[Log] Ties That Bind

[brazenbronzer]

Who: Diya, E'sere, Odern (NPC)
When: Day 2, Month 13, Turn 1, 7th Pass
Where: Lord Odern's Library, Nabol Hold
What: Diya and E'sere go to speak with Lord Odern about the matter of his allegiances.

Nabol Hold: Lord Odern's Library
     The Lord has acquired, over time, an impressive library of bound volumes and flat-piled hides, organized according to a strict structure of date and subject. Due to the lavish upholsteries and rich dark woods that furnish the room, it conveys a singular sense of a gentleman's retreat: a library in which Odern may relax with a favorite tome, perhaps some obscure Harper's reflections on a time of ancient history.
     Closer inspection, however, reveals that in each section of volumes, the subject matter has one thing in common. Whether the shelf claims to deal with fruiting trees, with lumber, with wine or meat, with tithes or bride trades or landholder settlements, they all have to do with marks. Were one to take a few tomes off the shelves, one would discover that each is in fact a record - made by the Lord, his assistant, or their ancient forebears - of finances.

Contents:
Diya
Benden

Obvious exits:
Out

It may be that there are members of the Lord's wide network of kin and kin-of-kin who have been posted in the courtyard, ready to expect riders with their beasts or on foot from the road beyond; it may be that those young men are there all the time, poised to pay court and offer hospitality to anyone of rank enough to command it. But it is much more likely that the young men Shan and Avijan awaited someone specific - that would explain their swiftness in tending to the welcome of Weyrwoman and Wingleader, in inviting the dragonriders up the Hold's steps and through the first parlor, up more stairs and into the richly appointed, dark-hued library in which their Lord, Odern, awaits.

There is no real sign of impatience or irritation about him, no giveaway that his morning has been ill-spent in anxious anticipation of dragonriders certainly come to try to convince him to think better of what he's already obviously thought. It is subtle, the soft slap of hide on hide as the Lord's thick fingers let shut the book in his lap. "Thank you, Shan," says Odern in his incongruously soft, high voice. "Avijan." The young men, dismissed, bow and show themselves out.

In deference to the Hold and the beleaguered relationship of late, the two dragons move swiftly once their riders and those few curious holders have made their distance, winging up towards a plateau above Nabol. Silence reigns in the quick walk towards the library, in which Diya keeps herself a pace ahead of the wingleader and as they approach the library, low words are murmured in thanks to the couriers. "Good morning, Lord Odern. The Weyr sends its greetings and duties to Nabol." Clear-spoken and pitched well to reach all corners of this richly appointed cavern, the lanky woman presents herself with a step forward to differentiate herself, her status, from that of her companion. With a wry twist to her lips, the acting Weyrwoman drops her chin a fraction in a sign of respect for the Lord, "I hope you have not been waiting for too long."

E'sere is content to follow his Weyrwoman in matching silence, trailin that respectful step behind her all to the library to meet the Lord of Nabol. Though he inclines his own head to the man in deference before offering his own polite greetings to Odern in the form of presented duties, he is for the time largely quiet still, letting the woman take the lead in speaking.

"Mm." Odern leans forward in so saying; the bulk of his figure seems to press the wordless syllable out of him as he moves. He sets the volume aside on a small table bearing another book like it, as well as four mismatched skins and three shallow wineglasses - tasters - atop a pale yellow doily. Then the Lord rises and grants Diya hardly more than she granted him: the sparest of nods, and the movement of one stubby hand to welcome the pair to seats arranged appropriately near his own. "I could argue that I have waited for turns, Weyrwoman. I have to offer today: a fresh white from the southern border; a very nice red which I must confess is not our own; and two of our best ciders. May I welcome you and the wingleader - " Odern is obliged to eye E'sere briefly. His tone raises a half-pitch but he goes on with the question as understated as that. "- with a taste of something?"

Odern's words make a mark somewhere in the serenity of Diya's calm as a brow lifts before being quickly schooled. "Waiting, I've been told turns on end," she accords with a wider touch to her smile, good-humor invested in her tone, "Is good for the soul, Lord Odern. However, since we are both here, time could be afforded to mark the occasion more leisurely. Thank you, sir." It's her round about consent to sharing a glass with the Lord, emphasized further by her dark gaze openly considering the various wares made available after claiming one of the . With a simple look shared for the older man, the younger woman again defers, "My palate has not the experience to select something before taste testing it, but the white sounds refreshing. Wingleader?" For the first time since arriving, the auburn-haired woman turns towards her companion.

For Odern's glance, E'sere has a best political smile at the ready, watching the older man a moment before casting his glance toward Diya. "The same, please," he requests after a moment, gaze lingering on the weyrwoman before he turns back to their host. "I've heard it's a good vintage you get from there, Lord Nabol? I've not had the luxury of experiencing it myself yet--the Reaches keeps more Tillek in stock." Voice bland, matter-of-fact; expression less so.

Odern has taken up the corresponding skin, unstoppered it, and poured two of the glasses - a taste would be a finger's width or at most two in the bottom of the well, but these glasses are three-quarters full by the time the Lord is done - before E'sere has his chance to reply. The hesitation before the third glass is poured is -so- slight it might seem as though he's hardly listened to E'sere at all. "You've been told something ridiculous, Weyrwoman." -His- tone, too, is rich with good humor; it raises his pitch somewhat, but deprives his voice of some of its unpleasant edge and makes it easier to lend an ear to. With two glasses in hands, he turns to offer the wine out for the riders to take. "Waiting for turns merely makes the soul old, and the body too. A little wine makes one -feel- young, though; have a seat and a sip."

Morelenth> Nenuith opens communications between the dragons that is unavailable to their riders in a breath of fresh air that wafts across the short distance in which Nenuith has planted herself to oversee the Hold. Though there are no words, there's a current of approval from both gold and weyrwoman for E'sere's bland statement that also carries in it the intent to convey so to the bronze's rider. Cautiou too hedges, however, though no command to draw back from the subtle jabs.

"I cannot say I would argue much, my lord," Diya, already seated turns her wrist just so to gesture the wingleader into the seat by her. "There are some who say that the greater the suffering, the more rewards you shall reap in the end. That they stand by their beliefs is commendable, though it makes me wonder which harper created such an adage, or whether those who have and never have lost intend to differentiate themselves from those who cannot aspire to attain with such- ah, general statements." For all her talk though, Diya isn't motionless, her lanky frame leaning forward to clasp two fingers in a delicate grip of the glass's stem and with an soft sigh expelled of appreciation for the scent of the white, the weyrwoman eases back into her chair. "Ridiculous," the single word is mulled over softly, a flash of a smile awarded E'sere. "Do you find such thoughts ridiculous, wingleader? The eternal game of patient waiting?"

Morelenth> In the flickering depths of Nenuith's thoughts, an image forms of the room their riders sit in, the tomes of books that record finances and the making of such. << He is a man of great worth, >> says honeyed tones with ill-veiled irony. << And holds worth in the esteem of round pellets. >>

Morelenth> To Diya: Morelenth, in response to former sentiment, offers a flash of smugness that has the definite feel of his rider's thoughts as well to it. To latter ones, he's silent but distinctly amused in his own turn.

Accepting the wine with murmured thanks, E'sere glance between Diya and Odern mildly and finally arches a brow at the woman's question of him. "I'm of two minds on the subject, Weyrwoman," he answers as he lifts the glass and studies its contents, rather than sipping from it. "I've always heard that it's the young who don't want to wait, but I find that's not always the case. I suppose, in the end, the merit of waiting lies in whether or not what one is awaiting is ever truly going to come to pass. Waiting in vain, now--that's ridiculous."

As Diya has pushed the conversation upon the bronzerider, the Lord is again required to pay some mind to E'sere. He does so with an obvious uncomfortable mein; the man who does not wait well waits poorly indeed while the wingleader makes his reply. Then, to dismiss the topic now it has the younger man's taint on it, Odern says, "Well, we get old whether we wait or not, whether it is in vain or not. Perhaps the old are just better accustomed to it." A rough warble amongst the words obliges him to clear his throat afterward. He takes up the third glass and retreats a few paces to a spot just before the chair he'd had when the riders arrived, but does not take his seat. "So what business between Weyrs calls you to your humble Hold to discuss them, Weyrwoman?" Odern is not too good for a self-conscious gleam of humorous irony on the word 'humble,' there, and he's certainly happy enough to follow this disingenuous question with a sip from his glass.

The lord's discomfort with the wingleader's presence doesn't go unnoted by Diya and in fact, seems to expedite whatever decision the untried acting weyrwoman may have struggled to make. Careful to keep the warmth of her hands away from the lower curve of her wine glass, both hands clasp the slender stem and rest the glass in her lap, the golden liquid of white considered and swished lightly. Before she speaks, a sidelong glance of unsurpressed pity is spared E'sere and when she returns to study Odern, there's the beginnings of a winsome smile crafted on her lips. "I lack the inate charms my predecessor had, and some say her future successor, Sinopa. So I will be frank, my lord, rather than flatteringly pretty." As yet, her wine remains untouched and while her jaw locks solemnly, her cheeks lack even the faint blush of liquor. "I feel," there's emphasis for the pronoun, "However unfavorable you find the situation Nabol is in now, there would be mutual benefits to retaining close, if not closer ties, sir." There is no further explanation, or trailing of her voice to insinuate. Her earnestly spoken words are gentle and simple fact. "But at the same time, we," a tiny gesture includes the wingleader, "Would like to see if there is anything High Reaches Weyr can do to address and perhaps resolve your concerns with the Weyr and its -current- leadership."

Though he face Diya as his questioner, E'sere cuts his eyes sideways to the Hold's Lord, judging the man's reaction to both him and his words. In response, he ducks his head in simple acknowledgement of his words. Throughout Diya's explanation of their errand, the wingleader remains silent, gauging the Lord again rather than watching his companion.

Odern's chins tip up and his eyes narrow; he puffs his cheeks and lets them sink again with breath unused for speech, words thought but unspoken. He lets out a faint sigh, plays a slow and unwilling glance over E'sere as if the wingleader were some unpleasant but necessary element in the room's elegant furnishings - a chamberpot of Weyr personnel - and eventually gets around to addressing Diya. By that point he has assembled some semblance of propriety, a prim superiority with which to dash her question and pose one in return: "The Weyr's leadership is less my concern than yours, Weyrwoman. It is the Weyr's performance and the manner in which it acquaints itself, its manners if you will, with which I have some concern. High Reaches has, obviously, been a disappointment to some of these Holds who've supported it all these long turns of Interval." The Lord curls the slightest little sleek smile up into the apples of his cheeks and lets his gaze descend, as if rueful, into his own wine. "We're horribly reliant on our soil here, Weyrwoman. History says one bad 'fall can ruin a field for decades. Centuries. You understand."

"Then it is not," Diya begins quietly, dark eyes fixed to Lord Nabol and deliberate in not including E'sere, "Your very visible distaste with one of your kin that has fueled your actions forward to seek refuge in Fort from our inconsistencies?" The question lingers a beat before she gives no time for him to answer. "The Weyr's leadership is every concern of yours, Lord Odern. Does it not concern you that our dragonless Weyrleader has chosen for himself an untried bronzerider of eight turns to lead in his stead into Threadfall? Does it not concern you that of our Holds, Tillek, has somehow remained favorable and untouched from bad Falls? I would imagine, my lord, a Weyr's leadership is -every- concern of yours for the protection of your holdings." A pause is bought with the glass brought higher, ostensibly to drink, though again, she refrains as the liquid catches glow lights in its unshadowed position at the edge of the table. "My apologies," the words quieter than the quiet intonation of before, "My passions and the trial of waiting overcome my better judgment. I would have your support, Lord Odern," deference once more and supplication bends the lanky woman, causing her eyes to find her lap, "And your trust that where my predecessors failed, blinded by their loyalties to their Hold of origin, High Reaches under the stewardship of a Weyrleader with blood ties to Nabol and myself will serve and protect our traditional boundaries in whatever means we may."

E'sere maintains his silence, though at Diya's words he arches a brow. Expectantly, the man glances again to Odern, and finally notes, "My mother has made her Tillek the Reaches' favored hold. It does not have to be." Pause. Raising his own untouched glass slightly, he adds drolly, "After all, what has the High Reaches to show for that preference, save fish and inferior wine?"

"Weyrwoman, I said it is -more- your concern than mine. Perhaps I must clarify what I mean?" Odern pauses to glance over E'sere another time. It is quite obvious that there is something there he wishes to say - and just as obvious that he's putting that something away for later. For now, he simply includes the wingleader with a generous gesture of his stingy palm. "It is your concern, not mine, that your queen rise in a timely fashion. It is your concern, not mine, that she be protected from bronzes you might not favor. And it is most of all your concern, not mine, that your Weyr begin to perform as it -should- when it comes to protecting my. soil." These last words are punctuated by soft thumps of his curled fist against his chest; they might be louder, more resonant thumps with less flesh to insulate the echo chamber of his lungs from the drumbeats. As it goes, his gesture is like his voice: soft-pitched, weak-seeming. He glances darkly at E'sere and seems again to choke back something demanding saying so that instead he may softly ask, "Is it, then, your proposal that the Weyr will take care of Nabol as it has taken care of Tillek? Would it not be better to sit here and promise me that your riders, under your leadership, will be able to adequately protect all of the Reaches' beholden?"

"You misunderstand my words. And we will have to disagree that a leadership at High Reaches is a matter of concern for our beholden areas. You are looking into moving into Fort's coverage for that precise reason, is it not? That you have lost faith not only in the riders of High Reaches but in the way the Weyr is led and by whatever means, fate, coincidence, or serendipty the fact that certain areas of our coverage area seem to be disproportionately protected while your orchards seem dangerously close to becoming barren. That you would prefer the way Kalinda and M'lik have flown Thread and dealt with the new Pass than High Reaches." Diya relinquishes her glass to the table, hands finding her the rests of her chair, though the second in which she does so finds regret etched lightly in her features. Clearing a dry throat, the woman continues, one hand uncurling to find itself placed at the edge of the table, "I can offer little else but my pledge that this will not happen when I become Weyrwoman, Lord Nabol, and in the turns that we have known each other," she thins her lips, chin lifting stiffly, "I do not believe I have given -anyone- on Pern cause to doubt that my intentions for the general welfare of Pern are good and that I abide by Tradition. I will ask once more, Lord Nabol, for a second chance for the people of my Weyr, and a chance for myself, with the wingleader, to serve you."

"Would you prefer that, Lord Nabol?" answers E'sere after a moment, lowering his drink and tilting his head slightly in innocent curiousity. In the interlude while Diya speaks, he takes his first small sip of his wine; and when the Weyrwoman finishes, he doesn't add anything else to her pleas.

Lord Nabol addresses E'sere first, but Pern continues to rotate on its axis. "It is my preference, sir, that your riders prove worthy of their keep. I would certainly prefer not to be at odds with some other Hold over their loyalty. Such a bout could be expensive." That last is a word that Odern draws out with a certain affectionate distaste, treating it as if it poses greater threat than the word's meaning alone should deserve. He lets that thread hang for a moment while he washes the taste of it out of his mouth with a slow sip and savor of his wine, then turns halfway and places the glass back on the little table from whence he took it. "Weyrwoman, you are correct. I -do- prefer M'lik's performance to - whatever his name is. Your Weyrleader's man. Greenfields, Ruatha - their crops seem safe." Another of those sleek smiles curls up into his generous cheeks and Odern exhales another small sigh before turning back to the riders. He nods to them both, some concession made. This one: "Tell me, Weyrwoman. What would become of me if I denied you?"

E'sere is spared a sharp look for his words. "If you denied my request in person, I would argue the stance of Tradition to you no more. I trust that Kalinda knows what is best for her Weyr and should they accommodate you on top of their current coverage area without additional tithes then I commend them. I thank you for this meeting, Lord Nabol, and regret that we have taken so much of your valuable time." Diya asserts, unwilling to supplicate herself further and rises to her feet. "We have reached agreement, at least," her smile is dry, "That your direction towards Fort is due to a preference for their leadership, and that a Weyr's leaders, in fact, does make a difference in how a Holder decides what is best for his people and lands. I hope you will not hold the indiscretions of our prior Weyrwoman and Weyrleader against a lost son of your line. E'sere?"

"I remember M'lik," notes E'sere after a moment, glancing sideways at Diya and then to Odern again, "from when we were at the Caucus together. He's a good man, and a good Weyrleader--he has always been quite capable. Our, ah, Weyrleader's man--" he dips his head to Odern slightly as he borrows the other man's words "--is well-meaning, but." He pauses, smile wry as he lifts his shoulders slightly. "But. If it is his... short-comings that disturb you, Lord Nabol, take comfort in the fact that his term in that office is drawing short, and despite his current endorsement by our Weyrleader, that is no guarantee that he will win the post outright, when other bronzeriders are given equal opportunity to seize it."

"Fort's tithes are hardly a matter of Reaches' concern." Despite the final nature of this remark, Odern's tone is uncommonly good-natured, as if the whole issue is hardly worth the time it takes to dismiss it. An inclination of his head toward E'sere is the greatest concession he's given the bronzerider thus far, balanced by a certain sour dryness in his remark that, "Equal opportunity may be hard to come by, of course. -- In any case." The Lord rotates his wrist very slightly, propping his thick forearm against the swell of his belly; the foot of his wineglass grazes the jeweled clasp of his coat with a soft metallic 'tink' with every swirl of the goblet's contents. "Weyrwoman, it has been a pleasure. But you must forgive me; I cannot help but correct what seems to be your misimpression about one more matter before I let you get back to your more pressing duties." A smile, thin. "I do not believe I have any - what did you say? - 'lost sons.'" The smile grows thinner and a flash of his gaze strays to E'sere and back to Diya again. He stops swirling the wine. "I know precisely where all of my sons are, and where they belong."

Studious in her glance of the Lord Holder, unwavering in its set even as he slants an overt gaze to the bronzerider that accompanies her, his words finally elicit a slight curl on her lips. "Too true. Nabol's fate with Fort and Kalinda's capabilities is little of my or Reaches' concern." As for sons, the deepening wryness etched in her expression speaks volumes more than words can, and with a respectful incline of her head, chin dropping to almost graze her collar, Diya says coolly, "The pleasure, Lord Odern, was mine." Evidently, somewhere in the interview, the weyrwoman has drawn conclusions as to Nabol's decision, and with a politely charming smile touching her eyes in a brilliant glitter, she gestures, "I would hate to take up any more of your time, my lord. By your leave-," though she waits little for the leave with one step backwards and the slight lift of an arm to request E'sere at her side.

"A cousin, once-removed, I believe," E'sere remarks solemnly. "Good day, Lord Odern--my regards to my father, as well." With that parting remark he turns as well, stepping to Diya's side as they make to leave.