Logs:Kinds of Wings
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| RL Date: 9 October, 2012 |
| Who: H'kon, I'kris |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: H'kon disapproves of secretive methods of information collection, but obliges more blatant ones. |
| Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 6, Month 13, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions, Taikrin/Mentions |
| Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet, and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's offerings. Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven -- only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed. H'kon has been here at least since the preparation for the evening rush began; he's already acquired a piece of bread, and now contents himself with watching the other cold foods being set out: preserves, water, juice, all that sort. He also has a mug of klah, also cold, though (those in charge would at least assure) probably not set out that way. And a piece of hide and pen. He's been here long enough, even, to be staring still at the kitchen staff, even as more of the Weyr's populace begin to filter in from the bowl and lower caverns. It's been snowing outside, on and off, even though the ground isn't cold enough for it to actually stick. I'kris is thus damp and trying not to look miserable as he enters the caverns, pulling off his sodden cap with visible distaste. Scrunching the wool between gloved fingers, he takes one look at the cold offerings of the serving table, and then turns smartly on his heels to head in another direction. H'kon's vantage point is both conveniently located, and comes with known company; perhaps it's no surprise that that is the direction he ultimately chooses. "Evening, H'kon," he says, pressing both hands (and that cap) against the top of an empty chair. "Do you think it'll be long before the real stuff comes out?" "I'kris," H'kon returns, a smile twisting at his mouth so it looks a little uncomfortable, although the nod behind it is plenty sincere. The soggy gear on that empty chair is given a glance, then the table. Without a hint of humour: "The food shouldn't be much longer." The smells coming from the kitchen surely back him up. "The snow could be any day." And he reaches to shift his mug over some, opening up some space for the younger rider. "Snow," says I'kris, and not without a distinct amount of moodiness. "It's a pity it'll be nearly two more months before Rielsath's on the sands and we can hang out there, some." Taking that shifted mug as invitation to sit, the younger brownrider draws his chosen chair out and drops in to it. Off go his gloves, and his coat, and at least he has the grace to hang the latter on the back of the chair, and stuff gloves and hat into its pockets. "Do you know what's on the menu for tonight? I'm starving." Of course he is: he's seventeen. H'kon regards that boy carefully, and then manages a more impulsive smile, for all it's still a bit crooked. "I knew a man in Tillek who used to say snow and squals were what put hair on men's chests. And arms." That hide he's been marking up is flipped over, and he draws his hand from it in order to push up his sleeve. Forearm is plenty hairy. "I would guess a stew. Winter fare. Easier to include vegetables and overly-salted things." The sleeve is pushed back down. "And the wings get cold, flying in this." In reply, I'kris has a smile of his own, and there's mirth in his tone as he pulls up his own sleeve to show off a largely hairless forearm. "Do you suppose I'll have grown my own rug by the time I go home, then?" He sets his hands back down upon the edge of the table, seeking out the serving tables with an idle glance before sliding it back towards the other brownrider. "Stew. Well, I won't complain about that." He doesn't pause, but there's a definite change of subject when he says, then, "I've been trying to get to know what all the wings are like. Iceberg's easy, of course. And I bought drinks for half of Glacier, it seems, the other night." His head shakes: the 'oh man' is silent. "I suppose it depends if you believe the wisdom of fishermen," H'kon muses, some faint amusement showing more easily in his eyes, the rest of his face having given up, it seems, on that whole smiling thing. "You'll want to make sure you take some bread. The ends of the loaves." No explanation goes to that, although the older man remembers his own bread, and reaches for it. Gaze falls to his work, and only his eyebrows make a jump toward I'kris when he goes for that subject change. "And out and about today. Did they not let you have your own drinks?" "The ends... oh, for the stew?" I'kris' dark brows have knitted as he tries to puzzle that one out. But he's more interested in this new topic he's raised, answering H'kon with veritable enthusiasm. "They drink a lot more than I do. Harder. People talk more, when they're drunk. When they think you're that drunk. It's just... interesting. One of them, the one I met first, Taikrin, I think? She seems really into this... brownrider pride thing. I think I'm glad they didn't put me in Glacier, anyway. It's not really my kind of wing." On the stew topic, H'kon just nods, happy to let it drop off. He pulls at a piece of crust, and pops it into his mouth. "So you're trying to get into the heads of the wingmembers," he assesses from around that mouthful. "You might have asked anyone instead of being so secretive," and there's a hint of disapproval in that, "and learned that the Glacier riders are proud - of themselves and their wing." His mouth twitches, he frowns it out a little, but leaves it at that. Disapproval sends I'kris' expression downcast; he's quick to reassure the other rider that, "Oh, I did. I asked them all about their wing. But sometimes there are things people don't say, but still become obvious. Sometimes they don't even realise it. I'm not trying to be secretive, or underhanded, or... anything." He seems genuinely eager to be seen in a positive light - to be approved of, perhaps. "I'm just trying to learn." H'kon's face goes unreadable as I'kris explains himself, for all he turns it toward the younger brownrider. "I suppose if you've the money in hand for so many drinks," is just about as cryptic, and rounds off with a bit of softer bread popped into his mouth. There's a pause, when he drinks some cold klah, and looks to that table. Eventually, though, I'kris gets attention again. "So you have Glacier and Iceberg, hm?" It's not guilt in I'kris' expression at mention of the marks, but rather embarrassment, and enough of it that he turns his own gaze away, pretending to watch the kitchen doors in the hopes of a food-related interruption. "I had dinner with a few riders from Boreal, too," he says, finally, after H'kon addresses him again. "They didn't seem terribly interested in speaking to me. That's - about it though, yes. Which wing are you in, H'kon?" Now he'll glance back, his expression rather more careful, now. He keeps running his tongue over his lips. "Have you spok-" starts up after H'kon's nods to I'kris' catalogue (such as it is) - about the same time, in fact, as the question is put to him. The older man's lips press into a line, and rather than answer outright, he simply retakes his attempt with an easy patience: "I was going to ask," fingers come down on the table, the bread abandoned where it was left for now, "if you'd spoken with the weyrleader. Arekoth and I fly with him, in Avalanche."" I'kris' mouth opens to begin an apology as he winds down and recognises that talking-over he's just done, but rather than do it again, he waits; his expression expresses it pretty well, all the same. "No," he admits. "Not really. We spoke when I first arrived, but it was only... brief. Superficial. I understand he was my age when he became Weyrleader, but I don't know much more than that. What's Avalanche like?" His interest is apparently genuine: he's leaned ever so slightly forward, his expression intently focused. "It's the weyrleader's wing," H'kon states flatly. A bit of a sigh, a bit of a lean against the back of his chair, and he offers up, "It's different than Glacier. Or Iceberg. Or any of the others, I suppose. Most take their duties seriously," and there's a not-particularly-veiled judgement for those in the wing who don't. "But it is the weyrleader's wing. It means something outside, as well as in." Not quite a pamphlet, but clearly things he's thought about. Thinking out-loud, "First among-- well, not quite first among equals, I suppose. But it has a certain-- uh, cachet?" It's a word he's probably heard rather than used in the past, and sounds foreign on his tongue. I'kris considers, then raps his knuckles, once, upon the top of the table. "I've noticed that. That not all the wings take things as seriously as others. Glacier commented that they barely ever even drill, and I admit, I don't actually remember Thread, but... it's our duty to keep up the traditions, isn't it? To make sure we all know how. And sweeps, of course they're still important." H'kon raises an eyebrow for that foreign word, indeed, eyes narrowing, though only pensively, to hear I'kris' take. "I should think so," the brownrider agrees. "A duty to make sure the Weyr knows, certainly, but also to make sure those the Weyr would protect know as well. Dragons do not sleep forever." It's said seriously, and he looks almost righteous when he sits forward - until something (two guesses what - or who) has him in the start of rolling his eyes before he catches himself. "There is a great deal of attention should go into the wing and its role," is maybe an attempt at regaining that moral high ground. I'kris', "I agree," is firm-- firmer than anything else he's said today, and more confident, too. "My Father's wing drills as often as it ever did when there was 'Fall to fight, and he makes sure the Holds see them, too. Doing their duty. People can't be allowed to forget why we're here, and what we're for. There's a reason for how things are, and why we do things." None of that is to say that he's missed that aborted eye roll, but he's polite enough - or focused enough - not to remark on it. "There should never be any question of the Holds supporting the Weyr through the Interval." It might be H'kon's hold upbringing that accounts for the slightest creasing at the corners of his eyes at the - is it really an outburst? Passion or confidence, maybe. "Better that they don't forget," he suggests, a subtle but serious reiteration of the younger rider's words. "Though what fathers will teach their sons tends to vary from one to the next." He seems ready to say more, but instead, just finishes that bread. Only once it's swallowed, "I suppose you'll be hoping to fly in your father's wing when you return?" There's no suggestion from I'kris that he's noticed that creasing - it's far more likely that he has not. "Yes," he agrees, accepting this shorter, subtler reiteration. "Better that they don't forget. That none of us do. Our fathers should teach us, and we-- well, we'll need to teach our sons, absolutely." His stridency abates, rather abruptly, when he has to answer that question, however. "Oh no," he says, shaking his head, and sounding only faintly wistful. "No, the Weyrleaders would never allow family to fly together." Unfortunately. "No, I will need to make my place in another wing." "I should think fathers would fly best with their sons, and sons with their fathers." H'kon doesn't elaborate, but bows his head submissively enough, giving his opinion not argumentatively so much as conversationally. (Yes, conversationally.) "Meanwhile, then, you learn about our wings," does have some element of approval in it, and I'kris is accorded a thoughtful look. "You should speak with K'del, before you've left us." And the point that follows, to the kitchen hands carrying out pots of stew, is surely not so much dismissal as simple favour. I'kris is very quiet, and yet still intense, when he says, "I know I could make him proud, if we flew together. He'd see." But the thought it shaken away in lieu of nodding: he should speak to K'del. And a lot of other people, probably. The other brownrider's point has him shifting his attention, sudden delight catching his expression. "I'd better get in before everyone else does," he announces, pushing back his chair with an abrupt thud. But before he's completely gone, there's a brief pause, and a, "Thanks, H'kon. It's been-- enlightening." "I imagine you would," is simple statement of fact, no encouraging smile, no outward warmth of tone. "Ends," is a reminder as the boy springs up. H'kon sits forward in his own chair, but to gather his things. With more and more coming into the caverns, he's not particularly inclined to stay. Still, he stays seated long enough to nod his head in answer to I'kris' thanks. He'll wait until I'kris is nearly returned to the table, save the seat, before taking his leave. |
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