[Log] Renegades and Exiles
Who: E'sere, Lucian, Odern (NPC)
When: Day 11, Month 4, Turn 3, 7th Pass
Where: Lord Odern's Room, Five Mines Hold
What: E'sere has an audience with Lord Odern.
The true Lord of Nabol has retreated to an inner sanctum of this minor mining hold, and he's taken his toys with him. The rest of the hold - what little E'sere has seen of it, having been brought here so quickly by Lucian - exhibits a Spartan cleanness, so the sudden explosion of brightly colored pillows and even perfume that fill this room may come as a small shock. Even the room's owner seems lost in so much luxury, shrunken into the high-backed, stiff-armed chair that stands facing the door. Odern leans into the arm of his chair, plucking at a loose thread on the cloth padding it while he waits for that door to open.
Open it does, and perfectly on time despite the Lord's reproachful scowl. There is no place for E'sere to sit facing Odern, so standing must be the order of the day.
Lucian has been an odd sort of emissary, bright-eyed with youthful excitement but strangely close-mouthed on the journey here. He's been rattling off pleasantries - my name is Lucian, I hope you are well, these are the mines - with curiously sharp attention, as though the worn out formulas of introduction held hidden fascination for him. Now that they have reached Odern's room, he steps up eagerly to make the introductions: "My Lord Odern, the rider E'sere." And then he retreats a step sideways, clearing space between the other two and giving himself a fine vantage to stare at them from.
E'sere, dressed in the nicest clothes left to his name, cleanshaven and perfectly in order, lets the harper lead him about, answering questions and offering his own pleasantries with a politeness to match the younger man's. As he's led further into the mining hold, he takes careful note of those landmarks Lucian points out, and those he doesn't, until finally they arrive at that doorway. E'sere pauses then, letting Lucian announce him before he steps inside, donning an easy smile and dipping his head in acknowledgement of the Lord seated in the chair. "Lord Odern, sir, good afternoon," he offers him.
Odern looks at this man - once wingleader, now exile, still perhaps a thorn in his side - without a trace of a smile. Narrowing into a myopic squint, his eyes pick over every detail of E'sere's clothing. "Pretty well-dressed for an exile, aren't you." Pretty poorly-mannered for a Lord, isn't he. Apparently the stripping of his knot and the flight to Five Mines has changed Odern a little. "That how you go about on the island? Fancied up, good afternoon, sir? How am I this afternoon?"
Lucian squirms when the Lord speaks, like an excited puppy who's just heard his master speak. Yet it's E'sere he's watching, allowing his mouth to curl up in a little smile that would be comforting, were it not still paired with an intense stare. He says nothing, as it's not his turn to speak.
"Thank you, sir," E'sere chooses to take the holder's former words as a compliment, and accompanies his own with a disarming smile as he straightens again. "And not generally, no, sir. I try to match my manners to the appropriateness of my situation at hand." There is, probably, a hint of chiding in the words, but E'sere couches that in an easy tone, no disrespect contained within it, at least.
Odern's scowl deepens as E'sere's smiling continues. Ripping a tiny thread free of his chair, he flings it petulantly at the ground. "Try harder," he snaps, "I can tell you're snipping at me. Lucian, he's snipping at me, isn't he?" The Lord's glower swings to his ambassador, giving him a wrinkly-nosed hint at the displeasure this 'snipping' gives to him.
Cue a tiny shiver traveling down Lucian's body when he's asked to step in. His long harper's hands emerge from his pockets, fingers stretching as though in preparation for gitar playing, and he inclines his head respectfully. "My lord," he says, "I think no harm was meant." A smooth sidestep takes him back to E'sere's side, where he can rest his hands briefly on E'sere's shoulders. Supporting, or claiming him. "The bronzerider has come here to discuss important matters; he seeks your counsel." Quick as he approached, Lucian melts away even quicker, and his light touch lifts easily off of E'sere.
Lucian's hand on his shoulder earns a glance sideways, but E'sere neither flinches in surprise nor pulls away. "Indeed," he simply affirms the harper's words, with another duck of his head. "My apologies, sir; I meant no slight to you, Lord Odern. I /do/ come on important matters, however, that I'd like to discuss with you."
Odern's eyes follow his subordinate's retreat, squinting at him suspiciously. Then E'sere speaks, and the Lord's eyes dart back to squint at /him/. "Fine, fine." He diverts himself from plucking at the chair long enough to wave a permissive hand at the bronzerider. "Then discuss with me, that's what you're here for. Speak." The hand-wave is converted into a beckon at Lucian, drawing his attention then pointing him to a winerack in the corner.
Lucian straightens when he's beckoned at, and dips a tiny bow when he's (indirectly) given orders. He melts further away, selecting a bottle from the rack and twisting its cork out with a tiny pop that interrupts conversation. It takes him a while to get two glasses filled - one for Odern, the other clearly intended as an offering for an E'sere - but he times his reapproach so that he'll be handing a glass to Odern just as E'sere concludes his answer.
"I have heard, sir," E'sere begins slowly, his smile fading into a light frown, intent on studying Odern, "that you have taken an open-arms stance--that you are willing to entertain arrivals from wherever--from whatever background--they might come from. You are truly willing to accept /anyone/, Lord Odern, and my sources have not exaggerated the kindness and generosity of your offer?"
Lucian's timed return enables Odern to turn away from his guest just when he's supposed to be answering him, taking his glass with a light, "Heh." Twisting back around, he peers closely at E'sere over the rim. "Got long ears, don't you. My offer." Now that the discussion he hurried into being has begun, he seems to take a vicious pleasure in delaying it. He swirls his wine and takes a sip. "I'm taking in renegades, that I am. But anyone? An exile's not just anyone." For the first time, he creaks a smile.
Even with the glass delivered, Lucian lingers by his lord, watching E'sere from behind his shoulder as he remains poised in the servile bow he adopted for transference. By now his smile has died to just an afterthought, a mere formality retained while he stares openly at the exile. He's timing it again, this time waiting until E'sere's started speaking before he can slip up and hover by him, waiting for a break in his response to offer, murmuring, "A fine Benden white," to recommend the vintage.
"Thank you, Lucian," E'sere accepts the wine glass with a nod of thank, lifting it to his lips to take a small sip before lowering it again. "Are we not?" he questions then, with a wry smile. "There are some who would consider each of us a renegade, for just causes or unjust ones. Our leader, Derek, has asked me to come speak with you on his behalf. You offered refuge, sir, to any who would come. We would like for that to include us."
"Would you, now, would you now indeed." Odern's fingers do a rap-tat-a-tat-tat on his wine glass, stirring the liquid up within. His eyes move beyond it, though, to squint at E'sere once again. "Pretty talk me all you like, a renegade's not an exile, not the same at all. A renegade can hide, but an exile? Tchk, tchk. Not the same at all."
There it is again: Lucian's smile, notched up to its steepest curve when E'sere thanks him for the wine. "Of course," he says, ever so quietly: wouldn't want to interrupt this discussion any more than he has to, after all. But he looks as though he'd like to, retreating from E'sere's immediate circle to stare, and smile, and shiver when Odern declares the difference between renegades and exiles. At least his gaze remains riveted on his lord alone this time, without switching back to the bronzerider constantly.
"Can't an exile?" asks E'sere, tilting his head slightly. "I have been in hiding for eight months now. Others, as well. I am hiding now. It isn't so hard, really, sir. We do not ask, either, for unconditional hiding, and we bring more with us than any of your renegades can boast." He toys with the glass in his hand, watching Odern entirely, rather than Lucian; he takes another sip to wet his throat after a moment. "While our existance is, understandably, Spartan," he concedes then, "we've food enough on our islands to sustain us, men and dragons enough to defend us--enough skills to survive for ten turns, to make a life where none existed."
Odern moves his glass to his left hand, because his right is more practiced at waggling remonstrative fingers. "Sounds to me like you'd be better off staying on your island, and I'm still waiting to here something that makes me think I'd be better off with you here." He lifts his empty hand, as though to take a drink, and remembers with a frown that he moved his wine away. He takes it back. "Resources, ha." The memory slip has made him extra bitter. "Hiding, ha. You're right where they put you, that's where you are, and the second you move off there's going to be trouble. Where's your hiding then? Resources. Ha. A dragon eats more food than he's worth. I'm right, aren't I?" He looks at Lucian, demanding support through his narrowed eyes. "I'm right."
"Empirically, my lord," Lucian responds without a hitch, although his gaze slips back to E'sere. This time the smile - blocked from Odern's sight by the careful angle he adopts - is impish, and paired with a raised eyebrow: do you get it? Do you see? Mischief has been smoothed away by the time the harper turns back to his lord, folding his graceful hands together as he continues. "Although a dragon is a resource in itself. One wonders if the liabilities may be overcome." E'sere's ball, now: Lucian tosses it back to him with a level look.
From afar, Aivey's connection is extremely unstable tonight. Can I raincheck on finishing this scene until tomorrow?
"We support, sir," E'sere points out evenly, "sixty-four dragons, half of them still growing, on fish, rabbits, and the occasional goat, when we can spare it. We have learned to subsist on very little." A pause, and he lifts his glass again, a tiny sip taken as his eyes stray briefly, guagingly, to Lucian, then back to his Lord. "They have other talents than simply eating, sir. We fly Thread over our islands whenever it falls, with excellent results: no Thread slips through, and to my knowledge we've lost only one rider, which is certainly a better record than any Weyr can boast. They are effective transportation, capable of carrying much heavier loads--such as your metals for trade--than anything else. And, if nothing else, they can often serve as effective intimidation and peacekeeping forces, by sheer size and power--which, I imagine, is an issue in a hold comprised of so many different factions of self-styled renegades."
"They swear loyalty to /me/," Odern states with certainty, jerking his thumb at his chest. "And they obey my rules or they're out." How he enforces this dictum - if in fact he does - does not attract his attention long enough for him to offer an explanation. He sips his wine with a sour expression, glaring at the general vicinity of E'sere as though to blame him for doubting the peace kept in Five Mines Hold. When he stops drinking to talk again, it's sudden. "And they don't bring the six weyrs crashing down on my head for letting them in here. That they don't."
For the gauging look, Lucian has sunk back into his ready quiver of a smile, and when he catches the glance he transforms readiness into action. Potential to kinetic. "The weyrs are so complacent," he muses, "they cannot bring themselves to act. I would say - the bronzerider here is living proof of that, my lord." He slips a sidelong smile again to E'sere, then returns it to his Lord. "And you. They sat still when your seat was stolen from you by a mob of arrogants." His voice takes on a coaxing, soothing lilt, offset by the mild yet heartfelt disbelief at the gall of that 'mob of arrogants.'
"Yes, sir," agrees E'sere easily, nodding once more to Odern. And--sneaking another look sideways at Lucian, E'sere nods once more to acknowledge the man's words. "The Weyrs scarcely look beyond their own noses. Most of them have more pressing problems at home than to look to what you are doing, and that, sir, is to your advantage. Their very arrogance makes them too blind to note what you choose to do in your lands, and gives you time to build your forces--swell your numbers--until you don't have to fear them crashing, as you put it, sir, down on your head."
Odern must think. He huddles over his wine glass, taking miserly sips as he switches his gaze from harper to rider, rider to harper, squinting at them both short-sightedly. There's just a sliver left in the glass when he lifts his lips from it, darting one last look back and forth between them. "Loyalty," he says. "Everyone who comes here swears their loyalty. Swears it. And they live by my rules."
From the shivering wreck of excitement that entered this room, Lucian has become a composed and graceful presence, balancing his attention between Lord and rider carefully now that he's found a way to participate. At the moment, it's the Lord's decision he awaits, bearing each suspicious glance easily. When Odern finally hands that decision down, he neither speaks nor looks at E'sere, but his smile is visible even in profile.
"What are your rules, sir?" E'sere asks, not sipping again from his own glass, but twisting it between his fingers as he studies Odern attentively. "That I may relay them with your generous offer to our leader?"
"My rules are what I /say/," Odern responds, slamming his left fist on his thigh. It hurts him, and his hand lingers to rub the injury while he glowers over it. "And the tradition of Five Mines, you can find those out during your stay here, I'm not your records keeper." To soothe his injuries, both mental and physical, he drinks the last of his glass of wine. "Hm, your leader. He's my man if he wants to come here, works for me. You tell him that. And he brings his men with him, you and all the rest. All mine."
Lucian moves forward smoothly when he sees Odern finish the last of his wine. Positioned, once again behind the chair, to take up the empty glance, he uses his new angle to watch E'sere in silence, monitoring his response.
"Yes, sir," E'sere notes. "I will inform him as much when I return." A small smile hovers about his lips then, perhaps in relief at this small success, or maybe he's just picturing Derek working for Odern. Whatever the case, he lifts his own glass to his lips for a moment, a small sip; unlike Odern he's hardly touched the drink. "Thank you, for your hospitality and your willingness to entertain our request."
Odern hands his drink off thoughtlessly, not even bothering to turn this time as he shoves it back into the harper's hands. "Yes, that you will," he confirms for E'sere once his arms are free, to be crossed immediately as he resumes his suspicious eyeballing. His hand gives a little flip for the courteous part of the answer, dismissing thanks of whatever variety so he can continue glaring.
Lucian's nimble fingers compensate for the Lord's ungraceful shove, flicking out to take the glass with delicate ease before he slips back from the chair. Empty glasses must be taken out for washing, of course, so his path takes him by E'sere again, and allows him to take a small pause before the bronzerider. "If you would come with me," he offers, in a tone as blandly polite as anyone could wish for, "I will show you to your rooms and see that you are set up properly."
"Of course," E'sere tells Lucian, with a small smile for the man's deference. "Please. Lord Odern. Good evening, sir," he bids the glowering man in the chair, with a half-bow, before he turns to let the harper lead him away again.