Who

K'vvan, F'dan, lots of NPCs

What

Igen's wings come together to discuss the Weyrlings in a civilized fashion. Not.

Profanity

When

It is the twelfth day of the sixth month of the third turn of the 12th Pass.

Where

Council Chamber, Igen Weyr

OOC Date

 

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Council Chamber

However disheveled the corridor outside might lie, THIS room - the sole dominion of the Weyr's upper elite - is always sparkling, ever swept, ever dusted, its walls scrubbed free of the grime of ages. A certain spartan grandeur fills the Council Chamber, with its foreboding stonework and heavy wooden door. A round table fills the bulk of the space, an ancient creation of fire-hardened wood, carved with the three dune'd symbol of Igen Weyr. Chairs surround: hard-backed things (with thin cushions) for the most part, but two grandiose chairs, on opposite sides of the table, that seat Weyrwoman and Weyrleader. The walls are lined with elegant old tapestries, depicting scenes of ancient Igen glories.


Late evening and the Council Chamber, usually silent apart from F'dan's shouting (or, until recently, W'rin's) is about to explode with noise. Seven wings are represented with 'leaders and 'seconds, like the world's largest sausage party with only one or two women in attendance — and keeping their heads down, at that. All of the men seem to be either cussing, laughing or making lewd comments, creating a cacophony of testosterone. "She might be a woman," a Hogback wingsecond says with a guffaw, "but wouldn't mind looking at those tits day in day out!" More laughter.

There is a lull as the acting Weyrleader enters and so many chairs scrape back for men to leap to salutes, but once F'dan has returned the gesture he's waving his hand at them to sit down again. "At ease. Let's get this done with." He even has a smile! A room almost entirely full of men: it feels like home. As F'dan makes his way to the huge Weyrleader's chair D'vion, the Hogback Wingleader, is given a clap on the back — the high level wings would be bros, after all — and the other 'leaders and 'seconds get nods. Including, surprisingly, K'vvan, so F'dan must be in a good mood.

F'dan doesn't sit in that huge chair, instead taking a small bag from his pocket. The neck is opened, the thing upturned, and out fall a cascade of mark-sized tokens painted bronze, brown, blue and green. On each a name is written. F'dan idly flicks a female greenrider's tab back towards the centre of the table before he looks up with a grin. "Gentlemen, let's begin."

With the highflights making a scene of themselves it's a very, very quiet corner where the leaders of Arroyo have settled themselves. Heavily female it's more surprising then not that K'vvan doesn't have a female wingsecond by this point after N'cal handed in his knot. F'dan's smile is met with a return scowl that manages to not be heated only by virtue of the fact that K'vvan doesn't let it linger. He's got two files in front of him- the official notes from Ay'den, and then a second folder packed with notes written exclusively in Sienna's hand. The Parhelion wingleader, S'doin leans forward and glances at the chip. "Delila, Amazolith. Shit, we don't need any more females." He leans back and casts a glance at Arroyo and Sandblast's leaders. K'vvan reaches for his notes- "Sienna has her down as solid enough." Resounding praise from K'vvan? Or maybe just as good as it's going to get.

There's a sneering sound from the Hogback end of the table too. D'vion and his wingseconds are giant men, the sheer muscle mass between them threatening a bronze for size. "Too young for top flight," D'vion drawls. "Don't do my cradlesnatching on the wing. Keep that for ladies' night at the Cantina." As if age has anything to do with Hogback not wanting a woman! Perhaps if the new Weyrsecond were here to inject some class into proceedings F'dan wouldn't be grinning quite so wide, but G'deon isn't so F'dan is. As it were.

"Right," F'dan says. From where he's braced his palms to lean against the table he raises one to pin Delila's token to the table with one finger, sliiiiiiiiiiiding it towards K'vvan. "You want her, wingleader?" Is that some unnecessary stress on that word? Perhaps. But F'dan's still smiling! Just an unpleasant smile. "Unless Tumbleweed's got an appetite."

That's the sound of K'vvan grinding his teeth together. "We'll take her. We don't f*king toss out talent." It's a direct challenge delivered in a quiet tone. K'vvan rises and reaches out for that chip on the table, his green eyes meeting F'dan's. "Royo's job is to get rid of thread, not compare dicks." That chip in his hand K'vvan settles back down and flips the notes in front of him to a new page. Even with the antagonism between K'vvan and the Tumbleweed leader (something about blahblah abandoning the wing blah blah), J'vran, the other man stifles a laugh.

"Gentlemen, we've got us a big one. F'in, Rhakanth's."

This time it's a totally different murmur that goes up from the traditional wings. Oasis seem to be out given their chromatic basis, but Hogback's D'vion is leaning forward — and F'dan is still holding onto that token as he looks to the leaders of Arroyo and Parhelion. Sandblast is ignored. Over F'dan's dead body is Sandblast getting a Weyrling wingleader.

S'doin is on his feet the instant that weyrling's name is said. "WE want him." His voice is loud and he'll challenge F'dan and D'vion straight up. "Good size, fits in our formations. Give the kid a chance to learn something from a real wing." Okay, so that chip on his shoulder is still VERY STRONGLY THERE from getting downgraded from Weyrleader's wing. It's been three years.

The scowl on Rhs'tak's face for getting completly ignored, is set, but the Sandblast leader doesn't comment on the bronzerider going somewhere other than a mutter of something under his breath. K'vvan leans back in his seat playing with Delila's chip and doesn't speak up. Arroyo's bronze population would be sitting at Zero if it wasn't for A'lory's presence.

There seems to be some discussion among the Hogbacks. Did one of the 'seconds just murmur the words 'culture fit' to D'vion? Culture fit? Who knew the Pigs could use management speak like that! But it leads to D'vion giving a shrug, a nod sent towards the Parhelion table as if to relinquish his claim.

F'dan's been busy as this is happening. Bronze token still held he's leaned back slightly, eyes cast over his shoulder to meet his wingsecond's eye. With a bromance this deep words just aren't necessary. Perhaps R'xim and F'dan are as telepathic as their dragons. Only eventually does the Weyrleader look back to the table at large, F'in's token set down with an unnecessarily large 'click' in front of the Whirlies.

"Sorry, S'doin. Kid's got some work left to do on the Weyrleader's wing before he can retire into obscurity." It's a good-natured jab, at least mostly, because a brown tab is picked up and tossed towards the Parhelion rider — a strong candidate, and apparently a peace offering. Is it time for another token?

S'doin snorts and sweeps up the brown token, slamming himself back into his chair as he flicks that token to his second. "When the kid asks for a transfer so he'll get a chance to make something of himself, I'll take him." There are a few green and blue tokens in front of F'dan now, and the conversation picks up the pace. Tahi and Rh'd get swept without comment into Tumbleweed, while a Sandblast ends up with a weryrling on the injured roster. The pile dwindles with a more or less even split between all the wings, Arroyo picking up a small handful. A fight almost breaks out between Oasis and Sandblast over one of the mid-level brownriders, one of the oldest of the weyrlings. Their voices raise as the insults dash across the table. Behind all of them K'vvan sits tapping at his notepad, wondering when F'dan'll tell the two of them to shut up

F'dan isn't immediately onto crowd control. They're big boys and can take care of themselves, right? A Weyr is like a family: you might scream and pull each other's hair, but underneath this is love. Or perhaps it's just because he's been busy going through the Weyrlingmaster's notes, leaning first to comment on them to R'xim and then to make eyes at D'vion as he mouths names. Are the high-flyers rigging the system? Disgrace! At least until F'dan's standing up again. He doesn't have a gavel so he'll just tap that bronze token previously claimed to Whirlwind against the table. "Rhs'tak. Heads." A nod to Sandblast. "K'shuk. Tails." Oasis. That bronze token he holds is put down again, a mark drawn from his pocket for the coin toss. Which means — "Sandblast it is. Don't make that face at me, K'shuk."

That method must be popular to settle disputes, because it's used again as the next few 'lings are settled before F'dan is grabbing another token. It must be a strange one, because he looks at it for a long time before he says very carefully, "Er. Ris. Sa."

"I'll tap that," D'vion says with a grin, evidently not referring to knots. This must be a popular opinion given the noises it elicits. F'dan, for once, stays silent and stony-faced. An old Whirlie Erissa may be, but apparently not any more: the blue token is tossed to roll along the table. Hopefully someone catches it.

That coin spins along the table for long, long, long moments. No one is quite ready to take a jump on the disgraced bluerider, the reason for her disgrace still not public knowledge. Rhs'tak sighs and is reaching forward when another hand beats him to circle around the blue token. K'vvan's hand rests on top of the token as he picks it up and rubs it with his thumb. "Danorath has more disipline in one wing spar then your whole f*king, since that's all you're good at D'vion, wing. She's been a rider longer than most of us in this room." His words have an edge to them as he reaches out to sweep up her token into his hand and setting it with his pile of tokens. "The Weyrlingmasters say she's at full strength again and doesn't show the same physical weakness as she did at the start. The shit that tore her down is over. She's Arroyo's." That statement is made as K'vvan meets first D'vion's eyes and then swings around to meet the rest of them to finish with F'dan's.

K'shuk, of all people, seems to have been idly considering that blue token. His hand has curled at the Oasis end of the table, presenting a little backstop against which the token may come to rest — but K'vvan reaches first. K'shuk's hand is withdrawn, his face remaining neutral. Not that bothered after all, apparently. D'vion, however, is bothered. "At least I do the fucking, greenri —"

Wonder of wonders: is this F'dan to the rescue? Surely this sudden wave of his arm is not out of the goodness of his heart, that being a quality notoriously lacking. "Shut up, both of you." It's his first real snarl of this meeting (which must be a record), the joints of his jaw bunched tight as he grits his teeth. K'vvan gets a jerk of his head. "Fine. Take her. Whatever. Closed."

Is it deliberate, picking someone totally different next? A blueriding boy, whom Hogback decide is "actually a proper bloke" and so his token gets tossed to D'vion. Next an injured green, who has to be forced onto Tumbleweed. ("Not over my dead body," is K'shuk's view on the boy. "Little bastard fumbled a sack toss and almost killed one of the weyrwomen.")

Next: "Jaelynn," F'dan reads with a bit of a squint. It's a long name for a little brown token! There is a rumble from one or two of the wings, but F'dan's face suddenly brightens as if oh, he has remembered something. A piece of delicately coloured parchment is pulled from his pocket, read, and then given a sniff as his face curls into a scowl. Is this shit perfumed? Who on Pern…. "Faranth's tits," he murmurs under his breath before shaking his head as if to clear it. "Mirage've got this one. Weyrwoman's orders." Which weyrwoman?! Not clear, F'dan folding the paper again and pocketing Jaelynn's token for safe-keeping before he's back on the rapidly-dwindling pile at the centre of the table.

Brown. Hmmm. And there's a deeper frown as F'dan reads it, the look spreading to a grin that is all teeth and no happiness. "Sawyer. Igen's own little wildcat." It is said without affection.

"If that thing goes near the lower flights," K'shuk remarks with horror, "the weyrwomen will get rabies."

"She's the one that can't even talk, right?" Rhs'tak scrabbles through his notes to find the ones on Sawyer. It's not hard, Sawyer's is bigger than any other. "Makes her mine." Because Sandblast = screw-ups, that's just the way it goes. He's almost got the token in his hand when K'vvan's voice breaks out. "Wait. Sienna's notes have got her showing potential… a little- and you'll just screw her up more Rhs'tak. Give over- we need more brownrider anchors for the transitions." And another one gets taken from Rhs'tak who doesn't seem all that upset about not getting another screw-up on the squad. But K'vvan's moving on, "That leaves, what, that bronwrider Th'bek… and Sa'id?" Still standing K'vvan tosses over the notes in front of him. "I want Th'bek." No uncertain terms there. "One of you f*kers can have the bronzer."

F'dan doesn't bother to hide the surprise on his face, brows raising in disbelief as K'vvan takes one for the team. The look is allowed to hold for a moment too long before he's finally nodding. No skin off his back, and perhaps there is a trace of surprise that a greenrider has quite that level of grasp on military tactics. Will the wonders never cease?!

"Pity G'os died in the Fall," someone remarks in the sudden silence. "His Bayrnth wasn't half bad." Wait — silence? Where has that come from? It must have emenated out from the tension that's suddenly sprung up between the wings that had previously been best bros. The way that F'dan and D'vion are looking at each other sends a pall over the room. All that testosterone, all that dominance, and they're sizing each other up like wild felines about to fight to the death.

K'shuk snorts, though the sound is faintly nervous. Perhaps he's trying to break the tension. "Kid who worked in a whorehouse? No thanks."

"Don't give a shit what he did before," D'vion remarks with a voice like rocks grinding against each other. "Clutchfather as a senior weyrling. Kicked the crap outta the Fall, even if it was with Arroyo." Apparently either he's totally forgotten about K'vvan or he wasn't even aware that's an insult, because it's said evenly. He's rather busy at the moment on account of staring at the Weyrleader, some deep animalistic dominance struggle taking place. Perhaps this is how the he-men show love! "He's one of us."

There is a very, very long pause. F'dan's body uncoils like a snake, bringing him nose-tip to nose-tip with D'vion. His voice is so quiet it's a wonder that it carries enough to be heard in the huge room.

"He's mine."

More bristling, a second when if D'vion weren't such a proper wingrider things could kick off — and then F'dan's leaning back, grabbing that lost bronze token with a sudden beautiful, gleaming smile as conversation turns back to Th'bek. "That's funny K'vvan. I want him too."

“Want.” K’vvan repeats the word as he stares down the weyrleader. “Arroyo needs him. We can’t fill our anchor spots with all blues- not all can make it through a full fall. Th’bek’s Tavuqth can serve as the anchor for my third rank without throwing off the rest of the wing by being sharding huge.” Because Arroyo has isues with dragons that are too big.

There is a sharp-sparking interest in the way that F’dan watches K’vvan. Perhaps he didn’t expect this of a greenrider, this canny placement of riders on the wing. There are several beats while he waits, thinks, finding Th’bek’s token on the table and taking it into his hand so he can flick it over his fingers. He looks as if he might continue arguing — and then, of all people, it’s D’vion who interrupts. His voice for F’dan is low, steady, and from the look the two men share it’s clear that they share an understanding beyond a working relationship.

“Kid’s your son. Why do we foster them? Beyond the obvious time shit.” He lets it hang for a moment before clarifying. “So there’s no favouritism on the wing.” He jerks his head towards K’vvan. “He goes to Arroyo.”

Amazingly, F’dan nods to K’vvan. Th’bek’s token is tossed through the air.

K’vvan snatches that token out of he air and slams it down on the table with the others. With Th'bek's fate decided all of the chips have been claimed by each of the wingleaders. It's not an even distribution by far- with Hogback and Whirlwind taking the most, and Arroyo coming up third, those three wings holding the highest rate of casualty. K'vvan didn't ever bother to sit down again after sweeping up Sawyer. Instead he packs up his files and shoves them over to sets them to one side. Rhs'tak looks as if he's about to speak to the greenrider, but K'vvan cuts him off with a brisk, "I have something to take care of." Shoving away his chair to give him room to move K'vvan shoves at Rhs'tak and stalks over to D'vion. Taller and larger, K'vvan almost looks like a toy next to the Hogback wingleader. "D'vion." Just that one word before K'vvan is leveling a sucker punch right at the bronzer's nose.

D'vion looks like a man who has seen more than his fair share of fights, but still that sucker punch connects with a crunch of cartilege, blood almost instantly spattering down over his beard. How was the man so underprepared? Maybe because he was joking with his 'seconds. Perhaps he just would never have expected to be punched in here of all places. Here and in front of the Weyrleader! W'rin was renowned for not being happy with his riders brawling.

But F'dan is not W'rin. It is not violence per se that has F'dan on his feet in a second, bracing one hand on each of the wingleaders' chests and shoving them back with full force. It's not a moment too soon: D'vion has reached one hand to grab at K'vvan's lapels and the other is winding back for a punch with the full force of that huge body.

"Stand down! Stand down! I swear on your mothers' lives, if you throw another punch in the council chamber I will rip your balls off and make you eat them."

Around them the whole room crackles. D'vion's 'seconds are braced in position. The other wings are shifting slightly towards sides. F'dan is in the middle of it all, spitting rage as he looks from K'vvan to D'vion and back again. "You want to settle this like men instead of fucking pussies we go outside and have a fair fight. One of you lifts a finger in here and I'll make you eat your teeth. Am. I. Clear."

K'vvan is ready to tear down even if the contest between the two men is more or less already decided. K'vvan will go down, but not before he's made his point. "You make one more comment about sticking your dick in my riders, female or not, and I swear D'vion, I'll castrate you till you sing at the top of the choir." There's that wildness in the greenrider's eyes- one that is familiar to those who know the greenrider's history. "Female or not, they're f*king fighting for Igen, or have all of you f*king idiots forgotten that? This," He waves at the whole of the room, "would never have gone down under W'rin."

"Try it," D'vion spits. "Go on, cupcake. Do your worst. I could —" And then very suddenly he is quiet, something telling him that this is the moment that he steps back to resume position with his seconds. That something seems to be F'dan, who as his arm has fallen from D'vion's chest as turned to face K'vvan instead. One hand remains at K'vvan's shoulder, fingertips pushing a fraction forwards to emphasize his words. His eyes give a curious impression of a brittle surface over something very bleak.

"If W'rin had seen you pull that shit you'd just have lost your knot, Wingleader." That same quiet voice as he used to D'vion earlier, finished with a tilt of his jaw to indicate the door. "Dismissed."

That quiet dismissed gets the rest of the wingleaders to file out, Rhs’tak, bless his heart, being the first to tuck his tail and run. His second follows quickly. S’doin smirks at K’vvan, leaning over to whisper at his seconds before they too take it off. J’vran puts his things with a bit more force into his arms, while his female second reaches out to grip his arm. This perhaps is not the best time for the quiet wingleader to make a stir. Instead the pair of them leave.

K’vvan doesn’t move. His arms cross over his chest as he goes toe to toe with the weyrleader. “And I would’ve lost it for good reason. My riders are mine.” There’s a wrap of fierce protectionism that does not match the skinny body of the greenrider on the nicest dragon in the weyr. “Keep your dick in your pants D’vion, and stay away from my riders.”

D’vion evidently has more than a few things he’d like to say to that, but he’s already on his way out. The Weyrleader says ‘dismissed’ and he’s not going to be the one ignoring orders. His ‘seconds press close as they head out through the doorway, already murmuring among themselves. K’shuk and his ‘seconds for Oasis are already gone. R’xim has, after a warning look from F’dan, made his way out. Which leaves the Weyrleader, still staring at K’vvan far beyond the point of common human decency, let alone politeness. It’s as if some thing which lives in most people and cues them into normal awkwardness is missing. F’dan might only be a couple of inches taller than K’vvan, but there are ways of being threatening without being a giant of a man.

“You’re right. You have given me several very fucking good reasons to demote you. Luckily for you, I’m in a good mood.” F’dan certainly doesn’t look like it, with that unnervingly blank expression and flat eyes — but it must be true, given that K’vvan’s still got the rank he came into the room with. “‘Dismissed’ wasn’t directed at every rider in here but you. Get out. You show any more disrespect and I’ll have your knot.”

It is very evident that he means it.

K’vvan’s eyes track D’vion’s exit from the room. It’s not so much that K’vvan is staying out of disrespect, but because he’s fighting his own temper. His jaw is latched shut as he fights against the words that want to spill out. A turn ago K’vvan would have let loose, but no, today he fights it back. The anger glittered in his green eyes brightly, no fear of the bronzerider there. It’s a hint of the demon that sits close to his soul- that he’s worked so hard to latch down and keep still. Battling that demon has him finally closing his eyes to take that breath necessary to say the words he has to say. “No disrespect to you sir.” Delivered through gritted teeth it’s the best K’vvan can manage in the way of words. A sketchy just-on-this-side-of-proper salute gets offered before K’vvan propels himself outwards.

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