Going Home
Location: Telgar Weyr
Time: Afternoon on Day 4, Month 2, Turn 2
Players: Roa and S'lien (NPCed by Telgar)
Scene: Roa visits Telgar at S'lien's request, but it's the little weyrwoman who learns something.
It is late afternoon on the fourth day of the second month, perhaps two hours shy of dinner, when the sky above Telgar weyr has one more dragon in it, the chill of between irradiating from her downbeats. The gold emits a deep and brassy bellow that is quickly met by a variety of draconic voices welcoming home their youngest queen. The gold allows a lazy holding pattern as she sends the bronze Casterlanth a more formal greeting. We are home! is her jubilant introduction. Roa says your rider wished to meet with her once she was mended. She is well now, and we are here.
Tialith might note another odd sight as she flies in. In the bowl already is another of the golds usually resident at High Reaches Weyr; Vasyath's dark amber hide and heavily 'scored wing are hard to miss. And yet Casterlanth's response, his usual gravelly, steady tone, answers in the affirmative. He works, the bronze offers, a less than helpful response were it not accompanied by the image of the Weyrleader's office. He says to come without delay.
The young gold swoops down for a landing, settling lightly on a free spot of bowl, somewhat near the older Vasyath. It's only a few moments before the little rider atop is swinging down and landing, a little unsteadily, on the ground. Helmet and goggles are removed ad tucked into the straps, hair smoothed as best she can before she hurries into the main cavern and down the corridors that will bring her to S'lien's office. There, she hesitates again, smoothing her skirt before rapping tentatively on the door.
"Enter." There can be little doubt that S'lien knows who waits without, but there would be little telling it from his summons. Upon entering, the tableau is a familiar one, the Weyrleader standing before a table with the Threadfall charts for Telgar Weyr's coverage area spread before him, hands spread on either side to lean over them. Tall, athletic, with a fall of blonde hair obscuring the sharpness of his gaze, one might even mistake him for a hero out of a Harper's tale. At least until he gives his head a shake, clearing that fall of hair from his eyes, and a sharp smile curves, revealing the calculating young Weyrleader.
And stepping into that office Roa has, indeed, come home. The wall of shyness and timidity that had fallen away at Caucus has, in a matter of moments, rebuilt itself again. The girl's eyes drop down to her toes and she moves inside only the barest amount so that she is technically within the office. Her hands begin to wish they had a riding cap to squeeze and one lifts as if towards her lips, but is quickly corrected, pulled down, clasped with the other. "Good afternoon, Weyrleader," comes the barely audible murmur. "You wished to see me?" As if she had walked down the hall and not arrived from another weyr entirely.
"Well, I generally have some concern when one of my goldriders finds herself in another Weyr's infirmary," S'lien notes with a disarming smile, gesturing towards his desk and one of the smaller chairs in front of it. "Please, have a seat. You'll find the klah on the side table." Because, clearly, it isn't his job to pour drinks for women. He moves to his chair on the other side of the desk, an extravagant piece in leather and wood that makes him look all the more the Lord in his Hold, as he might once have been.
"I'm fine sir," Roa murmurs as she approaches the designated seat, though it's difficult to say if she's refering to her injuries or the klah. "Unless, would you like a cup, sir?" Because, clearly, it *is* her job to pour hot beverages for *him*.
S'lien seems to consider for a moment, then shakes his head, declining with a dismissive gesture. He waits for Roa to be seated before speaking, fingers steepling beneath his chin, eyes cool and sharp as emerald. "How was it you found yourself injured, Roa?" he asks, tilting his head to approximate curiosity, though there's too much cold analysis in his eyes for that. "I hear rumors of shelves and storage rooms and the like, but my aunt assures me no shelves of hers have ever disintegrated to the point of lucky collapse. Without help," he adds with a sharp smile.
Roa turns away from the klah and sinks into the chair, arranging her hands carefully in her lap. She listens to the questions, her eyes darting up, just once, to peer at the Weyrleader before sinking down again. "I don't believe they fell by accident, sir, but the matter is now being investigated and is well in hand. And guards have been posted to follow me and make certain the occurance was singular."
"Ah, guards," S'lien says with some amusement, smirking as he leans back in his chair. "Useful fellows, guards. They've always served so well." He tilts his head to look towards the doorway, brow arching before he looks back to gesture in the direction of the glance. "Outside, are they?" he asks, clearly expecting an answer in the negative.
Roa clears her throat softly. "Well, no sir. I didn't suppose it would be necessary to have one of them escort me here," she admits. Yep, there are her fingers. And look at how they twist and twist around one another.
"Well, then at least we may assume that whatever we say here won't be relayed to the leadership of High Reaches Weyr and their entire coverage area," S'lien says with sardonic cheer, that charming smile so out of place with the condescension in the words. "At least...I may hope so." He folds his hands neatly in his lap, gaze blurring for a moment for some message from Casterlanth before he continues, a sudden note of triumph in his gaze, though it doesn't seem to pressure him to hurry. "So tell me of the Caucus, Roa," he directs. "Tell me of the changes since it was taken over by someone more suited than that old Harper." There's a flicker of old, hard bitterness at the last, directed at the old Headmaster, though threatening all the same.
"Well, sir, as you know I arrived after the new headmaster was appointed, so I have no real means of comparison. But, the classes are rigorous and challenging, the assignments thought provoking, and the students...well...each takes and leaves what they will. To their own good or ill, I'm not sure." Because that's what he wanted to know, right? About the classes?
S'lien listens through the polite answer with a small, amused smile, fingers tapping absently on his thigh. When Roa seems to trail off, he holds another moment, fixing her with that gaze, before nodding and speaking again, smile remaining. "And what will I actually /care/ about, Roa?" he asks, as politely as if he were asking who her friends were. Although, in a manner of speaking, he is.
Roa swallows and again looks up, borws lifted high, eyes blinking rapidly. "Sir?"
S'lien continues to wait patiently, smile in place, brows raised. Oh yes. He's just going to wait and stare.
"I'm sorry sir," Roa tries again, "I don't understand."
"Ah." S'lien nods, leaning forward to mark something on a piece of paper. "I'll see you enrolled in more of the politics classes, then," he replies, unruffled, apparently not planning on pressing any further.
Roa swallows again and lowers her gaze back to her knees. "Yessir," she murmurs faintly.
S'lien leans back in his chair again, tilting his head to consider her. "Would you like to tell me about your experiences at the Caucus, Roa?" he asks, as though guiding a particularly dim child with infinite tolerance and patience.
Roa exhales softly and forces herself to lean back into her chair. "I've...met many people through classes and made several friends outside of them. Weyrleader G'thon has been very helpful and we've shared several discussions about classwork. I've been continuing my dragonhealing studies with the guidance of Weyrwoman Diya, and the Headmaster and I seem to be on pleasant enough terms." And then she quiets again.
"And have you met anyone else?" S'lien continues to guide in that same tone, watching with apparent patience. "Friends, perhaps. Do you have, by any chance, perceptions of these people? Thoughts about them? Their views? Do you have any observations of...anything? Or is it quite common for shelves to fall upon your unknowing self?"
"Sir are...are you asking me if I think one of them might have...have..." Roa forcefully closes her mouth to simply stare, wide eyed at this man before her. "No, sir. No, sir, I do not."
"Actually, I was asking if you might have thoughts in your head, or two wits to rub together and create a thought," S'lien replies dryly, examining his nails before he looks up. "And, of course, if you had the sense not to hide it if you did." That charming smile sharpens, an unspoken threat.
And Roa's gaze holds, a silent assessment going on in her thoughts. This man, compared to G'thon. This man compared to Sefton. Shells, this man, compared to R'vain. "Since I managed to return home, sir, my mind seems at least capable of holding images long enough for Tialith's use. And what lingering words manage to take hold there have been filled with classwork and dragonhealing, sir. There have been several particularly bad falls as of late." But now her boldness fades and she watches not S'lien's face, but his nails.
"Tallara has been mentioning an interest in attending the Caucus," S'lien observes lazily, looking up with the softer smile again. "Perhaps we shall have to accomodate her." That flicker of dragon-induced vagueness returns then, and this time he sobers a bit, straightening in his chair. "It seems you should heading back to High Reaches now, Roa," he suggests, reaching for a riding jacket hung on the wall and shrugging into it. "As, I suspect, should I."
It may take a moment of investigation through the network of dragon minds, but the reason soon becomes clear. In Telgar's feeding grounds, a queen is blooding, and the bronzes are readying. Even Casterlanth, under S'lien's iron mind, is chafing. But it isn't so much the flight that may be startling, as the subject - It's no Telgar queen waiting for the air, young and able, but the aged Vasyath, quite heedless of her age or the scar tissue that mars a once-powerful wing.
Roa dips her head down courteously, which is good because the look of utter shock that appears on her face is obscured that way. When she lifts her head, her expression is neutral. Bland. "As you say, sir." She rises, again smoothing her skirts, to hurry from the room as fast as she can without actually looking like she's rushing. She trips over her own feet only once.
Time: Afternoon on Day 4, Month 2, Turn 2
Players: Roa and S'lien (NPCed by Telgar)
Scene: Roa visits Telgar at S'lien's request, but it's the little weyrwoman who learns something.
It is late afternoon on the fourth day of the second month, perhaps two hours shy of dinner, when the sky above Telgar weyr has one more dragon in it, the chill of between irradiating from her downbeats. The gold emits a deep and brassy bellow that is quickly met by a variety of draconic voices welcoming home their youngest queen. The gold allows a lazy holding pattern as she sends the bronze Casterlanth a more formal greeting. We are home! is her jubilant introduction. Roa says your rider wished to meet with her once she was mended. She is well now, and we are here.
Tialith might note another odd sight as she flies in. In the bowl already is another of the golds usually resident at High Reaches Weyr; Vasyath's dark amber hide and heavily 'scored wing are hard to miss. And yet Casterlanth's response, his usual gravelly, steady tone, answers in the affirmative. He works, the bronze offers, a less than helpful response were it not accompanied by the image of the Weyrleader's office. He says to come without delay.
The young gold swoops down for a landing, settling lightly on a free spot of bowl, somewhat near the older Vasyath. It's only a few moments before the little rider atop is swinging down and landing, a little unsteadily, on the ground. Helmet and goggles are removed ad tucked into the straps, hair smoothed as best she can before she hurries into the main cavern and down the corridors that will bring her to S'lien's office. There, she hesitates again, smoothing her skirt before rapping tentatively on the door.
"Enter." There can be little doubt that S'lien knows who waits without, but there would be little telling it from his summons. Upon entering, the tableau is a familiar one, the Weyrleader standing before a table with the Threadfall charts for Telgar Weyr's coverage area spread before him, hands spread on either side to lean over them. Tall, athletic, with a fall of blonde hair obscuring the sharpness of his gaze, one might even mistake him for a hero out of a Harper's tale. At least until he gives his head a shake, clearing that fall of hair from his eyes, and a sharp smile curves, revealing the calculating young Weyrleader.
And stepping into that office Roa has, indeed, come home. The wall of shyness and timidity that had fallen away at Caucus has, in a matter of moments, rebuilt itself again. The girl's eyes drop down to her toes and she moves inside only the barest amount so that she is technically within the office. Her hands begin to wish they had a riding cap to squeeze and one lifts as if towards her lips, but is quickly corrected, pulled down, clasped with the other. "Good afternoon, Weyrleader," comes the barely audible murmur. "You wished to see me?" As if she had walked down the hall and not arrived from another weyr entirely.
"Well, I generally have some concern when one of my goldriders finds herself in another Weyr's infirmary," S'lien notes with a disarming smile, gesturing towards his desk and one of the smaller chairs in front of it. "Please, have a seat. You'll find the klah on the side table." Because, clearly, it isn't his job to pour drinks for women. He moves to his chair on the other side of the desk, an extravagant piece in leather and wood that makes him look all the more the Lord in his Hold, as he might once have been.
"I'm fine sir," Roa murmurs as she approaches the designated seat, though it's difficult to say if she's refering to her injuries or the klah. "Unless, would you like a cup, sir?" Because, clearly, it *is* her job to pour hot beverages for *him*.
S'lien seems to consider for a moment, then shakes his head, declining with a dismissive gesture. He waits for Roa to be seated before speaking, fingers steepling beneath his chin, eyes cool and sharp as emerald. "How was it you found yourself injured, Roa?" he asks, tilting his head to approximate curiosity, though there's too much cold analysis in his eyes for that. "I hear rumors of shelves and storage rooms and the like, but my aunt assures me no shelves of hers have ever disintegrated to the point of lucky collapse. Without help," he adds with a sharp smile.
Roa turns away from the klah and sinks into the chair, arranging her hands carefully in her lap. She listens to the questions, her eyes darting up, just once, to peer at the Weyrleader before sinking down again. "I don't believe they fell by accident, sir, but the matter is now being investigated and is well in hand. And guards have been posted to follow me and make certain the occurance was singular."
"Ah, guards," S'lien says with some amusement, smirking as he leans back in his chair. "Useful fellows, guards. They've always served so well." He tilts his head to look towards the doorway, brow arching before he looks back to gesture in the direction of the glance. "Outside, are they?" he asks, clearly expecting an answer in the negative.
Roa clears her throat softly. "Well, no sir. I didn't suppose it would be necessary to have one of them escort me here," she admits. Yep, there are her fingers. And look at how they twist and twist around one another.
"Well, then at least we may assume that whatever we say here won't be relayed to the leadership of High Reaches Weyr and their entire coverage area," S'lien says with sardonic cheer, that charming smile so out of place with the condescension in the words. "At least...I may hope so." He folds his hands neatly in his lap, gaze blurring for a moment for some message from Casterlanth before he continues, a sudden note of triumph in his gaze, though it doesn't seem to pressure him to hurry. "So tell me of the Caucus, Roa," he directs. "Tell me of the changes since it was taken over by someone more suited than that old Harper." There's a flicker of old, hard bitterness at the last, directed at the old Headmaster, though threatening all the same.
"Well, sir, as you know I arrived after the new headmaster was appointed, so I have no real means of comparison. But, the classes are rigorous and challenging, the assignments thought provoking, and the students...well...each takes and leaves what they will. To their own good or ill, I'm not sure." Because that's what he wanted to know, right? About the classes?
S'lien listens through the polite answer with a small, amused smile, fingers tapping absently on his thigh. When Roa seems to trail off, he holds another moment, fixing her with that gaze, before nodding and speaking again, smile remaining. "And what will I actually /care/ about, Roa?" he asks, as politely as if he were asking who her friends were. Although, in a manner of speaking, he is.
Roa swallows and again looks up, borws lifted high, eyes blinking rapidly. "Sir?"
S'lien continues to wait patiently, smile in place, brows raised. Oh yes. He's just going to wait and stare.
"I'm sorry sir," Roa tries again, "I don't understand."
"Ah." S'lien nods, leaning forward to mark something on a piece of paper. "I'll see you enrolled in more of the politics classes, then," he replies, unruffled, apparently not planning on pressing any further.
Roa swallows again and lowers her gaze back to her knees. "Yessir," she murmurs faintly.
S'lien leans back in his chair again, tilting his head to consider her. "Would you like to tell me about your experiences at the Caucus, Roa?" he asks, as though guiding a particularly dim child with infinite tolerance and patience.
Roa exhales softly and forces herself to lean back into her chair. "I've...met many people through classes and made several friends outside of them. Weyrleader G'thon has been very helpful and we've shared several discussions about classwork. I've been continuing my dragonhealing studies with the guidance of Weyrwoman Diya, and the Headmaster and I seem to be on pleasant enough terms." And then she quiets again.
"And have you met anyone else?" S'lien continues to guide in that same tone, watching with apparent patience. "Friends, perhaps. Do you have, by any chance, perceptions of these people? Thoughts about them? Their views? Do you have any observations of...anything? Or is it quite common for shelves to fall upon your unknowing self?"
"Sir are...are you asking me if I think one of them might have...have..." Roa forcefully closes her mouth to simply stare, wide eyed at this man before her. "No, sir. No, sir, I do not."
"Actually, I was asking if you might have thoughts in your head, or two wits to rub together and create a thought," S'lien replies dryly, examining his nails before he looks up. "And, of course, if you had the sense not to hide it if you did." That charming smile sharpens, an unspoken threat.
And Roa's gaze holds, a silent assessment going on in her thoughts. This man, compared to G'thon. This man compared to Sefton. Shells, this man, compared to R'vain. "Since I managed to return home, sir, my mind seems at least capable of holding images long enough for Tialith's use. And what lingering words manage to take hold there have been filled with classwork and dragonhealing, sir. There have been several particularly bad falls as of late." But now her boldness fades and she watches not S'lien's face, but his nails.
"Tallara has been mentioning an interest in attending the Caucus," S'lien observes lazily, looking up with the softer smile again. "Perhaps we shall have to accomodate her." That flicker of dragon-induced vagueness returns then, and this time he sobers a bit, straightening in his chair. "It seems you should heading back to High Reaches now, Roa," he suggests, reaching for a riding jacket hung on the wall and shrugging into it. "As, I suspect, should I."
It may take a moment of investigation through the network of dragon minds, but the reason soon becomes clear. In Telgar's feeding grounds, a queen is blooding, and the bronzes are readying. Even Casterlanth, under S'lien's iron mind, is chafing. But it isn't so much the flight that may be startling, as the subject - It's no Telgar queen waiting for the air, young and able, but the aged Vasyath, quite heedless of her age or the scar tissue that mars a once-powerful wing.
Roa dips her head down courteously, which is good because the look of utter shock that appears on her face is obscured that way. When she lifts her head, her expression is neutral. Bland. "As you say, sir." She rises, again smoothing her skirts, to hurry from the room as fast as she can without actually looking like she's rushing. She trips over her own feet only once.