Logs:Brother My Brother
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| RL Date: 26 January, 2013 |
| Who: Z'ian, Azaylia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Goldrider and bronzerider have a delicate discussion about what's happened and what's going to happen. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 11, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Brieli/Mentions, H'kon/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, Taikrin/Mentions |
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| Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor, and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook. Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern. With dinner just past, it's time for people to go and get their post-meal drink on. Usually that would mean the Snowasis is packed, but there's something about today that seems to have deterred most. It's quiet, except for the typical gaggle of bar flies near the entrance. Z'ian has been here for awhile and after finishing a depressing game of darts, has sunk into a chair near the hearth. He's swapped his regular beer out for some hard cider, heated up and steaming. Practically all of the swelling he experienced from his encounter with the other rider during the flight has subsided. It's just black and blues and even those are beginning to see the tinges of yellow around the edges. With his mug cradled carefully against him with one hand, he's pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket that he scans briefly before folding it up and tucking it away again. The corners of his mouth are turned down and he's quiet, but looking a little troubled. By some miracle, Azaylia has managed to make it to the Snowasis only half-soaked instead of completely. Slipping the dark cloak off of her shoulders, she leaves it to hang while juggling an armful of records records. She has enough sense to wrap them up, protected from the rain. Her drink of choice is something equally warm, but chocolatey and topped with a pile of fluffy sweet cream. Even with her warm clothes, she's shivering on her way towards the hearth, seat taken carefully since both hands are full. Hides are set on her lap so both hands can be used to leech heat from her steaming cup, eyes looking to see who she might be sharing the fire's warmth with. Z'ian's expression is met with an anxious whisper, "Is Tsanth alright?" Distracted lately, it's a delayed beat before he takes any notice of the person sitting across from him. When he finally drags his eyes up and away from the fire, he blinks in momentary surprise to see Azaylia there. He's quick to wave off her concern though, "He's alright. He got a few stitches in his wing and some bruising, but he's flight-worthy." Z'ian works to brush off the troubled expression, allowing his mouth to curve into a slow smile. "How's Hraedhyth and yourself?" He asks politely, bringing his mug up to his lips. It may have been rude to ask, to do so without a proper greeting, but Azaylia's waiting in quiet earnest. "Oh." Relieved and embarrassed, her gaze drops the the cream melting into her drink. She finally thinks to add, "And you? Your bruises..." The weyrwoman doesn't try to catagorize them. Do bruises ever look 'good'? "Fine, thank you. Hraedhyth is happy. There will be eggs." That has her smiling with more ease than before, "I'm sorry you both were hurt. I know it's been days, but I still feel badly." She's probably been apologizing a lot lately. "Sexy? Dangerous?" Z'ian starts, the slow curving smile turning into a more outrageous and amused one. "It's alright, they look awful. I've been trying to come up with different ways to talk about it. Sad. Funny. Over the top." The bronzerider rolls his shoulders, seeming at ease with the probably unwanted attention to his face. "Eggs, excellent. Important to have them after a flight." He laughs quietly at her next and shakes his head. "It wasn't your fault what happened. We bit off more than we could chew, that happens sometimes." That mug is cradled close to his body, keeping the core of his body just a little extra warm. "So you shouldn't feel bad about it." Azaylia laughs, however softly. "Maybe dangerous. The yellow is a little, uhm, un-sexy." Her gaze darts from his bruises to the bronzerider's eyes, "Not that you're not-- that didn't come out right." It's the easier explanation, easing back into her seat and silencing her traitor mouth with a sip. She's used to this drink, reaching up to wipe away the dollop of cream that marks her nose. "If I hadn't gotten upset, during, then maybe Hraedhyth would have been better behaved." Maybe. "Still, thank you for saying so." The guilt isn't crippling, at least not anymore, so she can appreciate his meaning well. "Yeah, when they turn yellow they stop having any resemblance to something attractive. If you're light skinned like me? You look like you have jaundice. Really doesn't help you pick up women." Z'ian rolls his eyes amusedly before taking a long draw from his mug. It must still be pretty hot, because he blows on the surface of the liquid afterwards. Glancing up, "Not that I'm not what?" Then smiling crookedly, "Oh, thanks. I think." He keeps his particular sense of humor reserved when the topic is Hraedhyth however. "I don't want this to sound offensive." Which is always an excellent start to something that might be. "But you are young and... I've heard that it gets easier. I wouldn't know since I'm on the wrong side of things. But maybe next time it won't be so jarring? I don't think anyone blames you." "I don't bruise easily." Azaylia admits of her darker skin, which may be why she's fascinated with Z'ian's. She balances her mug on an armrest that has earned perpetual rings from drinks long past, her other hand keeps the work from sliding off her lap. "Not that you aren't cute, despite your injuries." From someone else it might be a come on, an attempt of flattery. From the weyrwoman, it's simple honesty at the bronzerider's prompting. "Next time will be better." She agrees, a hint of determination audible in her gentle voice. "Can..." Does she really want to? "Can I ask what was bothering you, before?" Since she guessed wrong. "I sometimes wish my skin was darker. It seems to be easier during the summer, less burning. Or is it just not visible?" Z'ian asks, appearing genuinely curious as he tilts his head and looks the younger woman over. The simple honesty is rewarded with a quiet laugh as he lifts one hand to lightly scratch the scruff on his jaw line. She may not really have wanted to ask that question but it appears his desire to answer it is on par in the reluctance department. Not a person built for deception, he's left with few options as to his response. "It's complicated. A mix of concern over the state of our Weyr and some difficulties with my family back at the Hold." Just which is the more pressing of concerns isn't highlighted. Azaylia takes a moment to think on those warmer months that seem oh so far away. "Sometimes, my face stings if I stay out in the sun all day without a hat. But I don't get red, or that... peely thing." For which she looks mildly concerned. "My Papa's darker, and he's never mentioned being burned." She sounds uncertain, thoughtfully so. The young woman is patient as Z'ian takes his time answering, sipping at her warm drink as she dries herself near the fire. "Oh." Her eyes glance away, though she can't honestly be that surprised. Perhaps it was misplaced hope? "I'm sorry you're having trouble with your family." As for the weyr, "Has something happened? Anything you might want the Weyr's leaders to know about?" Not Weyrleaders. "Sun burn." He supplies helpfully, mouth twitching into a quick smile. Lifting the mug to his mouth, he hides behind it for several moments while she addresses his response. The topic of family troubles is certainly the easier of the two to talk about with this audience. "Nothing that can be helped or for you to be sorry about. But I guess that's just what people say?" Z'ian sighs for that last and looks minimally entertained by his own rhetorical question. For the weyr, he regards Azaylia with a candid sort of expression. "Nothing has happened that the Weyr's leaders shouldn't already be aware of." He caught that. Further explanation doesn't seem to be forthcoming from the bronzerider, not straight away. Instead he lets his gaze linger on her, even when she takes the moment to glance away. With a faint wince, Azaylia is sympathetic for him as well as the other folk who are more familiar with sun burn than she is. "I mean it, though." Even if that's just what other people say, to be polite. His response has her giving him a thoughtful look, tired eyes dropping to the records in her lap. With her fingers silently tapping the aged leather, "So, nothing?" With an apologetic glance, she explains, "It's hard to keep a whole weyr happy. Not that I- we don't try. But it... doesn't sound like anything has happened." She's careful with her words, obviously so. "I appreciate that then. If you mean it." Z'ian replies, his own smile sympathetic to her for response. His fingers circle around the mug as he lowers it onto his lap. Uncomfortable, he takes in a long breath of air before he bites down on his lower lip. Carefully and without injecting a terrible amount of emotion, "Two Weyrleaders. Two brown riding Weyrleaders. Two Weyrwoman. One that most don't see as acceptable to lead the wings under any circumstances. The other, people don't view as a leader to begin with. One woman who some don't trust, the other they do. But is she now surrounded by people of dubious intent who are only there to grab power for themselves?" And his expression isn't angry or frustrated with her; it's easier to perhaps classify it as concern. "I would argue that a great deal has happened." Azaylia's smile for Z'ian stays when he accepts her concern only to slowly shrink as he voices his own. Both riders don't seem very uncomfortable with the subject at hand, but even the goldrider knows it needs to be addressed. As he speaks, her lips part as if to say something and yet she keeps quiet for several moments after he's done. First, a gentle reminder. "Brieli and I have worked together since we impressed." That's all it is, not so much as arguing as offering her own words to the air without any intent on aggravating Z'ian. "I don't... can't, expect everyone to be alright with what is happening. Changes in leadership will always upset people." She lowers her eyes and looks into her half-filled mug, thinking over her next words very carefully. "Other than the flights, nothing has gone w-- happened. People can be unhappy, but it's wrong to think that Brieli and I would let anything," Anyone. "harm our Weyr." "This isn't a change in leadership. This is a complete upending of everything that governs the way of life here. Of what people have come to expect, to understand." Z'ian is careful too, clearly aware of how quickly such a conversation can tumble down hill. "And it involves a cast of characters that many find unacceptable. Regardless of your own personal relationship to them." He takes another long breath, steadying himself as he verbally traverses this unfortunately sloggy, swampy territory. "I don't think for an instant that you would allow anything to harm the Weyr. It's everyone else that I don't trust. It would be..." He searches for the words, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and away from her. "It would be unwise to assume that people are simply unhappy." His demeanor isn't unkind or combative, "Nothing has happened yet. But I wouldn't place marks that it's not going to at some point in the near future." The bronzerider's concerns don't seem to be anything she hasn't heard already, or perhaps Azaylia has thought of them herself. They still have her closing her eyes, concentrating on little else but searching for the appropriate thing to say. There's a faint crease in her brow as she murmurs, "So was banishing a Weyrwoman." Not heated, but there's a note of something subtle. When her eyes open again, she looks even more exhausted, "It's hard. I know it's hard. But I'm not going to listen to anyone who tries to tell me that bronzeriders are better than brownriders. Than any other rider." She falters, possibly remembering his own dragon's hue. His cryptic warning is taken with a sigh, a nod that nearly isn't one, "I know that, too." Bringing the mug to her lips, she gives her own whispered warning, "Hraedhyth won't like that." Sip. "Is that what I suggested?" Z'ian asks, considering her with an unblinking gaze as he brings that drink back to his lips again. He's quiet throughout when she speaks and when she finishes, he slowly exhales. Gently he loops the conversation around to an earlier point, "You can't make everyone happy. But as I mentioned it may be unwise to assume it's simply unhappiness. It would be unwise to mistake unrest for simple displeasure." The only true hint of his real unease comes from the whitening around his knuckles. "Tsanth and I will do our duty to High Reaches. But we cannot accept the state of affairs as they are now. He won't recognize Szadath or Arekoth nor will I their riders. We will of course recognize you. I'm very sorry for the rest." And he does seem sorry, truly. "And because I'm not alone in how I believe." "It sounds like it. I can't imagine the same reaction if our golds had been caught by two bronzes." Azaylia answers, faint frustration not meant for the rider she's sitting next to. Her mug is returned to the armrest empty,her exhale carrying the faint tingle of alcohol. "Even a Weyrleader's bronze has to obey a queen. Iesaryth and Hraedhyth are in charge." She makes no mention of whether either brown actually holds power by proxy. "I wouldn't want to force you." It's the truth, even if the weyrwoman's words weigh with some sadness. More so as she utters, "I'm sorry, too." A preemptive apology, well meaning and genuine. "You're right, it would have been a different reaction. But it would have been an unpleasant reaction, regardless. It just might have been easier to figure out." Z'ian takes the opportunity to drain the rest of his mug, surely much cooler now than it was before. "As I said, we would recognize you. Hraedhyth. There would be no force in that regard, Azaylia." There's no mention of Iesaryth, but perhaps she's included by proxy. He skirts around that particular topic and onto the next, "A dragon may have to obey a queen, but a man does not. I hope that's not something that anyone has to test the push and pull of in the coming months." But this all has him looking grim, depressed again as he was when she first found him. "I know you are." And if he could fix what was happening for her, he would. So says that troubled expression as he rises to stand. "I hope that the next time we drink together, it's under better circumstances. We can talk more about skin conditions." He attempts a smile and mostly manages a passable one. It's not much, really but it's the hopeful holdout for future conversations that aren't so heavy, burdensome. Azaylia decides not to point out why it might be easier to figure out, having worn her point down to a nub. Only after he's risen to stand does she murmur at the fire, "It was a man that killed Iolene." Is she frightened? Angry? There's so much in that quiet whimper as to make it hard to decipher. Manners have her giving a tight, small smile in response to his, "Me too. I hope you and Tsanth have a good night." On neutral ground, she can offer such pleasantries. Once they've crossed over their respective lines, she might not get the chance. On hearing the quiet mention of Iolene, he drops his eyes to the ground. It's pitched low enough that the people around them shouldn't be able to hear, "Not every man is a murderer. Not even close to a fraction." There's something regretful, maybe even guilty in the look that he flashes to Azaylia. But he's a man that's been raised to be polite, perhaps like herself. "Good evening." It's a simple thing and then he's making his way swiftly out of the bar and into the night. |
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