R'vain and E'sere talk shop
Who: R'vain and E'sere
When: Day 18, month 2, turn 1 of the 7th Pass
Where: Lower Caverns
What: R'vain and E'sere meet by chance and discuss the Weyr's new political opportunities.
"Fine! Be that way." *Slam.* And then R'vain's swaggering down the hallway that some of the rooms inhabited by the Weyr's lesser staff branch off of, glowering at each door's plaquard as he stalks by. There is something distinctly swervy about that stalk, as if it requires all of the concentration he has to get one foot before the other and not tightrope-walk himself right into a wall. His face has gone a red that challenges the shade of his hair and his brow shines with sweat although the low passageways are cooled by drafts from the Weyr's exit tunnel. By the time he gets out into the main cavern's open spaces the Weyrlingmaster's had a little walk to mutter and curse about tarts and teases, and has presence of mind enough to start toward one of the few spartan chair-and-low-table arrangements for a good sulk.
Already seated there is E'sere, legs crossed neatly, tapping a pencil idly on a sheet of hide in his lap as he watches passers-by with a thoughtful expression. Every once in a while, during a lull in traffic, he'll add a few more letters to the hide, as though he's only been sitting there, thinking on what to write; but most of his attention is indeed focused on the people around him. R'vain in particular garners scrutiny, the weyrlingmaster's noisiness and bad humor a good excuse to pay him more mind. Hiding his dry smile behind the hide, he quirks a brow questioningly at the other bronzerider.
R'vain scowls briefly to find his desired slumping grounds already occupied, and quirks a brow right back, adding a lopsided and exaggerated-for-effect sneer to the expression for good measure. He juts forward his chin to emphasize a wordless 'how's it any of -your- business' act, and kicks the foot of a deeply upholstered chair before tossing himself carelessly into it. For a moment the Weyrlingmaster is silent and sullen, but as the blood drains from his face and leaves him a more normal hue, the tide of his mood seems to go out as well. So a smirk is offered and another lift of his chin, this one more of a 'so? so? see what I mean?' - which requires words to clarify, thus: "Women. They're all fat hags in th'end anyway, yuh?" Smirk.
"Mm-hmm," E'sere replies noncommittally as he turns back to his hide and etches a few more words onto its surface. For several moments he works in silence, steadily, until he finally comments without stopping, "Rather harsh, isn't that? Surely there's /some/ good ones out there?"
"You think?" R'vain snorts. This is not a pretty thing, and it requires him to fish out from the inside of his jacket a handkerchief, also not pretty, to wipe across his nose. He doesn't much trouble to actually blow his nose, however, and when the handkerchief goes back into the jacket his hand comes out with a flask in its stead. "Either fat ones or skinny ones, skin'n'bones. Doesn't matter. In th'dark they're all th'same." Uncapping the flask, he leans forward with one elbow on a knee to offer out his poison to, alas, his conversational companion, one red brow sliding high. "So what're yeh keeping notes on, sir?" There's a mild emphasis on 'sir' and a strange keenness in the eyes that have a little trouble staying focused, signs of sharpness lurking beneath the fog of gin mixed with more gin.
Disgust buried beneath a bland smile, E'sere gives an 'if you say so' shrug, inclining his head to R'vain. "Perhaps you're right," he agrees. "But what can we men do, but tolerate them?" He offers a dry smirk then, glancing down at his hide and shrugging a second time. "My work doesn't stop just because there's no one to tell me to do it," he finally replies, brows raised slightly. "Besides, I have to step up now--same as, well, you. And the rest of us, too."
"Oh, no." R'vain's wavering grin becomes wide and washed-out, revealing teeth in questionably good condition at this late point in a long bender. But the sharpness in his eyes only increases, and he leans ever more forward as though watching a fish toy with the bait on his line. This watching, he interrupts long enough for a tip of the flask to his mouth. Capping it, putting it back into his jacket, he lowly remarks, "Thing is, you don't have to step up. And me neither, maybe. But .someone. does. That's the interesting part."
"Someone has to," agrees E'sere evenly, buying time by adding another line to his hide. "Someone has to. But until someone does, I don't think we've much of a choice, now do we." Not a question. He finishes a word, then gives up that pretense of working; setting the hide and pencil aside, he leans back and regards R'vain. "The interesting part?"
"Well," R'vain begins his reply, buying time in his own unsubtle fashion. Or buying drama - he slumps back into his chair and pats his jacket breast, where beneath the flask must rest, confirming its safety. Or signalling a hand to his heart, perhaps. "As long as our Weyrleader," a title now dredged through a syrup of ironic malcontent, "can't name that someone, it'll come to the weyrwomen to do it. Unless we get in there ahead - the wingleaders, and I, and the others with a .real. stake in it - and take care of it. And were I you, sir, I'd see a benefit in swift action."
E'sere studies R'vain in silence, his face expressionless while he waits for the weyrlingmaster to get on with it. "Women," he echoes R'vain's earlier complaints with a smirk, adjusting his position again, this time leaning forward just a bit, his interest apparent. "The people with a real stake. So you recommend action, do you? What sort of action? Not planning your own little usurpation, are you?" He arches a brow, his mocking companionable.
R'vain is swift indeed - swift enough to lift a hand and wave off the very notion with a drunkard's flip of splayed fingers, fingers that do take a little while to refind someplace to rest - not on the jacket, there over his heart, that's repetitive. Nor on his thigh, jaunty and secure. They wind about the leather of the chair's arm instead, at last. "Ha," the Weyrlingmaster laughs, not a laugh at all. "No, hear me out. Think on it. Your mother - surely she favors you. She'd have you lead the flights. But she's not about to let go this Weyr, not as far as I can see." The fog in his swampy eyes recedes by shades as he speaks, reducing his slur and sharpening his focus - improved, perhaps, by that nip, a hair of the dog that bit him. "And do you think there's any chance in Faranth's cold grave between that she'd pair you to her as leader? You'd be a seated goose, ready to pluck. No, better for us both to make some other move."
E'sere's lips curve upward in a slow smile, self-mocking. "You place too much stock in my relationship with my mother," he replies after a moment. "She's smarter than to favor me like that." But, a shrug, and he adds an agreement: "You might have a point, though; I certainly wouldn't want to lead with my own mother. Do continue, weyrlingmaster. I'd like to hear what you propose."
"On the contrary. I think she'd be unwise to do anything else." The red-topped man slumps even deeper in his chair; at this point the posture is veering into 'slouch' by way of Trying to Be Invisible Street. "What we need to do is place someone who's ready to lead without your mother. Not immediately - I hold no ill will for the Weyrwoman." He's sober enough to affect a sympathetically appropriate downcasting of gaze upon these words, but not enough for the affectation to be anything but transparent. "Longer term. I don't promise to know who that man'll be, but I do figure it'll become clear when we have our heads all together." As green eyes raise once more, red brows sliding up above them, R'vain offers a thin, hungry smile. "You might admit, your position would be clearer if it was th'bronzeriders who proposed you take over. Down the line, that support would come back on you well."
Slowly, ever so slowly, as though the idea were just occurring, E'sere voices an opinion: "Yes, perhaps... Perhaps Mother would do well for a break, hmm? A rest. Of course, she'd still be able to offer her advice and assist, but. The full burden of this poor Weyr wouldn't be on her shoulders." Such admirable concern from a son. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, "And I of /course/ would be willing to do /anything/ to help my home get... back on its feet, so to speak."
"See, that's exactly th'kind of thing she needs t'hear." R'vain inches lower against the back of his chair, knees moving ever farther from the seat's edge as his posture becomes more and more that of a drunk man sleeping. But his attention seems keen enough. "She'd work herself to the bone if she was let to. Y'can't let a woman do that. It's not how they're made." The Weyrlingmaster, utterly comfortable now that he can slide back into what, for him, passes as casual conversation, makes no further effort to push the younger bronzerider on this point. Instead, an offering, with his hand flipped over palm-up to emphasize the casual friendliness of the invitation. "So maybe we'll see you in a few days, maybe you'll have a word or two t'say to us all?"
"Indeed," agrees E'sere with a nod and a wry smile. He leans back as well, taking up the hide again lazily. For the moment, he toys with his pencil and glances downard. "And maybe I will." Then, as though nothing had happened, been said, he starts another line.
When: Day 18, month 2, turn 1 of the 7th Pass
Where: Lower Caverns
What: R'vain and E'sere meet by chance and discuss the Weyr's new political opportunities.
"Fine! Be that way." *Slam.* And then R'vain's swaggering down the hallway that some of the rooms inhabited by the Weyr's lesser staff branch off of, glowering at each door's plaquard as he stalks by. There is something distinctly swervy about that stalk, as if it requires all of the concentration he has to get one foot before the other and not tightrope-walk himself right into a wall. His face has gone a red that challenges the shade of his hair and his brow shines with sweat although the low passageways are cooled by drafts from the Weyr's exit tunnel. By the time he gets out into the main cavern's open spaces the Weyrlingmaster's had a little walk to mutter and curse about tarts and teases, and has presence of mind enough to start toward one of the few spartan chair-and-low-table arrangements for a good sulk.
Already seated there is E'sere, legs crossed neatly, tapping a pencil idly on a sheet of hide in his lap as he watches passers-by with a thoughtful expression. Every once in a while, during a lull in traffic, he'll add a few more letters to the hide, as though he's only been sitting there, thinking on what to write; but most of his attention is indeed focused on the people around him. R'vain in particular garners scrutiny, the weyrlingmaster's noisiness and bad humor a good excuse to pay him more mind. Hiding his dry smile behind the hide, he quirks a brow questioningly at the other bronzerider.
R'vain scowls briefly to find his desired slumping grounds already occupied, and quirks a brow right back, adding a lopsided and exaggerated-for-effect sneer to the expression for good measure. He juts forward his chin to emphasize a wordless 'how's it any of -your- business' act, and kicks the foot of a deeply upholstered chair before tossing himself carelessly into it. For a moment the Weyrlingmaster is silent and sullen, but as the blood drains from his face and leaves him a more normal hue, the tide of his mood seems to go out as well. So a smirk is offered and another lift of his chin, this one more of a 'so? so? see what I mean?' - which requires words to clarify, thus: "Women. They're all fat hags in th'end anyway, yuh?" Smirk.
"Mm-hmm," E'sere replies noncommittally as he turns back to his hide and etches a few more words onto its surface. For several moments he works in silence, steadily, until he finally comments without stopping, "Rather harsh, isn't that? Surely there's /some/ good ones out there?"
"You think?" R'vain snorts. This is not a pretty thing, and it requires him to fish out from the inside of his jacket a handkerchief, also not pretty, to wipe across his nose. He doesn't much trouble to actually blow his nose, however, and when the handkerchief goes back into the jacket his hand comes out with a flask in its stead. "Either fat ones or skinny ones, skin'n'bones. Doesn't matter. In th'dark they're all th'same." Uncapping the flask, he leans forward with one elbow on a knee to offer out his poison to, alas, his conversational companion, one red brow sliding high. "So what're yeh keeping notes on, sir?" There's a mild emphasis on 'sir' and a strange keenness in the eyes that have a little trouble staying focused, signs of sharpness lurking beneath the fog of gin mixed with more gin.
Disgust buried beneath a bland smile, E'sere gives an 'if you say so' shrug, inclining his head to R'vain. "Perhaps you're right," he agrees. "But what can we men do, but tolerate them?" He offers a dry smirk then, glancing down at his hide and shrugging a second time. "My work doesn't stop just because there's no one to tell me to do it," he finally replies, brows raised slightly. "Besides, I have to step up now--same as, well, you. And the rest of us, too."
"Oh, no." R'vain's wavering grin becomes wide and washed-out, revealing teeth in questionably good condition at this late point in a long bender. But the sharpness in his eyes only increases, and he leans ever more forward as though watching a fish toy with the bait on his line. This watching, he interrupts long enough for a tip of the flask to his mouth. Capping it, putting it back into his jacket, he lowly remarks, "Thing is, you don't have to step up. And me neither, maybe. But .someone. does. That's the interesting part."
"Someone has to," agrees E'sere evenly, buying time by adding another line to his hide. "Someone has to. But until someone does, I don't think we've much of a choice, now do we." Not a question. He finishes a word, then gives up that pretense of working; setting the hide and pencil aside, he leans back and regards R'vain. "The interesting part?"
"Well," R'vain begins his reply, buying time in his own unsubtle fashion. Or buying drama - he slumps back into his chair and pats his jacket breast, where beneath the flask must rest, confirming its safety. Or signalling a hand to his heart, perhaps. "As long as our Weyrleader," a title now dredged through a syrup of ironic malcontent, "can't name that someone, it'll come to the weyrwomen to do it. Unless we get in there ahead - the wingleaders, and I, and the others with a .real. stake in it - and take care of it. And were I you, sir, I'd see a benefit in swift action."
E'sere studies R'vain in silence, his face expressionless while he waits for the weyrlingmaster to get on with it. "Women," he echoes R'vain's earlier complaints with a smirk, adjusting his position again, this time leaning forward just a bit, his interest apparent. "The people with a real stake. So you recommend action, do you? What sort of action? Not planning your own little usurpation, are you?" He arches a brow, his mocking companionable.
R'vain is swift indeed - swift enough to lift a hand and wave off the very notion with a drunkard's flip of splayed fingers, fingers that do take a little while to refind someplace to rest - not on the jacket, there over his heart, that's repetitive. Nor on his thigh, jaunty and secure. They wind about the leather of the chair's arm instead, at last. "Ha," the Weyrlingmaster laughs, not a laugh at all. "No, hear me out. Think on it. Your mother - surely she favors you. She'd have you lead the flights. But she's not about to let go this Weyr, not as far as I can see." The fog in his swampy eyes recedes by shades as he speaks, reducing his slur and sharpening his focus - improved, perhaps, by that nip, a hair of the dog that bit him. "And do you think there's any chance in Faranth's cold grave between that she'd pair you to her as leader? You'd be a seated goose, ready to pluck. No, better for us both to make some other move."
E'sere's lips curve upward in a slow smile, self-mocking. "You place too much stock in my relationship with my mother," he replies after a moment. "She's smarter than to favor me like that." But, a shrug, and he adds an agreement: "You might have a point, though; I certainly wouldn't want to lead with my own mother. Do continue, weyrlingmaster. I'd like to hear what you propose."
"On the contrary. I think she'd be unwise to do anything else." The red-topped man slumps even deeper in his chair; at this point the posture is veering into 'slouch' by way of Trying to Be Invisible Street. "What we need to do is place someone who's ready to lead without your mother. Not immediately - I hold no ill will for the Weyrwoman." He's sober enough to affect a sympathetically appropriate downcasting of gaze upon these words, but not enough for the affectation to be anything but transparent. "Longer term. I don't promise to know who that man'll be, but I do figure it'll become clear when we have our heads all together." As green eyes raise once more, red brows sliding up above them, R'vain offers a thin, hungry smile. "You might admit, your position would be clearer if it was th'bronzeriders who proposed you take over. Down the line, that support would come back on you well."
Slowly, ever so slowly, as though the idea were just occurring, E'sere voices an opinion: "Yes, perhaps... Perhaps Mother would do well for a break, hmm? A rest. Of course, she'd still be able to offer her advice and assist, but. The full burden of this poor Weyr wouldn't be on her shoulders." Such admirable concern from a son. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, "And I of /course/ would be willing to do /anything/ to help my home get... back on its feet, so to speak."
"See, that's exactly th'kind of thing she needs t'hear." R'vain inches lower against the back of his chair, knees moving ever farther from the seat's edge as his posture becomes more and more that of a drunk man sleeping. But his attention seems keen enough. "She'd work herself to the bone if she was let to. Y'can't let a woman do that. It's not how they're made." The Weyrlingmaster, utterly comfortable now that he can slide back into what, for him, passes as casual conversation, makes no further effort to push the younger bronzerider on this point. Instead, an offering, with his hand flipped over palm-up to emphasize the casual friendliness of the invitation. "So maybe we'll see you in a few days, maybe you'll have a word or two t'say to us all?"
"Indeed," agrees E'sere with a nod and a wry smile. He leans back as well, taking up the hide again lazily. For the moment, he toys with his pencil and glances downard. "And maybe I will." Then, as though nothing had happened, been said, he starts another line.