Logs:Hot Water
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| RL Date: 22 December, 2015 |
| Who: D'vro, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, Southern Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'rov poaches a Wingleader from Southern with promises of baths and experimentation. |
| Where: D'vro's Cottage, Southern Weyr |
| When: Day 13, Month 8, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: R'jare/Mentions, Olivya/Mentions, N'muir/Mentions |
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| Early evening finds D'vro inside, door open to let the breeze flow through despite the fact that there's a fire on in his small hearth. That's mostly for the kettle, though, water heating up for the tea he never fails to offer N'rov. Even though he expects the other man to arrive any time, he's still working through a handful of reports, just enough to be simple to slip away. It's more than likely the last of the evening, so best to get them out of the way. N'rov will have to forgive him if he ends up too focused on that to note an approach. The Fortian bronzerider's not quiet about his knock, but he also doesn't wait to enter. "Funny," he drawls, letting that pause be transition, "how your winter can be a whole lot like our summer. How's it going, D'vro? Freezing your tail off?" No sweaters for N'rov, but short-sleeved shirt and loose trous, informal. D'vro looks up at the other bronzerider's knock and a slightly more than polite smile spreads across his face, his friendly smile, at the Fortian's greeting. "I'll hardly complain about that. Your winters are dreadful." He rises from his seat at the table after slipping those reports away. "I debated taking off my sweater," it's lightly made, the buttons up the middle of it undone so it falls open, "but I thought I might catch a chill before I could get you out of here again." So he's doing about the same as usual, it would seem. "Tea?" he asks, already going to take the kettle off to make up his own cup. "And then give it to me, and then get me quarantined even if it's just your cold, lest I have brought the plague back to the northern continent." Dark amusement lingers about N'rov's expression, his voice. "Why not," he says with more appreciation than the words alone might imply, and roams about the cottage, glancing about to see if anything's changed. "How are your wingseconds coming along, these days? Have they figured out who's on top?" "Don't tell me you're already looking for excuses to shirk your duties, Weyrleader." Getting sick to avoid work, granted, may not be the most pleasant way to take a break. Water into mugs, then a mesh of metal to hold the leaves of tea over the top of it, and D'vro carries them back to the table while N'rov explores. Nothing much has changed. A new chair in the corner, or perhaps only reupholstered. "They're well. Very well, now that your plague seem to have breathed its last." As for who's in which position? "They all get their chance to be on top, in some form or another." But his tone implies that they're all quite aware of his own preference to be on top in this analogy, too. "How are you enjoying your responsibilities?" N'rov gives a trial, exploratory cough into his inner elbow, and then smirks; he prods the upholstery with his knuckles before sauntering back. "Resisting the temptation to bejewel Vhaeryth's straps as much as Bijedth ever got," only his dry tone suggests that's none too likely. Though, "Resisting the temptation to wear a hat that says, 'No, I didn't fuck my new weyrlingmaster to give her the job,'" might be more so, given its undernote of a growl. "I think Vhaeryth would look nice in a few jewels," offers D'vro with a near perfectly feigned seriousness. "Anyway, people will believe what they want to believe. Telling that sort the truth only makes them cling to their delusions that much harder. And so what if you fucked her." It doesn't seem to occur to him, granted, that N'rov would ever choose a weyrlingmaster who wasn't entirely qualified for the job. So of course it wouldn't matter if there were sex involved. "Don't you even get him started," and N'rov lowers his brows at D'vro mostly-mock-accusingly, a flex of his shoulders forcing out further tension at the rest. He eyes the tea next, but leaves it be. "Yeah. Well. And no new girl on your end, all set to sit here," maybe in that chair N'rov's not sitting in, "and adoringly watch you deal with reports?" When the tea is properly steeped, D'vro removes the leaves from both mugs, setting the curved meshes aside and out of the way on a small dish. "No new girl to watch me do much of anything adoringly." It's been turns and turns since the last time there was a new girl. "There's a greenrider prone to scowling at me when I have her go over them with me, though." Close enough? "Close enough," N'rov says in so many words. He gives the mesh a moment's glance, then it's back to the other rider, leaning over the table's edge as he does it. "Listen. Dav. You know where we're at at Fort. You know you've been treading the same water here at Southern. I've already talked to R'jare," and presumably Ali, given their connection. "Let me poach you." "Poach me?" with the emphasis on the first word. Not exactly what he'd been expecting to hear right then. D'vro studies N'rov's face momentarily, "The water here is warmer, you know. All turn." No matter if he's treading. But, "You're already talked to R'jare? What did he say?" Asked while he picks up his mug to take a slow drink, calmly rote. "Good man, he hates to let you go, understands the bind, will survive somehow, et cetera." N'rov waves a hand that's soon explained by, "I believe there was something about 'spreading your wings' and the metaphor went on from there." He spares a moment of silence for R'jare and his ways before returning to, "That is, if you're willing. We do have furs, and I can swing you a weyr with your very own bath, no more mingling water with the masses. Hot water, I might add." Despite the complementary nature, D'vro seems unsurprised, and somewhat pensive. "I suppose I should have expected that." Of R'jare, not N'rov. He might be less sure on the latter. The mention of his very own bath probably shouldn't be as convincing as the way his brows pop up briefly suggests it is. "If I agreed, what of my wing? R'jare will surely want to keep my wingseconds. At least one of them. But he could hardly miss a handful of my riders." Does N'rov have want of anymore Southern riders? "Yeah, he'll promote one, would be my guess," but N'rov can't know; possibly R'jare himself doesn't. "If you have some to take, that want to, I'd be open to that if he is; that's up to you to negotiate." N'rov straightens. "I am looking for strong skills, a solid work ethic and good character, but it's your wing," said with the implication that N'rov doesn't imagine it would be otherwise. Is it flattery if it's both sincere and true? "Mostly, what I want you to do is keep the wing organized and getting along with the world, get work done, get the old coots to explain what you need to know about Fort instead of Southern, I'll help with that too... and train up a wingsecond or two. Or three, just not at the same time," N'rov says wryly. "And then there's the future." He doesn't even make it sound ominous. D'vro takes pride in the skills and characters of his wingriders, so the flattery might be lost in what he presumes is simple truth. He's nodding along to what the other man tells him while he processes the information, perhaps even starts making plans in that head of his. "That won't be a problem." It's all, more or less, business as usual for D'vro, even if it is new business. "The future?" is a question that focuses the Southern bronzerider's attention back on N'rov, away from his thoughts, as though he hadn't expected the future to entail more than what's already been said. Call it complex truth, perhaps. N'rov lays it out for him: "Faranth willing, we've plenty of Interval ahead. But there's no guarantee we don't see another Comet Pass, that we won't be surprised by one. It's the same dilemma every Interval Weyr has, except this one's tailored to the situation we have now, so we can't just copy," and wouldn't anyway, says the Weyrleader's sharp grin. "The problem we have is lack of manpower at the helm; the benefit we have is that we can go different directions with, I think, less complaint. There's an opportunity to refocus wings: keep some drilling, keep the sweeping going along, but also see what other skills our men and women have that we can use. It's like what we used to toss around over drinks now and again... only it's real'." This is the stuff D'vro's dreams are made of. At least someone has probably joked about that at some point or another. The Southern man seems even more thoughtful as he studies the Fortian. "I've always wanted to see just how well a group of riders could move from one wing to another to keep their basic skill sets strongly built." Like drilling. "While exploring what else they might be good at." He's probably even brought that up before over those drinks. "But I suppose it's just as important for the wingleaders to be flexible." He waves that off, "We do have a tendency to get comfortable in our roles as riders, don't we. We can't forget our roles as people." N'rov drops into that chair. "Tell me about moving from one wing to another. How'd you see that working in action?" He adds while he's at it, "I've been thinking about options. But I don't want to color what's in your head." D'vro gives it a minute of consideration before he speaks anything out loud, and even then doesn't seem sure he has enough to make it sound like an entirely plausible idea. "We have flights of wings. We have wings of riders. I see no reason we couldn't have smaller groups of riders making up wings; ones who work well together, or who need to learn how to work well together. Traditional skills are things every rider should know and know well. A wing focused on those skills could theoretically be made up of groups of riders cycling through from other, more specialized, wings. Instead of focusing time on those tasks for, say, a wing whose primary duties are to foster relationships within our coverage area. Wings as a whole would likely be stronger if they were more modular." That might be pushing the boundaries, granted. "More or less like tossing a few riders from a specialized wing over to remedial work, without having to have the rest suffer through it?" N'rov supposes with a lift of one brow. "Only with a better spin on it. Small groups that don't drive each other crazy." "Without having to have the whole wing take their focus away from their specialized duties at the same time." D'vro's amendment amounts to the same thing, really, but it's like him to make sure his ideas are as clear as possible. "It could, I suppose, have consequences where wing-bonding is concerned. And I don't think wingleaders should be exempt, or that there aren't merits for a wing drilling together. But Fort does lend itself somewhat to experimentation right now." "It does. Stabiity's important too, lest the whole thing fragment, but we have room." For good or ill. N'rov considers the other man. "How would you foster those coverage area relationships? Without losing bargaining room for later, nor putting our dragons to the plow... though I will say, we sent out a few to tear up the fields, so the holders could get out the crops that failed. They rather enjoyed themselves, I'm told," but his shrug still speaks of discomfort. "Anyway. Off the top of your head," that's distinctly dry for putting the other man on the spot like that, though that doesn't stop him, "and then let's do justice to your tea." "That's not an easy question to answer, N'rov." No doubt part of the reason it's been asked. D'vro's interpersonal skills have always been somewhat limited by his desire for order. People outside of the Weyr don't fall into the natural hierarchy; they can be uncomfortably unpredictable. "I think it depends on the people. It's our duty to only allow them to be as dependent on us as we are on them. Given the losses in your coverage areas, though..." D'vro lets that thought trail off without stating explicitly that it could naturally lead to more codependency. His thoughtfulness begins to get away from him again, and that might be all that N'rov gets for putting him on the spot. This time N'rov's shrug is wryer, confirming the other bronzerider's supposition. But when he trails off, after silence has fallen, "Think about it," N'rov says in lieu of quizzing Dav immediately. He raises the cup instead, an informal salute. "To figuring it out, and not too hot water," his grin suggesting D'vro's welcome to add on. Think about it. There's no question D'vro will be doing that. He's already struggling to avoid zoning out so he can entertain the rest of N'rov's company. He lifts his tea and adds his own dutiful banter, "To having faith my Weyrleader has any glimmer of an idea what he's getting us into." N'rov, N'rov will drink to that. |
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