Academic
Location: Exile Beach
Time: Morning on Day 23, Month 10, Turn 2
Players: Derek and J'lor
Scene: What's to be done about the missing greenrider?
The trickiest part was finding a way to both attach the wheels and also to allow them to spin. In the end, he whittled a modified screw that was wider at one end and acted as a sort of axis and stop at the same time. The rest was pretty basic. Some upright poles, a lot of braiding plant fibers for rope and treating it so it could stand up against the saltwater, and pulling the whole thing together. It's that last that J'lor is doing now. Or, rather, has finished doing. He stands on the floating dock, barefoot, pants rolled up to his calves, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, as he tests the mechanism. He hefts the rope and the net of fish appears, dripping, above the water. The rope is wrapped around a hook and released. The net hangs. The rope is unlooped and released, the net splashes back into the water. He's moving about, trying at slightly different angles, checking for weaknesses.
"They should be gutted and salted before you slosh them to pieces," Derek observes. He walks barefoot. He doesn't make much noise with the walking, and therefore he has this habit of appearing rather than approaching. He has appeared at the shoreside end of the dock, well back from both the wood and the water; he stands on the sand with his hands on his hips, squinting out at the process the bluerider's going through.
J'lor doesn't look over his shoulder. After ten turns, that soft voice sneaking up behind him has become an unpleasant familiarity. His shoulders do stiffen a little, his back going straighter. But he finishes the pull, winding the rope, letting go, unwinding the rope, letting go again. It's when the net vanishes that he finally bothers to glance over his shoulder, one arm coming up to wipe at his brow. "Salting's no good for hatchlings. The gutting the weyrlings do themselves."
"So what purpose does the sloshing serve? Soften them up?" Derek takes a couple steps, slow and purposeless steps, toward the water and the dock, one hand slipping down into a tattered pocket. "They look like they have plenty good teeth to me."
J'lor turns more fully now to study Derek, to see if the man is joking. He must be joking. Is he joking? The bluerider can never really tell, so in the end, he opts to simply answer. "The pulley system is new. I'm making sure it works. The sloshing is incidental."
"I could suggest some other... things you could put in the net, then." Derek takes a few more steps. These ones are not silent; they slosh, splashing through the waves along the tether line to the dock's edge. He puts a foot up on the wood, waits for it to steady, then comes aboard. "Dunkie dunkie," he adds, in a tone of voice that doesn't express any sort of intent at being funny, juvenile, or even good-natured. He pads along the planks, leaving wet footprints in the deep grain of the soft wood. "And what do you envision the pulley doing?"
The rider watches as Derek climbs aboard. There is faint confusion in his expression until the 'dunkie, dunkie'. Then he turns sharply away, looking outward to regard the boats and the ocean beyond, rather than show Derek his face as understanding occurs. A long moment of silence before J'lor explains, softly, "The hatchlings eat voraciously. We need food perpetually on hand. It's too hot to store fish on land, so we're keeping them tethered to the dock. The pulley system will allow individual weyrlings the ability to gather fish and feed their dragon, without needing another person's help in lifting the net."
"I like it," says Derek in his own very soft voice, padding on out until he's close enough - a mere pace or two away from the bluerider - to squint up at the pulley and consider the mechanism in detail. "When they're less voracious we can use it to store fish for everyone, or maybe even trawl a little by the dock with an open net, or something." It's the 'or somethings' one has to watch out for. "How are they coming along?" A glance sideways at the other man. "The weyrlings, not the fish."
"They're doing well, in general. Working together, adjusting. There's not much for them to do yet besides meet one another and catch their breath in between feeding, bathing, and oiling their dragons. The seven...various levels of adjustment. If they could, right now, they would all seven leave. But that's to be expected." One of J'lor's hands curls around the pulley's rope and gives it a little squeeze. -His- invention. "Trawling might not be a bad idea, when the spiderclaws are breeding."
"I need to speak to the seven." It's thoughtfully spoken, like he's just now deciding this, and therefore it lacks the sandy, gentle danger Derek's voice could otherwise contain. He raises the hand not pocketed and wraps that palm across his chin. "Better after they breed," he notes. "Leery of cutting them down that way before the... whatever you'd call spiderclaw babies are out." The man's dark brows crouch low over his narrowed eyes and his regard slips back from J'lor to the pulley, or maybe to the sky beyond, glaring bright. "And Cassiel?"
A tiny smirk. "I call them eggs. And they don't hatch for about three sevens. They're those red things that keep getting stuck on the oars in the second rainy season." J'lor. Island wildlife expert. The smirk vanishes, however, at that last. "No word."
"Hmp. Should try scraping them off and eating them." From concern over baby spiderclaw supplies to concern over caviar. Derek keeps his squint steady, and after a moment drops his hand, pocketing it like the other. His posture is thus casual, shoulders as bent and eased as they ever are - which, for twelve turns or so now, is not much - expression unyielding. "The bronzerider believes they've captured her. I assume you think the same."
"We have six bronzeriders," J'lor notes quietly, his own gaze remaining out on the water and away from his conversation partner. "Yes. I think the same."
"I expect you to be able to guess which one I mean," murmurs Derek, almost gentle in the delicacy of his speech, as if he would not for anything insult the other man's intellect - but must, nevertheless, remind him of his expectations. "He doesn't believe they'll kill her. Because of Chiavelth." A dragon's name remembered, without even a pause. Serious.
The bluerider doesn't bother to clarify if he knows or not. Or if Derek's expectations are appropriate or not. His fingers idly twist around the rope as he squints at the light lashing off of the water. "It would be hard to kill her," he clears his throat, "without anyone knowing. It could be done. But it would be hard. But that is presuming anyone is trying to keep anything hidden. I suspect...Vellath says he cannot hear her, but he does not act as if she's dead. They're close, it's possible he'd know."
Derek's brows crouch incrementally lower upon 'they're close.' As likely as not, Derek knows. This would be the only signal that he cares. "If they've captured her, they're hurting her."
There is a bit more throat clearing and a bit more staring out into the water. J'lor's hand squeezes the rope it holds. "Yes."
"But we can't go get her back." It's a statement. That doesn't make it rhetorical. The long pause afterward can be meant only to allow time for an answer.
"Not realistically." And that may be the first time ever that J'lor has used such a word. "If Diya was willing, I could perhaps go with her and Nenuith to try and locate Chiavelth. But I cannot see how we could take her back, even should we know where she was."
"I wonder what they'll do with her when they're finished." 'Nothing good' is the assumption implied in the tone of Derek's voice. At last he drops his gaze, looking into the water before the dock's edge, expression dour and seeking. "Mind-locked at Telgar." Nothing but a whisper, words that could easily be lost into the ocean. "Nothing more than a drudge."
"Is that what he faced?" the bluerider asks quietly. "Hmm. I suppose they wouldn't have wanted to give us another bronze." When his hands let go of the rope, there is a long, red line across his palm, visible before it curls into a loose fist and falls to his side. "Is there something I'm not considering? Some way we could bring her home?"
Derek nods once, still staring into the sea, for what 'he' faced. "I doubt they want to give us any more anythings, J'lor. I think it's inevitable: we must accept that they know we're here, and that we're collecting. Jensen would speak that in an instant if he thought he could do so safely." A pause, and the island leader's mouth slinks up beneath his mustache, which in turn bends up at the corners. It lasts only a heartbeat or two, then fades away into his thoughts about Cassiel, into a raising of his hand to press thumb and forefingers into his eyelids, pinning his eyes closed. "I can think of a hundred ways, J'lor. Not a one of them comes without consequences, and all of them hinge on assumptions that might be incorrect. If they were, the consequences would be more dire still. What consequences do you think we dare face?"
Once again the rope is found. This time first by his hand and then next by his forehead as J'lor leans, closes his eyes, presses a little of his weight into the woven fibers. "Those that would not risk the safety of all the others, just for her. That wouldn't bring them coming here to finish what they started. We cannot fight a Weyr. For many reasons, not the least of which is, simply, we would lose."
"Agreed." And then Derek falls silent, which is very poor news about his hundred ways to rescue Cassiel.
Silence, then, from the bluerider. And the faint sounds of a rope being turned, twisted, rubbing against the skin of his palm.
Derek drops his hand from his face and repockets it, turning halfway to observe J'lor against the backdrop of the waves. "Then we do nothing." He turns further then, around so the bluerider has his back. "It probably doesn't matter," Derek muses, as if it's all the same to him, with even a clipped and tense shrug to drive the point home. He starts off down the dock, toward land. "The longer we leave her there, the more likely it will become academic."
Twist! The move is sharp and sudden and forces the bluerider to release the rope all together and pocket his hand, the middle of his palm scraped raw. "Why do you say those sorts of things?"
Derek stops, but doesn't turn around. He only turns his head, and only enough that he can slide a steely and narrow glance over his shoulder. His mustache is bent up in that visible corner. "Because they're reasonable conclusions, drawn from practical evidence." It bends a little more, that thin and unpleasant smile. "And because you are the best dreamer, the most idiotic and creative problem-solver I know. If anyone will come up with an idea so stupid that it could work - it'll be you."
"Thanks." The word doesn't sound very appreciative. "I'll let you know, should my idiocy bear any fruits." J'lor exhales slowly and it seems, for a long while, as if he's simply waiting for the other man to go. Then, suddenly, "Derek?"
The other man is on his way down the dock, because he gave his answer, and was thanked for it. But his name, unusual on the bluerider's lips, has power enough to hold him - and this time, turn him around. From almost the floating platform's full distance, Derek regards his rival, his peer, thick black brows upraised. "Yes?"
The rider turns a bit. Just enough to see the other man over his shoulder. "Aivey's letter," he begins rather tangentially, "how did you get it?"
A long silence ensues, during which Derek's brows settle back into place and his expression becomes incredibly balanced, incredibly blank. Even some of the steel falls out of his gaze, leaving him blue-eyed and serious without solemnity, impassive without apathy. In time he wets his mouth with a poke of his tongue, and replies just two words, more certain even than he has right to be. "Your daughter."
A single nod. "I thought so." Again his hand uncurls, but this time J'lor steps away from the rope, turning towards the beach and, incidentally, towards the mustached man. "How long do we have, would you suppose? before it becomes academic?"
Derek assumes, or accepts, no threat from J'lor. He has never, and does not begin now. He turns, putting his back to the bluerider, and sidesteps a bit so that the other man could come shoulder-to-shoulder with him if he wished. As though they might depart, and walk together like friends. "I can't say," he replies, softly sandy again. There could be worry in his voice; there could even be human concern above the mere anxiety of attack. "I would hope she's been improved somewhat by her turns, and by yours."
And just this once, J'lor falls into step besides his usurper, fists pressed into his pocket, head tipped so his eyes rest on the dock. "They have Chiavelth. It's been days. They know what she knows." Facts. Soft and certain.
"Then it is academic already," replies Derek without malice. "And the best we may hope for is her life, and that her life be still some use to her."
"I would still have her back. If I think of something," notes J'lor as he steps into the water and begins slogging towards the shore.
Derek waits a moment, then steps off after the bluerider, a little less adept about it and at a disadvantage because the dock sloshes when the other man departs it. "Of course. They won't do anything to help her, and she's a liability as long as she's there." He slogs along too, his pants getting wet because he can't be bothered to roll them. "When do we see 'fall again?"
He waits until his toes are in the sand before he answers. "Half a seven. The hatchlings should fit in the cave well enough. We'll have to get creative in another couple months or so, however." J'lor stands on the beach a moment. "A liability," he mouths the words slowly and then shakes his head, just as slowly. "I don't think I'll ever understand."
"You'll understand this." Derek sloshes the rest of the way up to dry land and then a few feet past the other man. He stops there, and speaks, raising his voice so that J'lor can hear over the ocean despite being blocked. "Double your sweeps on the islands. If we're lucky, you'll have half a seven to find her."
J'lor lifts his head, frowning very deeply at that. "Vellath would know," he says again. His hands shove more deeply into his pockets and now, he's walking with a purpose. Away, up the beach, and towards the path that will leading him to the weyrlings.
"If they send Chiavelth with her," says Derek, but he's stopped moving, and the other man has passed him up, so the words might - belated as they are - be lost.
"If Chiavelth were dead," J'lor corrects, curt, sharp, and over his shoulder.
"Not what I meant," sighs Derek, but the correction bites, and he turns away and heads down the shoreline, toward the sun.
Time: Morning on Day 23, Month 10, Turn 2
Players: Derek and J'lor
Scene: What's to be done about the missing greenrider?
The trickiest part was finding a way to both attach the wheels and also to allow them to spin. In the end, he whittled a modified screw that was wider at one end and acted as a sort of axis and stop at the same time. The rest was pretty basic. Some upright poles, a lot of braiding plant fibers for rope and treating it so it could stand up against the saltwater, and pulling the whole thing together. It's that last that J'lor is doing now. Or, rather, has finished doing. He stands on the floating dock, barefoot, pants rolled up to his calves, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, as he tests the mechanism. He hefts the rope and the net of fish appears, dripping, above the water. The rope is wrapped around a hook and released. The net hangs. The rope is unlooped and released, the net splashes back into the water. He's moving about, trying at slightly different angles, checking for weaknesses.
"They should be gutted and salted before you slosh them to pieces," Derek observes. He walks barefoot. He doesn't make much noise with the walking, and therefore he has this habit of appearing rather than approaching. He has appeared at the shoreside end of the dock, well back from both the wood and the water; he stands on the sand with his hands on his hips, squinting out at the process the bluerider's going through.
J'lor doesn't look over his shoulder. After ten turns, that soft voice sneaking up behind him has become an unpleasant familiarity. His shoulders do stiffen a little, his back going straighter. But he finishes the pull, winding the rope, letting go, unwinding the rope, letting go again. It's when the net vanishes that he finally bothers to glance over his shoulder, one arm coming up to wipe at his brow. "Salting's no good for hatchlings. The gutting the weyrlings do themselves."
"So what purpose does the sloshing serve? Soften them up?" Derek takes a couple steps, slow and purposeless steps, toward the water and the dock, one hand slipping down into a tattered pocket. "They look like they have plenty good teeth to me."
J'lor turns more fully now to study Derek, to see if the man is joking. He must be joking. Is he joking? The bluerider can never really tell, so in the end, he opts to simply answer. "The pulley system is new. I'm making sure it works. The sloshing is incidental."
"I could suggest some other... things you could put in the net, then." Derek takes a few more steps. These ones are not silent; they slosh, splashing through the waves along the tether line to the dock's edge. He puts a foot up on the wood, waits for it to steady, then comes aboard. "Dunkie dunkie," he adds, in a tone of voice that doesn't express any sort of intent at being funny, juvenile, or even good-natured. He pads along the planks, leaving wet footprints in the deep grain of the soft wood. "And what do you envision the pulley doing?"
The rider watches as Derek climbs aboard. There is faint confusion in his expression until the 'dunkie, dunkie'. Then he turns sharply away, looking outward to regard the boats and the ocean beyond, rather than show Derek his face as understanding occurs. A long moment of silence before J'lor explains, softly, "The hatchlings eat voraciously. We need food perpetually on hand. It's too hot to store fish on land, so we're keeping them tethered to the dock. The pulley system will allow individual weyrlings the ability to gather fish and feed their dragon, without needing another person's help in lifting the net."
"I like it," says Derek in his own very soft voice, padding on out until he's close enough - a mere pace or two away from the bluerider - to squint up at the pulley and consider the mechanism in detail. "When they're less voracious we can use it to store fish for everyone, or maybe even trawl a little by the dock with an open net, or something." It's the 'or somethings' one has to watch out for. "How are they coming along?" A glance sideways at the other man. "The weyrlings, not the fish."
"They're doing well, in general. Working together, adjusting. There's not much for them to do yet besides meet one another and catch their breath in between feeding, bathing, and oiling their dragons. The seven...various levels of adjustment. If they could, right now, they would all seven leave. But that's to be expected." One of J'lor's hands curls around the pulley's rope and gives it a little squeeze. -His- invention. "Trawling might not be a bad idea, when the spiderclaws are breeding."
"I need to speak to the seven." It's thoughtfully spoken, like he's just now deciding this, and therefore it lacks the sandy, gentle danger Derek's voice could otherwise contain. He raises the hand not pocketed and wraps that palm across his chin. "Better after they breed," he notes. "Leery of cutting them down that way before the... whatever you'd call spiderclaw babies are out." The man's dark brows crouch low over his narrowed eyes and his regard slips back from J'lor to the pulley, or maybe to the sky beyond, glaring bright. "And Cassiel?"
A tiny smirk. "I call them eggs. And they don't hatch for about three sevens. They're those red things that keep getting stuck on the oars in the second rainy season." J'lor. Island wildlife expert. The smirk vanishes, however, at that last. "No word."
"Hmp. Should try scraping them off and eating them." From concern over baby spiderclaw supplies to concern over caviar. Derek keeps his squint steady, and after a moment drops his hand, pocketing it like the other. His posture is thus casual, shoulders as bent and eased as they ever are - which, for twelve turns or so now, is not much - expression unyielding. "The bronzerider believes they've captured her. I assume you think the same."
"We have six bronzeriders," J'lor notes quietly, his own gaze remaining out on the water and away from his conversation partner. "Yes. I think the same."
"I expect you to be able to guess which one I mean," murmurs Derek, almost gentle in the delicacy of his speech, as if he would not for anything insult the other man's intellect - but must, nevertheless, remind him of his expectations. "He doesn't believe they'll kill her. Because of Chiavelth." A dragon's name remembered, without even a pause. Serious.
The bluerider doesn't bother to clarify if he knows or not. Or if Derek's expectations are appropriate or not. His fingers idly twist around the rope as he squints at the light lashing off of the water. "It would be hard to kill her," he clears his throat, "without anyone knowing. It could be done. But it would be hard. But that is presuming anyone is trying to keep anything hidden. I suspect...Vellath says he cannot hear her, but he does not act as if she's dead. They're close, it's possible he'd know."
Derek's brows crouch incrementally lower upon 'they're close.' As likely as not, Derek knows. This would be the only signal that he cares. "If they've captured her, they're hurting her."
There is a bit more throat clearing and a bit more staring out into the water. J'lor's hand squeezes the rope it holds. "Yes."
"But we can't go get her back." It's a statement. That doesn't make it rhetorical. The long pause afterward can be meant only to allow time for an answer.
"Not realistically." And that may be the first time ever that J'lor has used such a word. "If Diya was willing, I could perhaps go with her and Nenuith to try and locate Chiavelth. But I cannot see how we could take her back, even should we know where she was."
"I wonder what they'll do with her when they're finished." 'Nothing good' is the assumption implied in the tone of Derek's voice. At last he drops his gaze, looking into the water before the dock's edge, expression dour and seeking. "Mind-locked at Telgar." Nothing but a whisper, words that could easily be lost into the ocean. "Nothing more than a drudge."
"Is that what he faced?" the bluerider asks quietly. "Hmm. I suppose they wouldn't have wanted to give us another bronze." When his hands let go of the rope, there is a long, red line across his palm, visible before it curls into a loose fist and falls to his side. "Is there something I'm not considering? Some way we could bring her home?"
Derek nods once, still staring into the sea, for what 'he' faced. "I doubt they want to give us any more anythings, J'lor. I think it's inevitable: we must accept that they know we're here, and that we're collecting. Jensen would speak that in an instant if he thought he could do so safely." A pause, and the island leader's mouth slinks up beneath his mustache, which in turn bends up at the corners. It lasts only a heartbeat or two, then fades away into his thoughts about Cassiel, into a raising of his hand to press thumb and forefingers into his eyelids, pinning his eyes closed. "I can think of a hundred ways, J'lor. Not a one of them comes without consequences, and all of them hinge on assumptions that might be incorrect. If they were, the consequences would be more dire still. What consequences do you think we dare face?"
Once again the rope is found. This time first by his hand and then next by his forehead as J'lor leans, closes his eyes, presses a little of his weight into the woven fibers. "Those that would not risk the safety of all the others, just for her. That wouldn't bring them coming here to finish what they started. We cannot fight a Weyr. For many reasons, not the least of which is, simply, we would lose."
"Agreed." And then Derek falls silent, which is very poor news about his hundred ways to rescue Cassiel.
Silence, then, from the bluerider. And the faint sounds of a rope being turned, twisted, rubbing against the skin of his palm.
Derek drops his hand from his face and repockets it, turning halfway to observe J'lor against the backdrop of the waves. "Then we do nothing." He turns further then, around so the bluerider has his back. "It probably doesn't matter," Derek muses, as if it's all the same to him, with even a clipped and tense shrug to drive the point home. He starts off down the dock, toward land. "The longer we leave her there, the more likely it will become academic."
Twist! The move is sharp and sudden and forces the bluerider to release the rope all together and pocket his hand, the middle of his palm scraped raw. "Why do you say those sorts of things?"
Derek stops, but doesn't turn around. He only turns his head, and only enough that he can slide a steely and narrow glance over his shoulder. His mustache is bent up in that visible corner. "Because they're reasonable conclusions, drawn from practical evidence." It bends a little more, that thin and unpleasant smile. "And because you are the best dreamer, the most idiotic and creative problem-solver I know. If anyone will come up with an idea so stupid that it could work - it'll be you."
"Thanks." The word doesn't sound very appreciative. "I'll let you know, should my idiocy bear any fruits." J'lor exhales slowly and it seems, for a long while, as if he's simply waiting for the other man to go. Then, suddenly, "Derek?"
The other man is on his way down the dock, because he gave his answer, and was thanked for it. But his name, unusual on the bluerider's lips, has power enough to hold him - and this time, turn him around. From almost the floating platform's full distance, Derek regards his rival, his peer, thick black brows upraised. "Yes?"
The rider turns a bit. Just enough to see the other man over his shoulder. "Aivey's letter," he begins rather tangentially, "how did you get it?"
A long silence ensues, during which Derek's brows settle back into place and his expression becomes incredibly balanced, incredibly blank. Even some of the steel falls out of his gaze, leaving him blue-eyed and serious without solemnity, impassive without apathy. In time he wets his mouth with a poke of his tongue, and replies just two words, more certain even than he has right to be. "Your daughter."
A single nod. "I thought so." Again his hand uncurls, but this time J'lor steps away from the rope, turning towards the beach and, incidentally, towards the mustached man. "How long do we have, would you suppose? before it becomes academic?"
Derek assumes, or accepts, no threat from J'lor. He has never, and does not begin now. He turns, putting his back to the bluerider, and sidesteps a bit so that the other man could come shoulder-to-shoulder with him if he wished. As though they might depart, and walk together like friends. "I can't say," he replies, softly sandy again. There could be worry in his voice; there could even be human concern above the mere anxiety of attack. "I would hope she's been improved somewhat by her turns, and by yours."
And just this once, J'lor falls into step besides his usurper, fists pressed into his pocket, head tipped so his eyes rest on the dock. "They have Chiavelth. It's been days. They know what she knows." Facts. Soft and certain.
"Then it is academic already," replies Derek without malice. "And the best we may hope for is her life, and that her life be still some use to her."
"I would still have her back. If I think of something," notes J'lor as he steps into the water and begins slogging towards the shore.
Derek waits a moment, then steps off after the bluerider, a little less adept about it and at a disadvantage because the dock sloshes when the other man departs it. "Of course. They won't do anything to help her, and she's a liability as long as she's there." He slogs along too, his pants getting wet because he can't be bothered to roll them. "When do we see 'fall again?"
He waits until his toes are in the sand before he answers. "Half a seven. The hatchlings should fit in the cave well enough. We'll have to get creative in another couple months or so, however." J'lor stands on the beach a moment. "A liability," he mouths the words slowly and then shakes his head, just as slowly. "I don't think I'll ever understand."
"You'll understand this." Derek sloshes the rest of the way up to dry land and then a few feet past the other man. He stops there, and speaks, raising his voice so that J'lor can hear over the ocean despite being blocked. "Double your sweeps on the islands. If we're lucky, you'll have half a seven to find her."
J'lor lifts his head, frowning very deeply at that. "Vellath would know," he says again. His hands shove more deeply into his pockets and now, he's walking with a purpose. Away, up the beach, and towards the path that will leading him to the weyrlings.
"If they send Chiavelth with her," says Derek, but he's stopped moving, and the other man has passed him up, so the words might - belated as they are - be lost.
"If Chiavelth were dead," J'lor corrects, curt, sharp, and over his shoulder.
"Not what I meant," sighs Derek, but the correction bites, and he turns away and heads down the shoreline, toward the sun.