Welcome to Caucus
Shall we say... interesting?
It has been a busy night at High Reaches Weyr. A goldflight, a new Senior Weyrwoman. History-making events. Sefton has been in the thick of it, of course. And now, the hour very late indeed, he is in his quarters. The door is open, allowing a glimpse into an untidy space, and the headmaster stands with his back to the door, busy peeling off a large, rider-style jacket.
Medina approaches the Headmaster's room. Despite the late hour, she is dressed as if she pressed her clothes five minutes ago. Her hair is tidy, her movements neat. Her face is the well practiced, polite mask, only her eye movements betraying her, flicking to one side and another. The door is partly open, she can see a large bed, but little else, without actually looking like she's spying. She knocks, the rap harder than she intended, moving the door slightly.
The man within finishes pulling his jacket off, the lazy drawl of Boll ringing out. "Come, then." Sefton's usual greeting, offered as he tosses his jacket towards the bed, where it falls in a heap. He's running one hand through his hair as he turns, raking his curls back from his face, to inspect his visitor.
Medina pushes the door open wider. Her movement is arrested as she sees, for the first time, her new headmaster. Her brown eyes widen perceptibly, her mouth starts to form words, "Y--" escapes before the rest of the sentence is choked back. She stands in the doorway, as if held there by force.
Sefton's movement, in turn, is arrested by Medina's sudden halt. He pauses, then completes the term -- and here it comes, the smile that all his Blood produce on demand. White teeth gleam against his olive skin as he observes Medina, and amusement threads through his lazy drawl as he speaks again, with every sign of pleasure. "What is this? My spitfire come to see me? I thought you had forgotten me turns ago."
Bright red spots come to Medina's cheeks. She tosses her head back, like she used to in Boll, when her hair was short and forever getting in her way. Her eyes meet the Headmaster's, then she visibly checks herself. Her eyes drop, to rest somewhere just below his chin. "Headmaster. You requested my presence." The red spots remain on her cheeks.
"Yes, yes I did." Sefton is enormously amused, let there be no mistake; his grin speaks of it, the laughter in his drawl. "Or rather, my newest student. And they sent me you, spitfire. How very thoughtful of them. Some intelligent conversation, at last. Come, sit." One hand waves at the couch, covered in clothing. He turns, lifting a couple of shirts to toss them onto the bed, remedying this problem. "Let me fetch you a drink."
Medina eyes the lounge, then sits cautiously, lowering herself onto the couch without taking her eyes off Sefton. She pauses, looks down to see her fingers twisting in her lap, quiets them deliberately. Looks up, catches Sefton's eye, looks away quickly. Looks around the room instead. Her eyes rest a second longer than is strictly needed upon his bookshelves, and again, on his large bed. "A drink?" She echoes? "I... ah... Thank you."
"You are most welcome," Sefton murmurs, crossing to the bookshelves to pluck down a bottle -- his other hand snags a pair of glasses, and as he speaks, the sound of liquid glugging from the bottle provides a background. "A long way from Boll, Medina, for both of us." He does, then, remember her name. "And now you are a student?"
"Yes, I..." She answers, then falters. "The Master Healers at the Hall sent me up." Her eyes stray back to the bookshelf behind Sefton. She makes as if to ask a question, then visibly chokes back words. It comes out as a small, voiced cough.
"So they did," Sefton agrees, turning with a drink in each hand; his usual fare, and a reminder of Boll -- rich, mellow, scented with citrus, deathly strong. A few steps bring him across the rug to offer her a glass. "I shall not complain. We have had an eventful day here, my spitfire. Have you heard?"
Medina accepts her glass, relaxing a little now her fingers have something to do. She stares into the wine, to avoid looking up at Sefton as he stands above her. "I... didn't hear." Her shoulders straighten a little. "The Weyr seemed... pre-occupied, though. What happened?" She looks up then, meeting Sefton's eyes for more than a second, for the first time that night.
And Sefton is ready, watching her, amusement broadening his grin. Very little change in his features -- a little more tired than she has seen him before, perhaps. "We have a new Senior Weyrwoman. Yevide, from Igen. Transferred in just an hour before her queen rose. Let us have a politics lesson, spitfire. High Reaches have been waiting for one of their own queens to rise for months, now, to claim this knot. And now they have Yevide, with an Igenite Weyrleader to boot. Tell me what this will mean."
Medina's brow furrows a little. It is less than it would've furrowed two years ago, but things change. She stares down into her wine-glass again. Seems to notice it for what it is, and takes a sip. "This woman..." She begins slowly, still staring into her glass. "She has no friends, no faction. Even people she knows well will have misgivings about her. The junior weyrwomen... Well, anyone with ambition will hate her." She stops, but does not look up. She gently swirls the wine in the glass, her eyes following the movement.
And now? Sefton laughs, tipping his head back to indulge in the moment. One hand goes out to ruffle at her hair, disrupting the carefully contrived smoothness there, and he's grinning still as he steps back to take a swig from his own glass. "Spitfire, at the end of a long day, I'm glad to have you here. Good girl. Some of my students aren't yet that far, and I've had them a turn or more."
Medina pulls back from the contact with Sefton, disrupting the smooth rhythm of the glass, and spilling some on her lap. She jumps to that, too, and comes dangerously close to spilling it again. Carefully she puts the glass down, then runs her hands over her head, trying to smooth the errant strands in place. The job done, her fingers twist in her lap a moment before she picks the glass up again. She takes a larger mouthful, as if trying to lower the volume to a safer level. "Do you teach here, as well?" She asks. She starts, then adds "Sir."
Sefton watches all of this with a twist of a smile -- not entirely kind, certainly not unamused. His own gesture is an echo, fingers raking through curls that promptly tumble straight back down into his eyes. "I teach here as well," he confirms in his lazy drawl, backing up to lean back against his cluttered desk. "Politics class. So we shall continue our discussions, and perhaps you will set my students a good example." A moment's silence, then, a sidelong glance cocked at her, contemplative. "Some students, I tutor. Some students I see an hour or so each sevenday. A little extra time." Not an offer, not a question. A statement.
Medina looks up, confusion written clear on her face. She schools it back to politeness. "I look forward to your lessons. I doubt, though, that I will be such an example." A yawn catches her, but she stifles it quickly. It is late at night, this morning she had woken at a hold half a day's ride from the Weyr.
More contemplative silence from Sefton, and then a quiet smile. "Go to bed, spitfire. Come back after dinner in two days, please, and we'll get started. If you ask somebody to show you where the office is in the morning, some of my assistants will sort you out a timetable." A long swallow from his glass, and it's set down on the desk between two piles of hides. "Ask one of the girls to show you the barracks. They'll all be asleep in there, now."
Silently, Medina rises. She carefully puts the wineglass down, half-finished, and turns for the door. Reaching it, she looks briefly back at Sefton. Her face is polite again, giving away nothing. She walks softly out of the room, and down the corridor.
He's silent for a few moments after she's gone, watching the door -- and then, with a broad grin, he pushes away from the desk, striding over to push the door closed. Sleeping alone, tonight.
It has been a busy night at High Reaches Weyr. A goldflight, a new Senior Weyrwoman. History-making events. Sefton has been in the thick of it, of course. And now, the hour very late indeed, he is in his quarters. The door is open, allowing a glimpse into an untidy space, and the headmaster stands with his back to the door, busy peeling off a large, rider-style jacket.
Medina approaches the Headmaster's room. Despite the late hour, she is dressed as if she pressed her clothes five minutes ago. Her hair is tidy, her movements neat. Her face is the well practiced, polite mask, only her eye movements betraying her, flicking to one side and another. The door is partly open, she can see a large bed, but little else, without actually looking like she's spying. She knocks, the rap harder than she intended, moving the door slightly.
The man within finishes pulling his jacket off, the lazy drawl of Boll ringing out. "Come, then." Sefton's usual greeting, offered as he tosses his jacket towards the bed, where it falls in a heap. He's running one hand through his hair as he turns, raking his curls back from his face, to inspect his visitor.
Medina pushes the door open wider. Her movement is arrested as she sees, for the first time, her new headmaster. Her brown eyes widen perceptibly, her mouth starts to form words, "Y--" escapes before the rest of the sentence is choked back. She stands in the doorway, as if held there by force.
Sefton's movement, in turn, is arrested by Medina's sudden halt. He pauses, then completes the term -- and here it comes, the smile that all his Blood produce on demand. White teeth gleam against his olive skin as he observes Medina, and amusement threads through his lazy drawl as he speaks again, with every sign of pleasure. "What is this? My spitfire come to see me? I thought you had forgotten me turns ago."
Bright red spots come to Medina's cheeks. She tosses her head back, like she used to in Boll, when her hair was short and forever getting in her way. Her eyes meet the Headmaster's, then she visibly checks herself. Her eyes drop, to rest somewhere just below his chin. "Headmaster. You requested my presence." The red spots remain on her cheeks.
"Yes, yes I did." Sefton is enormously amused, let there be no mistake; his grin speaks of it, the laughter in his drawl. "Or rather, my newest student. And they sent me you, spitfire. How very thoughtful of them. Some intelligent conversation, at last. Come, sit." One hand waves at the couch, covered in clothing. He turns, lifting a couple of shirts to toss them onto the bed, remedying this problem. "Let me fetch you a drink."
Medina eyes the lounge, then sits cautiously, lowering herself onto the couch without taking her eyes off Sefton. She pauses, looks down to see her fingers twisting in her lap, quiets them deliberately. Looks up, catches Sefton's eye, looks away quickly. Looks around the room instead. Her eyes rest a second longer than is strictly needed upon his bookshelves, and again, on his large bed. "A drink?" She echoes? "I... ah... Thank you."
"You are most welcome," Sefton murmurs, crossing to the bookshelves to pluck down a bottle -- his other hand snags a pair of glasses, and as he speaks, the sound of liquid glugging from the bottle provides a background. "A long way from Boll, Medina, for both of us." He does, then, remember her name. "And now you are a student?"
"Yes, I..." She answers, then falters. "The Master Healers at the Hall sent me up." Her eyes stray back to the bookshelf behind Sefton. She makes as if to ask a question, then visibly chokes back words. It comes out as a small, voiced cough.
"So they did," Sefton agrees, turning with a drink in each hand; his usual fare, and a reminder of Boll -- rich, mellow, scented with citrus, deathly strong. A few steps bring him across the rug to offer her a glass. "I shall not complain. We have had an eventful day here, my spitfire. Have you heard?"
Medina accepts her glass, relaxing a little now her fingers have something to do. She stares into the wine, to avoid looking up at Sefton as he stands above her. "I... didn't hear." Her shoulders straighten a little. "The Weyr seemed... pre-occupied, though. What happened?" She looks up then, meeting Sefton's eyes for more than a second, for the first time that night.
And Sefton is ready, watching her, amusement broadening his grin. Very little change in his features -- a little more tired than she has seen him before, perhaps. "We have a new Senior Weyrwoman. Yevide, from Igen. Transferred in just an hour before her queen rose. Let us have a politics lesson, spitfire. High Reaches have been waiting for one of their own queens to rise for months, now, to claim this knot. And now they have Yevide, with an Igenite Weyrleader to boot. Tell me what this will mean."
Medina's brow furrows a little. It is less than it would've furrowed two years ago, but things change. She stares down into her wine-glass again. Seems to notice it for what it is, and takes a sip. "This woman..." She begins slowly, still staring into her glass. "She has no friends, no faction. Even people she knows well will have misgivings about her. The junior weyrwomen... Well, anyone with ambition will hate her." She stops, but does not look up. She gently swirls the wine in the glass, her eyes following the movement.
And now? Sefton laughs, tipping his head back to indulge in the moment. One hand goes out to ruffle at her hair, disrupting the carefully contrived smoothness there, and he's grinning still as he steps back to take a swig from his own glass. "Spitfire, at the end of a long day, I'm glad to have you here. Good girl. Some of my students aren't yet that far, and I've had them a turn or more."
Medina pulls back from the contact with Sefton, disrupting the smooth rhythm of the glass, and spilling some on her lap. She jumps to that, too, and comes dangerously close to spilling it again. Carefully she puts the glass down, then runs her hands over her head, trying to smooth the errant strands in place. The job done, her fingers twist in her lap a moment before she picks the glass up again. She takes a larger mouthful, as if trying to lower the volume to a safer level. "Do you teach here, as well?" She asks. She starts, then adds "Sir."
Sefton watches all of this with a twist of a smile -- not entirely kind, certainly not unamused. His own gesture is an echo, fingers raking through curls that promptly tumble straight back down into his eyes. "I teach here as well," he confirms in his lazy drawl, backing up to lean back against his cluttered desk. "Politics class. So we shall continue our discussions, and perhaps you will set my students a good example." A moment's silence, then, a sidelong glance cocked at her, contemplative. "Some students, I tutor. Some students I see an hour or so each sevenday. A little extra time." Not an offer, not a question. A statement.
Medina looks up, confusion written clear on her face. She schools it back to politeness. "I look forward to your lessons. I doubt, though, that I will be such an example." A yawn catches her, but she stifles it quickly. It is late at night, this morning she had woken at a hold half a day's ride from the Weyr.
More contemplative silence from Sefton, and then a quiet smile. "Go to bed, spitfire. Come back after dinner in two days, please, and we'll get started. If you ask somebody to show you where the office is in the morning, some of my assistants will sort you out a timetable." A long swallow from his glass, and it's set down on the desk between two piles of hides. "Ask one of the girls to show you the barracks. They'll all be asleep in there, now."
Silently, Medina rises. She carefully puts the wineglass down, half-finished, and turns for the door. Reaching it, she looks briefly back at Sefton. Her face is polite again, giving away nothing. She walks softly out of the room, and down the corridor.
He's silent for a few moments after she's gone, watching the door -- and then, with a broad grin, he pushes away from the desk, striding over to push the door closed. Sleeping alone, tonight.