Logs:Passing The Baton
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| RL Date: 12 September, 2015 |
| Who: R'hin, Telavi |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: R'hin debriefs Telavi, and tasks her with mentoring Keysi into the ways of Savannah Wing. |
| Where: Homestead Built For Two Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 10, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Keysi/Mentions, Bristia/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
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The passageway leads between the two couches, the walls narrowing in until it's nothing but a corridor with darkness at the far end. A doorway leads off in each direction, the two rooms almost identical as far as size and shape are concerned: roughly oval, with aged tapestries covering raw stone almost the entire way around the room. They're easily large enough to house living quarters and bedroom each: to have both to one person would be pure luxury. Both rooms have doors with locks, as though occupants of this double weyr live together, but desire absolute privacy nonetheless. The morning assignments for Savannah don't take long; there's less of the wing present than usual, suggesting that most are already out on assignment. After reminding everyone about the all-important-poker-game this evening, R'hin dismisses the wing, although he catches Telavi's eye, lips twitching upward. He's, as he has taken to lately, seated himself on the arm of the couch, an affectation that he's taken to calling his High and Mighty Wingleader seat when commented on. Telavi's well-trained, and inclined today to be caught; she talks lightly with their wingmates, as though stalled from departing by one and then the next until somehow, by the time they're gone, she's reposing along that couch's length. They're Savannah, so it's not as though they're unlikely to know, but perhaps good practice all the same. Leaning into its opposite corner, then, she lifts blue-today eyes toward, "Your Excellency?" "It's Lord Excellency, today," R'hin corrects without missing a beat. Despite the fact that it's still early in the day, he's rising and moving to the liquor cabinet, perusing the bottles there. "How do you think she's going?" He doesn't bother specifying the she, but then given Keysi was the topic of conversation the last time he spoke, the Wingleader seems to assume he doesn't have to. "Lord High Master-of-Escapades... Excellency," Telavi embroiders with a sigh. Her gaze follows his shoulders, the back of his head. "She's trying," the greenrider says. "She wants to please you." Which may not just be based on the latest, necessarily-brief encounter. "Too far," R'hin opines, with a glance over his shoulder. "Though, admittedly, Lord-and-Master has a kind of ring to it, don't you think?" Turning back towards the cabinet, after a moment, he makes his selection, something dark and sweet smelling, splashing a quarter full into the glass, before striding back across to settle onto the other end of the couch. He grimaces at the greenrider's assessment of their newest wingmate. "Not... exactly what I was after. Rather she be in this for her. One of the reasons I want you looking to her, to widen her support network within the wing." "If not really a novel one," Telavi gives him back. She peeks at R'hin and that glass, that single glass, tilting her feet-- not that there were ever boot soles on the upholstery, not from Telavi-- to make sitting there easier. "I'll try to catch her for longer next time," she offers further, for that support network. "We've just been... quick, and she doesn't seem to want to socialize," even now, sigh! "but I'll see about drawing her out a little more. In her favor, it also doesn't sound like she's elaborating on what she reports." Not like their titles. "Speaking of..." The peek earns a generous wave of her Wingleader's hand in the direction of the cabinet; an invitation for her to help herself, if she chooses. R'hin doesn't seem inclined to press his own proclivities onto his wingriders, however. "She isn't..." he pauses to consider his words with a care that isn't often so obvious or visible, pale eyes going ceiling-ward as he muses, "What drives her isn't the company of others, but of her self-reflection. She's uneasy with what she sees in herself, I think. Given time, she'll grow to accept it -- Neianth will help, too. Savannah will give her the environment to get there." Speaking of, Telavi has his full attention -- aside from an impertinent sip from his glass. She regards him as he talks, her gaze on his features and how his hands move, how fast or freely he sips his drink. "Her... capability?" Tela wonders. She leaves a deliberate space, suitable for answering, as she swings off the couch for the cabinet; it is early, so after a brief check of the labels-- anything unfamiliar?-- she chooses just a little splash of this, a little splash of that, mixing. It might take the taste of more than breakfast away. "There was a woman, a laundress," she begins. "Isn't there always a woman? But this one was said, at least by someone, to have been holding a knife before he was hurt. Which, it might have been just a little one for eating with, but why does she need it out at all, if in fact it was out and she's not just getting blamed." And that space weighs in silence, R'hin's head tipping marginally in a way that could be taken as confirmation, or perhaps just as a silent, amused regard -- about on par with normal. Some of the liquids are labeled, others are tantalizingly blank. Her attempt at bartending earns a low-throated chuckle from the bronzerider, not so much approving as indulging. "Mm," he muses over the rumor she's passed on, considering. "A pole to stir the clothes; a pair of scissors or needle for repair work. Can't see much call for a knife for a laundress, but then -- we all have pasts, and Greenfields isn't exactly Harper Hall." Tantalizingly, frustratingly normal. Telavi doesn't do more than wrinkle her nose at him for that particular endeavor; she comes around to sit much where she had been, if more upright, boots tucked under. Her trial sip seems to pass muster, with an emphasis on seems. Skipping over pasts, "I'm sure some of those masters carry very sharp knives, just not as often the literal kind. Anyway... Keysi said nothing about whether the woman was thought to have used the knife, or had it taken from her and used, or just picked her nose with it. The other thing was what they called a 'trinket cart,' which may not have only sold trinkets, that a lot of people saw but didn't have much specific to say about it. All about the cart, not so much about whoever was running it." "Their tongues are honed sharp enough," is R'hin's opinion of Harper, regardless of his daughter's number amongst them. He doesn't seem overly perturbed by didn't say, opining, "It'll come up, eventually, if it's curious enough to warrant attention from the locals to comment on." He's frowning, though, at the mention of a trinket cart. "Not exactly that unusual. Well, let her know Bresmon can probably help her suss that out -- no one would question why a trader's asking about another trader being in the area." "I'll do that," Tela assures after another, daintier sip. "Bresmon. Supposedly it was at Greenfields in the days before the murder-- some children noticed, of course they would-- but again, not so much who was leading it. It makes me wonder if it was someone nondescript, or if it changed someones, or what. It was also there, 'lingering'-- her word-- in the immediate area where K'del got stabbed," and perhaps she could say that last cooly but she doesn't choose to cloak that in front of R'hin, "and then trekking off toward Nabol. It made me wonder how far it got." "Lingering," R'hin picks up, and echoes her emphasis, adding a touch of the dramatic of his own, "In the way that carts often do." He's less dainty with his drink, taking a generous mouthful while he considers. "Nabol's out of Bresmon's usual route. But there's others. Bristia's got a cover out that way that might help; Jadzia too, I think. Or," with a sudden smile, like he anticipates how well the suggestion will be taken, "You and Keysi could play mother and daughter, up from the cothold for some pretty things for a wedding." Telavi knows her cue, and turns up her nose on it, too. "To a stringy, stingy old trader, I'm sure." That's the reaction she'll give R'hin, and then smile, sunnily, before turning up her glass for another sip. "It might be nothing, but if it's not, why Nabol. In any case, she doesn't want to be pulled; she thinks she can find out more." With an open-palmed gesture, R'hin seems to indicate he'll leave the topic of Keysi staying or going to Telavi's judgement. "If you think she's handling it, and Neianth is. I'd have Leiventh check, but you know what he's like," his tone is light, easy. "If nothing else, it's good experience for her. And yes, a stingy old trader -- which means you're going to splash out on the single opportunity at the wedding of your lovely, if perhaps not so blushing bride of a daughter?" His lips twitch at the mental image of Keysi portraying such a role. "Half-sister," Tela says loftily. "Her mother died in childbirth too." His tone was light; this time, so is hers. "It's a pity we didn't pick up the hairclip to match the necklet before, to save us chasing after." While she's at it, sobering, "I don't want it to take longer. I feel like-- it shouldn't have taken this long." He half-squints at her, contemplatively. "Might need some make-up to pull that off. You're getting old," R'hin blithely teases her, lips curving upwards. "Wrinkles, everywhere." Of her impatience, he is ever-patient. "The fact that it hasn't is telling. It suggests there was planning and forethought. Which means people thought about it, and talked about it, and someones will know, and it will eventually out." Telavi narrows her eyes at him, sharp as any masters' tongues. She huffs. The rest of her drink disappears. "Better now, not in the next Pass when we're all dead. Or sooner, if they try again." And R'hin wears the face of innocence, eyes wide at her sharp-eyed look. He seems to take her draining of her glass as impetuous to do the same, with his. Her Wingleader's lackadaisical gesture suggests agreement with her words. But, more importantly, of the moment: "I want you to continue to mentor her. But," he lifts a finger, "Move slowly on the socializing. I'd like her to be comfortable with others in the wing, but I think that's best placed outside of a normal setting. Maybe some voice-training from Bristia, farseer viewing and judgement of distances with E'nest," he gestures, as if to say, you get the idea. "Ease her into it. She's not," after a beat, and with a smile, "You." Slowly? Telavi sighs, and sighs, and finally and near-reluctantly smiles. "Your timing is lovely," she says. "And you know it. And-- well, I won't call it flattery, but still." "Mmhmm," R'hin's amusement fairly gleams in pale eyes. "Still," he echoes her, precisely. "Let's have dinner in a few days, and you can tell me whether you and Keysi have decided to move onto Nabol or not." "We will," Telavi confirms. She bounces a foot, then crosses her legs the other way. "There isn't so much time before even the first clutch is laid," she says on the one hand. And on the other, "All this mentoring, here too." In his usual, serious-but-perhaps-not way, R'hin says, "So stay in Savannah. Or," with a considering tip of his head, "Take Keysi with you. Temporarily," is added, possessively. "Don't tempt me," Tela reproves in a tone that invites doing exactly that. "Keysi, now--" Her brows arch, and her lips purse together with a hint of a wiggle, not quite laughter. "Wouldn't that be interesting. Poor Quinlys; it's even harder for her," having to lie about and do whatever instead of what Savannah calls fun. "Poor Quinlys," R'hin agrees, blandly. "She only has to put up with you half the time." He starts to push up from the couch, then abruptly slumps back down. "Mm. Who am I kidding. I'm too old to bother with shoo'ing you out of my weyr." Instead, he'll just eye her significantly until she does so. Tela flicks a nail at him. And she gets up, because she's just that obedient, but she has her glass to put away first. His too, if he'll let her have it. 'Obedient' and tidy. He'll indulge her that, handing the glass over, like he won't just go and refill it once she's gone. Clink, from behind him; and clink, and a softer almost-sigh. "You look tired sometimes," her voice quiet and all Benden, none of the accents he'd given her. She leans over the couch; her hair drifts, the only way she touches him. "Take care of yourself, sailor." His, "And you," is near inaudible, and unendingly exhausted. |
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