LOG: He Thought More Of Himself Than He Should Have
Date: Day 14, Month 5, Turn 20
Location: Council Chambers
Synopsis: K'del talks to B'mel about what's happened with B'tal. B'mel is a smooth operator.
B'mel NPCed by B'tal
Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr
At the heart of this oblong cavern is its meeting table: a long hardwood oval with a mirror's dark shine, High Reaches' sigil picked out in lapis and onyx at its center. Twenty chairs surround it, each softened by an embroidered cushion that's just a little too stiff for complete comfort -- meetings need to be kept short, after all -- with the chair at the table's head, facing the ledge, being somewhat larger than the rest.
Interspersed between glowsconces upon the smooth walls, ancient tapestries depict the territories High Reaches protects in a particularly pastoral fashion, all fluffy clouds and fluffier llamas, or else fishing crafts sailing merrily out to sea. Among them is also a natural alcove, its several wooden shelves primarily stocking fine wines and liquors as well as the glasses to serve them, though the lower shelves also hold whatever hidework requires particularly frequent attention.
A narrow wooden door leads to the Records room, while the tunnel that extends to the weyrleaders' ledge is wide enough for three men to walk abreast, with just enough kink in it to block the wind.
Last night was when B'tal was brought in to the infirmary. It's evening again, now, and Cadejoth's tell-tale metallic chains reach out for Ulriyth. It's an invitation, not a command, a serious-but-not-ominous request; << We'd like to talk with yours about something important. Will he come? >> The image might be of the council chambers, but it's softened in the details: a fire at the hearth, a half-finished sandwhich sitting on the table, surrounded by papers.
When Cadejoth's chains clink against the somber stone of Ulriyth's mind, the brown focuses to give the bronze his full attention. His reply is deep and rumbling, << He will come. >> And B'mel does in due time, just a little more than enough for him to get there. "Sir," he says to announce himself rather than question whatever's important, then waits.
<< Thank you, >> says Cadejoth, sincerely, withdrawing from the brown with a shake of metal. Inside the council chamber, everything is much as his image suggested it would: K'del, his sandwich, his papers, the whole room warmed against the evening chill by a high-burning fire. The young Weyrleader glances up as B'mel enters, and tips his head in that direction; "B'mel. Thank you for coming, hope I didn't interrupt anything. Take a seat? Need to talk to you; hope you can help me out with something." His gaze lingers on the older rider, thoughtful.
The brownrider takes in the chamber in one quick glance, attention focused more on the young Weyrleader. One could call it respect, but perhaps more the sort that's for the knot that the boy wears and not necessarily for the boy himself. He moves to take a seat when so invited with an amenable, "Of course, sir." He settles his large frame in the chair and crosses his ankle over his knee, comfortable.
The brownrider's ease seems to carry across to the bronzerider; K'del relaxes back into his seat, resting his forearms upon the table. "Need to talk to you about your son. B'tal. Don't-- assume you know, he's in the infirmary? Haven't been able to talk to him yet, properly, but there's some suggestion it was a bar brawl. Does he have a drinking problem? Do you know, B'mel? We're worried about him."
"I know," B'mel says and if there's any strain in the words, well, B'tal is his son. And he's in the infirmary after having been on the losing end of a brawl. "I regret to say that we aren't on the closest of terms, sir. Being how he is. He and his mother are closer." He considers the boy, then offers a small shake of his head, "I couldn't say. But I'd guess it wouldn't take much. He's never held his alcohol well."
K'del mouths, silently, 'being as he is', his brows raising into a question that doesn't get audibly voiced. There's a beat of a pause, however, and then, "I'm sorry, of course; know that, no matter whether you're close or not, must be hard. Still your son. Will have to talk to his mother, too." More musingly, he adds, "So you think that's likely. Just a drunken brawl. Understand, we've got to be sure: can't have weyrlings beaten up that badly without knowing why and how."
Silent questions are given silent answers, which is to say none. B'mel nods his head once and he even frowns in a way that wrinkles the lines in his forehead, strains the corners of his eyes. It's all very upsetting, after all. "Tamaris may be little help, sir. She sees no wrong." Here there's a note of annoyance but it's quickly replaced by his continued frown as he continues, "Likely, yes. I hear he's taken more interest in fighting since that green found him. I suppose he thought more of himself than he should have."
Despite the silent nature of his questions, K'del's lingering gaze on the brownrider seeks hints at answers: watching, watching, always watching. "Noted. Still, it is worth pursuing." Beat. "What do you mean... 'thinking more of himself'? You think being a dragonrider gave him an ego?" The young Weyrleader has not exactly /stiffened/, but nor does he look quite so relaxed; he's even frowning.
"Some would say being dragonriders gives us all egos," B'mel returns easily as he returns the Weyrleader's watchful gaze. "I'm sure you can remember the feeling, sir," he says and he even manages a smile here, putting a slight emphasis on the last word. It wasn't all that long ago for the boy.
Beat. Then, a rueful smile from K'del, who is clearly well aware of the implication there, and, indeed, the reality. "I take your point," he agrees, though his expression remains troubled. "Have you any idea what he might have been fighting about? It still strikes me as odd that he was hurt as badly as he was, and yet despite his training, we've yet to find who he was fighting with. It's just odd."
"He's a sensitive sort. If he was drinking, I'd imagine it could be about anything." B'mel's frown returns and his eyes narrow in thought before he refocuses and says, "Perhaps it was one of his 'lovers.'" The quotes are audible. "Or that bronze weyrling. That wouldn't surprise me." Then his voice catches a note of concern and fatherly feelings, "You will let me know if you find out, I hope? I would like to have a word with them myself."
There's the faintest shift in K'del's expression at those audible quotes, and what follows. "The bronze wey-- W'chek, you mean." He doesn't indicate why he's chosen W'chek over K'ndro, but then, perhaps he doesn't need to. "Of course, B'mel. Must feel awful. Promise, we do intend to get to the bottom of this." Another brief pause, and then, "Thanks for your time. Really do appreciate it."
There's an affirmative noise that he offers for the weyrling's name but he doesn't linger over it. "Thank you, sir. I would appreciate it." B'mel inclines his head respectfully, then rises, taking the last words as his dismissal. On his feet, he offers a crisp, long-practiced salute to the Weyrleader, then turns to go.
K'del's head tips into a confirmation of B'mel's words, but he himself says nothing more. Instead, he watches the brownrider go, visibly thoughtful, until he's alone again, and turns his head back down towards his work.
Location: Council Chambers
Synopsis: K'del talks to B'mel about what's happened with B'tal. B'mel is a smooth operator.
B'mel NPCed by B'tal
Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr
At the heart of this oblong cavern is its meeting table: a long hardwood oval with a mirror's dark shine, High Reaches' sigil picked out in lapis and onyx at its center. Twenty chairs surround it, each softened by an embroidered cushion that's just a little too stiff for complete comfort -- meetings need to be kept short, after all -- with the chair at the table's head, facing the ledge, being somewhat larger than the rest.
Interspersed between glowsconces upon the smooth walls, ancient tapestries depict the territories High Reaches protects in a particularly pastoral fashion, all fluffy clouds and fluffier llamas, or else fishing crafts sailing merrily out to sea. Among them is also a natural alcove, its several wooden shelves primarily stocking fine wines and liquors as well as the glasses to serve them, though the lower shelves also hold whatever hidework requires particularly frequent attention.
A narrow wooden door leads to the Records room, while the tunnel that extends to the weyrleaders' ledge is wide enough for three men to walk abreast, with just enough kink in it to block the wind.
Last night was when B'tal was brought in to the infirmary. It's evening again, now, and Cadejoth's tell-tale metallic chains reach out for Ulriyth. It's an invitation, not a command, a serious-but-not-ominous request; << We'd like to talk with yours about something important. Will he come? >> The image might be of the council chambers, but it's softened in the details: a fire at the hearth, a half-finished sandwhich sitting on the table, surrounded by papers.
When Cadejoth's chains clink against the somber stone of Ulriyth's mind, the brown focuses to give the bronze his full attention. His reply is deep and rumbling, << He will come. >> And B'mel does in due time, just a little more than enough for him to get there. "Sir," he says to announce himself rather than question whatever's important, then waits.
<< Thank you, >> says Cadejoth, sincerely, withdrawing from the brown with a shake of metal. Inside the council chamber, everything is much as his image suggested it would: K'del, his sandwich, his papers, the whole room warmed against the evening chill by a high-burning fire. The young Weyrleader glances up as B'mel enters, and tips his head in that direction; "B'mel. Thank you for coming, hope I didn't interrupt anything. Take a seat? Need to talk to you; hope you can help me out with something." His gaze lingers on the older rider, thoughtful.
The brownrider takes in the chamber in one quick glance, attention focused more on the young Weyrleader. One could call it respect, but perhaps more the sort that's for the knot that the boy wears and not necessarily for the boy himself. He moves to take a seat when so invited with an amenable, "Of course, sir." He settles his large frame in the chair and crosses his ankle over his knee, comfortable.
The brownrider's ease seems to carry across to the bronzerider; K'del relaxes back into his seat, resting his forearms upon the table. "Need to talk to you about your son. B'tal. Don't-- assume you know, he's in the infirmary? Haven't been able to talk to him yet, properly, but there's some suggestion it was a bar brawl. Does he have a drinking problem? Do you know, B'mel? We're worried about him."
"I know," B'mel says and if there's any strain in the words, well, B'tal is his son. And he's in the infirmary after having been on the losing end of a brawl. "I regret to say that we aren't on the closest of terms, sir. Being how he is. He and his mother are closer." He considers the boy, then offers a small shake of his head, "I couldn't say. But I'd guess it wouldn't take much. He's never held his alcohol well."
K'del mouths, silently, 'being as he is', his brows raising into a question that doesn't get audibly voiced. There's a beat of a pause, however, and then, "I'm sorry, of course; know that, no matter whether you're close or not, must be hard. Still your son. Will have to talk to his mother, too." More musingly, he adds, "So you think that's likely. Just a drunken brawl. Understand, we've got to be sure: can't have weyrlings beaten up that badly without knowing why and how."
Silent questions are given silent answers, which is to say none. B'mel nods his head once and he even frowns in a way that wrinkles the lines in his forehead, strains the corners of his eyes. It's all very upsetting, after all. "Tamaris may be little help, sir. She sees no wrong." Here there's a note of annoyance but it's quickly replaced by his continued frown as he continues, "Likely, yes. I hear he's taken more interest in fighting since that green found him. I suppose he thought more of himself than he should have."
Despite the silent nature of his questions, K'del's lingering gaze on the brownrider seeks hints at answers: watching, watching, always watching. "Noted. Still, it is worth pursuing." Beat. "What do you mean... 'thinking more of himself'? You think being a dragonrider gave him an ego?" The young Weyrleader has not exactly /stiffened/, but nor does he look quite so relaxed; he's even frowning.
"Some would say being dragonriders gives us all egos," B'mel returns easily as he returns the Weyrleader's watchful gaze. "I'm sure you can remember the feeling, sir," he says and he even manages a smile here, putting a slight emphasis on the last word. It wasn't all that long ago for the boy.
Beat. Then, a rueful smile from K'del, who is clearly well aware of the implication there, and, indeed, the reality. "I take your point," he agrees, though his expression remains troubled. "Have you any idea what he might have been fighting about? It still strikes me as odd that he was hurt as badly as he was, and yet despite his training, we've yet to find who he was fighting with. It's just odd."
"He's a sensitive sort. If he was drinking, I'd imagine it could be about anything." B'mel's frown returns and his eyes narrow in thought before he refocuses and says, "Perhaps it was one of his 'lovers.'" The quotes are audible. "Or that bronze weyrling. That wouldn't surprise me." Then his voice catches a note of concern and fatherly feelings, "You will let me know if you find out, I hope? I would like to have a word with them myself."
There's the faintest shift in K'del's expression at those audible quotes, and what follows. "The bronze wey-- W'chek, you mean." He doesn't indicate why he's chosen W'chek over K'ndro, but then, perhaps he doesn't need to. "Of course, B'mel. Must feel awful. Promise, we do intend to get to the bottom of this." Another brief pause, and then, "Thanks for your time. Really do appreciate it."
There's an affirmative noise that he offers for the weyrling's name but he doesn't linger over it. "Thank you, sir. I would appreciate it." B'mel inclines his head respectfully, then rises, taking the last words as his dismissal. On his feet, he offers a crisp, long-practiced salute to the Weyrleader, then turns to go.
K'del's head tips into a confirmation of B'mel's words, but he himself says nothing more. Instead, he watches the brownrider go, visibly thoughtful, until he's alone again, and turns his head back down towards his work.