Logs:For Fort
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| RL Date: 5 December, 2015 |
| Who: Mirinda, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Following his talk with Olivya, N'rov has concerns. |
| Where: Weyrling Complex, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 6, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, Dahlia/Mentions, Kh'tyr/Mentions, Olivya/Mentions |
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| Settled high under the gibbous moon with his queen, there where her flashy wings can still best be seen, Vhaeryth has quite a view; it's a good time for communing about the day, their dragons, to discuss. And also now to ask, a touch troubled, if her rider would join his: in the barracks that will house their weyrlings, and to bring glows if she likes. Not that N'rov doesn't have any at all, as evinced by the point of light crossing the bowl way down there. She'll find him there, with those glows and a carafe of a fresh fruit drink. There are many things Zaisavyth likes: her mate, her Weyr, the warm sun on her hide, the moons. Trouble? Trouble does not appear on that list, and it disquiets her; all ought to be well, here. Must they? Must this? Mirinda, with a cloak over her shoulders against the cool-to-her evening air, has an expression of exhausted resilience in place as she steps over the the threshold of the barracks, chin lifted to greet the so-much-taller Weyrleader, glow raised high. "Do we have a problem?" Another problem. Vhaeryth dips his head to reassure his mate of this, at least: they mustn't. They can lounge. Their riders are capable, so capable of taking care of this and... he'll just listen in a little. She can rest. His N'rov glances at her rider even before topping off the woman's glass; then he does so and says, ruefully, "I'd appreciate your thoughts." The glows limn his faint smile, and the weariness behnd it, in this place that's become something of a touchstone, the sort of sanctuary they won't get to keep. "Which doesn't mean you don't get to sit, first." An afterthought, "It isn't spiked." The drink. "Not trying to get me drunk? I'm relieved." Mirinda doesn't look relieved, though, not when there's so much obvious tension in her shoulders, so braced for whatever is to come. Still, she crosses towards the bronzerider, reaching to take the glass, and once those long fingers have wrapped around it, to sit. Then: "I'm sitting. Tell me." Zaisavyth's soothed by Vhaeryth's solicitous efforts, though those huge eyes of hers stay open and watchful, her wings drawn close. N'rov pours for himself, starts to sit, then catches himself midway, then finally lowers himself the rest of the way into the chair that angles rather than opposes hers. "I don't understand Olivya," he openly admits, looking to Miranda. "Her approach, it concerns me. Could you translate? I don't want to put you in a bind." With a hint of sharpness, "I could say the same of Kh'tyr." Her disapproval of that dragonrider is plain, though she swallows it back after a moment-- along with a sip from her drink-- and then gives a little nod. "I can try. What did she say?" "Ah, Kh'tyr," comes with a bit of a grimace. "You could go first?" N'rov offers half-hopefully. After another look at her, though, "Olivya... didn't want to explain. I asked her about Fort; about what she'd do." He runs his hand through his hair, or rather over it, short as it is. "Basics, Mirinda. What I'd ask anyone. Is she always that way?" "Sometimes," admits Mirinda, reluctantly, truthfully. "She doesn't like to be questioned, really. Which is ridiculous in this instance... I think she would make an excellent weyrlingmaster, N'rov, and I will advocate in that direction, but she has to be able to help herself, too." A pause. "She expects to be trusted to do her job and do it well." Beat. "And I don't think she trusts you, yet." N'rov can't help but smile for her, a shadow-flash of sympathy for her trying; "Yeah, I was hoping it would be more of an opportunity for her to explain what she's got going, you know? She doesn't have to trust me yet; but it's like anyone, if you want the opportunity, you need to be able to explain how you're going to carry it out. It's not a matter of swooning and trusting that I'll catch her; it's not trusting me with her innermost personal thoughts. It's work." Mirinda presses her lips together, tightly, displeasure and disapproval-- but not, at least, aimed at N'rov-- plainly written there. "I'll talk to her," she says. "Remind her. She's... she's been burnt a few times, that's all. I think she wear her defensiveness like armour." Mirinda, who has no such armour, does not seem wholly comfortable with that; merely sad. "What happens if we reach an impasse? If neither of us is comfortable with the other's choice of weyrlingmaster? Do we draw straws?" N'rov nods, a slight twist to his mouth, not unsympathetic and yet... serious. When she gets to choices, "Good question. It's not like I'm backing Kh'tyr, necessarily. We could find someone else; they might not necessarily bring anything new to the table, they might not have that energy... but there might also not be an unwillingness to cooperate, or whatever you ran into with Kh'tyr." A wry look comes with that: he hasn't forgotten. "We can't have an exchange of ideas if there's no exchange. Are you all right if I relate a couple more specifics, about Olivya?" Not like she's brittle; just... this isn't easy. "Please," says Mirinda. "Be honest. I'm aware that I know Olivya like I know my own mind. I've known her half my life. But that's not true of you, nor of most people." She rests her glass upon one skirt-covered knee, holding it in position with careful fingers. She's still not commenting further on Kh'tyr. Only, "I feel like this is an appointment we need to get right. It shapes the future, doesn't it? Our future." His nod accedes. So does the lift of his gaze; N'rov seeks to catch hers, before he drinks, as though that might prompt her to drink as well. "I think so, too. It really shapes them, and it's especially important if we do get candidates from outside, the way we've talked about. And, Mirinda? I'm glad that we can talk about it." It's still not easy. So: "One thing that surprised me was that it sounded like she hadn't looked into what we teach, and I hope that doesn't mean that she's not interested in what we teach. Fort is not Monaco; at the very least, look at the weather patterns. I remember from Southern that it drills differently: in some ways the same, or similar, in others not. What I got that from was that she said that she couldn't explain what she'd do the same or differently was unless she's 'in the program' and could see what we do and why. I don't know why she'd think we'd think it's okay to come up with a plan on the fly," but he's quick to rein in that frustration. "Assistant weyrlingmaster might be the best option: to learn it first, before taking it over. But I know you'd like for her to do it this time; perhaps, then, what she could do is to talk to previous assistants, to take a look at the hidework, and be able to make an actual plan to show us from there. What do you think of that?" Mirinda's expression is a mask, though perhaps by now N'rov knows her well enough to be able to guess at when that mask is hiding frustration beneath those smooth, neutral lines. She wipes her hand, moist from the condensation on her glass, upon her skirt-covered knee, and gives a little nod. "That sounds an ideal solution," she agrees. "Give her access to everything: the assistants, the records, all the resources. Have her pull together a plan, and then present it. At worst, we select someone else afterwards. At best, she's in a position to impress us. But you're right; we need something concrete. I'm afraid... it's possible I gave her the wrong impression. That she could do as she wished and I would ensure she got the knot." The admission is quietly offered. He's nodding; that's done. Until it's as though it isn't; and then N'rov says finally, after a moment that's not just quiet but silent, "That would explain why she said that it's not her job to convince me. To go through some interview process 'just because I'm the Weyrleader.'" His voice is slow. He pushes out a breath, looks away and up, then back at her. He collects himself. "I... can understand that. You know her so well. You know her strengths, strengths that apply, and she's been there for you." "She said that?" Mirinda can't hold the mask up for that; she flinches, colour draining from her cheeks. "I'm surprised, after that, you're even willing to consider her." Now, she sounds bitter, setting down her glass on a convenient surface but only so that she can pace: back and forth, back and forth. "She's the one person who has always been there, N'rov, throughout all the shit-storms of my life. But that doesn't mean... I apologise." N'rov's hand moves, like he'd reach for her, but he doesn't complete the gesture; nor does he immediately speak, a pained twist to his mouth. She gets to pace; he looks up, watching her, at the edge of his chair but stationary. "You don't have to," he says straightforwardly. "But..." he admits, he lets her hear him admitting, "I appreciate that you did, that it matters." He rubs his knuckles over his temples. "I'm glad she was there for you, too. Shells. I... Do you want to talk about Kh'tyr now?" The twist of Mirinda's expression is her only reply to that topic: to Olivya, to apologies, to all that has gone before. She's no more comforted by the turn in conversation, however, for mention of Kh'tyr has her sighing, both hands lifting to smooth the sharp lines of her bangs, partially shading her eyes in the process. "He was not much more forthcoming that Liv, from the sounds of it. He... I believe he expected me to dismiss him without listening. Baited me. He does not speak straight." Her moue of distastes is just short of a shudder, one that makes her seem smaller than she is; little-girl-lost, all over again. "He does not," N'rov agrees, no contractions there but the full drawn-out words. "And he likes to mess with language, and he goes every which way sometimes." He's got a pull to his mouth again, but part of that is Mirinda, at whom he looks with a briefly furrowed brow that clears before his gaze does. "Not that I don't, but he can be... antic, maybe. Yet from what I heard, he's highly competent." It's just N'rov doesn't sound happy about it. Mirinda withdraws her hands from her hair, letting them rest upon her legs, instead, fingers splayed. "I can believe he's competent," she admits. "And that he has lofty aspirations for his charges. It's not that. It's... I find it difficult to trust what he says. At least you have always spoken to me plainly, answered my questions." "Good," N'rov says with audible relief, although "I've certainly tried," is a little rueful. "I'd feel better about someone who's stable. Who's got flair, sure, but who's plainspoken when needed. Someone who can and would talk clearly to the both of us, together and individually: not just one of us. There are, were, a couple of wingleaders who could have stepped up, I think," but grief scrapes against his tone before he can wholly draw it back. Dark eyes focus more directly upon N'rov at the sound of that grief, her own mouth drawn slightly open as she exhales. She's a foreigner; a stranger. She has no part in Fortian grief. "I agree," she says, simply, focusing upon that other, easier part of the conversation. "I'll talk to Olivya. I would like it, if she could be that person. If she's capable of it. But if she's not..." she shakes her head. "I'll not put friendship over what's best for Fort, N'rov. That would--" The shadow of something crosses her expression for that, followed by determined resolve. N'rov can respect that; it's clear in his long, level look. Even before, "I'm glad it's you Fort got, Mirinda." He'll have his own to deal with soon enough. Those wings. Hematite. "In the meantime..." his knees flex, he braces between chair and stone, not yet standing. "I'll talk to Kh'tyr. Again, not to be backing him particularly, but to give him the chance if he wants to try. Dahlia might have an idea, though I got the impression she didn't get particularly close to any assistants, last time." He mentions a few other names, but no one utterly unfamiliar to her by now, and then he does stand. "Anything else? Or is it time for... your question, I think." Mirinda's head bobs low in acknowledgement for all N'rov's said, though she has no particular comment on it; there are more conversations to be had before there is anything for her to say, in truth. "My question. It must be that, yes." She steps closer, though only-- it seems-- to be able to pick up her abandoned glass, sipping from it carefully as she turns it between her fingers. "What's your favourite memory, N'rov? The first thing you think of when you close your eyes, looking for comfort." N'rov looks at her, and there must be half a dozen glib remarks right there on his tongue; and yet. He drinks, less carefully; then, wryly, quietly, "There's no room for more than Vhaeryth there, I don't think. Though comfort isn't necessarily what he'd give me. If I had to pick one today... There's a place down South, with a trader wagon there. It took me a little while to get used to lying in the grass, and not think of grubs crawling where they don't belong." He has a brief smile, glancing at her before he goes on; maybe she has a grub story. "Ah," says Mirinda, with the cadence of a sigh; a knowing sigh. "Mm, yes." She would agree with that, with a dragon like Zaisavyth to share her thoughts. Of grubs, however, she has no comment... but there is a gleam in her gaze, knowing and amused. "Go on." N'rov does; N'rov does not escape. He leans against the table to tell it, glass lifted so the glowlight passes through it; "It's out in the middle of nowhere," here he flicks a glance at her. "Shani flew it in Turns ago, see, and there it was. Anyway: this wagon, out in the middle of nowhere, and it had a hill, has a hill. Vhaeryth likes to sprawl," speaking of Zaisavyth, "and there were these afternoons just lying back, with the sun slanting low and golden, leaning up against him and there was nowhere else I had to be." Mirinda exhales, her eyelashes fluttering closed as she listens, without even so much as a hitch in her breath for that mention of Aishani. "It sounds wonderful," she admits, at the end, as her eyelids open once more. "I can understand. I miss the south. I know... I know there are many beautiful places here, but I've not yet left the Weyr, and soon it won't even be possible, not with the eggs. I hope... I hope you'll show me some places, later. When I can." N'rov's expression clears, even that faint line between his brows that's more notable in its absence; "Lunch," he says. "It's portable; call it a meeting, if you must. We can visit all our territories, not to shake hands," amusement warms his voice here, "but just to see." "Lunch," allows Mirinda after a moment, and with a smile. "It's a plan. For now--" She gestures towards the door. They've both, no doubt, got things to do before the evening is over. "Thank you for your candour." N'rov sketches a quarter-bow; "And yours." He starts gathering up the carafe and their glasses, all automatically; he's nearly done when he hesitates, glances at the cavern, then half-laughs and completes the job. He may be the Weyrleader now, but he's not that far gone. Yet. |
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