri's gaze squarely, K'del reaches for his glass and takes a careful sip of his whiskey. He sets it down again. He shifts it, just slightly, to the left. Finally, his eyes having never left the bronzerider, he asks, "Then what was your intention? Bronzerider. Want to explain so that I can understand? Because from here, I see a treasure hunt gone wrong, and a man, I suspect, with secrets." With the dynamics set up, so clearly, if partially not K'del's fault, for him to be discomforted and standing while K'del sits and drinks leisurely, V'teri needs another few moments, and takes them without a by your leave. Throughout, however, his light eyes never deviate from the Weyrleader's face: not to watch him drink, not to watch him speak. They, instead, linger on his eyes, and something in those eyes, rather than the designed set up, leads to him speaking, quietly. Methodically. "My intention was to see my father's dreams and stories come to life. To see," he pauses, seeking words, "Whether my entire life was a lie. The Weyr was never supposed to get so involved, at least not like this." The latter conceded with a small drop of his chin. "But winter was coming, and I had an unfortunate run in with your Weyrwoman, which led me to believe you," the royal you," would not be sympathetic to my cause." K'del can wait. Does wait, apparently unbothered by V'teri's pause. Though he maintains a relatively neutral expression throughout that pause, and indeed, through most of what the other bronzerider has to say, his brows visibly knit towards the end. It's his turn to pause, afterwards, blue eyes still matched to gray. "This weyr is not made up of one woman's wishes alone. What did you think was going to happen?" He doesn't wait for an answer, but rather continues on, adding, "You know that there might be people out there to find." "That she'd murder me in my sleep," is V'teri's blithe sounding, but rather soberly-voiced reply. "I didn't know. But I wondered." "And you think she isn't likely to now?" K'del's brows raise at that: seriously? /Seriously/? "Should warn you that last I spoke to her on the subject, she was intent on violence. Or exile. Something along those lines." He lets that hang for a moment before he adds, reaching for his glass again, "And now, thanks to your wondering, I have eighty-something exiles in my weyr, weeping and wailing over the fact that we're murdering them with our food and our illnesses. Not to mention High Reaches Hold." "Well," V'teri's hands lift, his narrow shoulders going with it, "Now I know and I don't mind dying in my sleep." Again, blithe in statement, if sober in voice. But K'del's continuation sets his lips firm against each other, and the older man's unerring gaze remains on the Weyrleader. He points out, "You didn't have to return them to the mainland. They were, after all, put there for a reason, right? And- wah?" He blinks as the last part of K'del's statement sinks in. "What does High Reaches Hold have to do with any of this?" Something, abruptly changes, and K'del waves one arm vaguely towards the seats at the other end of the table: the other rider might as well sit and be (relatively) comfortable. Whether or not the bronzerider obliges, he continues talking: "You think we should have just left them there? Potentially to die? You haven't seen what the place looks like now." Probably K'del hasn't either; shh. He lets a sigh escape, rubbing at his eyes. For all that things are already sorted with the Hold, he doesn't let it show. "Holds have spies everywhere. One whiff of exiles, particularly ones claiming to be from /his/ Hold, and of course Rynien became involved." Any sign of joviality disappears from V'teri's stance and expression, not that there was much left, but whatever was is now completely gone. "They say they're from his Hold?" The tenor sounds foreign, distant though not in thought, but almost as if he might burst into tears, all five feet eleven of him. "From High Reaches Hold? And the Lord got involved?" If Rynien had never gotten involved, it might have been a different story, but as he has, the bronzerider's not-so-dull mind puts pieces together rapidly. "I... Thank you for bringing them back. I didn't mean-, but I mean." But while he might think fast, it apparently translates into V'teri losing all competency with speech. K'del's forearms drop to the table, resting there squarely as he eyes V'teri - and this reaction. Which seems, honestly, to surprise the Weyrleader. "You... why does it surprise you that some of them would say they're from High Reaches Hold? Or their ancestors, or whatever. Yes, the Lord got involved. And yes, we're dealing with it, but-- how did this not-- I'm confused." K'del's confusion confuses V'teri in turn and the more junior bronzerider purses his lips as the Weyrleader speaks more. Quiet, and still standing, K'del's change in demeanor notwithstanding, he suggests, "Maybe I should begin with how I found the general area of the islands." Both hands wrap around K'del's whiskey glass, and he takes another careful sip - savouring it, taking his time - before he answers, with a nod. "Reckon that would probably be a good place to start. Well - frankly, I don't care where you start as long as I can work out, eventually, what's going on." "As a weyrling, I was mentored by a rider previously from High Reaches." V'teri begins. "He has some interesting ideas, this friend, about how dragonriders should live and how we should turn into farmers, and that wasn't a life that I wanted to go back to. But we stayed close, even after I graduated." The bronzerider shifts from one foot to the other, his hands clasping and reclasping in a similar motion behind his back. "We would drink, but he would never wench, and we got to talking. He mentioned that during the Comet Pass, when he was Weyrleader here, he noticed discrepancies in the tithe and stores reports. Saying that," a breath claims a long second as he ruminates over the possible words silently. "Saying that, some numbers didn't add up. Enough of a difference to feed and clothe a good two hundred people." Yes, yes, says K'del's nod as V'teri talks about his mentor; they've had that conversation. Even if the bit about farmers is new - and shells, normally? Normally that would probably generate a good deal of interest from the Weyrleader. He's distracted, though, with a furrow growing in his brow, leaning in now in a gesture that goes a long way to indicating how intently he's listening. "And that's why you transferred here. To get a look at this stuff for yourself? Your history project, or whatever it was." "I needed to know what he meant. He had other things on his mind," says V'teri, with only the slightest shift to his gaze and only for a split second. "So yes, I requested a transfer to High Reaches a turn later. A turn, in which, I visited home, Harper Hall, and tried to learn more of what had happened almost a century ago. It wasn't a project," he notes, finally answering K'del's question in the midst of his story. Wherever his eyes might have gone during the story, though not far from K'del ever, they return to fix levelly on the Weyrleader, "They're my family." Somehow, K'del doesn't seem completely surprised by that last admission; it's as though it rather makes sense somehow. "There are some portraits at River Bend," he says, all but a non-sequitur. "Somewhere. I'm told they bear a distinct resemblance to you. So." He lets that hang a beat, giving V'teri a raised eyebrow glance. "This was all a quest to see if it was true. And to see if you could find them. And now... I have all these exiles to deal with." Now it's his turn for questions, "River Bend?" V'teri inquires. Again, K'del looks surprised, giving V'teri a why-don't-you-know-this kind of look. "Yeah," he says, finally. "River Bend. One of the larger holds in the High Reaches region. Looks to High Reaches Hold. Has a bunch of portraits of old holders who look like you, apparently." V'teri ignores K'del and his looks. "Like me? You mean, like me /me/?" As if there's any other meaning. The man falls back on his heel, booted toes lifting. "/Jays/. I'll be damned." Now? No K'del looks utterly bewildered. "I am so confused," he says, finally. "Have a drink. It'll help." V'teri's lost some of the tension in his frame, good-nature and humor returning in small doses. The glance K'del shoots V'teri is not terribly amused, but he takes the suggestion anyway: the rest of his glass is emptied in a matter of moments. It's a good thing it was a small glass. "So. We have exiles who claim a connection to High Reaches Hold, and probably other Holds, too. Claiming Blood. We have you claiming to be /related/ to these people, and you're surprised by this connection. And we have my weyr, which is still trying to work out what the fuck just happened and how we deal with it." Picking up threads from before, after K'del's taken his drink and laid out the dilemma, V'teri remarks, "I needed to know what happened. My father needed to know what happened. The truth-, if the truth had been written somewhere, anywhere, it would never have come to /this/. I never expected... I didn't think they'd still be alive. Not with-," the man finally shifts again and drops his gaze to the ground. "Not with a full Pass and a randomly erratic one to contend with." His voice gains a note of defensiveness, and his gaze lifts to find K'del's. "It should've been impossible against those odds. They're-," and it's back to this in wonderment, "Blooded? Wait? I'm a Holder's son? Now I need a drink." "It's what they /claim/." And K'del isn't necessarily taking that as truth. He gives V'teri another long glance, before, finally, indicating the closed liquor cabinet in the corner: he can help himself. Despite everything, K'del is not, most likely, going to go ahead and murder him right away. "If anything, it seems more likely you're a Holder's great-grandson, or something, but whatever. I don't suppose they should have survived, any of them. That's what exile is for, generally." "It's for the wherryshit to put away people that are troublesome rather than taking care of it themselves. Let Pern do the kill, keep the blood off our hands." Forgetting himself in his sudden bafflement at his elevation in Blooded status, or supposed Blooded status, V'teri lets his tongue free of its formal constraints. He's halfway on his way to getting a drink for himself, but pauses halfway to turn. "Sorry, sir." But he doesn't sound contrite at all in that apology. Stiffly; "You'll note that this Weyr has, in recent turns, facilitated an execution, and sent a number of criminals to the mines." K'del's tone doesn't really indicate what /he/ thinks of such measures, of course, but he's putting the facts on the table nonetheless. "Anyway, there's not much by way of proof to any of this, so don't think any of you are getting anything out of your so-called Blood. Still, I'm sure you'll be glad that at this stage, I don't think we intend to send them all back to their exile, either. Whatever happened, it wasn't these poor people who committed the crime." K'del receives a sidelong huh-stare as he notes how the Weyr deals with criminals. But realization dawns on him, but he'll need a drink to fortify himself before speaking the words aloud. So down goes that first drink, and a second is poured. He makes no attempt to cross the room to get closer to the Weyrleader, suddenly looking exceedingly weary. "So are you going to execute me or send me to the mines?" Is K'del taking some kind of perverse pleasure in this? He sounds almost cheerful as he says, "Usually, I let Tiriana decide that kind of thing." "I'd prefer execution. Just so's you know. A clean one if possible with my head sliced off. I doubt I'd like the mines any more than I liked pigs and I think Riuscyth would probably eat people at the mines." The latter, while jovial, has some marks of seriousness. V'teri makes very quick work of his second drink. "And if you wouldn't mind offing me while I was drunk, I'd be much obliged." K'del's expression is dubious. "Not sure it's really the done thing, letting the condemned have a choice in the matter. Or an easy ride of it, frankly." He plays with the rim of his glass as he speaks, and lets his mouth draw in afterwards. "I won't deny it: I'm kind of pissed at the situation you've put us in. Don't know that death is entirely warranted, though. We're working things out. So long as those exiles of yours behave, I don't think there'll be problems." Haha. V'teri hasn't spent much of his life poring over those damn records for naught. Or spent a lot of his time at Harper Hall. So oh-so affably, he notes, "Well, I'm sure there'll be a proper trial by harpers to air out my criminal deeds other than the whims of your Weyrwoman. I'm still not really sure what exactly I did wrong to warrant any kind of punishment honestly, sir. Other than take advantage of greedy riders with what wasn't exactly a lie but was still mostly a lie. Stores enough for at least two hundred lost in the nether of the western islands. Is it the lie that warrants such a punishment or-?" Yours, not his. Wait- what? "My exiles?" K'del ignores the most of V'teri's ramblings. Actually, by the time the other bronzerider gets to the end, he looks almost faintly smug. "Yours," he agrees. "They're here 'cause of you, so I figure you can be responsible, right? They're /your/ blood. Keep them in line, and maybe I'll try and protect you from Tiriana's wrath... though I can't promise there won't be disappointed treasure hunters after your blood." It's all terribly pleasant. V'teri looks a little sick to his stomach. Oh lovely, though which of the three options really makes him most ill is up for debate. "Well, I suppose I don't need to ask your permission to go speak to my people then." Always a silver lining. K'del is doing a decent job of keeping his expression neutral, though a smile keeps twitching about the corners of his mouth. "No," he agrees. "I think we can let you go and talk to them. How else are you going to keep them on the straight and narrow?" He stretches, then, rolling his shoulders back. "And should I transfer back to Monaco, I can take them with me?" No, yes? V'teri's only half-joking but he lifts the empty glass to K'del and drops it on top of the liquor cabinet. "Well, is that all then, sir?" "You can take all of them." It's hard to tell if K'del means that, to be honest; his expression is mostly unreadable. "Yes, that's everything." He waves his hand in the other man's direction: get lost. And out he goes, suddenly more spry than when he walked in. Whistling even. Oh frapjulous day. K'del scowls at V'teri's reatreating back, but says nothing more. Not, at any rate, while the bronzerider is still potentially in earshot. |
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