Logs:At Odds
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| RL Date: 2 March, 2013 |
| Who: Ceawlin, Xhaeon |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Xhaeon and Ceawlin start off plotting well... but end at odds with one another('s crafts). |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 15, Month 2, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Wind and snow make for very bad weather today. The visibility is low, making travel dangerous. |
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| Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr(#1549RJ) With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life. Contents: Xhaeon Obvious exits: Inner Caverns It's evening, and cold outside, and Xhaeon's done for the day - no more work for him. His eyebrows look suspiciously singed and his fair skin is ruddy for a change, as if he's been lightly sunburnt. The big Smith strides in, helps himself to a bowl of stew and cup of klah, and turns to tuck himself into a corner chair, to eat and go through a few envelopes of mail - some fancy and showing colors of both the main Smithcrafthall and Starcraft, and a couple that are rather plain in comparison. Other than the singed Smith, the nighthearth has fallen into a lull: the aunties have left, but the late-night crowd hasn't rightfully settled in. Ceawlin's progress is slower than normal, though the plague that has plagued him (pun intended) seems to be finally fading. Leaving only the annoyingly frustrating lingering cough that will take a few more sevens to fully be vanquished. A detour produces a sticky bun and hot mug of klah, sweetly flavored with spices and a hearty dose of milk. Instrument is slung across his back, packed away this evening as the Harper-Candidate appears to be sans work or, well, sans anything to do. Settling in not far from the Smith, commentary comes as follows: "You gonna pluck those now, Smith?" "Pluck what?" Xhaeon, somewhat disheveled in appearance yet, looks up from what appears to be a rather engrossing Pernese version of a Smithcraft form letter. Surely they have those in Pern. Bureaucrats everywhere. The chestnut-haired candidate leans over to take a non-dainty bite of food, inhaling the stew with little regard to company. He chews, and waits for his reply, stirring at the discarded ribbons off of his letters with an idle finger. "Those burnt caterpillars that cling to your forehead over your eyes," Ceawlin asserts, amused. Fingers nimbly pluck off a piece of sticky bun as buns find the cushion of a seat. Instrument has made it's way safely to rest against his leg, the case topping over the bend of knee. He leans across the armrest and squints at Xhaeon. "They might still be a-fire." Tenor is throatier, the cough temporarily deepening and adding a rough edge to smooth tones. "That, though, looks as exciting as scraping your face off with a rusty cheese grater," observation is taken of the form letter the Smith seems to be caught up in. "Oh. I'll shave them down at some point. Do they really look that bad?" Xhae absentmindedly lifts a hand to scrub knuckles over his prominent brow, and eyebrow-dust happens to fall down from the brittle remains. He extends his hand a ways and rubs thumb against fingers, his expression vaguely amused. "I guess so." He settles aside his letters for the moment, and reconvenes his bowl to his lap. "So, Harper," he questions without preamble: "Do you feel your craft is well-served here?" Mister Direct, tonight, Xhaeon is. "Mmmmhmmm," Ceawlin's amusement is clearly evident, though the recovering sickie merely leans back in his chair and -- subdued tonight -- lifts his mug in silent cheer for the fallen 'brows. "Maybe sooner rather than later." A pinch of sticky bun is murderously removed from the rolled treat and unceremoniously consumed. "Depends." Beat. "On what your definition of well-served is." Such a harper, turning direct words into silly string. "I'll keep that in mind. I'm sure if I ask one of the lower caverns girls they'll take pity on me and clean me up." Xhaeon's words are a light tease. He slows the rate of his eating, too, eyes focused thoughtfully upon Ceawlin. "My grandfather would give you a gold star for that," again in that light tease. "You may have heard of him." It's offhand. "Sark?" He's an older, should-be-retired, very-well-seasoned journeyman with a reputation for meddling - and being obstinate about never standing for his Mastership, though he'd likely have had it several times over if he wasn't indirectly implicated in a variety of illicit activities. "/He/ is just as sly about how he feels on the topic." A slow smile is Ceawlin's response to the Smith. "I've heard of him." Tone implies: what harper hasn't? "Got to give the old man credit, he's a wily fellow." Klah and sticky bun are partaken of while the harper-boy considers the (giant) Smith. "If you are looking to have a girl take pity on you and clean you up, then the lower caverns is the place to be. The weyr has such..." words are plucked for, out of the air, "... malleable talents." A sly grin curves thin lips: "Your grandfather would be at home here." "He'd like to think he is, for sure," Xhaeon replies with all the wryly resigned exasperation of the firstborn grandchild. The Smith finishes with his meal, settles the bowl aside, the better to focus his evidently idle attention (with not-so-idle intent) upon his fellow crafter-candidate. "It just seems to me that there is so much room to expand. If the right path can be found, that is." "There's always room to improve," Ceawlin comments in deflection, "As my masters would have me think. I suppose it depends on whether the right road is opened or whether undue attention has been attracted." The boy twirls his cup. "Do you think the weyr has best-served your craft, Smith?" Pale brow quirks; firelight flickers across white-blond hair, casting a fiery-gold cast to sharp, entitled features. "The right road," Xhaeon echoes. "Do you think the right road is the one that attracts /no/ attention whatsoever, Harper?" Genuine curiosity, here. "The Smithhall has been generously given well-appointed quarters here; no-one denies that. It's considered one of the better postings, and the best of any weyrs, except for Telgar, of course.. and maybe Ista." He waves aside the tangent. "If my father has taught me one thing, it is that all things may be... improved, with time, and effort. Willpower. Dedication." Xhaeon, the walking, talking motivational poster...boy. "Sure, there's roads that attract no attention, but they can be just as detrimental as the roads that attract too much attention. There's a right way for every person. Your right way is not my right way," Ceawlin pauses, then clarifies, "Most likely. But the weyr walks a dangerous path, and what they've done will attract the most unfortunate attention." The boy shrugs, pinching off more of that sticky bun, the icing oozing between fingers. "If it already hasn't." Pale 'brow quirks at Xhaeon's motivational speech, "All things may be... destroyed, with time, and effort. Willpower. Dedication," he bandies back, "It just depends on one's perspective of 'improvement' and 'disenfranchisement'." "I'm beginning to think you're being deliberately obtuse, but then again, you are are Harper, aren't you." It's not a question. Xhaeon turns about his mail in his hands, again, idly: no effort, no interest, no real consideration of what still lies unopened. At least - not outwardly. "Are you willing to put your sophistry aside and admit that even we may have agendas that ... may offer opportunities, in the future, to work for mutual benefit? That perhaps some of our interests may coincide?" Eyebrows lift; he's direct. Again. To the observation of obtuseness, Ceawlin's expression takes on a cast of innocence that does not work well with features such as his. "It's best practice to never commit to something so baldly stated," the harper answers simply -- the simplest answer thus far given. "I think every outside influence here has the chance to have mutual expectations of what they may want from this weyr or what they," he pauses, gives the Smith consideration, "might want to see take place here. No doubt this weyr is blazing a new trail, but they forge a dangerous one that I don't think my craft or your craft or any craft, should take lightly." Challenge comes in expression: that baldly stated enough for the Smith journeyman? For that, a smile creases the expression so pensive, so introspective just a moment prior: an open one, with teeth square and a laugh hidden just behind. "Well-said, Harper. Turns out you can speak your mind, after all." Xhaeon doesn't appear to mind the content of the words, just the action itself; as a matter of fact, he lapses into a very long moment of silence following such, his attention distracted by the curling edge of one envelope. When he talks again, it's as if there wasn't any space in time preceding his statement: a natural pause, and now, return. "The Smith hall has no interest in taking sides in the current political struggle. There's no simply no tangible benefit to it." Brief is the flash of true mirth that somehow softens sharp, entitled features for Xhaeon's words. Rather than respond -- for what use would a response be other than confirming truth? -- attention is directed downward, to the mug and subsequently the sticky bun. One side is practically perfect, and the other side has been ravaged by fingers grabbing for the deliciousness of the bun itself. Ceawlin lets the silence expand even past Xhaon's final words, before cold blue eyes lift to eye the Smith; the look reminiscent of a vulture's eyeing the carcass of a dying creature. "I suppose, for some, that is true. Smiths are largely set aside the workings of the weyr or hold. You provide a service that generally does not get praised or reviled based on the nature of the time's popularity. Holds will always need stone, for example." He holds up the sticky bun, speaking almost more to it than Xhaon. "But for some, the changing times affects more than how much stone to purchase or how much filigree is allowed for the effluence of the Holds that flourish beneath a Thread-free skies. Even dragon riders are keenly aware of the shifting politics of what happens when they come out of favor." Direct, once more: "Harper Hall exists entwined, Smith." For all of that, Xhaeon has a sharp, dry laugh. "You seem to think that the dragonriders would somehow be the last to realize the effect that interval wreaks?" Brows lifted, half-query, but he doesn't bother to follow down the argument. "You say we exist aside, yet you exist entwined? No more than us, or Healers, or the damnable Beastcrafters. We all exist entwined, Harper, and just because your craft fancies itself the nosiest, it doesn't mean that necessarily is true. You want to know the gossip of an area, you don't go to the Harper. You go to the cook. If you haven't realized that lesson yet, it explains why you haven't your knot yet." There's subtle shadings on that last part, amusement flickering at edges of lips; it's a jest, for certain, but something more. Absurdity at the situation of candidacy for them both, perhaps. "No, I didn't say that. But dragon riders have the downfall of pride -- pride in doing whatever it is they want to do," Ceawlin says, shrugging. He leans forward, Xhaeon's subtle shading earning a closing of once-open-to-converesation expression. Tenor -- with only the slightest thickness due the lingering cough -- comes sharp. "You exist far more apart than some other crafts, Smith. If you cannot recognize that then I am surprised you have your knot. You work with buildings, architecture, with the structure of the holds, weyrs, yes, but you can do your job with limited expectation of dealing with people. Whereas, Healer, Harper; we teach children, we heal their sick -- we stand a bit more to lose were the basic foundations to crumble because of a rash decision." Cold blue eyes regard the Smith, "That being said, what a craft's opinion is, is varied at best. Chaotic at worst. You'd be hard pressed to find everyone of the same opinion on the subject and while your craft may tell you they stand apart and take no side, there's another journeyman, master, apprentice, who is dabbling as everyone else. Everyone is involved, and someone somewhere, everywhere, fancies themselves more capable of making the right decision than what the weyr is doing." Tenor is neutral, inflection dead; Ceawlin's own opinions? Could be woven in what's been said or kept wholly out. It is hard to distinguish the boy from the Hall. Far gently than most other men would treat the matter, Xhaeon extends his voice: "No, Harper, it is you that does not know my craft. Who is it, exactly, that you think repairs things, or shoes runners, or mends the pots in the kitchens? Fixes the water-wheel, sharpens knives? We're far more ordinary than you figure us, and far less.." His voice drifts. "Aloof." His eyebrows raise at the last, a tich upwards. "You pretend to school me, child, as if I'm not both older and more experienced. It is an unfortunate thing." His voice hardens for the first time. "The Smithcraft," again stated, "Has no stake in the matter. Personal agendas are not part of the Smithcraft's stance, and have little to do with the outcome. Our masters stand united." Amusement returns, but this time it's sharper than before. "Unlike some crafts where politics outweigh common sense." "And you treat me with dismissal because I do not yet have a lofty journeyman's knot," Ceawlin says, unfolding himself to stand to the fullest of slight height. Instrument is hefted up, "Perhaps you should say that there's truth to every man's word rather than going so far as to keep your head in your forge. Every craft, hold, weyr, poe-dunk cot hold in the woods has an agenda. Just because you do not know what it might be does not make it not so." On the craft lines, the harper stands opposite the smith. "I tire of conversing when the largest rebuttal is that I do not have my knot. Perhaps you should mull over that there might be a reason." Beat. "Age is certainly not everything, neither." With that parting statement, the harper takes his instrument, his klah and his sticky bun and goes home. And doesn't let the door hit his ass on the way out neither! Exit (stalk), stage right (to be different). Xhaeon starts to say something before checking himself with a shake of his head. "If that's how you think this conversation has gone by, then you certainly aren't the person I want to talk to." There's genuine regret, there, but Xhaeon isn't going to interrupt Ceawlin's teenaged hissy-fit of storming out, either. So he watches the Harper go, snorts softly to himself, and returns to his letters, soon reabsorbed in his work. And thus the curtain closes... until /next/ time, on All The Weyr's Plotbunnies. |
Comments
Mave (Mave (talk)) left a comment on Sat, 02 Mar 2013 22:59:49 GMT.
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Interesting. Innnnteresting. It's so great to hear the twist and turn of craft talk.
Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Sun, 03 Mar 2013 20:51:01 GMT.
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- aims spraybottle at both of them* You two be nice!
Seriously though, it's great to see candidates who don't always see eye to eye. This was, as Mave said, veeeery interesting. c:
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