Logs:Weyrleaderly Commiseration
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| RL Date: 16 January, 2012 |
| Who: K'del, N'muir |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Weyrleaders commiserate over their Weyrwomen, and the trouble they're in. |
| Where: The Sandbar, Ista Weyr |
| When: A week after Isyath's flight. |
| Mentions: Ali/Mentions, Hattie/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, N'thei/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions, Val/Mentions |
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| The Sandbar, Ista Weyr Standing on stilts over the water's edge with a broad ramp leading up from the beach, the thatch-roofed building sits well above the highest tide line. The walls of the structure are nothing but timber frames, open to the cooling sea breezes but equipped with hinged panels of woven grass that can be lowered during inclement weather. Within, supporting pillars are draped in cast-off nets and shells and myriad tables provide seating with spectacular panoramic views of the ocean, beach, and the bustling activity of the docks to the west. A finely polished, sparkling slab of obsidian serves as the bar and it's smooth surface is etched with decorative carvings of shipfish and flowers and other emblems of the tropical location. Shelves behind the bar are lined with bottles and glasses of various shapes and sizes and hanging in prominent view are slates listing the menu, beverages both alcoholic and not as well as a handful of greasy appetizers provided by the kitchen to the rear of the bar. Ice wraps around the chains of Cadejoth's minds, numbing his mental touch and giving it a dull, metallic aftertaste. He reaches out, perhaps a week after the flight, offering silent, muted greeting to the other bronze before saying, « We wish to apologise to Fort for our intrusion. » And: « K'del would like to get away. Perhaps we could meet in person? » He doesn't say it - he's cowed, this bronze - but there's an unsaid amendment there: let's lick our wounds together. (Cadejoth to Bijedth) Electricity hums to life and somewhere beyond a distant horizon lights flicker, beckoning the metal of those chains closer. « We appreciate your apology, » is the response from Bijedth, his energy a constantly buzzing undercurrent barely within audible range but for the few snaps and pops of his enthusiasm. « He could use the time away from Home as well. » And in those few words, the Fortian bronze gives hint of unpleasant aftereffects from Isyath's flight in a humid, sticky cloud that weighs down his voice. « We will meet you in Ista Weyr. » Far, far away from any of their weyrwoman and gold dragons. (Bijedth to Cadejoth) That electricity is enough to make Cadejoth's chains zing, but not enough to melt the frost that binds him so. « Ista, then, » he agrees, after a moment's pause, presumably during which time he confers with his rider. It's not so very long after that that K'del enters the Sandbar, shrugging out of his riding jacket with obvious enthusiasm, an enthusiasm that doesn't quite match the tired, drawn expression that lines his face. He heads directly for the bar, ordering his whisky - neat - before he so much as glances around to see whether he has beaten the other Weyrleader here or not. Indeed, Cadejoth was quicker to deliver the Reachian Weyrleader than Bijedth is to bring N'muir. Jacket and riding gear are stripped off en route to the Sandbar, abandoning Bijedth to amble down the black sand beach alone. The Sandbar is given a wary eye, even after N'muir spots K'del and steps over to join the other bronzerider. "Weyrleader," he greets, pulling his searching eyes away from the unfamiliar faces of the Sandbar's patrons to smile at the much younger man. He ungloves his hand to extend it. "Fort's greetings," said as habit more than anything. Whiskey is ordered and an empty table gestured to. "Happy to see you made it out alive." Whether that is in reference to the throat-cutting spectacle or a hint to what might have transpired after the flight, N'muir leaves it vague but the intention is light-hearted given his smile. "Weyrleader," echoes K'del, and no, he's not above being amused by that. "High Reaches', too." He slides marks across the counter, enough to pay for both drinks, and, once they arrive, seems happy enough to accompany N'muir to that empty table. Settling in, his long legs tucked carefully out of the way, he allows, "It was touch and go for a bit, but I think we'll make it." His study of the older man's face is superficial, and lasts for several seconds before he turns his attention towards his drink. "I am sorry," he says, then, slowly. "Val and I were just there to get a drink. The rest-- we behaved poorly, and I apologise for it. If it helps, Tiriana's torn strips out of me over it." N'muir gives a grin for K'del's amusement and sinks into his own chair, leaning back against the wood and looking into the dark amber of his drink. "No harm, no foul," the Fortian assures the drink more than he does K'del, hollow words meant to pacify one of the two of them. Perhaps both. The dark-haired man brings himself to look at his company as if looking for visible blood and guts, and it's a moment of proud reluctance before N'muir says anything. "What was /her/ reason?" he asks, emphasis hinting to his own invisible wounds and chased down with a taste of his drink. Despite his words, K'del looks no worse for wear - there's not even a mark at his throat where that knife touched. Perhaps Tiriana, known for her penchant for violence, was restrained. Perhaps the wounds are in less visible locations. The younger bronzerider's expression shifts, just slightly, at N'muir's question; he looks, if briefly, almost knowing. "It upset Iovniath. She said it made her look bad, that her mate would look elsewhere. Maybe it does; don't know. Just know that Cadejoth /likes/ Isyath, and it's hard for him, not getting to chase all the time. He enjoys it so much." He lingers over his drink for a moment before adding, "I take it your Weyrwoman was about as impressed as mine?" N'muir lifts the hand that cradles his drink, incensed by their mutual suffering so much that it gleams in his eyes. His other hand gestures openly at the other bronzerider. "That is exactly what /I/ got a lecture about too," he admits, albeit in a careful, quiet voice. "We are not the only two Weyrleaders in the history of all time whose bronzes chased after a junior." Which must have been something Hattie suggested - or that N'muir took away from all she said. "They'll never understand because they don't ride a male dragon." And for that, he'll nurse his frustration with a sip of his drink. A defiant air strikes him, one leg tossed out into the aisle onto its bootheel to loll there casually. He pauses and that rebellious boyishness that flared up is just as quickly tamed by the burdens of the man. "I made Bijedth chase," he explains after K'del's confession. "Well, I made him be there and he couldn't /not/ chase. I didn't want to leave my junior weyrwoman alone with a bunch of-" Hazel-brown eyes snap across the distance between the Reachian and himself. K'del is visibly sympathetic, nodding his head several times in succession as the other Weyrleader speaks - and there's that line of frustration and annoyance, too. "We are not," he confirms. "Pretty sure Wyaeth," his predecessor, "chased in Rielsath's first flight. Cadejoth's-- most dragons aren't meant for monogamy." Frustration rests around his own mouth, though he, too, buries it into his drink as best he can. And as for the rest of what N'muir has to say? Clearly, he doesn't take offense, not with the wry grin that emerges and his easy suggestion of, "Strangers? It'd be my preference for High Reaches' juniors to be caught by High Reachians, too. Some people say it's good for the bloodlines to get outsiders, but... Particularly the first time. And Ali's sweet, but--" His hand curls around his glass, now back on the table, as he stretches out: his legs, now, are extending out into the empty space beyond their table. N'muir gives a short laugh in spite of all Weyrleaders, himself included. "I'm not sure how much trouble Wyaeth put N'thei in," he muses, "but that bronze caught everyone. He sired a clutch with Ciath a mere nine months before having another clutch with Teonath." The sentiment about monogamy draws the Fortian's attention from reminiscing about the past. "I agree, so why are we both strung up by our testicles?" The dark haired man doesn't flinch when K'del puts voice to barely restrained thought. He inclines his head respectfully, and lets his teeth flash in a grin. "I'm glad to hear I'm not the only one," he murmurs. For Ali, his mouth frowns with concern. "I imagine it's normal to worry about one's juniors. Speaking of juniors, how is your Ysavaeth and her Iolene?" "Did he?" It's something that must have missed K'del's notice - then again, it must have happened while he was still a child. "Randy bronze. Perhaps not all queens /mind/. Just... ours." His head shakes, as he continues: he's as mystified as the other bronzerider. "Because women have exacting standards that aren't always obvious to us mere males? Because they hold the power of our continued position in their hands? Shells, who knows." He takes another long sip from his glass, swirling what remains with an idle gesture of his hand before he adds, "I think it is. It's our job, in part. Iolene is--" He twists his mouth. "She has a long road ahead of her. Wonder, sometimes, if it was wise to let them all stand, but then, Ysavaeth chose her. Means it was meant to be. She's young. She'll grow into herself, I'm sure." N'muir is old and wise, and remembers these things for mysterious reasons. He looks miserable and drowns it as best he can in the last swig of his whiskey. "Did you at least get some recognition for getting Cadejoth out of the flight?" he asks and idly points at the other man's drink. "You'll have another, right?" Regardless, N'muir waves down a server to order their refills before adjusting his hips to the edge of his seat and put new meaning to reclining in one's chair. "I tell myself that too," he mutters, "but I shouldn't depend so much on Hattie to ... 'raise' her, or whatever." The Fortian pauses, his fingers thoughtfully playing with one dark curl at the nape of his neck. "Thanks for inviting me out, K'del," N'muir says, eyes roaming the worn tabletop between them before lifting. "You have no idea how much I needed someone to make me feel like I'm normal. Or at least in good company." Yes, K'del will have another - and will drain the remainder of his in a single swig of his own. Glass back on the table, he gives the other man a wry smile. "Not really, no. Speaking of-- don't suppose you happened to find that knife anywhere?" His cheeks are faintly pink. His hands rest idly on the table, now that, at least for the moment, there's no glass to occupy them. "I think-- they have to be partly our responsibility, too. They need us both, to get a balanced view of things. And-- thank /you/. I agree. It gets lonely sometimes, particularly when... women can be difficult, sometimes." Difficult. An understatement, if his expression is anything to go by-- but at least an understatement that he's willing to half-smile about. "Knife?" N'muir shakes his head. "Was it terribly important to you?" The bronzerider frowns at the possibility. "I'll... check around," is offered. Their drinks come, and N'muir raises a toast: "To... common ground, and welcomed neighbors." The night carries on with more drinks and more talk of things that men talk about, followed by many more drinks until ultimately both men head their separate ways to the chilly autumn of their northern homes, drunk as skunks. "It was Val's," is K'del's explanation, made briefly, but he's easily distracted: there's more drinking to be done! |
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