Deal with the devil, anyone?
Who: Miniyal and R'vain
Where: R'vain's office
When: 13:34 on day 24, month 9, turn 2 of the 7th Pass
What: Miniyal visits R'vain to get his side of things for her continuing project on the weyr's history. I swear to all the gods in the universe what happened was /not/ what I had planned. It wasn't. Min is /so/ dead.
Note: Min swears around R'vain. It's a fact of life.
11/6/2006
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 13:34 on day 24, month 9, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
Afternoon brings work for weyrlings, and work for weyrlings typically means work for the Weyrlingmaster. Today is exemplary in this regard. The work, at least, is gentle. Today, the group splits in two; one batch has gone out with Tavaly for lessons in outdoorsmanship and riding, while instruction in the practical matters of Weyr life occurs inside with R'vain. Though physical-- today the training cavern is full of weyrlings studying and sorting little heaps of that smelly and omnipresent reminder of a rider's life and duty, firestone-- the work is not strenuous. Suited for digestion.
A journeyman out of the minercraft is hovering a little anxiously behind a cluster of weyrlings; a hatchling blue is hovering only curiously next to a sorted heap, sniffing at the stuff and snorting when 'stone-dust gets into his nostrils. But R'vain is nowhere to be seen. The door to his office stands open, however, and there's a certain smoky reek coming from that way.
Into the insanity comes someone taking time off from whatever Roa has her doing. Just because the weyrwoman has assigned her duties doesn't mean Miniyal does not still have projects of her own and she will make time for them one way or another. Clearly she is here for one of those projects because it cannot be a social call. Forgetting the fact that Niya does not make social calls. It's whom she would have to be social calling on to come here and brave running into, well, him. Him whom she seems to be seeking.
That she moves past the weyrling pairs and the minecraft journeyman is no surprise because why would she be seeking them out? Towards the office she goes, head tipped up and looking straight ahead because if not she'd be staring at her feet and that would not be starting this horror off on the right foot. Under one arm she carries a small case, the sort used by those who must tote writing implements around and do not wish to juggle hide, pen, ink and everything else freely. It is under her arm just because if she held it in her hand the white knuckles would give away her nervousness. Onward she goes towards that open office door and there is no knocking, she just steps inside. Because the door is open. Invading his space is perhaps not the most non-confrontational way to start things off, but it is what she does. She lingers there just inside the doorway and looks around without saying anything.
There is a weyrling in there, of course. He's got something unappealing and wet and gray and-- unappealing-- splattered over his shoes and pant-cuffs; above the cuffs, the trousers have been coated in soot. There is the Weyrlingmaster in here, too, with a dour glare on, hands on his desk, leaning forward. The boy doesn't even get to sit down; he's standing between the chairs that ring the 'audience' side of the desk. His face doesn't need to be visible to get the idea he must look abashed-- or horrified. R'vain's just staring at him, jaw sloped out of joint. At a loss for words. There they remain, three people in silence, for a good long moment before the boy's voice, bravely quavering, says, "Grounded, sir?" And to this, R'vain's nostrils flare. "I can't even think," he spits, to quantify his rage. "Can't think of anything good enough." He breathes; his shoulders raise and his chest expands and he looks like he might himself take up breathing fire. "Git," however, is all he exhales. And oh, does that weyrling git.
Awkward much? Well, someone is used to awkward so Miniyal just stands near the doorway and pretends like she doesn't see anything. That is something else she is good at. When it becomes clear the weyrling is going to be heading her way she steps to the side. Three paces to the left to allow him to pass by without coming into contact with her. Because, ewww. That's not something she wants to risk coming into contact with. Once the poor weyrling is gone she clears her throat softly. Practice, yes? Is it any surprise she leaps ahead to the advanced lesson in dealing with people politely when you want to throttle them? Of course it's not. Now that she is determined to fix these deficiencies with herself she is going to /fix/ them. Right now. That patience she can claim she has doesn't exist so well as she would like. "Do you have a moment?" Feel free to be busy.
R'vain notices her; he can't help but do so when he watches the weyrling out. He goes /right by/ the woman in his doorway, after all, and there being a woman waiting in his doorway isn't quite common enough that it goes without his attention. So he looks at her a moment, then bends his head and shakes it. There's a rumble coming from him then. Laughter. Sick, tired laughter. "I got a moment. Come in if you want." A beat and he looks up, eyes keener. A thought has occurred. "Wait, y'said, y'know. Never." Or something like that. He grins, showing teeth. "What, you notice a book missing?
His memory should not be so clear considering his abuse of alcohol. It's hardly fair to women who speak in the heat of the moment and then later regret their words. Miniyal clears her throat and has the decency to look abashed. "I did." She'll admit that. She is trying to play nice. Must. Play. Nice. No matter what. She wants what she is here for after all. "No book missing," she offers with a peek up at him. "Besides, we don't have many picture books so even if one was I wouldn't assume /you/ had taken it." But it's the tone that counts in those words and the tone is somewhat teasing, somewhat wary. Because being friendly never gets her anywhere with him, but dammit she will succeed in her mission. Or die trying. "I wanted to speak with you."
"Is so," R'vain grunts. "I got one. Fair n'square. Checked out on th'premise of my knot." Which would mean it's not missing. But he's being petulant, not serious, and presumably only petulant because she's mocked him, and the wrinkle of his nose and showing of his teeth isn't quite enough to express his displeasure at her jest. He flings up a hand to wave at the chairs. "Get you a drink? So long as no one else gets wise ideas out there-- " He squints past her, shoving himself upright from the desk so he can more readily get a clear view out the door. Again with the head-shaking. "-- I can take a while." Emerald focus shifts back to her, edgy and sharp. "Why?"
"If you checked it out fair and square it would not be missing, would it?" Asked with a touch of bite to her tone that she modulates out of somewhere towards the end. Yes, she should have saved this lesson for much later. Moving towards the desk she considers with a tilt of her head and then nods. "A drink would be good I think, thank you." A chair is picked after they are all eyed. Whatever criteria it possesses that others do not is not readily apparent. "Oh, we just always have such delightful conversations." Wry, as it should be. A deep breath and she folds her hands atop the case that now rests in her lap. "I'm working on documenting the recent goings on at the weyr. Actually, I'm trying to document everything that has happened since the beginning of the pass. Since the first fall." You know, when the weyrleader lost his dragon and went insane and things started falling apart. Loyalty will not allow her to express it that way. But it is, partly, what she will think sometimes. When the former weyrleader is not about to distract her with charm.
"Eh. Depends on whether /you/ notice it's /me/ on it and decided just t'come down here t'make trouble-- but oh, /conversation/. Yeah, we just always do," R'vain agrees in a tone so merry it might as well be singsong. He pushes his own chair, the broad armchair with its horrible stained and torn cloth upholstery, into place behind the desk-- it had been out of place for better looming over a misbehaved weyrling-- then stalks over to the cabinet from which comes so many things, but as readily now as ever, wine. "A turn and three seasons," he rumbles into the dark behind the cabinet door, holding it open with one paw and rummaging about within with the other. "Y'goin' t'come back every afternoon t'get th'whole thing down? Could get people talkin', y'know."
"Oh, yes," Miniyal says, that wryness, no, it's sarcasm, staining her words. "I would just love to come down here just to make trouble for you, R'vain. I so enjoy that. Our happy little times together are hours I just /live/ for." Sarcasm is allowed. In small doses. Yes, this has been decided. As he rises she looks at her case and opens it up. It will serve well enough as a desk as well as she fiddles with things inside of it, inventorying what she has brought with her so that she can appear to be calm and collected and totally in control and not at all nervous about this visit. "I can write as fast as you can talk." She can remember everything he says, but her fiction of shorthand serves her well and is believable. "So, I imagine unless you /want/ to force me to come back for several afternoons we can do it in one. Two at the most." Because this can't be any more fun for him than it is for her.
He plucks his head and hands back from the cabinet, a wineskin's neck curled in his palm, glasses pinned between his thick fingers. He tosses off an easy, glaring-white grin at the woman by his desk. "I could make 'em happier." Half a snarling threat and half a jovial offer, as if he's the good host, under the wolfskin. "What d'you want me t'begin with, then? Th'first 'fall? Things was rotten before that. Been rotten for turns, just it didn't matter s'much before th'Pass." R'vain stalks over to the desk and puts down the glasses, then unstoppers the skin. "Say when." Not like he'll pay attention. He pours.
Her head tips over to one side as she considers his words. "Oh, you'll behave?" she inquires with a sweet, sweet smile. "Not be an ass and a boor?" Well, he /offered/ to make it happier and her idea is different than his in that regard. Then her head ducks and she remembers she is trying to be nice. /Nice/ dammit. Clearing her throat she mumbles, "Sorry. Look I just. . .can we not play that game just once? This is important, R'vain." She even lets a hint of pleading enter her tone here. Whatever it takes. Since it doesn't matter she doesn't bother looking at the wine, instead uncapping ink and taking up pen, shuffling things around for the fiction of writing. Oh, she'll write, but hardly enough to make a difference. "When then? When should I start? It's your story, R'vain. You start at the beginning. I'll take down your words. I give you my word I will not alter what you say in any form before it goes into record."
He looks up on 'ass and a boor' and has, clearly, a snappy retort ready to hand. He's even started on it-- "But I /am/--" but she'll have to guess (it shouldn't be hard) how the rest of it goes because the duck of her head and the apology and the request get him, somehow. R'vain stops pouring the one glass, and fails to start the second; he's too busy narrowing one eye very squinty and looking at her mostly through the other one, like someone trying to bring a distant object into focus. "A'right," he says in time. "'Cept you have to understand, I offer you my lap? It ain't a game. I'm just offering." He grins, pours the wine again, puts the skin down stoppered and shoves one of the glasses across the desk's surface toward Miniyal. "My story? Why d'you want my story in th'first place? Made sense as long as you were lookin' for th'Weyr's story. I'm just a teller, a witness. Whatchu want with me?"
"You offer me your lap and I'll just bounce something off your head. I read once that's how they train animals. Negative reinforcement." Miniyal smiles sweetly at this, nodding her head. "I'll stopper the ink before I toss it." Reaching over for the wine she takes a sip of it to try it out. Can tell a lot about a person by the wine they drink and by the wine they give to guests. Well, you can tell what they think of the guest anyway. After a small drink from it she returns the wine glass to the edge of the desk. "I want everyone's story. Anyone I can talk to." Now she is earnest, fanatic. There's no way to hide how important this is to her, not with the way she sits up even straighter, eyes bright with the thought of it all. She's completely forgotten /who/ her audience is and merely knows she has one that she can explain this to. "The people /are/ the weyr, R'vain. Don't you see? It's not just. . .just what happens. I mean, it is, because the people make it happen. The weyr's story is a hundred, a thousand, stories that interconnect into the full story. It's the truth. You can't hide the truth if /everyone/ has their say. Everyone deserves to have their say. No one should be denied their voice for history. No one should be denied history. It's wrong. It's. . .a crime." Breath. Yes, she remembers to breath now and leans back some in her chair, trailing off there as if quite sure she's said too much he doesn't care to hear anyway.
The wine is strictly average. It's white; mostly crisp, only a little sweet somewhere beneath the oak and nut and plain old wine-ness of it. It's in his office. It's in a skin. It's an unexpected visit. There you have it. "Anyone?" Fanatic, meet skeptic. But it's just that one word, not enough to keep her from going on. And on. And on. Green eyes widen as each phrase goes by. "Uh," he says, pretty close after Miniyal's brainstorm seems spent. R'vain picks up his wineglass and slumps into position behind the desk, putting his knees out wide-spread and boots deep into the desk's footchamber. "Y'sure, if you get that many voices, y'can actually /find/ th'truth in all th'noise?"
"I can." Said simply. Sure of herself. When in doubt, and does she ever live in doubt, cling to what you believe to be your strength. "Maybe no one else can, but I can." Make of that what you will. Testing the pen, Miniyal glances up, curious. "Don't you want to be heard? I mean, I thought. . .well." Creepy little doubt. "If you don't want to contribute I can go. I'm sorry, I just. . .you seem the type who wants to be heard. And you're weyrlingmaster. You've been here a long time. Long enough to nearly have gone native. It's your right to be heard. If you want. Or, if you don't want to talk to me you can always write down what you want." A pause here and she grins lightly. "I am told you can write as well as read." Again with the teasing because she can't help it. At least it is kept in a light tone of voice and no insult is meant. Well, maybe a little, but it's buried much deeper than he'll likely be able to find.
His eyes widen a fraction more at what she apparently believes is her strength. From fanatic to asylum refugee before his very eyes. "Oh, no. No, I'll tell you. Sorry, I just wanted t'know-- " whether she was freakin' serious. R'vain has no good words for that, though, especially not in the same breath as the uncommon 'Sorry' that just crossed his lips. He stares at her for a while before he manages to say, "Uh. No. I mean, I can. But it'd ramble. Or be like a record. Y'got those already. Records. Of me." The important parts. There aren't many, all things considered. "Well. I guess-- you want Reaches' history-- recent history-- " The search for coherence goes on in silence for a moment after he's thought to quit his tongue. Eyes narrowing, gaze sliding up from the woman across the desk to a more comfortable point somewhere above her head, he raises the wine glass and rests the rim against his lower lip. Not yet drinking, he just breathes the stuff for a moment before saying, "Y'know I'd been their right hand. Their man. Figured it couldn't be long, Vasyath as old as that. Y'know-- " His focus comes back to Miniyal, strained. "He sent me out on errand when she went up." Let the woman sort out the pronouns herself.
A few notes are made on her hide, probably not what he was saying in the beginning. Just things she was of a mind to write down. However, somewhere in there she looks up and appears confused, blinking. "Not serious?" But she doesn't go on. Instead she goes quiet and listens to him ramble as she reaches for her wine glass. Juggling it and her case she is careful to not spill either. Because really. Newish clothes. When he starts to speak she sets the glass back down after barely more than a sip so she can take up her pen again. "Rambling is fine," she soothes quietly. "Just talk. I'll get what I need, never worry." Meaning he can feel free to ramble on hide or with words. Doesn't matter. But, since he's going to talk she is going to write. When he pauses she looks up. "Can I ask you something without pissing you off?" Probably not, but she's going to anyway. "Do you think you'd make a good weyrleader? Or do you just want the job?" That's probably one of those questions that was meant when someone told her to hold her thoughts until a better time. She should work on that.
"Rrrmph." Not serious. Or rambling. Or something. R'vain tips up the wine and downs half of it in a single swallow. It makes the knot of his throat bob; the gulp is audible. He puts the glass down then, and it's a good thing because what she's asked him just sort of /registers/ there. Thick fingers tighten around the glass' stem. "Most of th'time," he says, after a long pause. A shrug rolls out of the muscles of his shoulders, twitching down through his upper arms to a jerk of his hands, just as the one releases the glass. They withdraw to drape over the ends of the seat-arms. No help with which of the questions he's just answered.
"Right, so just more power to use to hopefully lure women into bed." It's said so sweetly and she bends her head to write something down as if making note of this. The words, the action, she doesn't /think/ about it. With him it's all instinct and the instinct is to insult before he can. To at least get the first attack in before retreating. Which does not help her case. Does not at all make the likelihood of this interview going well very, well, likely. All of this filters through her brain too late to stop what she has done. When the thought that she was dumb peeks into her brain her hand stops. Oops. Eyes closing she takes a second, never long enough, to consider her options. Pen still she lifts her head and looks across the desk, apologetic before she even speaks. "I'm sorry. Fuck. Really. I'm sorry. I didn't mean. Dammit. I knew this was a bad idea." Looking away she starts to put her things up, not looking at him now. "Look. I'll just go. Just. . .say whatever you're going to say and then I'll be out of your hair."
But he's laughing by then, see. It's low, soft, a rumble in the back of his throat. He laughs like a dragon would, if dragons laughed, and whether they do or not is really an exercise for the observer. R'vain laughs, and lifts a hand to wave away her apology, as entertaining as it is. "No, don't. Y'got your need t'jab me and I ain't never been totally sure why, but if you're goin' t'do it like that, well. We can get along just fine. Because I tell you what, you're right on one count. I'd figure I could get a girl or two into th'furs if I had that knot." He bends his head in a crooked nod. Very reasonable, he is. Totally willing to be honest on this. "But y'know, what with all th'stuff I'd want t'get done while I was Weyrleader-- if I were Weyrleader-- I can't figure I'd have th'time t'dedicate myself t'strippin' skirts th'way I might like, so it'd all come out even in th'end."
The laughing doesn't really help. The fact he's not insulted her helps a little, but it's out there now and she's just waiting for it. Settling back down she reaches for her wine and empties it. Down goes the glass back on the edge of the desk. The secret she's held for so long creeps around in her mind and there's an instant when she considers telling him the truth. Just an instant, but then the moment is gone. "What would you do?" Forget history. Forget writing it down. The question is asked and she looks at him levelly, waiting for an answer, watching him.
R'vain looks back across the desk at her, just as levelly as she looks at him. Well, for a while. After a few seconds he can't seem to help himself from grinning a little, and that does sort of ruin it. "Revise th'wings so they're better built for fighting Thread. Siphon off a medium-duty wing t'run resupply full time and set th'Weyrling wing to doing ground crew before they're adragonback, and rotate them quartershifts in light 'falls after they're flaming. Split th'third flight wings and just make 'em so a whole crew goes in and out mid-fall, so th'greens and blues don't have t'deal with goin' in an' out by twos and threes and half dozens when they start t'tire. Push th'Weyrs t'keep a communal record-- " Do we detect a little emphasis on this word? Like he thinks it might perk her up if her attention had begun to stray? Yes, yes we do. "-- of formations and instruction. No reason Igen should have all th'clever tricks. Twiddle tithe agreements so it's less about th'best and finest and that bullshit and more /real/ respect. Y'don't show respect with pearls, y'show it with a hard day's work. Th'way it's s'posed t'be." R'vain pauses. He's been speaking naturally, but so much that it is, after all, time for a breath. "Why th'hell you askin' me?"
"And the current and past leaders didn't like those ideas?" Miniyal asks, still curious. Still not writing. "Or did you not present them? Or do you not want to because you feel you won't get the credit if someone else is weyrleader?" All these questions. All asked so casually. "I admit, it sounds good. But it's coming from you so I have my doubts as if it'd ever see the light of day. You just don't strike me as the sort of man who could see that through. Who wouldn't let obstacles drag him down and wind up being ineffective because things didn't go your way when you wanted them too." Here she pauses, but just long enough to look away and back at him. "I'm asking because I want to know." Simple truth that he'll be able to read in her eyes and her tone.
"When I was a kid. We talked about it then." Presumably he means himself and G'thon. R'vain gets his wineglass back up to rest the rim against his lower lip again. "I probably didn't explain so good. I had some time since t'think about it. But he put me here-- " One shoulder shrugs, the one with the knot, and the knot goes shaking as a result. The tassels rattle softly against the leather of his jacket. "Because I was too-- dunno. I asked f'too much. Too many changes. Stuff that ain't th'way it's always been. Why ask me this stuff? Y'got him t'talk to. Y'don't need me." A beat and he looks up. "Maybe y'got th'kind of man I am pegged, then," he rumbles, very softly-- for R'vain. "S'pose we'll find out, or we won't."
Head tipping to one side she looks at her wine glass. "Well, I never took you for the sort of man who'd let someone's glass get empty." A shrug at that and she makes a few notes on the hide before uncapping the ink again. In goes the pen and more notes are made. "He doesn't know your truth," she answers with another of those shrugs. "He'll tell me what he thinks and that's not what you think." Looking up from her note taking she smiles briefly. "I'm getting his truth. What he'll give. Maybe he put you here thinking you could teach these people what you want to do? Problem I think is your leadership qualities. Some people can lead some can't. Now, maybe you can but you sure don't give that impression." There's a spot in there where she hesitates, nearly stopping because here's more truth Miniyal might have held off sharing. "Not everyone is good at it naturally. I think you have to work at it and I don't think you're bothering too. Not when you can sit here and sulk and only do a good job when goaded by someone else and be an ass the rest of the time only acting like you give a fuck about your next tumble and bottle of wine. Work at being something other than an asshole and people will see you as something other than one."
"You got arms. I ain't tryin' t'get you drunk." He leans forward and with a flick of his fingers sends the wineskin slipping across the surface of the desk to her side, where it'll be within her reach. "If I was I'd have y'sit over here." But he stops short of suggesting this alternative arrangement. Such a gentleman! "No," R'vain says, a little bitter in a tired, turns-weary way. "He don't think th'same I do, no. And-- " Whoops. She's got him stopping halt again, and staring. Maybe it's the thick blue streak she's displaying? Maybe she's offended him? His mouth's hanging open. Can't be a good sign. "Y'sound like Sian," he says after that interminable pause. "'Cept, y'know. Rougher."
"Well, I couldn't /reach/ it, could I?" Miniyal asks with a weary sigh of her own. Of course, she doesn't reach for it right away, leaving the wine within reach and making a few more notes. Only when her train of thought has stopped does she reach for the skin and refill her glass. To the top and then she displays amazing grace by lifting the glass without spilling a drop. Well, she needs the wine. Once she's emptied the glass by an inch or so and set it back down she takes up her pen again. "I'm not this cheap, R'vain. If you want to get me drunk you need to use much better wine." See? G'thon knew this. Wrinkling her nose she makes a note and then looks up as all of his words sink in. There's even a weary sigh. "Abrupt." Said with a shake of her head. A curious light appears in her eyes, but she lets it go. Maybe she realises she's said enough? On that anyway. "And are you?" asked as she makes a note and then looks up to reach for her wine, looking at him over the glass. "Or are you skating by sulking?" She knows the answer or what she believes is the answer.
"Then I must not be tryin'." R'vain shrugs, but there's this bit of a grin crawling across his mouth. It crawls back off again when she says 'Abrupt' and his ruddy brows furrow, perplexed. Her questions don't help much; he's evidently lost track of the thread that they were inspired by. The question's a grumble. "Am I what? And what's it t'you?"
"Are you doing a fucking thing to change things?" Because the phrasing is what is important. The writing is let go. Instead she takes up her wine glass and sip from it before holding it in both hands. She wants to pace. Because there's so much energy that needs to be dispelled. She settles for tapping a foot on the floor and a finger against her glass of wine. It is not enough, however. The wine glass goes down again and she closes up the case, setting it on the chair by hers and then taking up her wine again and rising to her feet. Away from the desk and back and she's just generally pacing because she's trying to /not/ say things and that has to be stopped by moving. And wine. The glass is being emptied steadily. "What's it to me?" That's the question she settles on as she stops and stares at him. "This is my fucking home, R'vain. I was born here. I'll die here. The people you're training are what protects my home. Their reputations, your reputation, reflect on my home. There's not much I can do, you know? To change things. But what I can I will. I'm stuck. And it pisses me off to see people wasting an opportunity to make it better. Even someone like you."
R'vain slumps deeper and deeper into his degenerate throne. "And I am doin' th'best I can-- and better than I ever have-- t'have 'em right ready t'protect /our/ Weyr. I ain't wasting any opportunities just now. Y'see something I'm not doing? Y'let me know. Because." Slouch. "I want to know." These four words he enounciates with precision, then washes them down with the rest of his wine. "Weren't we doin' somethin' here besides bitchin' about how I ain't Weyrleader?"
"Yes, but you brought it up." Dismissing the subject change with a wave of her hand, not enough wine in the glass to slosh it over the side. "I was curious. I wanted to know. You didn't have to answer. You could have told me to shut the fuck up and we'd have gotten back to what I was doing. But you didn't. I'm guessing because you didn't want to." Head tilting to the side, Miniyal looks at him, puzzled. "I'm not sure why. Although you know, it's not so hard to tell things to people you know already laugh at you. Makes it easier so you don't have to worry about how they react. As for doing better now, well, yes. Now. But those wasted turns cannot be brought back. You've a lot to make up for. Simple as that. Still, back to what we were doing then." Finishing her wine she walks back to her chair and sits down, setting the glass on the edge of his desk and ignoring it. "So, tell me."
"/You/ brought it up," R'vain retorts, plenty curious himself. "You asked me outright so I told you. And if you want t'call 'em /wasted/ then you ain't been listening at all." His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare; his jaw sets and a tendon pulses in his neck. But he does not bestir himself from the deep slouch of his chair. "The first 'fall. I don't have t'go over that, do I? I aimed t'seat someone in his stead after that. An acting Weyrleader. Someone who could lead in 'fall. Lexine cut that off." A pause, a sneer. "Ain't never been able to figure what side she's on."
"Her own, I imagine. Like everyone else." Lexine she means, of course. Notes are made as she listens. "I only brought up what you started. If you listen real careful you can tell what people want to talk about. And, I was right." Just a tad smug there. A wee bit. Because clearly he wanted to say it or he wouldn't have. More precise notes are made and Miniyal shrugs her shoulders. "I do call them wasted. But as I've told you in the past, I know what you've done around here. The first fall? You do not have to speak of it if you don't wish. But let me share something." Looking up from her notes she meets his eyes across the table. "There's few people here who will tell me what I want to know without hiding it in some way because Gans and I are lovers now. I want the truth, R'vain. I think, much as I dislike you, that you will give it to me. As you see it anyway. Without trying to spare my feelings or worry that I will cause trouble over what I hear. He's fucked up. I know that. He knows I know it. It doesn't change what we are. But few people are going to believe me when I say I want them to be honest about him."
R'vain shakes his head, but the topic of Lexine-- and the topic of what he apparently /wanted/ to talk about-- are together enough to demand that he push himself up out of the chair and bend low over the desk so he can reach out and swipe the wineskin. "Gimme your glass," he grunts while pouring his own. "You think you're goin' t'stick with him when y'hear it all? I mean, he's got his points. But y'never know." A beat. "I wasn't there, y'know. Ground crew at th'Weyr. Waiting. When they brought 'em back, that was th'first I saw. Vasyath wasn't good either. I think th'story's that she took some of th-- " Another beat, and this one with a grin. He swipes for her glass. "Ain't what you wanted, though. Th'story."
She doesn't mind her glass being taken, having been in the process of pushing it towards him and jerking her hand back before she might risk coming into contact with him. "What I decide to do is my own concern." Miniyal glances down at her notes so far. Some more writing and then she looks up, speaking as the wine is handled. "I don't hold him above reproach, R'vain. And I am sure he has done plenty I would not agree with. I want to hear it." Such a lie. Such an out and out lie. But it sounds rather convincing accompanied as it is by a defiant tilt of her chin and a determined look in her eyes. "I want whatever you'll tell me."
"Suit y'self." As if he has so much to tell. He does, however, pour her wine and pass the glass back over to her, holding onto it just a /bit/ long as if he'd force her to take it directly from his hand-- then putting it down for her on the desk. Finally he straightens. Must build lower back muscles all the leaning over this desk he does. "They just made a mistake. That's what I saw, when th'dragons showed us. Mind, I wasn't in any shape. Ruvoth had t'hold it for me." R'vain shrugs, as if this is no big deal. He drops back into his chair after stoppering and surrendering the skin, more where she can reach it than where he can. "Still. Just caught by surprise. Careless." The Weyrlingmaster shrugs again, the old Weyrleader's trespass and resulting loss dismissed that easily. "Like I said, after that I got t'gether a group. T'try to seat a new Weyrleader. Lexine interrupted and it all went t'shit. And I'zul-- " He'd taken his wine with him into the chair. Now he leans forward and puts it back, expression like that of someone about to be physically sick.
That's a game she's not going to play. The glass is ignored until it's set back down. There are some things she can control at least. Once it has been set down she takes it up and takes a drink. Not too much, but clearly she's planning on emptying her glass sooner rather than later. However, there are notes to be made right now because she should be if it's to look like she cares to mark what he says for posterity. "Careless. Not quite sure what to expect. I don't imagine it's the first time when a pass starts." A shrug to dismiss it as easily as him. At least as far as he gets to see. Rather than talk she takes up her wine and sips, waving with her other hand for him to continue.
He slumps back into the seat and stares at her for a while, eyes baleful. He swallows a couple of times. "Truth," rumbles R'vain. "I knew I wasn't fixed up t'take it, y'know? E'sere wants th'Reaches." Not 'wanted.' Not past tense. He's too much a pessimist for that. His eyes fix on his wine, way over on the table; the Weyrlingmaster himself's way back and down in the chair. It's a long distance, and he makes no effort to gap it. Just looking. "I'zul wants anything he can get. I tried t'pit them against each other. Worked, a little bit. Lexine fouled it up, stepping in. Never got a chance t'get started good." His jaw protrudes, creating a petulant underbite. "They had a good grip on him. And on th'Weyr. Got t'hand 'em that. No surprise what he turned into, I guess. Not in th'long run."
"So everyone wanted it and was going around trying to stab each other in the back and now what have we? No one has it." Miniyal shakes her head and nearly smiles. Instead she finishes her wine and then makes a few more notes. Pen into ink and then pen onto hide and she writes slowly, smoothly. Without looking back up until her pen pauses. "He'll come back." It is agreement not question. "Which means whomever is leader after J'cor had better be strong enough to hold him off. They won't try too soon." The tip of her pen gets tapped against her lower lip. "Would he come back during the flight? Is there someone here who would find a way to tell him? With these stupid rules in place that would be the easiest way. . ." Trailing off she tilts her head and stares across the desk. "He'll kill him. If he winds up in charge. It will be an accident, but it'll happen. Unless someone strong enough to lead here wins the next flight." A shrug and a glance down at her notes, making a few more.
"You're injecting your own truth," points out R'vain, not very loud. For him. Not very smug, nor very smiling either. For him. He's quiet after that until she gets around to asking him a direct question. "Goldriders," he says. "Queens. You'd know. He don't have t'be told. We knew when she flew... there." And now he looks briefly uncomfortable, and then he musters up the give-a-shit to lean forward and claim his wine.
"So we need someone here who will, hopefully, win. Someone that the weyr will be behind. However grudgingly that might be the case. Someone who is from here." Miniyal smiles a moment as if something amuses her, but then she looks back at what she has written. "What are our options?" Shaking her head she sets her pen down. "If Citalth rises first. . .Well, it's a different problem if it is Tialith. But with a bronze from Reaches winning I don't think it would be so bad. The trick, of course, is winning people over to the side of those who are in charge. Or who want to be. It's harder with Lexine here. If we had another gold. . .not enough. Fuck. There's too much to consider." Ignore her as she talks out loud. Everything after her comment about a Reachian bronze is mumbled into her hides, like she's forgotten she's with someone else.
And R'vain? Is not working very hard to remind her. In fact, he's drinking, slowly and quietly, actually enjoying (for once) the sensation of wine hitting his tongue, throat and bloodstream. She could go on all day. But if she looked up, she'd see him grinning if he's not at that moment drinking, the wine glass' stem rolling between his thick fingertips. In time he does say, "Maybe Lexine'll pick a new golden boy."
"It won't be you." Said with surety. Because, really. Why would she? Miniyal blinks because she answered without thinking and then looks up. Grabbing her wine glass she empties it and then stares into it. "Besides, I don't think we just want another one of her picks, do we? No matter who it is. Do you know whom Sinopa is courting? With E'sere gone she'll have someone else in mind." Rubbing her forehead she then peers at her fingers, making sure there was no ink to transfer. There doesn't seem to have been so she lets out a little sigh. "You and Roa are not so tight anymore." Because gossip is good for telling you some things. "Might consider fixing that." Well, it's not like she has a lot of options here and she has to help /someone/. "Lexine will stick around and try to keep her hand in until someone tells her to go away." Miniyal, of course, would be happy if all Gans' former women were gone. Well, away from the weyr anyway. "Now's the time a smart man would start really working at showing himself in his best light." Glancing up she smirks. "Pity all I have to work with is you."
"Roa and I were never tight, Miniyal." Oooh, he uses her name. "Tialith and Ruvoth've been. Roa's just--" He grunts. And then he gets up. Something about the Telgari transfer's name seems to signal, to him, that this meeting is ending. He's even putting his glass down, leaning over to reclaim the wineskin, picking up and putting away-- and then she says that last thing, and he stops like that, bent over the desk with the skin in his hand. One eye twitches. It's a bad spot, and a grind of his teeth gives that away. "Fill your glass?"
"If that's all you have." Said with a disapproving sniff. "Really, R'vain. Next time I'll have to bring my own just to be sure it's decent." Next time. Miniyal sighs quietly. "If only you were smarter and I could get your story faster. I'm going to have having to come back and listen to you drone on the way you do." He doesn't have to let her, of course. After all, one has to wonder what she thinks she can offer to anyone who wants something. It's not as if she's. . .not Miniyal. "Roa needs," as if she doesn't notice it upsets him when she speaks of the weyrwoman she works for, "Someone who can. . .balance her. Someone who will be able to help me keep her from doing dumb ass things without thinking of the consequences. Now, I don't think you'd do so good at that, to be honest, but I think her having to deal with you would keep her busy enough I could handle the rest."
"If I know you're comin'-- " He straightens, because that wasn't an invitation to fill her glass, and besides, she keeps on talking, and he's got to be upright to hear her or he might fall onto the desk. He might anyway. Somewhere in the middle he has to put the skin down so he can flatten a paw on the desk to prevent any such mishap. "Roa," he begins, like he might defend her. And then he works his jaw back into joint and doesn't. "Deal with," he adds, like he might be offended at the very idea. And then he grins a little bit of a leering grin, and isn't. He laps his upper teeth, thoughtful, and makes that awful sucking sound, *tschk,* as he draws his tongue back into his mouth. "What kind of wine d'you like, then?"
"Sweet. White. I don't mind reds, but too many turns of being too clumsy have left me preferring something that's not so hard to get out of clothes." Miniyal leans back in her chair and having given up all pretense of recording anything begins to pack her things away. "Please, don't make me be sick." Because of course he's thinking things that would make her ill. He's R'vain. Somewhere in her brain she's busy scrubbing all the skin from her body going 'unclean, unclean' over and over. But, hey. Who said she was sane. Or smart. Or had a clue. There are things she should say, things she wants to say, but the words are getting increasingly jumbled in her brain. Not because of the wine, but because her brain is busy berating her for being an idiot right now thank you very much. "I know what you are." Which is said softly as she leans back in her chair, case in her lap. "I know what you've done and what you haven't done." Just in case he gets the mistaken impression that all at once she likes him or something.
His jaw drops with some predictable reply. And when she says not to make her sick, he closes it, then drops back into his chair. "I think you went somewhere different than I was goin'," he grumbles, but hey! She's at least right that he was going somewhere, and she wins for having derailed him. "Oh?" That she knows what he is. R'vain gets his glass and twists the stem between his fingers again, then puts up the rim to his mouth and sucks down about a quarter of what he poured. "I got a pretty good idea m'self, y'know. You ain't liable t'lose anything if you tell me. Besides-- " He looks down at her lap, at the case in it. It's a weighty, significant look, nothing ogling about it; his gaze flicks right back up to her face afterward. "-- I'll be tellin' you th'worst of what I got, if you keep comin'."
"Until you can offer me something good I'm not telling you a thing." Said ever so sweetly. "That's not the way I operate, R'vain. My secrets are much too dear to just give away." Really. Hands folding on the case. "They are all I have." She's being honest here. A brief glimpse for him to show she's being serious in everything that has been said. "I can't tell you how much I am looking forward to hearing what you have to say." Miniyal certainly sounds thrilled. In the same way one sounds thrilled about going to the healers when they have a bad toothache.
"A'right. When I've told you my version of history, you tell me what you've been actin' like is such a big deal." Because he really doesn't see it. He even shakes his head; there's a light in his eyes and a grin twitching his wolfish mouth like he thinks she's bluffing. "Y'done for now, I take it," he allows with another glance at the case. "And I should make sure no one else's tried t'set themselves on fire." A beat. "I'd know. Th'smell." Just so she's aware he's not wholly negligent. "When'll you be back?"
Rising to her feet, the case is clutched tightly in one hand. Miniyal smiles tightly and then looks down at her case. "Yes, I think I'm done." Lifting her head she looks at him, shaking her head. "I can only do so much. You fuck it up don't blame me. You hear?" Because, if it's not clear by now? She really doesn't like him. "Just. . .so we're clear. Got it? I'll be back in a few days. I have a job." As if he doesn't. Turning on her heel she heads for the door. No need to see her out.
R'vain snorts. "Don't order me, woman." But he's just sitting there, and there's no real ire in the words. If anything there's a trace of a snicker. This might explain it: "It undermines me, y'know, to th'weyrlings and th'Weyr. And you don't want that."
Miniyal pauses at the door and turns around. "Oh, not in public. Not anymore. But all bets are off in private. Or the deal's off. You need me more than I need you." With that she goes, out the door with her head up, case clutched tightly.
Where: R'vain's office
When: 13:34 on day 24, month 9, turn 2 of the 7th Pass
What: Miniyal visits R'vain to get his side of things for her continuing project on the weyr's history. I swear to all the gods in the universe what happened was /not/ what I had planned. It wasn't. Min is /so/ dead.
Note: Min swears around R'vain. It's a fact of life.
11/6/2006
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 13:34 on day 24, month 9, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
Afternoon brings work for weyrlings, and work for weyrlings typically means work for the Weyrlingmaster. Today is exemplary in this regard. The work, at least, is gentle. Today, the group splits in two; one batch has gone out with Tavaly for lessons in outdoorsmanship and riding, while instruction in the practical matters of Weyr life occurs inside with R'vain. Though physical-- today the training cavern is full of weyrlings studying and sorting little heaps of that smelly and omnipresent reminder of a rider's life and duty, firestone-- the work is not strenuous. Suited for digestion.
A journeyman out of the minercraft is hovering a little anxiously behind a cluster of weyrlings; a hatchling blue is hovering only curiously next to a sorted heap, sniffing at the stuff and snorting when 'stone-dust gets into his nostrils. But R'vain is nowhere to be seen. The door to his office stands open, however, and there's a certain smoky reek coming from that way.
Into the insanity comes someone taking time off from whatever Roa has her doing. Just because the weyrwoman has assigned her duties doesn't mean Miniyal does not still have projects of her own and she will make time for them one way or another. Clearly she is here for one of those projects because it cannot be a social call. Forgetting the fact that Niya does not make social calls. It's whom she would have to be social calling on to come here and brave running into, well, him. Him whom she seems to be seeking.
That she moves past the weyrling pairs and the minecraft journeyman is no surprise because why would she be seeking them out? Towards the office she goes, head tipped up and looking straight ahead because if not she'd be staring at her feet and that would not be starting this horror off on the right foot. Under one arm she carries a small case, the sort used by those who must tote writing implements around and do not wish to juggle hide, pen, ink and everything else freely. It is under her arm just because if she held it in her hand the white knuckles would give away her nervousness. Onward she goes towards that open office door and there is no knocking, she just steps inside. Because the door is open. Invading his space is perhaps not the most non-confrontational way to start things off, but it is what she does. She lingers there just inside the doorway and looks around without saying anything.
There is a weyrling in there, of course. He's got something unappealing and wet and gray and-- unappealing-- splattered over his shoes and pant-cuffs; above the cuffs, the trousers have been coated in soot. There is the Weyrlingmaster in here, too, with a dour glare on, hands on his desk, leaning forward. The boy doesn't even get to sit down; he's standing between the chairs that ring the 'audience' side of the desk. His face doesn't need to be visible to get the idea he must look abashed-- or horrified. R'vain's just staring at him, jaw sloped out of joint. At a loss for words. There they remain, three people in silence, for a good long moment before the boy's voice, bravely quavering, says, "Grounded, sir?" And to this, R'vain's nostrils flare. "I can't even think," he spits, to quantify his rage. "Can't think of anything good enough." He breathes; his shoulders raise and his chest expands and he looks like he might himself take up breathing fire. "Git," however, is all he exhales. And oh, does that weyrling git.
Awkward much? Well, someone is used to awkward so Miniyal just stands near the doorway and pretends like she doesn't see anything. That is something else she is good at. When it becomes clear the weyrling is going to be heading her way she steps to the side. Three paces to the left to allow him to pass by without coming into contact with her. Because, ewww. That's not something she wants to risk coming into contact with. Once the poor weyrling is gone she clears her throat softly. Practice, yes? Is it any surprise she leaps ahead to the advanced lesson in dealing with people politely when you want to throttle them? Of course it's not. Now that she is determined to fix these deficiencies with herself she is going to /fix/ them. Right now. That patience she can claim she has doesn't exist so well as she would like. "Do you have a moment?" Feel free to be busy.
R'vain notices her; he can't help but do so when he watches the weyrling out. He goes /right by/ the woman in his doorway, after all, and there being a woman waiting in his doorway isn't quite common enough that it goes without his attention. So he looks at her a moment, then bends his head and shakes it. There's a rumble coming from him then. Laughter. Sick, tired laughter. "I got a moment. Come in if you want." A beat and he looks up, eyes keener. A thought has occurred. "Wait, y'said, y'know. Never." Or something like that. He grins, showing teeth. "What, you notice a book missing?
His memory should not be so clear considering his abuse of alcohol. It's hardly fair to women who speak in the heat of the moment and then later regret their words. Miniyal clears her throat and has the decency to look abashed. "I did." She'll admit that. She is trying to play nice. Must. Play. Nice. No matter what. She wants what she is here for after all. "No book missing," she offers with a peek up at him. "Besides, we don't have many picture books so even if one was I wouldn't assume /you/ had taken it." But it's the tone that counts in those words and the tone is somewhat teasing, somewhat wary. Because being friendly never gets her anywhere with him, but dammit she will succeed in her mission. Or die trying. "I wanted to speak with you."
"Is so," R'vain grunts. "I got one. Fair n'square. Checked out on th'premise of my knot." Which would mean it's not missing. But he's being petulant, not serious, and presumably only petulant because she's mocked him, and the wrinkle of his nose and showing of his teeth isn't quite enough to express his displeasure at her jest. He flings up a hand to wave at the chairs. "Get you a drink? So long as no one else gets wise ideas out there-- " He squints past her, shoving himself upright from the desk so he can more readily get a clear view out the door. Again with the head-shaking. "-- I can take a while." Emerald focus shifts back to her, edgy and sharp. "Why?"
"If you checked it out fair and square it would not be missing, would it?" Asked with a touch of bite to her tone that she modulates out of somewhere towards the end. Yes, she should have saved this lesson for much later. Moving towards the desk she considers with a tilt of her head and then nods. "A drink would be good I think, thank you." A chair is picked after they are all eyed. Whatever criteria it possesses that others do not is not readily apparent. "Oh, we just always have such delightful conversations." Wry, as it should be. A deep breath and she folds her hands atop the case that now rests in her lap. "I'm working on documenting the recent goings on at the weyr. Actually, I'm trying to document everything that has happened since the beginning of the pass. Since the first fall." You know, when the weyrleader lost his dragon and went insane and things started falling apart. Loyalty will not allow her to express it that way. But it is, partly, what she will think sometimes. When the former weyrleader is not about to distract her with charm.
"Eh. Depends on whether /you/ notice it's /me/ on it and decided just t'come down here t'make trouble-- but oh, /conversation/. Yeah, we just always do," R'vain agrees in a tone so merry it might as well be singsong. He pushes his own chair, the broad armchair with its horrible stained and torn cloth upholstery, into place behind the desk-- it had been out of place for better looming over a misbehaved weyrling-- then stalks over to the cabinet from which comes so many things, but as readily now as ever, wine. "A turn and three seasons," he rumbles into the dark behind the cabinet door, holding it open with one paw and rummaging about within with the other. "Y'goin' t'come back every afternoon t'get th'whole thing down? Could get people talkin', y'know."
"Oh, yes," Miniyal says, that wryness, no, it's sarcasm, staining her words. "I would just love to come down here just to make trouble for you, R'vain. I so enjoy that. Our happy little times together are hours I just /live/ for." Sarcasm is allowed. In small doses. Yes, this has been decided. As he rises she looks at her case and opens it up. It will serve well enough as a desk as well as she fiddles with things inside of it, inventorying what she has brought with her so that she can appear to be calm and collected and totally in control and not at all nervous about this visit. "I can write as fast as you can talk." She can remember everything he says, but her fiction of shorthand serves her well and is believable. "So, I imagine unless you /want/ to force me to come back for several afternoons we can do it in one. Two at the most." Because this can't be any more fun for him than it is for her.
He plucks his head and hands back from the cabinet, a wineskin's neck curled in his palm, glasses pinned between his thick fingers. He tosses off an easy, glaring-white grin at the woman by his desk. "I could make 'em happier." Half a snarling threat and half a jovial offer, as if he's the good host, under the wolfskin. "What d'you want me t'begin with, then? Th'first 'fall? Things was rotten before that. Been rotten for turns, just it didn't matter s'much before th'Pass." R'vain stalks over to the desk and puts down the glasses, then unstoppers the skin. "Say when." Not like he'll pay attention. He pours.
Her head tips over to one side as she considers his words. "Oh, you'll behave?" she inquires with a sweet, sweet smile. "Not be an ass and a boor?" Well, he /offered/ to make it happier and her idea is different than his in that regard. Then her head ducks and she remembers she is trying to be nice. /Nice/ dammit. Clearing her throat she mumbles, "Sorry. Look I just. . .can we not play that game just once? This is important, R'vain." She even lets a hint of pleading enter her tone here. Whatever it takes. Since it doesn't matter she doesn't bother looking at the wine, instead uncapping ink and taking up pen, shuffling things around for the fiction of writing. Oh, she'll write, but hardly enough to make a difference. "When then? When should I start? It's your story, R'vain. You start at the beginning. I'll take down your words. I give you my word I will not alter what you say in any form before it goes into record."
He looks up on 'ass and a boor' and has, clearly, a snappy retort ready to hand. He's even started on it-- "But I /am/--" but she'll have to guess (it shouldn't be hard) how the rest of it goes because the duck of her head and the apology and the request get him, somehow. R'vain stops pouring the one glass, and fails to start the second; he's too busy narrowing one eye very squinty and looking at her mostly through the other one, like someone trying to bring a distant object into focus. "A'right," he says in time. "'Cept you have to understand, I offer you my lap? It ain't a game. I'm just offering." He grins, pours the wine again, puts the skin down stoppered and shoves one of the glasses across the desk's surface toward Miniyal. "My story? Why d'you want my story in th'first place? Made sense as long as you were lookin' for th'Weyr's story. I'm just a teller, a witness. Whatchu want with me?"
"You offer me your lap and I'll just bounce something off your head. I read once that's how they train animals. Negative reinforcement." Miniyal smiles sweetly at this, nodding her head. "I'll stopper the ink before I toss it." Reaching over for the wine she takes a sip of it to try it out. Can tell a lot about a person by the wine they drink and by the wine they give to guests. Well, you can tell what they think of the guest anyway. After a small drink from it she returns the wine glass to the edge of the desk. "I want everyone's story. Anyone I can talk to." Now she is earnest, fanatic. There's no way to hide how important this is to her, not with the way she sits up even straighter, eyes bright with the thought of it all. She's completely forgotten /who/ her audience is and merely knows she has one that she can explain this to. "The people /are/ the weyr, R'vain. Don't you see? It's not just. . .just what happens. I mean, it is, because the people make it happen. The weyr's story is a hundred, a thousand, stories that interconnect into the full story. It's the truth. You can't hide the truth if /everyone/ has their say. Everyone deserves to have their say. No one should be denied their voice for history. No one should be denied history. It's wrong. It's. . .a crime." Breath. Yes, she remembers to breath now and leans back some in her chair, trailing off there as if quite sure she's said too much he doesn't care to hear anyway.
The wine is strictly average. It's white; mostly crisp, only a little sweet somewhere beneath the oak and nut and plain old wine-ness of it. It's in his office. It's in a skin. It's an unexpected visit. There you have it. "Anyone?" Fanatic, meet skeptic. But it's just that one word, not enough to keep her from going on. And on. And on. Green eyes widen as each phrase goes by. "Uh," he says, pretty close after Miniyal's brainstorm seems spent. R'vain picks up his wineglass and slumps into position behind the desk, putting his knees out wide-spread and boots deep into the desk's footchamber. "Y'sure, if you get that many voices, y'can actually /find/ th'truth in all th'noise?"
"I can." Said simply. Sure of herself. When in doubt, and does she ever live in doubt, cling to what you believe to be your strength. "Maybe no one else can, but I can." Make of that what you will. Testing the pen, Miniyal glances up, curious. "Don't you want to be heard? I mean, I thought. . .well." Creepy little doubt. "If you don't want to contribute I can go. I'm sorry, I just. . .you seem the type who wants to be heard. And you're weyrlingmaster. You've been here a long time. Long enough to nearly have gone native. It's your right to be heard. If you want. Or, if you don't want to talk to me you can always write down what you want." A pause here and she grins lightly. "I am told you can write as well as read." Again with the teasing because she can't help it. At least it is kept in a light tone of voice and no insult is meant. Well, maybe a little, but it's buried much deeper than he'll likely be able to find.
His eyes widen a fraction more at what she apparently believes is her strength. From fanatic to asylum refugee before his very eyes. "Oh, no. No, I'll tell you. Sorry, I just wanted t'know-- " whether she was freakin' serious. R'vain has no good words for that, though, especially not in the same breath as the uncommon 'Sorry' that just crossed his lips. He stares at her for a while before he manages to say, "Uh. No. I mean, I can. But it'd ramble. Or be like a record. Y'got those already. Records. Of me." The important parts. There aren't many, all things considered. "Well. I guess-- you want Reaches' history-- recent history-- " The search for coherence goes on in silence for a moment after he's thought to quit his tongue. Eyes narrowing, gaze sliding up from the woman across the desk to a more comfortable point somewhere above her head, he raises the wine glass and rests the rim against his lower lip. Not yet drinking, he just breathes the stuff for a moment before saying, "Y'know I'd been their right hand. Their man. Figured it couldn't be long, Vasyath as old as that. Y'know-- " His focus comes back to Miniyal, strained. "He sent me out on errand when she went up." Let the woman sort out the pronouns herself.
A few notes are made on her hide, probably not what he was saying in the beginning. Just things she was of a mind to write down. However, somewhere in there she looks up and appears confused, blinking. "Not serious?" But she doesn't go on. Instead she goes quiet and listens to him ramble as she reaches for her wine glass. Juggling it and her case she is careful to not spill either. Because really. Newish clothes. When he starts to speak she sets the glass back down after barely more than a sip so she can take up her pen again. "Rambling is fine," she soothes quietly. "Just talk. I'll get what I need, never worry." Meaning he can feel free to ramble on hide or with words. Doesn't matter. But, since he's going to talk she is going to write. When he pauses she looks up. "Can I ask you something without pissing you off?" Probably not, but she's going to anyway. "Do you think you'd make a good weyrleader? Or do you just want the job?" That's probably one of those questions that was meant when someone told her to hold her thoughts until a better time. She should work on that.
"Rrrmph." Not serious. Or rambling. Or something. R'vain tips up the wine and downs half of it in a single swallow. It makes the knot of his throat bob; the gulp is audible. He puts the glass down then, and it's a good thing because what she's asked him just sort of /registers/ there. Thick fingers tighten around the glass' stem. "Most of th'time," he says, after a long pause. A shrug rolls out of the muscles of his shoulders, twitching down through his upper arms to a jerk of his hands, just as the one releases the glass. They withdraw to drape over the ends of the seat-arms. No help with which of the questions he's just answered.
"Right, so just more power to use to hopefully lure women into bed." It's said so sweetly and she bends her head to write something down as if making note of this. The words, the action, she doesn't /think/ about it. With him it's all instinct and the instinct is to insult before he can. To at least get the first attack in before retreating. Which does not help her case. Does not at all make the likelihood of this interview going well very, well, likely. All of this filters through her brain too late to stop what she has done. When the thought that she was dumb peeks into her brain her hand stops. Oops. Eyes closing she takes a second, never long enough, to consider her options. Pen still she lifts her head and looks across the desk, apologetic before she even speaks. "I'm sorry. Fuck. Really. I'm sorry. I didn't mean. Dammit. I knew this was a bad idea." Looking away she starts to put her things up, not looking at him now. "Look. I'll just go. Just. . .say whatever you're going to say and then I'll be out of your hair."
But he's laughing by then, see. It's low, soft, a rumble in the back of his throat. He laughs like a dragon would, if dragons laughed, and whether they do or not is really an exercise for the observer. R'vain laughs, and lifts a hand to wave away her apology, as entertaining as it is. "No, don't. Y'got your need t'jab me and I ain't never been totally sure why, but if you're goin' t'do it like that, well. We can get along just fine. Because I tell you what, you're right on one count. I'd figure I could get a girl or two into th'furs if I had that knot." He bends his head in a crooked nod. Very reasonable, he is. Totally willing to be honest on this. "But y'know, what with all th'stuff I'd want t'get done while I was Weyrleader-- if I were Weyrleader-- I can't figure I'd have th'time t'dedicate myself t'strippin' skirts th'way I might like, so it'd all come out even in th'end."
The laughing doesn't really help. The fact he's not insulted her helps a little, but it's out there now and she's just waiting for it. Settling back down she reaches for her wine and empties it. Down goes the glass back on the edge of the desk. The secret she's held for so long creeps around in her mind and there's an instant when she considers telling him the truth. Just an instant, but then the moment is gone. "What would you do?" Forget history. Forget writing it down. The question is asked and she looks at him levelly, waiting for an answer, watching him.
R'vain looks back across the desk at her, just as levelly as she looks at him. Well, for a while. After a few seconds he can't seem to help himself from grinning a little, and that does sort of ruin it. "Revise th'wings so they're better built for fighting Thread. Siphon off a medium-duty wing t'run resupply full time and set th'Weyrling wing to doing ground crew before they're adragonback, and rotate them quartershifts in light 'falls after they're flaming. Split th'third flight wings and just make 'em so a whole crew goes in and out mid-fall, so th'greens and blues don't have t'deal with goin' in an' out by twos and threes and half dozens when they start t'tire. Push th'Weyrs t'keep a communal record-- " Do we detect a little emphasis on this word? Like he thinks it might perk her up if her attention had begun to stray? Yes, yes we do. "-- of formations and instruction. No reason Igen should have all th'clever tricks. Twiddle tithe agreements so it's less about th'best and finest and that bullshit and more /real/ respect. Y'don't show respect with pearls, y'show it with a hard day's work. Th'way it's s'posed t'be." R'vain pauses. He's been speaking naturally, but so much that it is, after all, time for a breath. "Why th'hell you askin' me?"
"And the current and past leaders didn't like those ideas?" Miniyal asks, still curious. Still not writing. "Or did you not present them? Or do you not want to because you feel you won't get the credit if someone else is weyrleader?" All these questions. All asked so casually. "I admit, it sounds good. But it's coming from you so I have my doubts as if it'd ever see the light of day. You just don't strike me as the sort of man who could see that through. Who wouldn't let obstacles drag him down and wind up being ineffective because things didn't go your way when you wanted them too." Here she pauses, but just long enough to look away and back at him. "I'm asking because I want to know." Simple truth that he'll be able to read in her eyes and her tone.
"When I was a kid. We talked about it then." Presumably he means himself and G'thon. R'vain gets his wineglass back up to rest the rim against his lower lip again. "I probably didn't explain so good. I had some time since t'think about it. But he put me here-- " One shoulder shrugs, the one with the knot, and the knot goes shaking as a result. The tassels rattle softly against the leather of his jacket. "Because I was too-- dunno. I asked f'too much. Too many changes. Stuff that ain't th'way it's always been. Why ask me this stuff? Y'got him t'talk to. Y'don't need me." A beat and he looks up. "Maybe y'got th'kind of man I am pegged, then," he rumbles, very softly-- for R'vain. "S'pose we'll find out, or we won't."
Head tipping to one side she looks at her wine glass. "Well, I never took you for the sort of man who'd let someone's glass get empty." A shrug at that and she makes a few notes on the hide before uncapping the ink again. In goes the pen and more notes are made. "He doesn't know your truth," she answers with another of those shrugs. "He'll tell me what he thinks and that's not what you think." Looking up from her note taking she smiles briefly. "I'm getting his truth. What he'll give. Maybe he put you here thinking you could teach these people what you want to do? Problem I think is your leadership qualities. Some people can lead some can't. Now, maybe you can but you sure don't give that impression." There's a spot in there where she hesitates, nearly stopping because here's more truth Miniyal might have held off sharing. "Not everyone is good at it naturally. I think you have to work at it and I don't think you're bothering too. Not when you can sit here and sulk and only do a good job when goaded by someone else and be an ass the rest of the time only acting like you give a fuck about your next tumble and bottle of wine. Work at being something other than an asshole and people will see you as something other than one."
"You got arms. I ain't tryin' t'get you drunk." He leans forward and with a flick of his fingers sends the wineskin slipping across the surface of the desk to her side, where it'll be within her reach. "If I was I'd have y'sit over here." But he stops short of suggesting this alternative arrangement. Such a gentleman! "No," R'vain says, a little bitter in a tired, turns-weary way. "He don't think th'same I do, no. And-- " Whoops. She's got him stopping halt again, and staring. Maybe it's the thick blue streak she's displaying? Maybe she's offended him? His mouth's hanging open. Can't be a good sign. "Y'sound like Sian," he says after that interminable pause. "'Cept, y'know. Rougher."
"Well, I couldn't /reach/ it, could I?" Miniyal asks with a weary sigh of her own. Of course, she doesn't reach for it right away, leaving the wine within reach and making a few more notes. Only when her train of thought has stopped does she reach for the skin and refill her glass. To the top and then she displays amazing grace by lifting the glass without spilling a drop. Well, she needs the wine. Once she's emptied the glass by an inch or so and set it back down she takes up her pen again. "I'm not this cheap, R'vain. If you want to get me drunk you need to use much better wine." See? G'thon knew this. Wrinkling her nose she makes a note and then looks up as all of his words sink in. There's even a weary sigh. "Abrupt." Said with a shake of her head. A curious light appears in her eyes, but she lets it go. Maybe she realises she's said enough? On that anyway. "And are you?" asked as she makes a note and then looks up to reach for her wine, looking at him over the glass. "Or are you skating by sulking?" She knows the answer or what she believes is the answer.
"Then I must not be tryin'." R'vain shrugs, but there's this bit of a grin crawling across his mouth. It crawls back off again when she says 'Abrupt' and his ruddy brows furrow, perplexed. Her questions don't help much; he's evidently lost track of the thread that they were inspired by. The question's a grumble. "Am I what? And what's it t'you?"
"Are you doing a fucking thing to change things?" Because the phrasing is what is important. The writing is let go. Instead she takes up her wine glass and sip from it before holding it in both hands. She wants to pace. Because there's so much energy that needs to be dispelled. She settles for tapping a foot on the floor and a finger against her glass of wine. It is not enough, however. The wine glass goes down again and she closes up the case, setting it on the chair by hers and then taking up her wine again and rising to her feet. Away from the desk and back and she's just generally pacing because she's trying to /not/ say things and that has to be stopped by moving. And wine. The glass is being emptied steadily. "What's it to me?" That's the question she settles on as she stops and stares at him. "This is my fucking home, R'vain. I was born here. I'll die here. The people you're training are what protects my home. Their reputations, your reputation, reflect on my home. There's not much I can do, you know? To change things. But what I can I will. I'm stuck. And it pisses me off to see people wasting an opportunity to make it better. Even someone like you."
R'vain slumps deeper and deeper into his degenerate throne. "And I am doin' th'best I can-- and better than I ever have-- t'have 'em right ready t'protect /our/ Weyr. I ain't wasting any opportunities just now. Y'see something I'm not doing? Y'let me know. Because." Slouch. "I want to know." These four words he enounciates with precision, then washes them down with the rest of his wine. "Weren't we doin' somethin' here besides bitchin' about how I ain't Weyrleader?"
"Yes, but you brought it up." Dismissing the subject change with a wave of her hand, not enough wine in the glass to slosh it over the side. "I was curious. I wanted to know. You didn't have to answer. You could have told me to shut the fuck up and we'd have gotten back to what I was doing. But you didn't. I'm guessing because you didn't want to." Head tilting to the side, Miniyal looks at him, puzzled. "I'm not sure why. Although you know, it's not so hard to tell things to people you know already laugh at you. Makes it easier so you don't have to worry about how they react. As for doing better now, well, yes. Now. But those wasted turns cannot be brought back. You've a lot to make up for. Simple as that. Still, back to what we were doing then." Finishing her wine she walks back to her chair and sits down, setting the glass on the edge of his desk and ignoring it. "So, tell me."
"/You/ brought it up," R'vain retorts, plenty curious himself. "You asked me outright so I told you. And if you want t'call 'em /wasted/ then you ain't been listening at all." His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare; his jaw sets and a tendon pulses in his neck. But he does not bestir himself from the deep slouch of his chair. "The first 'fall. I don't have t'go over that, do I? I aimed t'seat someone in his stead after that. An acting Weyrleader. Someone who could lead in 'fall. Lexine cut that off." A pause, a sneer. "Ain't never been able to figure what side she's on."
"Her own, I imagine. Like everyone else." Lexine she means, of course. Notes are made as she listens. "I only brought up what you started. If you listen real careful you can tell what people want to talk about. And, I was right." Just a tad smug there. A wee bit. Because clearly he wanted to say it or he wouldn't have. More precise notes are made and Miniyal shrugs her shoulders. "I do call them wasted. But as I've told you in the past, I know what you've done around here. The first fall? You do not have to speak of it if you don't wish. But let me share something." Looking up from her notes she meets his eyes across the table. "There's few people here who will tell me what I want to know without hiding it in some way because Gans and I are lovers now. I want the truth, R'vain. I think, much as I dislike you, that you will give it to me. As you see it anyway. Without trying to spare my feelings or worry that I will cause trouble over what I hear. He's fucked up. I know that. He knows I know it. It doesn't change what we are. But few people are going to believe me when I say I want them to be honest about him."
R'vain shakes his head, but the topic of Lexine-- and the topic of what he apparently /wanted/ to talk about-- are together enough to demand that he push himself up out of the chair and bend low over the desk so he can reach out and swipe the wineskin. "Gimme your glass," he grunts while pouring his own. "You think you're goin' t'stick with him when y'hear it all? I mean, he's got his points. But y'never know." A beat. "I wasn't there, y'know. Ground crew at th'Weyr. Waiting. When they brought 'em back, that was th'first I saw. Vasyath wasn't good either. I think th'story's that she took some of th-- " Another beat, and this one with a grin. He swipes for her glass. "Ain't what you wanted, though. Th'story."
She doesn't mind her glass being taken, having been in the process of pushing it towards him and jerking her hand back before she might risk coming into contact with him. "What I decide to do is my own concern." Miniyal glances down at her notes so far. Some more writing and then she looks up, speaking as the wine is handled. "I don't hold him above reproach, R'vain. And I am sure he has done plenty I would not agree with. I want to hear it." Such a lie. Such an out and out lie. But it sounds rather convincing accompanied as it is by a defiant tilt of her chin and a determined look in her eyes. "I want whatever you'll tell me."
"Suit y'self." As if he has so much to tell. He does, however, pour her wine and pass the glass back over to her, holding onto it just a /bit/ long as if he'd force her to take it directly from his hand-- then putting it down for her on the desk. Finally he straightens. Must build lower back muscles all the leaning over this desk he does. "They just made a mistake. That's what I saw, when th'dragons showed us. Mind, I wasn't in any shape. Ruvoth had t'hold it for me." R'vain shrugs, as if this is no big deal. He drops back into his chair after stoppering and surrendering the skin, more where she can reach it than where he can. "Still. Just caught by surprise. Careless." The Weyrlingmaster shrugs again, the old Weyrleader's trespass and resulting loss dismissed that easily. "Like I said, after that I got t'gether a group. T'try to seat a new Weyrleader. Lexine interrupted and it all went t'shit. And I'zul-- " He'd taken his wine with him into the chair. Now he leans forward and puts it back, expression like that of someone about to be physically sick.
That's a game she's not going to play. The glass is ignored until it's set back down. There are some things she can control at least. Once it has been set down she takes it up and takes a drink. Not too much, but clearly she's planning on emptying her glass sooner rather than later. However, there are notes to be made right now because she should be if it's to look like she cares to mark what he says for posterity. "Careless. Not quite sure what to expect. I don't imagine it's the first time when a pass starts." A shrug to dismiss it as easily as him. At least as far as he gets to see. Rather than talk she takes up her wine and sips, waving with her other hand for him to continue.
He slumps back into the seat and stares at her for a while, eyes baleful. He swallows a couple of times. "Truth," rumbles R'vain. "I knew I wasn't fixed up t'take it, y'know? E'sere wants th'Reaches." Not 'wanted.' Not past tense. He's too much a pessimist for that. His eyes fix on his wine, way over on the table; the Weyrlingmaster himself's way back and down in the chair. It's a long distance, and he makes no effort to gap it. Just looking. "I'zul wants anything he can get. I tried t'pit them against each other. Worked, a little bit. Lexine fouled it up, stepping in. Never got a chance t'get started good." His jaw protrudes, creating a petulant underbite. "They had a good grip on him. And on th'Weyr. Got t'hand 'em that. No surprise what he turned into, I guess. Not in th'long run."
"So everyone wanted it and was going around trying to stab each other in the back and now what have we? No one has it." Miniyal shakes her head and nearly smiles. Instead she finishes her wine and then makes a few more notes. Pen into ink and then pen onto hide and she writes slowly, smoothly. Without looking back up until her pen pauses. "He'll come back." It is agreement not question. "Which means whomever is leader after J'cor had better be strong enough to hold him off. They won't try too soon." The tip of her pen gets tapped against her lower lip. "Would he come back during the flight? Is there someone here who would find a way to tell him? With these stupid rules in place that would be the easiest way. . ." Trailing off she tilts her head and stares across the desk. "He'll kill him. If he winds up in charge. It will be an accident, but it'll happen. Unless someone strong enough to lead here wins the next flight." A shrug and a glance down at her notes, making a few more.
"You're injecting your own truth," points out R'vain, not very loud. For him. Not very smug, nor very smiling either. For him. He's quiet after that until she gets around to asking him a direct question. "Goldriders," he says. "Queens. You'd know. He don't have t'be told. We knew when she flew... there." And now he looks briefly uncomfortable, and then he musters up the give-a-shit to lean forward and claim his wine.
"So we need someone here who will, hopefully, win. Someone that the weyr will be behind. However grudgingly that might be the case. Someone who is from here." Miniyal smiles a moment as if something amuses her, but then she looks back at what she has written. "What are our options?" Shaking her head she sets her pen down. "If Citalth rises first. . .Well, it's a different problem if it is Tialith. But with a bronze from Reaches winning I don't think it would be so bad. The trick, of course, is winning people over to the side of those who are in charge. Or who want to be. It's harder with Lexine here. If we had another gold. . .not enough. Fuck. There's too much to consider." Ignore her as she talks out loud. Everything after her comment about a Reachian bronze is mumbled into her hides, like she's forgotten she's with someone else.
And R'vain? Is not working very hard to remind her. In fact, he's drinking, slowly and quietly, actually enjoying (for once) the sensation of wine hitting his tongue, throat and bloodstream. She could go on all day. But if she looked up, she'd see him grinning if he's not at that moment drinking, the wine glass' stem rolling between his thick fingertips. In time he does say, "Maybe Lexine'll pick a new golden boy."
"It won't be you." Said with surety. Because, really. Why would she? Miniyal blinks because she answered without thinking and then looks up. Grabbing her wine glass she empties it and then stares into it. "Besides, I don't think we just want another one of her picks, do we? No matter who it is. Do you know whom Sinopa is courting? With E'sere gone she'll have someone else in mind." Rubbing her forehead she then peers at her fingers, making sure there was no ink to transfer. There doesn't seem to have been so she lets out a little sigh. "You and Roa are not so tight anymore." Because gossip is good for telling you some things. "Might consider fixing that." Well, it's not like she has a lot of options here and she has to help /someone/. "Lexine will stick around and try to keep her hand in until someone tells her to go away." Miniyal, of course, would be happy if all Gans' former women were gone. Well, away from the weyr anyway. "Now's the time a smart man would start really working at showing himself in his best light." Glancing up she smirks. "Pity all I have to work with is you."
"Roa and I were never tight, Miniyal." Oooh, he uses her name. "Tialith and Ruvoth've been. Roa's just--" He grunts. And then he gets up. Something about the Telgari transfer's name seems to signal, to him, that this meeting is ending. He's even putting his glass down, leaning over to reclaim the wineskin, picking up and putting away-- and then she says that last thing, and he stops like that, bent over the desk with the skin in his hand. One eye twitches. It's a bad spot, and a grind of his teeth gives that away. "Fill your glass?"
"If that's all you have." Said with a disapproving sniff. "Really, R'vain. Next time I'll have to bring my own just to be sure it's decent." Next time. Miniyal sighs quietly. "If only you were smarter and I could get your story faster. I'm going to have having to come back and listen to you drone on the way you do." He doesn't have to let her, of course. After all, one has to wonder what she thinks she can offer to anyone who wants something. It's not as if she's. . .not Miniyal. "Roa needs," as if she doesn't notice it upsets him when she speaks of the weyrwoman she works for, "Someone who can. . .balance her. Someone who will be able to help me keep her from doing dumb ass things without thinking of the consequences. Now, I don't think you'd do so good at that, to be honest, but I think her having to deal with you would keep her busy enough I could handle the rest."
"If I know you're comin'-- " He straightens, because that wasn't an invitation to fill her glass, and besides, she keeps on talking, and he's got to be upright to hear her or he might fall onto the desk. He might anyway. Somewhere in the middle he has to put the skin down so he can flatten a paw on the desk to prevent any such mishap. "Roa," he begins, like he might defend her. And then he works his jaw back into joint and doesn't. "Deal with," he adds, like he might be offended at the very idea. And then he grins a little bit of a leering grin, and isn't. He laps his upper teeth, thoughtful, and makes that awful sucking sound, *tschk,* as he draws his tongue back into his mouth. "What kind of wine d'you like, then?"
"Sweet. White. I don't mind reds, but too many turns of being too clumsy have left me preferring something that's not so hard to get out of clothes." Miniyal leans back in her chair and having given up all pretense of recording anything begins to pack her things away. "Please, don't make me be sick." Because of course he's thinking things that would make her ill. He's R'vain. Somewhere in her brain she's busy scrubbing all the skin from her body going 'unclean, unclean' over and over. But, hey. Who said she was sane. Or smart. Or had a clue. There are things she should say, things she wants to say, but the words are getting increasingly jumbled in her brain. Not because of the wine, but because her brain is busy berating her for being an idiot right now thank you very much. "I know what you are." Which is said softly as she leans back in her chair, case in her lap. "I know what you've done and what you haven't done." Just in case he gets the mistaken impression that all at once she likes him or something.
His jaw drops with some predictable reply. And when she says not to make her sick, he closes it, then drops back into his chair. "I think you went somewhere different than I was goin'," he grumbles, but hey! She's at least right that he was going somewhere, and she wins for having derailed him. "Oh?" That she knows what he is. R'vain gets his glass and twists the stem between his fingers again, then puts up the rim to his mouth and sucks down about a quarter of what he poured. "I got a pretty good idea m'self, y'know. You ain't liable t'lose anything if you tell me. Besides-- " He looks down at her lap, at the case in it. It's a weighty, significant look, nothing ogling about it; his gaze flicks right back up to her face afterward. "-- I'll be tellin' you th'worst of what I got, if you keep comin'."
"Until you can offer me something good I'm not telling you a thing." Said ever so sweetly. "That's not the way I operate, R'vain. My secrets are much too dear to just give away." Really. Hands folding on the case. "They are all I have." She's being honest here. A brief glimpse for him to show she's being serious in everything that has been said. "I can't tell you how much I am looking forward to hearing what you have to say." Miniyal certainly sounds thrilled. In the same way one sounds thrilled about going to the healers when they have a bad toothache.
"A'right. When I've told you my version of history, you tell me what you've been actin' like is such a big deal." Because he really doesn't see it. He even shakes his head; there's a light in his eyes and a grin twitching his wolfish mouth like he thinks she's bluffing. "Y'done for now, I take it," he allows with another glance at the case. "And I should make sure no one else's tried t'set themselves on fire." A beat. "I'd know. Th'smell." Just so she's aware he's not wholly negligent. "When'll you be back?"
Rising to her feet, the case is clutched tightly in one hand. Miniyal smiles tightly and then looks down at her case. "Yes, I think I'm done." Lifting her head she looks at him, shaking her head. "I can only do so much. You fuck it up don't blame me. You hear?" Because, if it's not clear by now? She really doesn't like him. "Just. . .so we're clear. Got it? I'll be back in a few days. I have a job." As if he doesn't. Turning on her heel she heads for the door. No need to see her out.
R'vain snorts. "Don't order me, woman." But he's just sitting there, and there's no real ire in the words. If anything there's a trace of a snicker. This might explain it: "It undermines me, y'know, to th'weyrlings and th'Weyr. And you don't want that."
Miniyal pauses at the door and turns around. "Oh, not in public. Not anymore. But all bets are off in private. Or the deal's off. You need me more than I need you." With that she goes, out the door with her head up, case clutched tightly.