Logs:Bitter Tastes
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| RL Date: 25 March, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Zadkiel |
| Type: Log |
| What: Two Igen refugees talk Search and power. |
| Where: Greenhouse, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 9, Month 5, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Spring-y? |
| Mentions: Joremy/Mentions, Wulfan/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, Nimae/Mentions, F'rain/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: lol. more politics. >.> |
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| Whatever Zadkiel was up to earlier has lead him here - and here is warm enough that he can ditch the hooded cloak and shirts he was wearing earlier to fend off the relative chill. These garments are folded over one arm, leaving the barechested and trouser-wearing former-hunter comfortable while he wanders. For the time being, he's peering inquisitively at the contents of the greenhouse - and he's mindful to keep his fingers to himself, rather than poke and prod at the collection of plants. No sitting for him; there's just too much to see. Spring may have spring at the Reaches, but the low temperatures do little to satisfy the desire for warmth and sunshine a former Igenite needs. It is into the greenhouse that Farideh ambles, away from the political debates in the lower caverns, and the masses egg watching in the galleries. She looks comforted when she steps beyond the doors, into the humid atmosphere, and ducks her way past a leafy plant on her way towards the back. Her eyes are on the ground, her expression preoccupied; that just means she almost bumps into Zadkiel. Luckily, she comes to a stiff halt, and sweeps the candidate from his head to his feet, her eyes widening and her cheeks flushing. "You," she exclaims. Him. It's likely he knew about her arrival before the nearly physical meeting; ultimately, it's impossible to know for sure. Zadkiel is in the midst of perusing one particularly lush plant before Farideh nearly bumps into him. He straightens further, to practically looming heights, and his expression remains as grim as it was mere moments before. That utterance of you is met with a shallow dip of his chin and an echoed, "You." Flat, that. Tossed back like a coin. Then: "They say it's warm out there. I say they have a terrible sense of humor." The bundle of clothing is shifted to his other arm and he twists slightly, permitting her to pass if she's so inclined. "It's--" Farideh shoots a glance down the aisle, as if seeking out any possible occupants in the greenhouse other than themselves. "You get used to it." She makes to grab his arm, to pull him to the side, but pitches her voice low, regardless. "Can you tell me what it's like? At Igen, right now? Did you come from the Weyr or the Hold? How's-- how's Lord Joremy?" Her eyes search his face, looking for some information, probably a specific reaction. It takes him just a moment to suss out what she's up to. And, when he does? Zadkiel offers a low-pitched, "We are alone here." There's nothing inappropriate about it, despite her successful grab to his arm. He bends at the waist just enough to more discreetly converse, his braid slithering over his shoulder to hang like a terrible serpent. "I came from the Weyr. I know little of how Lord Joremy is doing - but I can find out." His jaw tightens briefly. "The Weyr is in turmoil. I trust in F'rain's decisions, but many do not." But who is he, really? And who is she? "I wish I had more for you - but the politics are bitter and I have no taste for it." Even with the other Igenite's assurances, there's a suspicious back-and-forth movement of her eyes before she settles on a weary sigh and a weak smile. "What has F'rain been up to? I don't pay much attention to what goes on at the Weyr, and Lord Joremy--" She lifts a hand to bite a finger in obvious turmoil, and winces. "I hear they're in dire straits at the Hold, but I haven't been back in two turns and supposedly, it's not-- nothing being spoken about. Do you have connections there? How would you find out? Can you?" She's not yet forthcoming with who she is, though she seems to trust who he is. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to burden you with so many questions, but just-- I've only Irianke to talk to here, and she's tight-lipped, as you can imagine." Turnabout is a gentle thing. He frees himself from her hold, only to attempt to catch her upper arm with one of his hands. If he manages as much, Zak will escort her without preamble to one of the benches and, of course, ensure that she's seated first before he sits. "He's been organizing the wings," is his initial reply. "Bronzes and some browns as leaders. Greens and blues distributed as wingriders." A shoulder rises and falls heavily. "It's traditional, from how I understand it. Others view it as discrimination." To that, there's a snort - and naught more. And the rest? "I can find out. It will take time, but-" his thoughts trail as the rest is said and his forehead furrows. Eyes narrow. "Of course she would be," he finally says. "I've heard her dragon suggested that I be returned to Igen. And the riders are now forbidden from Searching there. Politics, again." "Weyrs have become-- progressive, like here. Their Weyrlingmaster is a female bluerider." Farideh crosses her legs at the ankle and weaves her fingers together in her lap. "It seems a bit much for everyone to react so harshly about, doesn't it? I thought they were--" presumably bronzes and browns as leaders. Her face softens at mention of Irianke and the ensuing drama around searching from Igen. "It's complicated from what I understand. It's all in Nimae's hand, and I think there's-something. I'm not a hundred percent about just what, but it's on the tip of my tongue, you know?" Her lips pout then stretch into a smile, eyes lifting to Zadkiel. "There will always be politics. Men can't help themselves from trying to win it all, and women entertain themselves by strategizing in the background." As for the hunter, he'll fold forward, with elbows on thighs and hands dangling between his knees. Zadkiel listens, one eye on her all the while. "Perhaps it might have been best if I were sent back from Standing here," he muses, and it's not entirely clear if he's joking. The line of his mouth distorts. "As I told the rider that spoke with me, F'rain is doing what he feels is best. If the riders don't agree, they can leave." Easy as that, at least to him. Agreement is a bob of his head, and then he's moving right along. "I'm sure there's something. There's always something. There are those with a taste for politics. I'm not among them." For good or ill. As her gaze lifts to meet his, he'll turn to properly meet it. "It's all a matter of which person has power over those other people. Not necessarily winning it all or strategizing. It's all rationalizing the desire to have power. It's all a way to pretty it up, to make it palatable." "Are you afraid? Of what? This place grows on you, but if you Impress, you can always ask to be transferred out. And if you don't, leave. You just missed the snow." Farideh lifts her shoulders in a careless shrug. "You should know telling someone from Igen to leave is--" She can't help herself - she laughs at the idea. "We're a loyal sort, aren't we? No one wants to leave just because some guy slept with the Weyrwoman and now thinks he can go around changing things, right? I wouldn't. I didn't know it wasn't like that though. Even, here, there's bronze and brown wingleaders, but also others." She looks thoughtful for a moment, and then cant her head, watching the hunter-turned-candidate. "You really don't like politics. I don't think the people who rely on their leaders think of them that way, or some of them do. But I know when Wulfan was still Lord, I always thought he was the best and had all of the best intentions, and always wanted what his people wanted. I never thought he had power over me. I still don't, but I do realize he was-- is-- just a man." "No," says he. "Just a traditionalist. I told the rider that spoke with me that I'd be among the first to return to Igen - with or without a dragon. She didn't seem pleased with that." He snorted. "She made it sound as if loyalty were a fool's game. I'm glad that the rider that Searched me knew better." Zak's silent for a moment, then: "I think it's all bluster over nothing. Things will be fine. It'll just take time for the sands to settle. And, maybe, there'll be another Weyrleader there before it does." He rolls a shoulder and leans back just a touch. "Doesn't matter how you see it," he points out. "Nor did I say all leaders are bad. Some want to do what's best. But doing what's best still requires power of some sort. Some use it well. Some abuse it. Wulfan, I'd say, used it as well as he could." "A traditionalist," Farideh repeats, as though toying with the word. "You're right. There may very well be another before everyone calms down. That's supposedly the way of things, at Weyrs." She lapses into silence, simply listening to him, but at the end her brows are drawn together and her lips puckered unpleasantly. "That's a strong opinion. Calling it power," causes her to make a face, "I don't agree. We won't. But, you'll find out, for me?" All of that information she wants, probably. "No, we probably won't," he agrees. Zak pushes to his feet, his cloak and tunic and shirt ending up over a shoulder. "But, that's not a bad thing." He offers a hand to her to assist her, should she desire to rise as well; if not, he'll just make a vague gesture. "I'll do what I can." No promises made, but the reassurance will have to do. With a dip of his chin, he'll take his leave, his measured stride carrying him past the boundaries of comfortable warmth and back out into the chill of the world outside. |
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