LOG: ... Dancing?
Date: Day 27, Month 6, Turn 18
Location: Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: Flights are not quite as straight-forward as K'del may have thought. Also, Weyrlingmasters are cruel.
Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr
The weyrlingmaster's office is behind a battered, creaky wooden door, so warped it doesn't close completely, whatever is done to it. Still, it serves its purpose in shutting the small room behind it off from the clatter of the training room beyond. The dominant feature is the big desk at the back, with a high-backed chair behind it and a couple of smaller ones in front of it. Another chair or two is left against the wall, out of the way.
With little in the way of decoration to it, there's nothing homey about the room. There's a dead plant in a pot on one edge on the desk, along with the usual assortment of papers and empty bottles one would expect from the weyrlingmaster. The only tapestry is one very dusty one of the Weyr's badge, on the wall directly behind the desk.
K'del knocks on the door, but he doesn't wait for an invitation before striding straight into the office. Classes were dismissed - oh, a while back, and this weyrling has apparently used that time for a wash (trying to wake himself up? He has look tired, of late), his sleeves rolled up after the warmth of the day, and, presumably, the water. He looks intent, with a side of expectant, his shoulders pulled back and his posture straight, and he clears his throat.
This time, the lucky soul on duty is Leova, seated in her weyrlingmaster's chair with her head bent over a passel of hides. They're charts, mostly, plus a particularly graphic diagram of a dragon's intestinal tract. And it takes that throat-clearing to bring her back even enough to flick her fingers, a just-a-minute that becomes nearly a minute in truth before amber eyes lift: yes?
K'del obeys that flick of the fingers, though his fingers tap against his trousers with impatience. This is almost the only sign of it, though: he otherwise stands quite still, his expression almost entirely impassive, his sighs kept to an absolute minimum. One. Well. Two, but the second gets cut off, because that's what Leova's eyes lift. "Almost everyone else has been called in for their talk," he tells her, sounding, at least, more curious than snippy. "Reckon I must be due for mine soon, right? Wouldn't do for Cadejoth to jump on in before we've been told properly."
"Think that's so likely?" Leova inquires, the curve of her mouth deepening for all that it's still no proper smile. "What kind of interest has your boy been showing? Seems as how you might do well to wait for Cam, or I'daur himself. Get the rider of the male's point of view." And the greenrider waits, sees what he does with that.
K'del's chin goes up, like he's being defensive. Maybe he is, but he keeps it out of his tone. "Maybe. He seemed interested in Merieth, the other day." Beat, then he admits, "But maybe more because he saw it as a game of chase. Doesn't hurt to be prepared, though." He disregards the rest with a shake of his head, and a wave of the hand, light. "Reckon I can ask, if I have more questions on that side of things."
Her brows tick up a notch, a did-he, and then that admission gets him a nod that's tipped a little, just a little to the side. "Better," Leova says. And: "Have yourself a seat. Got to finish this before I can get back to you." She doesn't point out any particular one, leaving that up to him, just picks up her stylus and gets back to work. It could be a little while. If he falls asleep, she'll make it even longer.
"Thank you," says the weyrling, sounding pompous, as he swings himself into the nearest seat, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Something - the wash, the klah he may well have confused, /something/ - keeps him from falling asleep, despite the way his head lolls back; his eyes, however, are definitely closed. The telltale sign is that his foot taps, every so often, like he's channelling his lifemate.
From the desk there's the sort of rustling one might expect, more or less regular rather than buying time. Eventually, more a murmur than anything, "Get yourself some more sleep. Before I'daur has to sit on you." And there's the weight of her gaze. Waiting. Ready?
K'del's head tilts up, his eyes flick open. He looks... abashed. Apologetic. Guilty. "I will," he tells her, honestly. "Milani made me promise, too. Straight to bed, tonight." And more reason, now, because I'daur sitting on him? Definitely not a happy thought. His head inclines, a response to her gaze. Ready. Awake now, sitting up properly, gaze intent.
She's watching for it. Takes it in. And then one corner of her mouth turns up, and she says, "Milani should recognize it. Had to deal with me short on sleep when /I/ was a weyrling. And who knows how many others." But enough of more personal asides: she leans her elbows more heavily onto the table, then, linking her hands together as a chin-rest so she can watch him that much more. "So. What do /you/ think it's all about?"
"/Did/ she." There's something akin to satisfaction in K'del's tone at this, though he doesn't add to the thought: business, after all. His hands cross in his lap, shoulders hunching forward a little as he makes his answer. "This talk, or flights in general? Presumably the same, though. Female dragon gets all-- weird, and then she rises, and a bunch of the males chase, and one of them wins. Their riders have sex. If she's a gold, there's a clutch. Am I missing anything?"
Her flick of fingers takes it either way, even before he answers himself. Then, unsurprised, "Got the basics. Why don't you tell me more about this... /all weird/ business." By Leova's tone, one might never know that this might be dangerous ground. "And this thing that we call blooding. For starters." Her smile's edges on sharp, from above her linked hands, and then she loosens pose and expression to pull the plant towards her in a scrape of ceramic across wood. Time to start picking out the dead twigs.
K'del takes his time before answering, which at least means that his response is relatively fluid, though his gaze is distracted by those dead twigs. "Not very nice to your plants, are you?" Group-you, presumably. "They're just a bit 'off'. Not quite themselves. Right? Distracted. Maybe emotional. Probably depends on the person in question, though I guess I don't know much about that." A beat, before he continues. "And blooding is all about them feeding, before they fly, right? I'm not sure why, though. Surely they'd get more energy from just /eating/?"
"No sunlight in here," Leova points out amiably, which is to say, not disagreeing in the slightest. "Besides. /These/ weren't even part of the real bush." She tosses a twig over, so it should slide across the table towards him: its base had been cut some time ago and just stuck in the earth, seems like, its brown and curled leaves completely different from what remain on the main plant. "Depends a lot on the particular person. And what a body means by not-quite-themselves, because sometimes it's... more themselves, what they're like deep down." They. Them. Distant. "Dragon can get uppity too, or sleep a lot, nothing to count on. As for the blooding... think about it. Ever tried to get in a good big breakfast before running laps?"
K'del has an 'oh', of understanding, though he reaches across to pick up the twig sent sliding across the table, twisting it between his fingers. But: "Still." His head tilts to one side, as he listens to her, every so often inclining a little bit further in response to what she says. "Huh," is his first response, genuinely thoughtful. "So it's like pulling masks off, or something. Fewer... inhibitions. For some. Cadejoth," he adds in, a smile crossing his lips, "That Merieth was grumpy, wouldn't talk to him." His face shows enlightenment, for the blooding: "Oh. Of course. Right. And they just... drain the blood out completely?"
"For some," Leova not only agrees but underscores, her tone steady and increasingly serious, and never mind how she's peeling bits of leaf from its veins like so much wingsail from spars. "Merieth, though. Mightn't necessarily be grumpy against him personally, might just be not wanting to talk in general, might just be wanting a break from all the males sniffing around. MIght be her rider. Might be you. Then again, could be Cadejoth: I didn't pay attention, see, and it's not always what it seems." She takes a deeper breath. "Would be the efficient way, or at least, close-to-completely, ignore the very last bits that are left. But there are always some who just like to... make a mess. Waste it. Anyhow, that's why a queen's got to blood, not eat: to get up high, last a while, make a bunch of eggs. Some greens blood, some don't, there's not the same worry there."
K'del's piece of stick gets turned in his hands, pressed between fingers, absently played with while his gaze remains on the greenrider. "Right," he agrees. "Could be all kinds of reasons. He drives me mad some of the time. Can't blame someone else for not wanting to listen, if that's what it was." Twirling the twig between his fingers, he adds, "So, again, it's all kind of preference. And queen flights-- they make better clutches if they're longer, right? So that's why it's so important. Greens... don't matter. Right. Because there are no eggs." Beat. "Don't matter with the blooding, that is. Not in general." Apologetic.
Her nostrils flare at that, but she's got to have gotten some experience with the sorts of remarks weyrlings make, and not just weyrlings either. "Careful," Leova warns him, softly but not gently. "And. Generally better clutches, if it's longer, yes. Though it also depends: the age of the queen, natural fertility, number of queens at the Weyr, where we are in the Interval, and some random factor that keeps the bettors happy." One corner of her mouth tucks up, alluding to a smile without actually being one. Her gaze stays on him in turn. "Gotten better, with the getting along? Seems that way from the outside, but you never can tell. You'll have heard about his likely wanting some you don't want, sometimes. How it will suck you in. And you'll like it."
K'del's eyes drop, embarrassed by his own misspoken comment, and nods. He takes a moment, before speaking up again. "So you can never really know. But it doesn't hurt. To have a long flight, I mean." So he misses that tuck of her mouth, his gaze still grazing the floor, though he's nodding at his feet in response to her question. "Reckon we understand each other better, now. Always-- loved him. But. Better. He's--" At this point, he looks up again. "Not quite so /much/ now, you know? Like he's growing up." His expression sours, lips drawn together, but he nods. Again. "I had heard that. I won't be able to ask him not to?"
That reaction's enough for her to bite back more that she might have said, her mouth compressed, and when she speaks again it's a hair or two more kind. "Doesn't hurt," Leova agrees. "Don't mean anyone's going to be talking their dragon into waiting instead of just grabbing the prize." Maybe just one hair. "And it makes sense that he'd grow up. Like you, hm? Only faster. Some dragons, they hatch about like they're going to be, but others change and keep changing for quite some time. And... you can /ask/, try to /make/ him, but you won't always win out." A lift of her shoulder's all, too-bad, so-sad. "Easier if you do it before he really gets into it, distract him with something else interesting, whatever works for him. Which is another reason to stay away from a Weyr where you know the gold's proddy: wingleader won't like him distracted if he's the sort who wants to be around the clutch, or if he does, something's wrong there too. Not that you should always be off Weyrhopping for likely greens, either, hm?"
Though K'del still looks a little awful, he laughs, for that. "No, guess not. Do that, someone else might get in first. And even beyond that. Hard, when you're all wrapped up in the moment." He's inclining his head, nodding along to his own words, as well as Leova's, over and over again. "Mmm. Hard to believe, how little they were, not so long ago. Size as well as personality. Distractions, huh? Can work on that. Though... Realistically, it's not really fair, is it? He doesn't stop me." Mostly. "/Do/ people do that? Weyrhopping like that, I mean. I would've though there were plenty of greens right here."
"Pretty much. Means more tactics than strategy. Instinct. Luck. Can sway them sometimes... wouldn't always advise it, even if you mean well," Leova warns, only to sit back, give the weyrling a slight smile but a truer one. "Because everything else about this is fair, hm? But. You might see where he might be... grumpy, if you always tried to shoot him down. And then again, not so many chase pretty much everyone who goes up. Know at least one bronze what chases golds and a couple greens, most fall in between extremes. And you'll learn to see what, or who, he wants. What he's in for." What else, what else. "Weyrhopping? Don't think people generally do that for /long/, but you'll run into the odd rider who got a reputation for it. Mostly it's a kid or someone who never learned how to take a bath, can't get it any other way."
More nods, from the weyrling. Nod. Nod. Nod. Thoughtful grimace. Nod. "Mm, right. Not thrilled about some of the greens he might chase," he admits, honest, "But I take the point. Guess we'll just see what happens. What he wants. But-- no, things aren't fair. But no point in me making it less fair, because of my... general inclinations." He's got a wry smile for her explanation of the weyrhopping, and his shoulders go back at the mention of 'a kid': he, of course, is not including himself in this. Too old, too wise. Too good at getting it elsewhere? "Right," he says, finally. "Not my kind of thing, anyway."
"Don't know it's a consolation to say, some of those greens' riders aren't so happy about being chased," Leova mentions, and then there's her own quiet nod for not-less-fair, for inclinations. Another: not his kind of thing. Then, "So. Someday, he flies someone. The usual happens. What do you reckon you owe the other rider, K'del?"
K'del's lips twitch, though his tone is more serious when he responds. "Can imagine. And they don't really have a choice, I guess. Not even a little." He's back to playing with that little piece of twig again, as he responds to her question, looking contemplative, and taking his time before he actually draws the words out. "Guess I owe them-- respect." A nod. "No - complaining, or anything. Be nice."
There's a moment's pause, teetering on the verge of some elaboration or other that becomes, instead, "Pretty much not. So just keep that in mind." She's silent while he thinks it over, just watching what it does to his expression, what happens to that little bit of plant. No hurry. And then he does speak, and Leova gives that a moment of its own before reaching out and stealing herself a second bit of twig. "Respect. Not complaining." Repetition. "Nice? Maybe. Polite, definitely. Kind, if you can. For its own sake, but also because rumor gets around." Her fingers tap against the twig, but it doesn't lose so much as a leaf. Yet. "You should learn not to hurt someone."
K'del's nod is definite: he will. Point made. Then, his brows knitting in, he asks, "Learn not to hurt someone?" It only takes a moment, though, before comprehension seems to dawn. "Oh." His hands have stilled again, the poor twig abandoned for the sake of his understanding. "I wouldn't--"
Leova gives him lifted brows, amber eyes gone still. Waiting.
K'del swallows. Clears his throat. "I wouldn't be unkind, but mostly... I wouldn't /hurt/ someone." He seems genuinely troubled by this idea, his fists clenching in his lap.
The greenrider stirs at last. "Not on purpose," she gives him. "But dragons, well. Immediate. Can be rough. People, they aren't thinking. And..." Leova's gaze shifts past him, but there's no C'mryn, no I'daur teleporting in to explain it all. "So. You ride the male dragon. So you should know something about what the greenrider's going through. And how to make it easier, if you can."
K'del actually looks like he could use more than a C'mryn, or an I'daur, to come in and save him from this conversation. Maybe an earthquake. "Still," he begins, like he can't quite believe, or accept, that someone couldn't control themselves anyway. But the rest of the sentence doesn't come, and he tries again. "So... I need to keep control of myself, don't let myself get too lost in Cadejoth?" His voice wavers, uncertain. But then, this is all hard to conceptualise, no doubt, when you haven't yet experienced it.
Leova admits, "Don't necessarily know that you /can/." She's even apologetic about it, setting down her twig to rub her temples with both hands. "Or necessarily should. Just... every bit you can know, it helps. And it might get through when you need it. It's like... do you know how to drive a wagon?"
"I will try," says K'del - swears it, even, voice and expression intense with it. "I-- yes. I know how to drive a wagon?" He waits, perplexed, for the simile.
"Try to do the right thing," Leova's quick to insert. "Like I said early on. Talk to them. About how it works. I don't know your side of things, I never will." She inhales just this side of audibly, lets it out slow, looks at him searchingly. "So it's like driving, K'del. I think. Or riding, or walking even. Or ice skating, they say, except I still haven't gotten the hang of it... Anyhow. You think about it too much, try to control too much, you can mess up. But you learn your team can't stop on a dime, learn what they can do, part in your head and part by doing. You get used to it. Learn what you can. Mess up sometimes. Fix what you can and keep going. You get me?"
Yes, says K'del's nod, though he doesn't verbalise it. Yes, he will. "Right. Like, you learn it all, know exactly what to do, only you do it on instinct. And when you think about it, you get... confused. So I just have to make sure I learn how to do it properly, the first time. Beat it in to my own head." Beat. "As it were. Right?"
Leova's eyes have gone just that fraction wider: barrel full of tunnelsnakes? "You just have to /try/ to do it properly," she adjusts. "A certain amount of... consideration, applies to pretty much everyone. And for men in particular, they say there are things that work to make it easier. With men. But. Don't know nothing about that, not about to start now. What I do know is, you better not expect to do any of it perfect the first time, hear me, K'del? As if there's ever a perfect, with people. Who are people. Things happen. Things are /different/. Beating yourself up never helped nobody."
K'del's expression is defiant, like he believes he can be better than /that/, make sure of it-- but, taking a deep breath, he nods. "I-- Okay," he says. "I take your point. I'll /try/."
And the way Leova's eyeing him back, she may gauge what's behind that... but lets it go: he'll do what he has to do. "Good man." It's that or /boy/, and he's trying. "So. Few other things you'll need to keep in mind. Friend of yours turns out to be proddy, make sure he or she realizes, stays back at the Weyr, but don't overdo it and get bossy. When the green goes up, her rider had best get to the guest weyr unless you all want to put in a public show. Try not to punch anyone out. And... this is getting to be enough already, for now, isn't it? Haven't even gotten to asking, what you think the other rider owes /you/. Or the dancing."
K'del just nods, one more time, for her 'good man', taking it seriously, if his expression is anything to go by. The rest, too, goes by without comment, though he is beginning to look a little overwhelmed - it's all a little more complicated, perhaps, than he might have thought. But then: "...dancing?"
"In the guest weyr," Leova says quite seriously. "You know how people get into their dragons? The males' riders make a circle around the female. And strut." Except then she's rubbing one temple again, and giving him a lopsided smile. A moment of silence later, "All right, so maybe that one part was a joke. I'daur said I didn't have to tell you, but after all this, I... haven't quite the heart."
K'del's eyes go very wide. Too much seriousness has clearly taken away any chance of catching a joke, and now, his hands are clenching into fists all over again. So when that smile comes, and then, her admission afterwards, his exhalation is long, and, well, /relieved/. His tone, however, is pissy. "/Faranth/. That was mean. Even if you did tell me. You people just--" Want to screw with his head? He sighs, and breaks his twig in half, dropping the pieces on the floor in an act of absent defiance. "Is there anything else? Imagine I can figure anything else out. Or talk to someone else."
"It was, wasn't it," Leova says, and /there's/ the gleam in her eyes as she stands, slowly, stretching. It stays, too, when she gets moderately serious again: "Under other circumstances? Few things I'd like to go into. What I said about owing, though that's pretty much nothing. Behavior. That sort of thing. But figure it's better you go off, think about that some. Talk to Cam or even I'daur. Get questions later, come find me. And in the meantime? Pick up what you just dropped."
K'del, sullen teenager again, positively scowls. He's probably still listening - at least, he nods, even if it's reluctantly, moodily - for the rest of what she says. But he's clearly not pleased, as he pushes his chair back, and, obediently, picks up those bits of twig. "Fine," he says, once they're back in his hand. And then, after he's turned to go, through gritted teeth: "Thanks."
"Welcome," says Leova warmly. /Approvingly/. And waves him on before getting back to work: if those twig-bits get tossed just outside the entrance, well, no skin off her nose.
If K'del notes that warmth, the approval, he makes no response to it. He's gone - and yes, there are twig-bits on the floor just outside. Oh well.
And then, K'del goes to his weyr to fume for a while, and is so moody and upset that he can't concentrate all evening, and when he tries to go to bed, he tosses and turns because people are so mean and everyone treats him like a kid and no one respects him, and then he's all tired again the next day. And it's all their fault.
/wrists
Location: Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: Flights are not quite as straight-forward as K'del may have thought. Also, Weyrlingmasters are cruel.
Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr
The weyrlingmaster's office is behind a battered, creaky wooden door, so warped it doesn't close completely, whatever is done to it. Still, it serves its purpose in shutting the small room behind it off from the clatter of the training room beyond. The dominant feature is the big desk at the back, with a high-backed chair behind it and a couple of smaller ones in front of it. Another chair or two is left against the wall, out of the way.
With little in the way of decoration to it, there's nothing homey about the room. There's a dead plant in a pot on one edge on the desk, along with the usual assortment of papers and empty bottles one would expect from the weyrlingmaster. The only tapestry is one very dusty one of the Weyr's badge, on the wall directly behind the desk.
K'del knocks on the door, but he doesn't wait for an invitation before striding straight into the office. Classes were dismissed - oh, a while back, and this weyrling has apparently used that time for a wash (trying to wake himself up? He has look tired, of late), his sleeves rolled up after the warmth of the day, and, presumably, the water. He looks intent, with a side of expectant, his shoulders pulled back and his posture straight, and he clears his throat.
This time, the lucky soul on duty is Leova, seated in her weyrlingmaster's chair with her head bent over a passel of hides. They're charts, mostly, plus a particularly graphic diagram of a dragon's intestinal tract. And it takes that throat-clearing to bring her back even enough to flick her fingers, a just-a-minute that becomes nearly a minute in truth before amber eyes lift: yes?
K'del obeys that flick of the fingers, though his fingers tap against his trousers with impatience. This is almost the only sign of it, though: he otherwise stands quite still, his expression almost entirely impassive, his sighs kept to an absolute minimum. One. Well. Two, but the second gets cut off, because that's what Leova's eyes lift. "Almost everyone else has been called in for their talk," he tells her, sounding, at least, more curious than snippy. "Reckon I must be due for mine soon, right? Wouldn't do for Cadejoth to jump on in before we've been told properly."
"Think that's so likely?" Leova inquires, the curve of her mouth deepening for all that it's still no proper smile. "What kind of interest has your boy been showing? Seems as how you might do well to wait for Cam, or I'daur himself. Get the rider of the male's point of view." And the greenrider waits, sees what he does with that.
K'del's chin goes up, like he's being defensive. Maybe he is, but he keeps it out of his tone. "Maybe. He seemed interested in Merieth, the other day." Beat, then he admits, "But maybe more because he saw it as a game of chase. Doesn't hurt to be prepared, though." He disregards the rest with a shake of his head, and a wave of the hand, light. "Reckon I can ask, if I have more questions on that side of things."
Her brows tick up a notch, a did-he, and then that admission gets him a nod that's tipped a little, just a little to the side. "Better," Leova says. And: "Have yourself a seat. Got to finish this before I can get back to you." She doesn't point out any particular one, leaving that up to him, just picks up her stylus and gets back to work. It could be a little while. If he falls asleep, she'll make it even longer.
"Thank you," says the weyrling, sounding pompous, as he swings himself into the nearest seat, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Something - the wash, the klah he may well have confused, /something/ - keeps him from falling asleep, despite the way his head lolls back; his eyes, however, are definitely closed. The telltale sign is that his foot taps, every so often, like he's channelling his lifemate.
From the desk there's the sort of rustling one might expect, more or less regular rather than buying time. Eventually, more a murmur than anything, "Get yourself some more sleep. Before I'daur has to sit on you." And there's the weight of her gaze. Waiting. Ready?
K'del's head tilts up, his eyes flick open. He looks... abashed. Apologetic. Guilty. "I will," he tells her, honestly. "Milani made me promise, too. Straight to bed, tonight." And more reason, now, because I'daur sitting on him? Definitely not a happy thought. His head inclines, a response to her gaze. Ready. Awake now, sitting up properly, gaze intent.
She's watching for it. Takes it in. And then one corner of her mouth turns up, and she says, "Milani should recognize it. Had to deal with me short on sleep when /I/ was a weyrling. And who knows how many others." But enough of more personal asides: she leans her elbows more heavily onto the table, then, linking her hands together as a chin-rest so she can watch him that much more. "So. What do /you/ think it's all about?"
"/Did/ she." There's something akin to satisfaction in K'del's tone at this, though he doesn't add to the thought: business, after all. His hands cross in his lap, shoulders hunching forward a little as he makes his answer. "This talk, or flights in general? Presumably the same, though. Female dragon gets all-- weird, and then she rises, and a bunch of the males chase, and one of them wins. Their riders have sex. If she's a gold, there's a clutch. Am I missing anything?"
Her flick of fingers takes it either way, even before he answers himself. Then, unsurprised, "Got the basics. Why don't you tell me more about this... /all weird/ business." By Leova's tone, one might never know that this might be dangerous ground. "And this thing that we call blooding. For starters." Her smile's edges on sharp, from above her linked hands, and then she loosens pose and expression to pull the plant towards her in a scrape of ceramic across wood. Time to start picking out the dead twigs.
K'del takes his time before answering, which at least means that his response is relatively fluid, though his gaze is distracted by those dead twigs. "Not very nice to your plants, are you?" Group-you, presumably. "They're just a bit 'off'. Not quite themselves. Right? Distracted. Maybe emotional. Probably depends on the person in question, though I guess I don't know much about that." A beat, before he continues. "And blooding is all about them feeding, before they fly, right? I'm not sure why, though. Surely they'd get more energy from just /eating/?"
"No sunlight in here," Leova points out amiably, which is to say, not disagreeing in the slightest. "Besides. /These/ weren't even part of the real bush." She tosses a twig over, so it should slide across the table towards him: its base had been cut some time ago and just stuck in the earth, seems like, its brown and curled leaves completely different from what remain on the main plant. "Depends a lot on the particular person. And what a body means by not-quite-themselves, because sometimes it's... more themselves, what they're like deep down." They. Them. Distant. "Dragon can get uppity too, or sleep a lot, nothing to count on. As for the blooding... think about it. Ever tried to get in a good big breakfast before running laps?"
K'del has an 'oh', of understanding, though he reaches across to pick up the twig sent sliding across the table, twisting it between his fingers. But: "Still." His head tilts to one side, as he listens to her, every so often inclining a little bit further in response to what she says. "Huh," is his first response, genuinely thoughtful. "So it's like pulling masks off, or something. Fewer... inhibitions. For some. Cadejoth," he adds in, a smile crossing his lips, "That Merieth was grumpy, wouldn't talk to him." His face shows enlightenment, for the blooding: "Oh. Of course. Right. And they just... drain the blood out completely?"
"For some," Leova not only agrees but underscores, her tone steady and increasingly serious, and never mind how she's peeling bits of leaf from its veins like so much wingsail from spars. "Merieth, though. Mightn't necessarily be grumpy against him personally, might just be not wanting to talk in general, might just be wanting a break from all the males sniffing around. MIght be her rider. Might be you. Then again, could be Cadejoth: I didn't pay attention, see, and it's not always what it seems." She takes a deeper breath. "Would be the efficient way, or at least, close-to-completely, ignore the very last bits that are left. But there are always some who just like to... make a mess. Waste it. Anyhow, that's why a queen's got to blood, not eat: to get up high, last a while, make a bunch of eggs. Some greens blood, some don't, there's not the same worry there."
K'del's piece of stick gets turned in his hands, pressed between fingers, absently played with while his gaze remains on the greenrider. "Right," he agrees. "Could be all kinds of reasons. He drives me mad some of the time. Can't blame someone else for not wanting to listen, if that's what it was." Twirling the twig between his fingers, he adds, "So, again, it's all kind of preference. And queen flights-- they make better clutches if they're longer, right? So that's why it's so important. Greens... don't matter. Right. Because there are no eggs." Beat. "Don't matter with the blooding, that is. Not in general." Apologetic.
Her nostrils flare at that, but she's got to have gotten some experience with the sorts of remarks weyrlings make, and not just weyrlings either. "Careful," Leova warns him, softly but not gently. "And. Generally better clutches, if it's longer, yes. Though it also depends: the age of the queen, natural fertility, number of queens at the Weyr, where we are in the Interval, and some random factor that keeps the bettors happy." One corner of her mouth tucks up, alluding to a smile without actually being one. Her gaze stays on him in turn. "Gotten better, with the getting along? Seems that way from the outside, but you never can tell. You'll have heard about his likely wanting some you don't want, sometimes. How it will suck you in. And you'll like it."
K'del's eyes drop, embarrassed by his own misspoken comment, and nods. He takes a moment, before speaking up again. "So you can never really know. But it doesn't hurt. To have a long flight, I mean." So he misses that tuck of her mouth, his gaze still grazing the floor, though he's nodding at his feet in response to her question. "Reckon we understand each other better, now. Always-- loved him. But. Better. He's--" At this point, he looks up again. "Not quite so /much/ now, you know? Like he's growing up." His expression sours, lips drawn together, but he nods. Again. "I had heard that. I won't be able to ask him not to?"
That reaction's enough for her to bite back more that she might have said, her mouth compressed, and when she speaks again it's a hair or two more kind. "Doesn't hurt," Leova agrees. "Don't mean anyone's going to be talking their dragon into waiting instead of just grabbing the prize." Maybe just one hair. "And it makes sense that he'd grow up. Like you, hm? Only faster. Some dragons, they hatch about like they're going to be, but others change and keep changing for quite some time. And... you can /ask/, try to /make/ him, but you won't always win out." A lift of her shoulder's all, too-bad, so-sad. "Easier if you do it before he really gets into it, distract him with something else interesting, whatever works for him. Which is another reason to stay away from a Weyr where you know the gold's proddy: wingleader won't like him distracted if he's the sort who wants to be around the clutch, or if he does, something's wrong there too. Not that you should always be off Weyrhopping for likely greens, either, hm?"
Though K'del still looks a little awful, he laughs, for that. "No, guess not. Do that, someone else might get in first. And even beyond that. Hard, when you're all wrapped up in the moment." He's inclining his head, nodding along to his own words, as well as Leova's, over and over again. "Mmm. Hard to believe, how little they were, not so long ago. Size as well as personality. Distractions, huh? Can work on that. Though... Realistically, it's not really fair, is it? He doesn't stop me." Mostly. "/Do/ people do that? Weyrhopping like that, I mean. I would've though there were plenty of greens right here."
"Pretty much. Means more tactics than strategy. Instinct. Luck. Can sway them sometimes... wouldn't always advise it, even if you mean well," Leova warns, only to sit back, give the weyrling a slight smile but a truer one. "Because everything else about this is fair, hm? But. You might see where he might be... grumpy, if you always tried to shoot him down. And then again, not so many chase pretty much everyone who goes up. Know at least one bronze what chases golds and a couple greens, most fall in between extremes. And you'll learn to see what, or who, he wants. What he's in for." What else, what else. "Weyrhopping? Don't think people generally do that for /long/, but you'll run into the odd rider who got a reputation for it. Mostly it's a kid or someone who never learned how to take a bath, can't get it any other way."
More nods, from the weyrling. Nod. Nod. Nod. Thoughtful grimace. Nod. "Mm, right. Not thrilled about some of the greens he might chase," he admits, honest, "But I take the point. Guess we'll just see what happens. What he wants. But-- no, things aren't fair. But no point in me making it less fair, because of my... general inclinations." He's got a wry smile for her explanation of the weyrhopping, and his shoulders go back at the mention of 'a kid': he, of course, is not including himself in this. Too old, too wise. Too good at getting it elsewhere? "Right," he says, finally. "Not my kind of thing, anyway."
"Don't know it's a consolation to say, some of those greens' riders aren't so happy about being chased," Leova mentions, and then there's her own quiet nod for not-less-fair, for inclinations. Another: not his kind of thing. Then, "So. Someday, he flies someone. The usual happens. What do you reckon you owe the other rider, K'del?"
K'del's lips twitch, though his tone is more serious when he responds. "Can imagine. And they don't really have a choice, I guess. Not even a little." He's back to playing with that little piece of twig again, as he responds to her question, looking contemplative, and taking his time before he actually draws the words out. "Guess I owe them-- respect." A nod. "No - complaining, or anything. Be nice."
There's a moment's pause, teetering on the verge of some elaboration or other that becomes, instead, "Pretty much not. So just keep that in mind." She's silent while he thinks it over, just watching what it does to his expression, what happens to that little bit of plant. No hurry. And then he does speak, and Leova gives that a moment of its own before reaching out and stealing herself a second bit of twig. "Respect. Not complaining." Repetition. "Nice? Maybe. Polite, definitely. Kind, if you can. For its own sake, but also because rumor gets around." Her fingers tap against the twig, but it doesn't lose so much as a leaf. Yet. "You should learn not to hurt someone."
K'del's nod is definite: he will. Point made. Then, his brows knitting in, he asks, "Learn not to hurt someone?" It only takes a moment, though, before comprehension seems to dawn. "Oh." His hands have stilled again, the poor twig abandoned for the sake of his understanding. "I wouldn't--"
Leova gives him lifted brows, amber eyes gone still. Waiting.
K'del swallows. Clears his throat. "I wouldn't be unkind, but mostly... I wouldn't /hurt/ someone." He seems genuinely troubled by this idea, his fists clenching in his lap.
The greenrider stirs at last. "Not on purpose," she gives him. "But dragons, well. Immediate. Can be rough. People, they aren't thinking. And..." Leova's gaze shifts past him, but there's no C'mryn, no I'daur teleporting in to explain it all. "So. You ride the male dragon. So you should know something about what the greenrider's going through. And how to make it easier, if you can."
K'del actually looks like he could use more than a C'mryn, or an I'daur, to come in and save him from this conversation. Maybe an earthquake. "Still," he begins, like he can't quite believe, or accept, that someone couldn't control themselves anyway. But the rest of the sentence doesn't come, and he tries again. "So... I need to keep control of myself, don't let myself get too lost in Cadejoth?" His voice wavers, uncertain. But then, this is all hard to conceptualise, no doubt, when you haven't yet experienced it.
Leova admits, "Don't necessarily know that you /can/." She's even apologetic about it, setting down her twig to rub her temples with both hands. "Or necessarily should. Just... every bit you can know, it helps. And it might get through when you need it. It's like... do you know how to drive a wagon?"
"I will try," says K'del - swears it, even, voice and expression intense with it. "I-- yes. I know how to drive a wagon?" He waits, perplexed, for the simile.
"Try to do the right thing," Leova's quick to insert. "Like I said early on. Talk to them. About how it works. I don't know your side of things, I never will." She inhales just this side of audibly, lets it out slow, looks at him searchingly. "So it's like driving, K'del. I think. Or riding, or walking even. Or ice skating, they say, except I still haven't gotten the hang of it... Anyhow. You think about it too much, try to control too much, you can mess up. But you learn your team can't stop on a dime, learn what they can do, part in your head and part by doing. You get used to it. Learn what you can. Mess up sometimes. Fix what you can and keep going. You get me?"
Yes, says K'del's nod, though he doesn't verbalise it. Yes, he will. "Right. Like, you learn it all, know exactly what to do, only you do it on instinct. And when you think about it, you get... confused. So I just have to make sure I learn how to do it properly, the first time. Beat it in to my own head." Beat. "As it were. Right?"
Leova's eyes have gone just that fraction wider: barrel full of tunnelsnakes? "You just have to /try/ to do it properly," she adjusts. "A certain amount of... consideration, applies to pretty much everyone. And for men in particular, they say there are things that work to make it easier. With men. But. Don't know nothing about that, not about to start now. What I do know is, you better not expect to do any of it perfect the first time, hear me, K'del? As if there's ever a perfect, with people. Who are people. Things happen. Things are /different/. Beating yourself up never helped nobody."
K'del's expression is defiant, like he believes he can be better than /that/, make sure of it-- but, taking a deep breath, he nods. "I-- Okay," he says. "I take your point. I'll /try/."
And the way Leova's eyeing him back, she may gauge what's behind that... but lets it go: he'll do what he has to do. "Good man." It's that or /boy/, and he's trying. "So. Few other things you'll need to keep in mind. Friend of yours turns out to be proddy, make sure he or she realizes, stays back at the Weyr, but don't overdo it and get bossy. When the green goes up, her rider had best get to the guest weyr unless you all want to put in a public show. Try not to punch anyone out. And... this is getting to be enough already, for now, isn't it? Haven't even gotten to asking, what you think the other rider owes /you/. Or the dancing."
K'del just nods, one more time, for her 'good man', taking it seriously, if his expression is anything to go by. The rest, too, goes by without comment, though he is beginning to look a little overwhelmed - it's all a little more complicated, perhaps, than he might have thought. But then: "...dancing?"
"In the guest weyr," Leova says quite seriously. "You know how people get into their dragons? The males' riders make a circle around the female. And strut." Except then she's rubbing one temple again, and giving him a lopsided smile. A moment of silence later, "All right, so maybe that one part was a joke. I'daur said I didn't have to tell you, but after all this, I... haven't quite the heart."
K'del's eyes go very wide. Too much seriousness has clearly taken away any chance of catching a joke, and now, his hands are clenching into fists all over again. So when that smile comes, and then, her admission afterwards, his exhalation is long, and, well, /relieved/. His tone, however, is pissy. "/Faranth/. That was mean. Even if you did tell me. You people just--" Want to screw with his head? He sighs, and breaks his twig in half, dropping the pieces on the floor in an act of absent defiance. "Is there anything else? Imagine I can figure anything else out. Or talk to someone else."
"It was, wasn't it," Leova says, and /there's/ the gleam in her eyes as she stands, slowly, stretching. It stays, too, when she gets moderately serious again: "Under other circumstances? Few things I'd like to go into. What I said about owing, though that's pretty much nothing. Behavior. That sort of thing. But figure it's better you go off, think about that some. Talk to Cam or even I'daur. Get questions later, come find me. And in the meantime? Pick up what you just dropped."
K'del, sullen teenager again, positively scowls. He's probably still listening - at least, he nods, even if it's reluctantly, moodily - for the rest of what she says. But he's clearly not pleased, as he pushes his chair back, and, obediently, picks up those bits of twig. "Fine," he says, once they're back in his hand. And then, after he's turned to go, through gritted teeth: "Thanks."
"Welcome," says Leova warmly. /Approvingly/. And waves him on before getting back to work: if those twig-bits get tossed just outside the entrance, well, no skin off her nose.
If K'del notes that warmth, the approval, he makes no response to it. He's gone - and yes, there are twig-bits on the floor just outside. Oh well.
And then, K'del goes to his weyr to fume for a while, and is so moody and upset that he can't concentrate all evening, and when he tries to go to bed, he tosses and turns because people are so mean and everyone treats him like a kid and no one respects him, and then he's all tired again the next day. And it's all their fault.
/wrists