"You do something about Mother..."
Who: R'vain and E'sere
When: Day 27, Month 2, Turn 1 of the Seventh Pass
Where: R'vain's ledge and weyr
What: After Ch'dais is named leader of the fighting wings, a wingleader and the weyrlingmaster reconvene to discuss.
Ruvoth's Ledge(#374Rh)
This narrow ledge is longer than it is wide, fanning out on either side of the entrance into the weyr. The stone has been deeply scored by the passage of countless dragons over the turns. Its location is optimal; natural outcroppings of the bowl wall keep the wind from raking the ledge's surface and the sun reaches the rock to heat it for most of the day.
It's a clear winter day and though the sun is clear and bright in a pale blue sky, it's still cold enough that breath will fog in the air. When the wind kicks up, it's icy and mean, nipping at any exposed skin.
Weyr Sky
Ruvoth> To Morelenth: << Mine claims to be right. >> Ruvoth's entrances are as subtle and cautious as ever - an abrupt awareness, sharpened by the pike of dragon-speech, loosely cloaked in his rider's language. << To have been correct. Will yours meet him? >>
Ruvoth> Morelenth's mindtouch is light initially, then firmer, congealing into a more solid form as he brings it to bear on this intrusion. << Mine will, >> he answers after a moment of conference. << Where? >>
Ruvoth> To Morelenth: Ruvoth rumbles a long, rolling, thundercloud thought of an answer. << Here. >> And though the Weyrlingmaster's bronze does not at the moment reside there, he turns his head upward from his 'sunning-spot' in the sunless bowl to regard his ledge above, a dizzying perspective shared for the other dragon's perusal.
Ruvoth> Morelenth accepts that image into his consciousness, turning it over in his mind as he pins down the ledge's location. << We are coming, >> he answers then.
Morelenth lands.
Morelenth has arrived.
E'sere climbs down from Morelenth's neck.
E'sere has arrived.
Ruvoth is not here. And it's immediately apparent that there's good reason. Apparently R'vain has dragged out a chair to enjoy the wind and snow from, out here on the exposed ledge. Except this chair is turned over wrong-side-up, with a heavy wool blanket draped over the legs to ward off snow and wind, with a small drift piling up on one side and bare ledge on the other. There's other debris here too - broken bottles, a broken vase, and sign of various human doings in distasteful fashion among the lumps and hills of snow. The path that leads inside is clean enough, at least, and the drape's drawn back. From within, despite Faranth's forbidding, comes singing - raw, tuneless, loud - with lyrics that loop in on themselves and occasionally halt while the singer remembers what comes next, or forgets and makes up some filler about Moreta's skirts flying up in the wind.
With evident distaste, Morelenth soars across from his ledge to land on Ruvoth's filthy one; E'sere actually grimaces as he slides to the stone floor from his bronze's neck. "Well. Nice of him to pick the place up for us," he remarks at length to Morelenth, smirking humorlessly as he starts picking his way carefully through the mess toward the entrance to the weyr, veering around the debris. "Weyrlingmaster?" he calls loudly over the sound of drunken singing. "Weyrlingmaster!"
The singing stops, mid-verse. Then it picks up, much more softly, just enough to finish off that phrase, and R'vain appears in the entryway. "E'sere! Took you long 'nuff t'get on up," the colorful man observes; apparently he expected Morelenth would -between- from one ledge to the other. "I got this great shiz, shir, shizzer from out of Benden, come on in and have a glass and we'll talk, man to man, you know, like old times," not that there were any, weyrlinghood discounted, "and you tell me what you think about what you hear down there!" He jerks sloppy fingers in a lazy point toward the broad, wide ledges below which offer entry to the Weyrleader's and weyrwomens' weyrs. Red brows waggle up and down unpredictably, and the Weyrlingmaster about-faces to lead the way into his lair.
E'sere's answer to R'vain is a brief nod, as he follows after the weyrlingmaster instead. "Benden. It sounds delightful," he observes after a moment. While he focuses on the other man, Morelenth tilts his head to eye those ledges on behalf of his rider; he snorts at last, and E'sere notes ruefully, "I don't hear as much as I'd like, these days. Only the official line."
"Oh, it's great. I've had, I dunno, a couple of it already." R'vain probably means bottles or skins, not glasses. But within, he pours a glass for his guest - it is a deep red, probably the 'shiraz' which escapes his sloggy tongue - with the precision of someone who pours things a lot, and turns to offer it out. "Well, th'official line's good 'nuff news for me. It's what comes outta down there. You seen the lug? I guess -he's- her choice now. You were right, man." The Weyrlingmaster strikes a pose, weaving a bit into having his empty hand on one hip, back foot sideways and forward outthrust. It works well with the interior decor - a blend of modern dragonrider, Blooded bachelor, and womanizing rout. "Yer relationship ain't as close as I thought."
E'sere reaches to accept the glass, sipping at it slowly as he skims his eyes around the weyr appraisingly. "Mm. I did try to tell you," he agrees. "Mother's more subtle than to do something so obvious. But. But she does favor her own, when she can." He pauses, takes another drink of the wine. "How long do you think he'll last?" E'sere finally inquires thoughtfully. "He's younger than I am."
"You did," sighs R'vain, wiping his hand on his shirt once the glass is out of it, although no wine was spilt. He turns and heads back to the bottle, but some niggling thought in the back of his head distracts him (!) and he turns about to respy his guest, then cant his head in a jerk toward a low-made couch more consisting of cushions than of wood. "Sit," he offers like telling a weyrling to salute. "Ain't about how he'll last. It's about whether he'll figure in the next senior to rise." The Weyrlingmaster rakes the wiped hand through his bright-hued hair and stalks off to the entry, checking outside for spies or maybe deliveries of free ale, only to find Morelenth. "What's your next move goin' to be?"
Agreeably, E'sere settles onto the couch, sinking into the cushions and shifting to get comfortable. His free hand splays across its back while he continues to sip slowly at the wine. He mulls the question a moment before speaking. "The next senior." Silent then, for several more seconds, he continues, "The same as it's always been, I suppose. Bide my time for the right moment. And you? I hope you didn't plan your meeting like that?"
R'vain turns from the entryway while E'sere talks, stalking back toward the wine, his intention to pour another glass plainly recovered. He's got the bottle in his hand by the time the other bronzerider comments upon the meeting, and a splash of wine goes flailing in a red, liquid arc from the bottle's mouth as the Weyrlingmaster suddenly whirls, gesticulating madly with the precious stuff from Benden. "Your mother," he retorts, needing no curse to make the words damnation. Sharp green eyes narrow, their clarity precarious. "That's the thing, lad. She'll have us half following one man and half another, then turn us all inside out when her queen goes up - or when she decides she's done with it, take your pick. Is this the time for that madness?" The drunkard snorts, finally swipes up the glass and pours. "You say she's subtle. She wouldn't do something obvious. What game is she playing, then, not to put you in - where you've a chance of staying?"
"I don't have a chance of staying," remarks E'sere, not in the least perturbed or anything more than coolly relaxed, "while she remains Weyrwoman. Don't waste our Benden." He sounds like he's chastizing a child, and he takes a certain proprietary air toward the wine as well. "My mother plays her own games, as the rest of us do. I can only guess at her own goals, but I do know this: there's no predicting a flight. Anything could happen between during one--or before." Smugly, he takes a great amount of interest in the wine remaining in his glass, apparently ignoring R'vain for the moment. Then: "Why should it matter to you? If she favors me so. Wouldn't it be better for her to favor /you/? But then, G'thon was the one that relegated you to weyrlingmaster, and I don't suppose Mother would undo that herself."
"It matters," R'vain snips, putting down the bottle without troubling to offer a refill to his guest, "because someone like -you- might spare me any more turns of the indignity." He tosses back half of the glass in a full-mouthed swallow, head tipping to accomodate the drink, and sways a few steps backwards to catch himself as his center of balance goes awry as a result. "Neither of them will, and Ch'dais is just a dog. Loyal and stupid to the point of a pat on the head." The Weyrlingmaster conveys no disgust with this description - it's simple fact. Perhaps he does not dislike dogs. "Dammit, E'sere, you'd be able to -do- something there. Don't tell me you don't want it."
"I won't lie to you," concedes E'sere with a nod of his head. He eyes the liquid remaining in his glass and swirls it idly. "But my hands are tied right now, as I've told you. You do something about Mother, and I'll do my part." He turns the comment into a joke with a grin and a laugh, neither particularly humorous. Seriously, he adds, "I only want the best for the Weyr, and our queens--their flights and clutches--are our lives. It's... unfortunate, I suppose, that Citalth is already on the sands." He shrugs, not sounding too troubled by that fact.
R'vain is about to take another long swallow from the glass, or was, when something the other man's said seems to catch him up short. The bright green eyes narrow further, the wine lowered just slightly from his lips, and for a time it seems the Weyrlingmaster's simply breathing of the red's aroma. "So they are," he murmurs thinly. "So they are. And it is, indeed. Sinopa's the perfect Weyrwoman, assuming her queen would give us the perfect Weyrleader." Narrowly, slowly, the man begins to smile, teeth showing by tiny, growing increments. He lifts the glass, a solo toast. "Very well, then, E'sere. You bide your time. We rougher sorts, we'll carry the beams until then, eh? And willingly." The green glitters now. "Can I get you a bottle of this to take with you? I've got some of a case left around here somewhere."
E'sere watches R'vain's reaction to his words with his own broadening smirk. "Very well," he agrees, getting to his feet slowly. He sets the empty glass down where he can and turns to the weyrlingmaster. "Please? I'd appreciate it quite a bit," remarks the man. "The bottle, that is. I don't see nearly enough Benden, a unfortunate side effect of relations at Tillek. I think they'd have me be a traitor for daring to think less of their wine."
"It's amazing what people will consider treason," replies R'vain in a drunkard's merriment, tipping up his glass to at last finish its portions so he can set it aside, the better to go searching through one crate and another to find the rest of the Benden. Apparently much of what is disguised as low-end furniture here, covered in cushions and blankets and discarded clothing, is actually empty or half-empty crates from around Pern, all containing drink of this or that nature. Among them he finally finds the one he wants and pulls out two bottles, one in either hand, swung about by the necks to present the other bronzerider. "My gift, then," he grins. "For your time and patience, Wingleader. We'll meet again soon."
E'sere's brows arch in surprise at the revelation of the wine-crate furniture, and in bemusement he shakes his head. "Thank you, weyrlingmaster," he replies as he accepts the bottle and tucks it under one arm. "I've enjoyed the conversation, and I'm looking forward to it." He inclines his head to the other bronzerider, then turns, striding outside to the waiting Morelenth.
When: Day 27, Month 2, Turn 1 of the Seventh Pass
Where: R'vain's ledge and weyr
What: After Ch'dais is named leader of the fighting wings, a wingleader and the weyrlingmaster reconvene to discuss.
Ruvoth's Ledge(#374Rh)
This narrow ledge is longer than it is wide, fanning out on either side of the entrance into the weyr. The stone has been deeply scored by the passage of countless dragons over the turns. Its location is optimal; natural outcroppings of the bowl wall keep the wind from raking the ledge's surface and the sun reaches the rock to heat it for most of the day.
It's a clear winter day and though the sun is clear and bright in a pale blue sky, it's still cold enough that breath will fog in the air. When the wind kicks up, it's icy and mean, nipping at any exposed skin.
Weyr Sky
Ruvoth> To Morelenth: << Mine claims to be right. >> Ruvoth's entrances are as subtle and cautious as ever - an abrupt awareness, sharpened by the pike of dragon-speech, loosely cloaked in his rider's language. << To have been correct. Will yours meet him? >>
Ruvoth> Morelenth's mindtouch is light initially, then firmer, congealing into a more solid form as he brings it to bear on this intrusion. << Mine will, >> he answers after a moment of conference. << Where? >>
Ruvoth> To Morelenth: Ruvoth rumbles a long, rolling, thundercloud thought of an answer. << Here. >> And though the Weyrlingmaster's bronze does not at the moment reside there, he turns his head upward from his 'sunning-spot' in the sunless bowl to regard his ledge above, a dizzying perspective shared for the other dragon's perusal.
Ruvoth> Morelenth accepts that image into his consciousness, turning it over in his mind as he pins down the ledge's location. << We are coming, >> he answers then.
Morelenth lands.
Morelenth has arrived.
E'sere climbs down from Morelenth's neck.
E'sere has arrived.
Ruvoth is not here. And it's immediately apparent that there's good reason. Apparently R'vain has dragged out a chair to enjoy the wind and snow from, out here on the exposed ledge. Except this chair is turned over wrong-side-up, with a heavy wool blanket draped over the legs to ward off snow and wind, with a small drift piling up on one side and bare ledge on the other. There's other debris here too - broken bottles, a broken vase, and sign of various human doings in distasteful fashion among the lumps and hills of snow. The path that leads inside is clean enough, at least, and the drape's drawn back. From within, despite Faranth's forbidding, comes singing - raw, tuneless, loud - with lyrics that loop in on themselves and occasionally halt while the singer remembers what comes next, or forgets and makes up some filler about Moreta's skirts flying up in the wind.
With evident distaste, Morelenth soars across from his ledge to land on Ruvoth's filthy one; E'sere actually grimaces as he slides to the stone floor from his bronze's neck. "Well. Nice of him to pick the place up for us," he remarks at length to Morelenth, smirking humorlessly as he starts picking his way carefully through the mess toward the entrance to the weyr, veering around the debris. "Weyrlingmaster?" he calls loudly over the sound of drunken singing. "Weyrlingmaster!"
The singing stops, mid-verse. Then it picks up, much more softly, just enough to finish off that phrase, and R'vain appears in the entryway. "E'sere! Took you long 'nuff t'get on up," the colorful man observes; apparently he expected Morelenth would -between- from one ledge to the other. "I got this great shiz, shir, shizzer from out of Benden, come on in and have a glass and we'll talk, man to man, you know, like old times," not that there were any, weyrlinghood discounted, "and you tell me what you think about what you hear down there!" He jerks sloppy fingers in a lazy point toward the broad, wide ledges below which offer entry to the Weyrleader's and weyrwomens' weyrs. Red brows waggle up and down unpredictably, and the Weyrlingmaster about-faces to lead the way into his lair.
E'sere's answer to R'vain is a brief nod, as he follows after the weyrlingmaster instead. "Benden. It sounds delightful," he observes after a moment. While he focuses on the other man, Morelenth tilts his head to eye those ledges on behalf of his rider; he snorts at last, and E'sere notes ruefully, "I don't hear as much as I'd like, these days. Only the official line."
"Oh, it's great. I've had, I dunno, a couple of it already." R'vain probably means bottles or skins, not glasses. But within, he pours a glass for his guest - it is a deep red, probably the 'shiraz' which escapes his sloggy tongue - with the precision of someone who pours things a lot, and turns to offer it out. "Well, th'official line's good 'nuff news for me. It's what comes outta down there. You seen the lug? I guess -he's- her choice now. You were right, man." The Weyrlingmaster strikes a pose, weaving a bit into having his empty hand on one hip, back foot sideways and forward outthrust. It works well with the interior decor - a blend of modern dragonrider, Blooded bachelor, and womanizing rout. "Yer relationship ain't as close as I thought."
E'sere reaches to accept the glass, sipping at it slowly as he skims his eyes around the weyr appraisingly. "Mm. I did try to tell you," he agrees. "Mother's more subtle than to do something so obvious. But. But she does favor her own, when she can." He pauses, takes another drink of the wine. "How long do you think he'll last?" E'sere finally inquires thoughtfully. "He's younger than I am."
"You did," sighs R'vain, wiping his hand on his shirt once the glass is out of it, although no wine was spilt. He turns and heads back to the bottle, but some niggling thought in the back of his head distracts him (!) and he turns about to respy his guest, then cant his head in a jerk toward a low-made couch more consisting of cushions than of wood. "Sit," he offers like telling a weyrling to salute. "Ain't about how he'll last. It's about whether he'll figure in the next senior to rise." The Weyrlingmaster rakes the wiped hand through his bright-hued hair and stalks off to the entry, checking outside for spies or maybe deliveries of free ale, only to find Morelenth. "What's your next move goin' to be?"
Agreeably, E'sere settles onto the couch, sinking into the cushions and shifting to get comfortable. His free hand splays across its back while he continues to sip slowly at the wine. He mulls the question a moment before speaking. "The next senior." Silent then, for several more seconds, he continues, "The same as it's always been, I suppose. Bide my time for the right moment. And you? I hope you didn't plan your meeting like that?"
R'vain turns from the entryway while E'sere talks, stalking back toward the wine, his intention to pour another glass plainly recovered. He's got the bottle in his hand by the time the other bronzerider comments upon the meeting, and a splash of wine goes flailing in a red, liquid arc from the bottle's mouth as the Weyrlingmaster suddenly whirls, gesticulating madly with the precious stuff from Benden. "Your mother," he retorts, needing no curse to make the words damnation. Sharp green eyes narrow, their clarity precarious. "That's the thing, lad. She'll have us half following one man and half another, then turn us all inside out when her queen goes up - or when she decides she's done with it, take your pick. Is this the time for that madness?" The drunkard snorts, finally swipes up the glass and pours. "You say she's subtle. She wouldn't do something obvious. What game is she playing, then, not to put you in - where you've a chance of staying?"
"I don't have a chance of staying," remarks E'sere, not in the least perturbed or anything more than coolly relaxed, "while she remains Weyrwoman. Don't waste our Benden." He sounds like he's chastizing a child, and he takes a certain proprietary air toward the wine as well. "My mother plays her own games, as the rest of us do. I can only guess at her own goals, but I do know this: there's no predicting a flight. Anything could happen between during one--or before." Smugly, he takes a great amount of interest in the wine remaining in his glass, apparently ignoring R'vain for the moment. Then: "Why should it matter to you? If she favors me so. Wouldn't it be better for her to favor /you/? But then, G'thon was the one that relegated you to weyrlingmaster, and I don't suppose Mother would undo that herself."
"It matters," R'vain snips, putting down the bottle without troubling to offer a refill to his guest, "because someone like -you- might spare me any more turns of the indignity." He tosses back half of the glass in a full-mouthed swallow, head tipping to accomodate the drink, and sways a few steps backwards to catch himself as his center of balance goes awry as a result. "Neither of them will, and Ch'dais is just a dog. Loyal and stupid to the point of a pat on the head." The Weyrlingmaster conveys no disgust with this description - it's simple fact. Perhaps he does not dislike dogs. "Dammit, E'sere, you'd be able to -do- something there. Don't tell me you don't want it."
"I won't lie to you," concedes E'sere with a nod of his head. He eyes the liquid remaining in his glass and swirls it idly. "But my hands are tied right now, as I've told you. You do something about Mother, and I'll do my part." He turns the comment into a joke with a grin and a laugh, neither particularly humorous. Seriously, he adds, "I only want the best for the Weyr, and our queens--their flights and clutches--are our lives. It's... unfortunate, I suppose, that Citalth is already on the sands." He shrugs, not sounding too troubled by that fact.
R'vain is about to take another long swallow from the glass, or was, when something the other man's said seems to catch him up short. The bright green eyes narrow further, the wine lowered just slightly from his lips, and for a time it seems the Weyrlingmaster's simply breathing of the red's aroma. "So they are," he murmurs thinly. "So they are. And it is, indeed. Sinopa's the perfect Weyrwoman, assuming her queen would give us the perfect Weyrleader." Narrowly, slowly, the man begins to smile, teeth showing by tiny, growing increments. He lifts the glass, a solo toast. "Very well, then, E'sere. You bide your time. We rougher sorts, we'll carry the beams until then, eh? And willingly." The green glitters now. "Can I get you a bottle of this to take with you? I've got some of a case left around here somewhere."
E'sere watches R'vain's reaction to his words with his own broadening smirk. "Very well," he agrees, getting to his feet slowly. He sets the empty glass down where he can and turns to the weyrlingmaster. "Please? I'd appreciate it quite a bit," remarks the man. "The bottle, that is. I don't see nearly enough Benden, a unfortunate side effect of relations at Tillek. I think they'd have me be a traitor for daring to think less of their wine."
"It's amazing what people will consider treason," replies R'vain in a drunkard's merriment, tipping up his glass to at last finish its portions so he can set it aside, the better to go searching through one crate and another to find the rest of the Benden. Apparently much of what is disguised as low-end furniture here, covered in cushions and blankets and discarded clothing, is actually empty or half-empty crates from around Pern, all containing drink of this or that nature. Among them he finally finds the one he wants and pulls out two bottles, one in either hand, swung about by the necks to present the other bronzerider. "My gift, then," he grins. "For your time and patience, Wingleader. We'll meet again soon."
E'sere's brows arch in surprise at the revelation of the wine-crate furniture, and in bemusement he shakes his head. "Thank you, weyrlingmaster," he replies as he accepts the bottle and tucks it under one arm. "I've enjoyed the conversation, and I'm looking forward to it." He inclines his head to the other bronzerider, then turns, striding outside to the waiting Morelenth.