Impasse
Location: Exile Beach
Time: Day 15, Month 9, Turn 2
Players: E'sere and J'lor
Scene: J'lor has a word with the new arrival. Neither of them walk away very happy.
In the dry season, food is less plentiful and the stores become that much more vital. But in the dry season, the island could be, at first glance, viewed by someone with no sense of history, a paradise. The sun shines constantly, the weather is warm, occasionally too hot. The trees are flooded with green. Little insects busy themselves pollinating all sorts of vibrant flowers. It is a fine day to be outside. Seated, cross-legged, on the beach, in the middle of the morning, is the once-leader of the exiles and bluerider, J'lor. He holds a stick in one hand, an end whittled to a point, and he works on a wing formation scratched into the sand. It's an unusual pattern and seems to be focused protecting the little volcanic island on which Nenuith has clutched.
E'sere is already down at the beach, though a far distance removed from J'lor as he talks to Donavon. When the pair finally finish and E'sere rises, moving off, he heads on down the beach toward the figure he's already seen. "Good day," he calls as he takes up a position at the edge of that wing formation, giving it a glance, then looking to J'lor. "Am I interrupting, sir?"
The bluerider glances up and over as E'sere speaks. "Hmm? Not at all, E'sere. I was hoping to have a word with you. Sit." The pointy stick lifts and gestures towards a spot to his left. "And please. It's J'lor. I don't believe in titles."
"Old habit," E'sere answers wryly, shoulders lifting. He steps to the side and then folds himself down to the ground, cross-legged. "I was rather hoping for one myself, actually--about flying?"
"About flying?" queries J'lor lightly. The stick is pressed into the sand and twisted slowly so it buries deeper. "With the wing, you mean," the bluerider presumes. "What, particularly, were you wondering?"
E'sere nods once in answer. "If you'd let me do it," he explains, almost apologetically. "It was intimated to me that you might not care to."
The bluerider is studying his writing tool as E'sere speaks, though he steals a glance out of the corner of his eye at the other man. "I'll be honest, E'sere. I am torn. We are not in a situation to turn away riders in the wing. Especially not since Nabol. On the other hand, I have heard things about that going-ons of High Reaches. And I can't say as I particularly trust you, especially considering those you traffic with. So." So, the stick is lifted and jabbed into the sand again. "Tell me about High Reaches, E'sere."
"It's a mess," E'sere notes simply, lifting his hands as if to say, 'what else do you expect?' He shakes his head slowly and then explains, "We've no senior since Yevide was murdered, and we don't even know who killed her. Our Weyrleader's dragon can no longer fly. My mother--Lexine--has transferred in a young, untried Telgari queen, and if her dragon rises before our Reachian queen--even with her rider's faults--it will be anarchy again, as it was when the Igenites took over. I don't even know that we have a good contender for Weyrleader now."
"Mmm," murmurs J'lor as he listens. He probably listens. Though he adds a few more marks to his wing formation as E'sere speaks. "A Telgari transfer?" This catches J'lor's attention a bit more directly. "Who?" And then, rather quickly on its heels, "I understand the Weyrwoman Yevide did not receive a kindly reception. I also understand you were responsible for much of the troubles that now twist your Weyr. Speak to that, E'sere. Tell me of it." The man's voice is low and warm. There is no accusation in it; only query.
"Roa," answers E'sere, distantly. It's the man's latter question that draws his attention; the bronzerider's brows furrow, and his reply is slow in coming. "I don't know whom you've spoken to, or what they've told you; but that's hardly the case. The leadership of the Weyr wanted someone to blame for everything that had happened. And I had made some foolish choices, particularly in my friends, so that I made a convenient scapegoat for them. My own mother provided the coup de grace, when she testified Morelenth told Vasyath everything," he notes, bitterness seeping through the words.
At the name of the weyrwoman offered there is nothing. Only the stilling of his writing stick. "Was Morelenth interrogated?" J'lor asks lightly. Only that.
"For the show of it, yes," E'sere agrees.
"The show of it," J'lor repeats softly. "By Vasyath, I'd presume? She would be the oldest, would she not?"
E'sere nods slowly. "Yes, as I said," he agrees.
"E'sere..." and now the name is a slow sigh. J'lor lifts his hand to drag it down over mouth and cheeks before letting it drop into his lap. "I have spoken with Katric. He told me of the things he and Donavon had done in the name of 'repairing' the weyr." It is clear from the way the bluerider says 'repair' that this is something from Katric's vocabulary, and not a word choice J'lor much agrees with. "He was also quite convinced he and Donavon would soon be rescued because of the powerful friends he had that were still fighting this cause. And then, here you are, convicted of such crimes, and here runs Katric, expecting a ride home as soon as he sees your face." The stick twists savagely. "I know my faults, and there are many of them. But kindly do not think me a complete and total fool." There is another small glance of dark eyes towards the younger man's face. "You forget, as well, that Vellath has also been interrogated. By Vasyath, as it so happens. So have many others here. We know what that feels like, and we know know how little can be hidden. Do not sully our experiences by conniving about your own."
"Katric..." E'sere repeats that name in the same tone J'lor says his, the bronzerider shaking his head slowly. "I knew him, at the Reaches--he and Donavon both. Those would be the bad choices in friends I mentioned. I never expected them to do such things--I didn't even see that it was them for a long time. One does always want to see the best in one's friends. I don't know how Katric got the idea that I was coming to rescue him--probably the same place he got the one about that poor girl back at the Reaches being in love with him. I never had any intention of doing so." He shakes his head, then asks quietly, "Do you know why you had to fly Nabol?"
"I do." And now J'lor is studying E'sere, his head fully turned to regard the bronzerider.
In that same quiet tone, E'sere says, "Then you understand why my mother wishes to send me away, to punish me, if not here."
"No, E'sere, I do not." J'lor shakes his head slowly. "Dance your dance, if you wish it. My answer, however, is no. You and Morelenth are not invited to join the wing. Not until you're willing to tell me something with a bit of truth behind it." The rider unbends his legs and pushes himself up into a stand. "There is a chore roster posted daily. Nera is efficient. You'll be listed on it tomorrow. Good morning."
E'sere's smile is a sad one, but he nods. "I understand," he notes as he gets to his feet. "Good day, sir."
Time: Day 15, Month 9, Turn 2
Players: E'sere and J'lor
Scene: J'lor has a word with the new arrival. Neither of them walk away very happy.
In the dry season, food is less plentiful and the stores become that much more vital. But in the dry season, the island could be, at first glance, viewed by someone with no sense of history, a paradise. The sun shines constantly, the weather is warm, occasionally too hot. The trees are flooded with green. Little insects busy themselves pollinating all sorts of vibrant flowers. It is a fine day to be outside. Seated, cross-legged, on the beach, in the middle of the morning, is the once-leader of the exiles and bluerider, J'lor. He holds a stick in one hand, an end whittled to a point, and he works on a wing formation scratched into the sand. It's an unusual pattern and seems to be focused protecting the little volcanic island on which Nenuith has clutched.
E'sere is already down at the beach, though a far distance removed from J'lor as he talks to Donavon. When the pair finally finish and E'sere rises, moving off, he heads on down the beach toward the figure he's already seen. "Good day," he calls as he takes up a position at the edge of that wing formation, giving it a glance, then looking to J'lor. "Am I interrupting, sir?"
The bluerider glances up and over as E'sere speaks. "Hmm? Not at all, E'sere. I was hoping to have a word with you. Sit." The pointy stick lifts and gestures towards a spot to his left. "And please. It's J'lor. I don't believe in titles."
"Old habit," E'sere answers wryly, shoulders lifting. He steps to the side and then folds himself down to the ground, cross-legged. "I was rather hoping for one myself, actually--about flying?"
"About flying?" queries J'lor lightly. The stick is pressed into the sand and twisted slowly so it buries deeper. "With the wing, you mean," the bluerider presumes. "What, particularly, were you wondering?"
E'sere nods once in answer. "If you'd let me do it," he explains, almost apologetically. "It was intimated to me that you might not care to."
The bluerider is studying his writing tool as E'sere speaks, though he steals a glance out of the corner of his eye at the other man. "I'll be honest, E'sere. I am torn. We are not in a situation to turn away riders in the wing. Especially not since Nabol. On the other hand, I have heard things about that going-ons of High Reaches. And I can't say as I particularly trust you, especially considering those you traffic with. So." So, the stick is lifted and jabbed into the sand again. "Tell me about High Reaches, E'sere."
"It's a mess," E'sere notes simply, lifting his hands as if to say, 'what else do you expect?' He shakes his head slowly and then explains, "We've no senior since Yevide was murdered, and we don't even know who killed her. Our Weyrleader's dragon can no longer fly. My mother--Lexine--has transferred in a young, untried Telgari queen, and if her dragon rises before our Reachian queen--even with her rider's faults--it will be anarchy again, as it was when the Igenites took over. I don't even know that we have a good contender for Weyrleader now."
"Mmm," murmurs J'lor as he listens. He probably listens. Though he adds a few more marks to his wing formation as E'sere speaks. "A Telgari transfer?" This catches J'lor's attention a bit more directly. "Who?" And then, rather quickly on its heels, "I understand the Weyrwoman Yevide did not receive a kindly reception. I also understand you were responsible for much of the troubles that now twist your Weyr. Speak to that, E'sere. Tell me of it." The man's voice is low and warm. There is no accusation in it; only query.
"Roa," answers E'sere, distantly. It's the man's latter question that draws his attention; the bronzerider's brows furrow, and his reply is slow in coming. "I don't know whom you've spoken to, or what they've told you; but that's hardly the case. The leadership of the Weyr wanted someone to blame for everything that had happened. And I had made some foolish choices, particularly in my friends, so that I made a convenient scapegoat for them. My own mother provided the coup de grace, when she testified Morelenth told Vasyath everything," he notes, bitterness seeping through the words.
At the name of the weyrwoman offered there is nothing. Only the stilling of his writing stick. "Was Morelenth interrogated?" J'lor asks lightly. Only that.
"For the show of it, yes," E'sere agrees.
"The show of it," J'lor repeats softly. "By Vasyath, I'd presume? She would be the oldest, would she not?"
E'sere nods slowly. "Yes, as I said," he agrees.
"E'sere..." and now the name is a slow sigh. J'lor lifts his hand to drag it down over mouth and cheeks before letting it drop into his lap. "I have spoken with Katric. He told me of the things he and Donavon had done in the name of 'repairing' the weyr." It is clear from the way the bluerider says 'repair' that this is something from Katric's vocabulary, and not a word choice J'lor much agrees with. "He was also quite convinced he and Donavon would soon be rescued because of the powerful friends he had that were still fighting this cause. And then, here you are, convicted of such crimes, and here runs Katric, expecting a ride home as soon as he sees your face." The stick twists savagely. "I know my faults, and there are many of them. But kindly do not think me a complete and total fool." There is another small glance of dark eyes towards the younger man's face. "You forget, as well, that Vellath has also been interrogated. By Vasyath, as it so happens. So have many others here. We know what that feels like, and we know know how little can be hidden. Do not sully our experiences by conniving about your own."
"Katric..." E'sere repeats that name in the same tone J'lor says his, the bronzerider shaking his head slowly. "I knew him, at the Reaches--he and Donavon both. Those would be the bad choices in friends I mentioned. I never expected them to do such things--I didn't even see that it was them for a long time. One does always want to see the best in one's friends. I don't know how Katric got the idea that I was coming to rescue him--probably the same place he got the one about that poor girl back at the Reaches being in love with him. I never had any intention of doing so." He shakes his head, then asks quietly, "Do you know why you had to fly Nabol?"
"I do." And now J'lor is studying E'sere, his head fully turned to regard the bronzerider.
In that same quiet tone, E'sere says, "Then you understand why my mother wishes to send me away, to punish me, if not here."
"No, E'sere, I do not." J'lor shakes his head slowly. "Dance your dance, if you wish it. My answer, however, is no. You and Morelenth are not invited to join the wing. Not until you're willing to tell me something with a bit of truth behind it." The rider unbends his legs and pushes himself up into a stand. "There is a chore roster posted daily. Nera is efficient. You'll be listed on it tomorrow. Good morning."
E'sere's smile is a sad one, but he nods. "I understand," he notes as he gets to his feet. "Good day, sir."