[Log] Indoctrination

[brazenbronzer]

Who: Cassiel, Daurian, Derek, Diya, Katric, Ramalla
When: Day 22, Month 5, Turn 2, 7th Pass
Where: Infirmary Cave, Western Islands
What: Katric gets a real welcome to the islands.

On a Western Island, Deep in the Forest
     It's a pleasant island, made moreso by the work of many hands. Stone cliffs on the leeward side make a home for dragons, a large cavern at the base home to the rest in all but the worst rain season. Tropical forest covers most of the island, though there is a small plot of land near the cliffs for cultivated crops and beasts, and the exiles have even added a small dock for the small fishing boats made from the wood of the native trees.
     The smoke of fires for cooking, heating water from the freshwater stream that bubbles through the center of the camp, and even the occasional resmithing of old metal traces a hazy line above the island.
     In the wet season, a clear day is little more than the rains catching their breath. Though heavy clouds loom ever present, they split apart every so often to allow clear crisp sunshine to sneak through.

Obvious Exits:
Coastline (C) Dragonweyr Cliffs (DC)

Derek
     Darkened by the sun, with black hair going thin at the crown, Derek is aging but likely still intimidating. He is tall, disciplined of posture, swarthy and sinewed. His face is broad, pocked around the temples by old acne scars, dominated by a flat nose and heavy moustache trimmed flat above the mouth. His eyes are light blue and steely, hardened by squint-lines around them and the contrast they pose to his dark skin and hair. Gray mottles his beard, which is trimmed short above the jawline and kept smooth below it in defense against excess heat.
     He's dressed in a manner befitting warm humidity, but his clothes are some of the best on the island short of the dragonriders' leathers. To be sure, these worn, loose-fit trousers are probably cooler than leathers. The same could be said for a linen shirt, sleeves rolled high up, unbuttoned halfway down in front. He forgoes as often as not sandals made of old leather and handwoven cord.

The infirmary cave is dark, cool, and quiet, all things the outside world isn't. There aren't many patients, just two or three with very minor injuries and ailments. Toward the back is the only badly-hurt patient: Donavon, pale but sleeping. His stomach has been bandaged as best they can, his nose still swollen and blacking his eyes; but all things considered, he seems stable. Katric, his self-appointed guardian, has taken up a watch nearby, seated on the ground and watching the other people come in and out.

So he'll be able to watch Derek come in, then. Unintroduced the man might not stand out so much from among the number of other thugs and ruffians the island boasts. He's barefoot, deeply tanned, brawny and straight-backed, steely of eyes and demeanor. The pitch black hair and flat-cut moustache might betray him if he's been described, but the island is not given to knots, badges, cords or insignia and even his clothes, to the unstudied regard, will not betray him the forceful ruler of this hodgepodge people. This leaves only his stride and manner to define him: they are swift, meaningful, as if with each step he crushes another enemy skull beneath those dirty, calloused soles. He seems to know where he's headed; his path aims straight for Donavan, and angles slightly toward Katric once he's had time for his eyes to adjust and pick him out there on the floor.

When someone new enters, Katric immediately looks, cocking his head slightly and squinting at the bright light that silhouettes Derek. Then, he disregards him, glancing around again at his companion and then--wait. Having been avoided by (or, more likely, having run off) most of the other healers, Katric takes note when Derek continues on toward himself and Donavon. He scrabbles gracelessly to his feet, stuffs hands in his pockets, and offers a wary half-smile. "Ah, afternoon."

Cassiel has arrived.

Cassiel
     There is an aura of lost youth about this woman, a look of age in blue-green eyes far greater than her twenty-six years. What might have been gentle and beautiful is now sharp and feral, all softness stripped away from an exotic bone structure with high cheekbones, uptilted eyes, a straight, slender nose, and a sharp line of chin and jaw. Attempts to restrain dark gold curls to a braid habitually fail, though at least the escaped strands blur some of the hard lines of her features. Her build is spare, all long legs and tight-packed muscle, granting a narrowness to her five foot, eight inch frame.
     Cassiel dresses simply, a sleeveless tunic of faded green linen falling to mid-thigh over a pair of canvas trousers. The legs are rolled up to mid-calf and held into place with shell buttons, and mended at knees and seams with faded patches of mismatched fabric. A pair of belt knives and a vest of age-shined, thin-stretched leather, fitted with multiple pockets, are recent additions to her wardrobe. Plain, battered sandals protect her feet.

The infirmary cavern. Broad and dark, with few patients of minor injuries in this or that arrangement of bedding, and most serious, the new exile Donavan in the back. His face has been brutalized, his nose swollen such that it obscures his eyes. Katric has just got to his feet nearby, and it's the shaggy-haired healer expatriate that Derek is approaching. "Yep, that's what it is," replies the island leader, pausing there to put his hands on his hips and take the measure of the man before him. A little jerk of his jaw and a little twitch of his moustache are all it takes to be plain that he finds that measure wanting. "It's good J'lor's riders got to you in time. I trust you've been provided whatever you need." Then he puts out his hand, a little abrupt. "Derek."

Katric knows the name, that much is apparent: he starts and then automatically tucks his hair behind his ears again, though none of it had yet escaped the /last/ time he did so. "Ah, right. Derek. Um. Katric. Donavon," he introduces himself first, a hand pressed to his chest. Then, his friend, whom he points out with another gesture. "And, yes. Yes, we were. Come to think of it, really, /he's/ lucky they didn't come get me sooner." He offers another grin then.

World travels fast in the small community of exiles, and faster still among those with dragons. Cassiel's arrival at the infirmary, therefore, is probably not unexpected. The woman steps into the darkness of the cavern, pausing just inside to let her eyes adjust before continuing further in, changing paths towards Derek when she catches sight of the man. Hands in her pockets, she hangs back a few feet, gaze skimming the room to find the newest arrivals.

"So he is." Derek affords Katric a simple smile, unfettered by layers of meaning, though a little hindered by the heavy brush of moustache that half-obscures it. "You weren't sent away as partners, then? Or did -they- hold onto him - " The black-haired man glances down at Donavan, and now his expression takes on depth: horror, irritation, disgust. He drops one fist from his hip so he can raise it to chuck a thump out upon his own chest. "- just long enough to be sure they had to -bother- the trouble of transport?"

Katric hesitates, green eyes sliding past Derek to the latest gawker of Cassiel, then back. "No, we weren't together. I mean, we weren't... We weren't caught and sent out here together," he decides, nodding once. "They got me on... It was the 12th, and then it took them about four days to drop me out here. And then, they got him about four days after that and dumped him straight away. I don't think they were counting on me being around still, though--he... He said something about a deal, but I think they wanted to make sure he died anyway." His expression twists as well, like Derek's, his own outrage apparent.

"I doubt they would have bothered shipping him out at all if they thought he could die on his own." The educated tones are perhaps a surprise among the rough and tumbles exiles, and are at odds with Cassiel's present appearance. "Sir," she adds with a respectful nod towards Derek before stepping forward into the conversation circle. "Fresh?" she asks of the guard, a glance indicating both Katric and Donavan.

"That figures," replies Derek, his gentle-seeming voice ill-fit for the disgust the words suggest. He half-turns from Katric then, to attend a little bit to Cassiel's contribution; toward her he outstretches his hand, then withdraws it with a come-here curl of his fingers, so it may not be assumed the gesture was an exceptionally fond one. Still, she is invited into his considerably large conversational bubble, a woman and a greenrider and apparently, the leader's entrusted sidearm. He even chuckles a little at her. "New, yes," as if he's chastising her for using the term she did. "Katric," he makes introduction, and with a nod indicates, "Donavan. - Did they do you any harm yourself, sir?" That's for the tucked-hair healer sort, with a glance at him once-over, to look for injury.

Katric snorts, casting another look toward Cassiel. "If they dump him here and he dies, they can still be the good guys. It's not /their/ fault," he retorts. And, to Derek, he shakes his head. "No, no--I'm fine. They didn't mess with me, just... locked me up a few days and then dumped me. I managed all right, considering--there was a spring of water and... stuff. I'm fine," he waves off any concern with a shake of his head.

Cassiel flashes a brief smile towards Katric, the expression carrying with it a weariness that detracts from any warmth. "Public opinion is more complicated than that. If he dies in their care, they can claim he had the best of healers, and they did all they could for him. If they drop him off in danger of dying, they may as well have killed him. But the truth of the matter will only be what they choose to say." The smile fades, a slow breath released. "Once you're settled in, I hope you won't mind if we ask you a few things about the mainland. News is limited here. An unfortunate side effect of exile."

"I doubt they keep so much track regarding whether we die after we're dropped or not," mentions Derek in a low, sardonic burr. He shakes his head and crosses his arms, backstepping so Cassiel has - get this - full access to the newest of their number. From this post the island leader seems content to watch, to let his apparent henchwoman do her part in this welcome-wagon interrogation. "Cassiel's got the right of it," he observes. "And truth be told we haven't had as much news from Diya as we'd like. I expect she's - you know, traumatized." Whether by her exile or events since then, Derek does not trouble to consider aloud.

Katric shrugs off Cassiel's words, plainly not believing her. Still, he agrees, "Oh, right. Sure, anytime, I don't mind. It's been... Well, lots have happened." Pause. "Diya? Traumatized?" He furrows his brows and studies Derek. "I saw her, this morning. Just for a few minutes. She..." The former healer, however, only shakes his head, dismissing that. "I've got plenty of time now--long as he doesn't need anything." A nod toward Donavon, still out cold.

"I'd be traumatized, too, if I sold out to the establishment and didn't get anything for it," Cassiel murmurs with a faint grimace that fully expresses her opinion on the goldrider's arrival, and the likelihood of trusting her. "Cassiel, by the way," she says, taking half a step forward to offer a hand to the healer with a hard-edged smile. "Green Chiavelth's."

Derek's eyes narrow the least of increments. It could, possibly, seem that there's a faint smile starting in them, but such seeming would be incorrect. "A lot has happened," he agrees equananimously. "Cassiel is one of our riders, to whom we're indebted for coverage now that Pass has begun. You'll note the mainland didn't think much about it. I believe they'd be surprised to know we're even here - alive."

Something in Katric's expression tightens slightly as Cassiel speaks to Diya, but he still manages a faint smile for the greenrider as he extends a hand to her in turn. "Good to meet you. And... Well. It's all they can do to take care of themselves in 'Fall," he notes, glancing back to Derek. "What with Ganathon and 3C and now Nabol. Wouldn't expect them to worry about /you/, too, on top of all that."

"Luckily, we worry about us. Seems blues, greens, and browns are good enough to cover our little piece of the world," Cassiel's smile is rueful, her grip firm before she withdraws her hand again. "But I think most of us here know that's the way it's always been. There's a contingent here who would rather live here in our way than go back to the mainland and risk losing it. A hard life, but it's ours." She takes a step back then, looking between Derek and Katric. "Perhaps we could offer you a bite to eat while we talk, if no one's taken care of it?"

"It's all they can do to take care of themselves out of it, if I remember right," retorts Derek with suddenly amicable manner, even a little jovial. After that he lifts a hand and wipes away from his mouth and moustache something starting there, a smile maybe, and nods to Cassiel while doing that. "I need to be getting down to the beach to tend to the pots, but I'll stop by and let Sho and Banarel know they should get some pots and mats ready for you so you can take food away to talk." A glance, and now he'll allow the grin as well, at Katric. Welcoming, maybe, he puts out that hand again. "Want me to have someone come stand watch on notice to get you right off - or will you be eating here?" He doesn't really have to work hard to make it sound like the latter would be a sacrifice, the choice of a true friend. A wrinkle of his nose will do.

Katric hesitates, glancing between Derek and Cassiel uncertainly, then to Donavon again. "I haven't yet, no," he agrees slowly. He glances down at the hurt man again, taking his teeth to his lower lip. "I'd rather stay here, if you don't mind?" He looks back up, to Cassiel, with knitted brows. "I... Well, you don't exactly have a lot of capable healers around."

"Sure, no, understandable," Cassiel says with a small smile and a wave of her hand after a brief salute to Derek, something that looks like a weyrling habit never grown out of. "Man is only at home when he's working, I read once. We can get someone to bring something in, if you've not eaten, or we can just talk here. And let me know if I ask too many questions," she adds ruefully. "I was a Harper once. It comes naturally."

"I'll have them bring it, then," remarks Derek, and says nothing about capable healers, harpers, or anything else the like. Instead he just tips a brutish nod to Katric and raises his fingers to his temple to Cassiel, elevating her habit beyond weyrling things by the gesture. It's careless, and after it, he departs quickly, as certain of his path and purpose outward as he was on his way in.

Derek has disconnected.

"Thanks," Katric tells Derek with another quick half-smile as the man departs. Katric watches him go, then glances back at Cassiel, offering her a broader grin. "No, no. I don't mind. Least I can do, I guess, since you're taking care of us for a while," he tells her as he starts to sit back down, leaning back against the cool stone wall in comfort until their food arrives. "So...?" He trails off expectantly, glancing up at the woman.

Cassiel lowers herself to the ground not long after he sits, cross-legged. "It's hard to know where to start," she apologizes with a crooked smile. "Last reliable wash of news we had was just before the Pass started, when we picked up people from the other isles. How well are the Weyrs responding? The Lords? Any tensions between them all, now that they need everyone?"

Katric tucks his hair back again and frowns, lips pursing. "Well, most of the Weyrs are doing okay," he begins slowly. "High Reaches, though--Hirth got killed in the first 'fall. Ganathon's still hanging around, though, causing trouble. 3C got destroyed in a 'fall, on purpose. Their wingleader turned them straight into it, got most everybody murdered or nearly so. Lexine got hurt, too, and she eventually stepped down--it finally came out that she'd been having this affair with a cousin of Lord Nabol. That's where her son came from, E'sere. And now Nabol's got no coverage 'cause Odern threw a hissy hit over the whole thing." Pause. These facts are cited straightforwardly: it's the next that twists his mouth again into anger. "And Ganathon drove Diya away and brought in his new goldriding girlfriend from Igen to run the place--with her own Weyrleader, /also/ from Igen. That's how I ended up here."

Cassiel's brows rise, interested. "Ganathon and Lexine both out and a pair of Igen strangers in?" she asks, nodding slowly. "Yes, and can see how that would throw things into a spin." The news of Nabol brings a short laugh, a wry smile, irony rich in her voice. "So Odern threw a fit over something he'd have considered a coup if the woman was anything but a dragonrider, and took out one of the traditionalist strongholds in the process. How...ironic. Where do the Igenites stand now?"

"They're..." Katric begins, then trails off as the promised man brings in a meal for two. Katric hops up to accept it from him, and then resettles himself with the plates between himself and Cassiel. He nudges the meal toward her slightly, apparently less inclined to eat than he initially said. Instead, he continues quickly, "We're fighting them--we're going to get rid of them. They think just because they got me and Donavon, they're safe now, but they're not. All they've done is make the people above us angry."

"We?" Cassiel echoes, a wry smile tugging at one corner of her lips. "Not that I'm against taking out unworthy leadership or anything, but do you and your compatriots have anyone you were planning on replacing these Igenites with, or were you just going for the whole random violence bit?" There's a hint of familiar bitterness at the last, a dry, self-deprecating humor honed in a decade of 'might-have-been's.

Diya arrives from the narrow path that leads through the forest to the beach.
Diya has arrived.

Diya
     Short and layered, Diya's chin to shoulder-length crop is stylishly flattering to her long face. A few loose strands fall in a diagonal across her forehead towards her left eye and ear, but generally the tousle is left alone in fly away curls of an auburn-blonde. Her angular features retain some flickering residue of once youthful good looks, though her jaw has succumbed to deep lines that are particularly prominent when her face is animated. The stress of turns have taken shape along the corners of her eyes and in lighter etchings just above the balls of her high cheekbones. What would be an awkwardly tall height is marked by the poise of an adult woman, her frame predominately thin from work, with the soft, unshakeable curves of childbirth.
     In a concession to the warmer climate of the islands, the once richly clothed weyrwoman now wears thin tunics, sleeveless and unornamented, paired with light trousers that skim her knees. Barefoot most of the time, when there are shoes they're of the thonged sandal variety and seem more serviceable than comfortable.

Katric and Cassiel are seated at the back of the mostly vacant infirmary cave, near where Donavon is still out cold. There's food between the pair, though neither of them are touching it in the midst of their conversation. "Well, yeah," he tells the greenrider blankly, blinking. "Of course. We were hoping for Diya to come back when we get rid of Yevide, but... Well, there's Sinopa, too, but she's kind of dumb, if you ask me--she'd have to have the right Weyrleader. And if you ask me--" here, he lowers his voice just slightly, very earnest "--I'd like to see E'sere be it."

"So I suppose that means you're not one who buys into our ideals, are you?" Cassiel asks with some wry amusement, rolling up a piece of dark-colored flatbread and dipping it into the stew. Apparently she doesn't take umbrage at the possibility. A decade stuck on an island probably hasn't encouraged railing against inevitabilities.

It's into this conversation Diya arrives, a light satchel slung over a shoulder and a long pole held carelessly in one hand. Tiny beads of sweat dot her forehead, whatever excursions she's taken taxing on her body. Coming up from a copse of trees ragged near the infirmary cavern, she remarks lightly, "I wouldn't discount Sinopa's intelligence too quickly. Hello again, Katric." A simple nod goes to the greenrider.

"I... I've got a lot more sympathy for you, now," admits Katric, ducking his head for a moment to study the stew. He shrugs and looks up again quickly, intent as ever. "Can't say I really have all the same /ideals/, but I know all about corrupt leadership that needs to--Weyrwoman!" Surprised, he glances up at the woman, breaking into another quick grin for her.

"If you find yourself wondering about it, most of us'll be glad to share our thoughts on the matter," Cassiel offers Katric with a small smile, though the expression fades away as Diya approaches, closing off to something more speculative. "Goldrider," she greets in a carefully measured tone, chin rising in a cautious tilt of wary, reluctant respect.

A short moment of silence takes in the measured tone and the lift of the younger woman's chin, before the goldrider responds with a pleasant, "Diya, please. Both of you." The rank and the inherent fact of the respect it tends to carry is shed, resting satisfactorily on her casually-dressed frame and sitting well along her furrowed brow. Her warm, "I came to check on Donavon," is accompanied with a glance in to the cavern and then returns to the pair just without: first to Katric, brow lifted inquisitively, then shifting quickly to the blonde again for an unsubtle study.

"Diya," Katric agrees quickly, in a somewhat starry-eyed tone. "He's--alive, which is something. Better than I hoped for," he admits, glancing over at his friend and pursing his lips in this regard. Finally, after several seconds, he looks back, offering Cassiel absently, "Oh, sure. Thanks." Most of his attention is then moved back to Diya; he still isn't messing with the food.

Cassiel arches a brow at Diya's inspection, dipping the flatbread into the stew again and taking another bite without looking away from the older woman. Clearly, her feelings about the goldrider are mixed, and they don't appear to be leaning towards sympathy at the moment. In fact, when she does look away from Diya, it's to quirk a brow bemusedly at Katric's starry-eyed tone.

When Cassiel turns her gaze away, Diya's frank study of the greenrider is married by a fleeting mix of emotions, the predominant one of guilt shut down quickly by a cut across of dark eyes to Katric once more. "You should eat," notes the goldrider, gesturing with her staff holding hand to the food. "And listen." The last is added a beat too late, betraying her eavesdrop of the latter portion of their conversation, and carries in it mild admonishment for the exiled healer's seemingly dismissal of the greenrider's offer.

"Oh. Right," Katric agrees after a moment, tearing his attention from Diya to eye the food. He studies the bread and stew a moment, then finally picks up his bowl to start eating, fixing Cassiel with an expectant look. Apparently, advice from Diya he'll take to heart.

Cassiel's brow rises a little higher at Katric's sudden interest, a brief grimace flickering across her features. "You can't come to understand it by just following orders to do so, you know," she says quietly, taking another bite of the stew. "It's counter to the message. Are you weyrbred, craftbred, or holdbred?" she asks then, drawing one knee up to her chest and settling an intent gaze on the healer, her attention clearly devoted to the conversation now.

The goldrider's lips part on the heels of Cassiel's remark, a retort apparently meant to be dropped until she closes her mouth and then turns back to consider the infirmary cavern. With Donavon's healer engaged outside, it stands to reason that her visit can be stayed a few minutes and the lanky woman takes position, resting her back against the cave's outer walls, content to listen.

"Weyrbred," answers Katric after a moment, lips pursing as he studies Cassiel. "High Reaches. My dad's a bluerider there--he was part of 3C." He shoots a glance to Diya then, frowning, and then turning back. He pokes a piece of bread in the stew and eats absently, more attention on his conversation partners. "But I was at Healer for about seven turns, when I apprenticed."

Cassiel nods. "So you're familiar with advancement by talent, and familiar with the things that limit it. What would you say were the characteristics of the leaders you've admired in your time?" she asks, giving the questions a conversational tone.

Daurian has connected.

Daurian
     Short for a man of seventeen turns, Daurian comes in at a full height of just under 5'5". His build is broad and muscular, quite similar to that of a person who's life's work requires constant physical activity. His head is mostly shaven though still has a dark black shadow covering his scalp. His eyes are a honey-brown color, his nose wide though slightly flat and his jawline round and solid. Undeniably masculine, his features carry no soft boyishness or youthfulness - indeed there's even a few nicks and cuts from past scrapes and scuffles, showing a pale contrast against the darker tan of his skin.
     Daurian wears clothing suitable to the warmer climates: A light-weight sleeveless shirt with a half-open neckline in a dark green color with a thick brown belt wrapped atop it and over his waist. His dark brown pants reach all the way to his ankles, cuffing around the heels of his sandals.

Quiet, still, Diya quirks an upward brow at Katric for his frown, but that's the extent of her movement away from watching Cassiel.

"They put the good of the people first," Katric answers Cassiel promptly, if warily. The trio are at the infirmary cave, the day after Katric and Donavon's arrival; Cassiel and Katric are currently eating while they talk.

"Anything else?" Cassiel asks. "Any other characteristics you usually attribute to someone you enjoy following? What defines the sort of person you would be willing to fight and die for?"

"I... think that pretty much sums it up," admits Katric in that same slow tone. He sets down his bowl of stew, forgetting the food again in favor of watching the greenrider. "As long as they're willing to put the greater good first, they're a good leader."

"Belief. That what they do is in line with your own beliefs." Diya inserts lowly, remaining standing by the entrance to the infirmary. "Trust. That you can trust that they would not unnecessarily put you in harms way for all that you would fight and die for them and their causes."

Cassiel nods to Katric's characterization, and then to Diya's. "And do you think that this capability, this resolution to put the people first, this honor, this honesty, is tied inextricably to any external quality?" She uses a piece of flatbread to wipe up the last of the stew, quiet. "Does it require wealth? Power? Birth? Or can one have these qualities otherwise?"

Ramalla arrives from the narrow path that leads through the forest to the beach.
Ramalla has arrived.

Ramalla
     Slender, yet muscular, this young woman is roughly 5'5" and perhaps weighs in at about 120 pounds. Mousy brown hair surrounds and hangs just below her shoulder blades, the end of which is rather ragged as if cut by a rather dull blade. Unremarkable green eyes look out from her thin nearly childish looking face, they are made to seem somewhat larger then they really are by her soft cocoa hued lashes and brows. The rest of her while thin has all the curves that come with femininity, complete with arms and legs that are well shaped and muscled.
     Lightweight tan pants are paired with a shirt of worn blue fabric, both pieces of clothing are well cared for but patched and fixed in places. Scuffed ankle boots encase her feet, the leather is pretty beaten up but like her clothing they've been taken care of and repaired as needed.

Daurian comes from somewhere else deeper within the forest, knife carried easily at his side and the days catch slung over one shoulder. Of course there's blood, but fortunately none of it is his. He stops as he hears voices, proceeding with caution until he comes to where the trio are gathered. Diya, among all else, is looked at first and the longest.

Again, Katric hesitates, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip as he regards Cassiel steadily. "Not always," he finally admits. "But usually. More often than not."

Like Daurian, Ramalla also comes from parts unknown but really that's not so surprising for those who know the young woman. A rather worn bag is slung over one shoulder and her neck with plants cuttings of all shapes and types sprouting up out of it. Her head is bobbed in acknowledgement of she first encounters, with a warmer smile appearing when Diya is spotted since the goldrider did happen to bring some much needed healing supplies that were needed here.

Heedless of the eyes on her, Diya continues to watch Cassiel alone, something inscrutable entering her gaze. "It-," a beat passes. "Power is found in wealth and birth without this island. But does not always necessarily mean those that are most powerful are the most fit to lead. You forget charisma and the intangible quality of men to spark a rise out of those they lead."

"Do you think so?" A small smile tugs at one corner of Cassiel's lips. "So one can tell, even among children, who will be a leader, and who will demonstrate those qualities of leadership? Or, perhaps..." She trails off, arching a brow with a small smile. "Perhaps you've watched children at play, and noticed that the kindest children are rarely the leaders. That it's those simple, from birth qualities that shine. But then we look at older children, at young adults. You're a healer, yes? Tell me, if you slowly begin to mold...let's say posture. If a person habitually carries a heavy load on one shoulder, their entire body changes to accomodate that practice. In the same way, as children grow up, they find they are molded to their place in life, as determined by those above them. One is born the child of a Lord Holder, and is taught certain lessons. Another is born a woman, and is taught to obey. Yes?"

In what totals a grand three seconds, Daurian has taken in the conversation as it stands though still offers nothing on his end save for the courteous dip of his head toward Diya and a soft-spoken, "Ma'am," Cassiel, noteably, gets no such greeting but Ramalla and Kateric do - a simple nod of his head and nothing more as he moves to a clear space off to the side of the trio where he drops into a crouch with the carcass of the bird he'd brought in with him is settled at his feet.

Katric absorbs this heavy-duty philosophy lesson raptly, for all his expression conveys more thoughtful wariness than outright agreement with what she's saying. Tucking back his hair again, he purses his lips and notes, "So they're trained to be so. That doesn't necessarily make them /bad/, though. Some of them--some of them, the Holders mostly--they're all so /inbred/--aren't very good leaders, but. In that case, just ensure the Hold goes to someone better suited. Most of the Lords have hordes of sons, or brothers, or nephews, what have you. Surely one of them's got to be suiting." He doesn't look up until Daurian speaks, blinking at him in surprise and finally raising a hand in greeting. Then, just like that, he's turning back to Cassiel

As her attention is called to Daurian with his soft-spoken greeting, a cordial nod is cast that way, and after a beat where she listens to Katric's reply, slow steps take her from the wall to stand somewhere away from the conversing pair and where the young hunter deals with his kill. "Diya," she chides, using her name as both introduction and correction of his ma'am. Using her walking stick as a beckon, a slight wave is sent to Ramalla to join the loosely assembled grouping even as her attention fixes downward, ruddy hair dropping into her face, onto the bird carcass.

"Perhaps they are," Cassiel agrees with Katric with a nod. "But should other capable people be left out simply because they weren't born into the proper family?" She leans back against the wall, focus still on the healer, smile faint. "What about dragonriders? Is every bronzerider, every goldrider, you've ever met someone you would consider a capable leader? Are greenriders and blueriders incapable of leadership?" There's a gentle note to the words, questing rather than challenging.

Ramalla tips her head as she holds her silence while listening to the rather intense conversation going on. "How does anyone know who will make the most perfect leader? Doesn't everyone have a flaw that makes him or her seem weak to a point?" Not that she's sure that it has anything to do with what's being chatted about but well the questions are just popping unheaded into her head.

There's only moderate hesitation as Daurian looks up at Diya, offering a loose smile that manages to be charming at the same time, "Diya, ma'am. Do you mind?" He looks down at the bird, knife poised just above the rope binding feet together, "Needs to be cleaned," He explains, still not yet doing so and likely won't without first obtaining the woman's permission.

Taken in by that charm, Diya's response is quick, blithe for her recent departure of participating, but not refraining from listening in on Cassiel and Katric's discussion. "I ride a dragon. Daurian, is it?" Always good with names, there's still a quizzical lilt in the older woman's voice as she pauses just long enough for some sort of confirmation before continuing on. "Very little makes me squeamish after seeing a new dragonet tear into his or her first live kill."

"Not every one of them," Katric grudgingly admits. "But a lot of them. A larger percentage than the blue- and greenriders out there. Anyway, why does everyone want to lead everybody else? I'm not a leader," he's quick to say, shaking his head. "I'm happy to follow somebody that's leading right, though. Like back home, at the Reaches. The Igenites don't care about us at all--they're only out for themselves, so I--so we, we're fighting them." The others are past his realm of concentration for the time being, even as they talk on and even interject into his own conversation.

"Correct, ma'am," Daurian replies, appropriately looking at the woman as he does so, "If you're sure, then," Daurian himself waits for confirmation before neatly slicing the strap binding the birds legs together then proceeds to pluck the feathers, laying them in as neat a pile as he can manage on the side opposite Diya, "Never certain what some folks can take and what others can't," He says after a pause, once more looking up at the rider, "How do you like the island so far?"

"We're not looking to make everyone into a leader," Cassiel says with a faint, amused smile. "Though I'm sure that's what they're teaching back there. It's much more frightening. What we wanted - what we still want - was the opportunity for those who wanted it. And remember, there are many more blue- and greenriders in the world than bronze- and goldriders. I think if you looked at the numbers closely, you'd find similar break-downs." With that, she finally looks away from the healer, to Ramalla. "You're right. /Everyone/ has a flaw. And the current leadership isn't exempt from that. But we should be free to follow who we choose, or someone who is suited, not be constrained by blood, or gender, or the color of our dragon's hide."

Ramalla tips her chin up as a grin crosses her face for a moment before dropping as she returns to her thinking "That sounds about right, I mean just because a gold impresses to who she think is right does that make her an excellent choice for WeyrWoman if her lifemate rises next time there's a change in leadership?" comes as the teen looks towards Diya "Sorry ma'am, it just confuses me when I've heard tales of women and men that have impressed gold and bronze dragons and have turned weyrs into places of total chaos."

It's only once Cassiel looks away that Katric does likewise, fixing a look on the cooling stew and bread still sitting in front of him. He pokes at it gingerly again, finally taking a few more bites, looking around to Diya, Ramalla, and Daurian at length.

Again, Diya looks to say something and then forcibly refrains, instead distracting herself from the controversy she has with Cassiel's idealism by watching Daurian strip the bird. "The island suits well," she notes with deliberate lightness, as if this were a pleasure visit. A hand rakes through her hair, combing out the tangles idly. Leaving the conversation of leadership's merits to others, the slender goldrider bends, leaning down to drop her weight to her knees to inspect more closely the cleaning of this bird. "And you?" Quiet, the self-exiled woman's question drops nonchalantly. When that 'ma'am' is heard again, it's telling that Diya's eyes lift immediately, straying to Ramalla. A negligent gesture and a self-deprecating smile waves off the younger woman's concerns, though it's unclear if she heard any of it in actuality.

"We try," Daurian returns to Diya with another smile, matching her tone in that his own is still quite soft spoken and careful though always at that respectful level. "It's home, goldrider. Hard to find it anything but." When she looks away, Daurian's moves are swift and practiced as he continues to deplume the bird. He too says nothing toward the conversation, nor does he turn his attention to it.

"Everyone has some potential," Cassiel allows. "But allowing a dragon's mating cycle to determine who will be leader assumes that all possible options are equal. And, frankly, they aren't." No longer concentrating on Katric, the greenrider catches Diya's restraint, a wry smile touching her features. "Of course, part of being a good leader is understanding where idealism must make room for reality. And the challenge then becomes to decide when one is making those concessions, and when one is...selling out."

Katric frowns slightly, brows knitting as Cassiel turns to Diya. Sparing the goldrider the barest of looks, most of his attention remaining on the Instigator greenrider in front of him, though he doesn't answer her latest dogma.

Ramalla falls quiet to listen for a time before wandering off at the call from the beach or somewhere close to that.

Ramalla has disconnected.

Drawn to Ramalla, Diya is again drawn to the conversation, and in that moment catches the wry smile crossing Cassiel's lips: it's an ingredient for instant guilt in the woman's dark eyes. "Or when the greater good at the time calls for less drastic measures. There should never be a cause for bloodshed." And in her own concession to idealism, or a lingering hold on naivety, the goldrider inclines her head and gets to her feet, deferring to the greenrider's views. "I hope to have some of your kill tonight, Daurian," she imparts gently to the hunter. "And perhaps, you might show me how to handle the bow and arrow used to fell such a creature some day."

Daurian isn't oblivious to the guilt surfacing in Diya's expression and it draws an immediate reaction that's sure to get him in trouble with a certain brownriding father. Knife in hand, he makes a point of catching Cassiel's eyes, "It's my understanding it's not the place of a greenrider to judge her Weyrwoman." Lumping Diya into such a position, the young mans eyes turn to Diya as he courteously dips his head, "You'll have the first pickings, ma'am and I'll craft the arrows myself."

"'Never' is a word for the people in power," Cassiel murmurs, picking up her empty bowl and leaning back again as she looks into it. "Absolutes belong to lies." Daurian's words are met with a hard, dry laugh. "There are no Weyrwomen on this island, boy. We left them all behind. There's Derek, if you're looking for leadership, and J'lor, if it's inspiration you crave."

"I wish there wasn't," Katric concedes to Diya, glancing back to the goldrider with a frown. Then, a quick look around to Daurian, then Cassiel, and back to Diya, the former healer splitting attention between the trio.

Diya's brows tweak together, and again the once weyrwoman practices a talent she's possessed too long: restraint and waiting. Thinned lips quickly set into a more gracious expression that concedes at least one point to Cassiel in her vocalized response. "Thank you, Daurian. And again, please if it doesn't make you uncomfortable, call me Diya." There are no Weyrwoman here. With a rise to her feet, the goldrider approaches Katric, but steps beyond him to shadow the entrance to the infirmary. "I'll only be a moment. To check on him." Permission is sought of the man's friend and current healer with dark eyes that lift quizzically.

"Diya. Have a good day." Daurian, having defended Diya and rebuked Cassiel, once more forgets the greenriders existence. Typical, if not a known behavior for the man by this point. He settles back into plucking the bird clean, absently sorting feathers as he goes for those he'll now be using for those arrows promised to Diya.

Cassiel brushes her hands together slowly, flicking off the bits of dirt accumulated with the motion as she turns back to watching the others with a quiet, rueful smile.

At the first reminder of his friend, Katric is scrambling back to his feet, dusting himself off. "Oh. Right, of course. Go ahead," he tells her after a moment, uneasily. He pushes at his hair and watches her, though for the moment he doesn't follow.

With consent given, Diya flashes the former healer a small smile and then disappears into the darker cavern with her basket of whatevers and her long walking stick.

Diya has disconnected.

Plucking a bird is never an easy task. For Daurian, it's no different. By the time he finishes the chore, quite the mess is left behind and the bird itself isn't looking at all that tasty. A look to Cassiel proceeds the actual severing of the birds head from the rest of its body, the lopped off body part joins the discard pile. While waiting for the bird to bleed dry, Daurian wipes his blade clean.

Cassiel quirks a brow at Daurian's look, her smile spreading crookedly with amusement as the bird's head goes off. "You're M'uri's boy," she observes, drawing one knee up and draping her arm loosely around it, a lazy posture. "I don't remember him being too keen on weyrwomen back on the mainland. Where'd you pick up that bit of thought?" she asks with genial curiosity.

Katric watches Diya go with his usual intent stare, only resettling himself on the ground when she's disappeared to look over his hurt friend. He still seems a little distracted by some thought, because he's silent again, glancing between Cassiel and Daurian curiously.

"Diya deserves respect," Daurian points out, not sharing Cassiel the same respect he showed to Diya when talking with her, "She's something to this place. You're nothing." Cold, callous and meant; it's the only point Daurian follows with a look to the greenrider, "That's a pretty easy thing to see."

Cassiel doesn't seem to bother arguing whether or not she's anything to the island, small smile remaining. "What's she done to earn your respect?" she asks, watching the young man with a quiet sort of amusement. "Aside from getting you and your father sent here in the first place."

Daurian employs great patience and speaks to Cassiel as though she were feeble minded, "It's not what she's done but what she'll do, greenrider." A slur, truly, if only in the most subtle of ways. To Katric, Daurian says, "You're the one they exiled, right? How's your friend?"

"I'm the one they exiled most /recently/," Katric corrects. Pause. "Second-most recently," he concedes. "Katric. Don's... He's hanging on, for what that counts. We're in wait-and-see mode right now." He shrugs, cuts his eyes back to Cassiel quizzically, and then reverts attention to Daurian.

Cassiel smiles faintly, dry. "You keep hoping, boy," she murmurs, before looking back to Katric. "So what was it exactly that happened to your friend?" she asks, glancing towards the caverns. "Trouble with the arrest?"

"You'll like it here," Daurian says, "Stay away from the wrong people and it's a good place to be." He reaches out to check on the bird then sheaths the knife at his waist, hooks the feet of the bird in his now free hand and excuses himself to hand the bird off to be prepared. A short time afterward he returns to clean up his mess and to collect the feathers he'd set aside.

Daurian has left.

Katric hesitates, glancing back at Cassiel again. Teeth to his lower lip, he shrugs and tells her, "I don't know. He can't really explain it right now, obviously. I... He said something about a deal, and that's about all I got out of them." He lifts a hand absently to Daurian as he exits.

Cassiel nods slowly, letting her head rest back against the wall as Daurian leaves. "Hopefully he can hang on long enough to pass on the whole message," she murmurs, letting out a slow breath. "Do you have any talents beyond healing, Katric?" she asks then, glancing over.

Habitually, Katric pushes back his head as Cassiel questions him. "Hopefully," he notes again, frowning unhappily. Then: "Well... Isn't that enough? You could use someone else who knows what they're doing, and I'm a journeyman. I was. I was brilliant at it, too."

Cassiel shrugs one shoulder, eyes closing wearily. "We don't get injured too much. Don't have a large enough population to need three healers in the infirmary all day every day, either, for as many people who're in there. Most know the basics of first aid, in case they're out in the jungle when they get hurt."

"So what else am I supposed to do?" asks Katric, sounding offended that his particular talents aren't properly appreciated.

"Well, that's sort of what I was trying to figure out," Cassiel notes with a touch of amusement, lips quirking upwards at one corner. "I'm sure we can find something for you to do, though. How's your hand with a needle and thread?"

"I've stitched people up before, lots of times?" suggests Katric.

"Well, we might be able to use another hand at the mending," Cassiel suggests, though her attempt to hold back a smirk is failing utterly. "Lots of mending needed around here. Fabric's one of the things we don't get much more of."

Katric can't help but wrinkle his nose. "Mending," he says, disgusted. "I spend seven years learning how to fix people and now the best thing you can come up with is 'fix clothes?"

"I'd offer you a spot fighting Thread, but you're lacking some of the equipment," Cassiel drawls with dry amusement, still not opening her eyes. "Not up to me, really. I'm just saying we've got one other crafted healer, and one trained by her. They'll have first call on things. Might not be terribly inclined to share the joys of patching up scraped knees and sprained ankles."

Katric frowns, giving the rider a dark look--hey, she can't see it anyway. He says, grudgingly, "Well, it's better than nothing, anyway. Guess it'll do until I get back home. But /I'm/ taking care of Donavon, not them."

"You'll have to take that up with them," Cassiel chuckles softly, raising her shoulders in a helpless motion. "Though it certainly sounds fair enough to me." Something seems to draw her attention then, as the greenrider lifts her head, eyes opening. "And it looks like I should be heading on," she announces, standing up and taking the bowl with her. "Someone'll see you settled in."

"I should get back, too," Katric agrees, nodding. "I'll... Well, bye," is his short parting notice.