Who

K'ane, T'ral

What

In which the Weyrleader is a big tease and sends his newest Wingleader on a potential wild goose chase.

When

It is evening of the first day of the twelfth month of the fifth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr

OOC Date 23 Sep 2015 07:00

 

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"Typically I give th' alcohol when I'm done playin' with crayons."


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Garden Terrace

Tucked-away and bejeweled, here is a hidden treasure of Southern, beckoning and beguiling those who may trod the entrance of weyrbridge: steps cut upwards, switching back and outer-railed, to terminate in a sheltered ledge of stone. Here, greenery blooms in fragrant profusion, scenting the air and quieting the minds of those who stroll amongst the cultivated rows of cultivars. Flowers, and tiny fruit-bearing trees limn the walkways. Tables and benches scatter organic throughout the rambling concourse, providing easy rest for those who challenged the stairs… or the craft shops beyond the scrolled wooden door at the innermost part of the terraced ledge.

It is the first day of Summer and 99 degrees. It is a clear night.


It is late evening. Most patrons of the Terrace have gone away, and the lights are dimmed, turning the covered garden into an exotic jungled locale, all draping vines and shaded flowers darkwashed and backlit by the faintest of glowlight. Among all of the forlorn and abandoned benches and tables, there is only one soul here this midnight-bell, sitting quietly in the dark, absorbing the quietude of the darkness. K'ane is still and calm, a mirror of the perfect-weather night, staring out into a vista only conjured within his own mind, faraway indeed from the Belior-lit clearing far below.

Unmistakable, or at least unmissable, the steady tread of boots on the stairs, then ringing bootheels on finely fitted pavers. They slow as they draw nearer the mirror-calm of the lone figure sitting in repose. "Romantic," T'ral intones as he draws up beside the Weyrleader, hands tucked behind his back in Renalde-like array of finely turned accoutrement. It is not hard to find a rider in the Weyr if you're a rider yourself and T'ral has a review of his first months as Lynx Wingleader to deliver to the Weyrleader. There was a light ‘fall over the Weyr itself today. He is freshly-scrubbed from baths after post Fall debriefing, hair still damp and waved with wetness. "We've got the… Sir?" T'ral notes the distant look on K'ane's face as he holds the folio out, it drops marginally, with the curious inquiry.

"Sorry," K'ane returns, his voice rumbling low and amused in a return that doesn't miss a beat, "Y'ain't my type." In case T'ral ever wondered. "Y'can leave it," K'ane gestures with a slight shift of chin to the table to one side of him. "I'm sure it's fine." He speaks with the bone-deep assurance that one can only achieve when you've worked around a person for a great deal of time, know their strengths, their weaknesses, their limits - their abilities. "It's a nice evening out, don't you think?" is what he asks, still curiously removed from the moment, his voice absentminded as if this conversation is quite removed from his mindspace.

'Don't knock it before you try it' is the obvious rejoinder. But… this is K'ane. He's likely tried several flavors of 'it.' T'ral sighs, a wind blowing through the husk of his soul, a hollow lament, "And I weep bitter tears each night." Hugging his pillow. Hugging Catryn's pillow, in fact. NOT REALLY. Totally. ONCE. Liar. SHUT UP. The report is left with a nod on the bench beside K'ane and T'ral is drawing up to bow and make his exit when K'ane asks about … the weather. He resumes his stance, hands clasped at his back, looking at K'ane with a keenness inversely proportionate to K'ane's remove. Small talk. T'ral and K'ane share a trait. Straightforwardness. The man's circumspection is curious. It’s one of those rare days where where cloud cover renders the night cool, almost pleasant. Southern Summer is being coy, lulling her residents into false hope of a mild season. "Reminds me of Benden, actually." The cool humidity in the soft breezes is like a caress on the skin.

K'ane has tried more flavors than he'd likely fess to — but then again. He probably would claim them all, the salty among the sweet. "Bitter ones, mm?" the big man questions, shifting minutely on his stone seat, otherwise not showing much response. "Mmm. Thought it was colder out there," K'ane returns, still abstracted, "But it's th' one coast I never lived on. Th' eastern seaboard." Western, yes, Southern, certainly, Azov, check. Not Benden or any of the other eastern-facing territories. "How are you finding Lynx?" he asks, still not looking up, though his fingers lightly tap down on top of the report as if he could pull out the information by osmosis.

Dry Igen-worthy syllables husk from lips that should be cracked, "The bitterest." K'ane's a pretty good straight man. "Mmmnh. There's a bit, on the cusp of Summer and Autumn," hands still clasped behind his back, T'ral's shoulders turn slightly, left, right, his head tilted back to better feel the air. "Where it's just like this," humid and cool, "As cold pours in from the North." It could be that it's more like somewhere else, but T'ral has lived three places. The memories stirred are of Benden. Perhaps it is the scent of one of the flowering plants. Or espaliered fruit trees. The carefully bonsai-ed evergreens. Well. There's a good set up if ever there was one. "Esanth, Sir," cough, "Serval Hide n' Seek Champion three Turns running." He lets that sit there. And sit. And si- "The Weyrsecond," there's the tiniest warble the aveolar 'l' he starts and the sibilant 's' he settles on in Cha'el's rank, "Left Lynx in good order, Sir." It's all in the report. But here's a highlight: "It's a good mix." Not 'they' or 'we.' Somewhere in the middle. "More adaptable than I expected." Bronzeriders. AMIRITE? T'ral has never had to deal with them. "I could use more blues." Becuase EVERYONE loves the blues. Right, At-man?

If only K'ane was straight. Though he leans more that way than not — most days of the seven, at least. He's quiet while T'ral meanders through his report, and only, finally shifts when the man's reached the end of it all. "Take a seat," his deep voice issues, somewhere between an invitation and a statement. "Lynx… has always been adaptable, if I understand th' written — an' unwritten — history of it accurately." He stretches out further, lifts his arms to knit fingers behind his head, thoughtfully. He leaves the topic alone, a moment, to better inquire: "Blues? Feelin' a little biased, T?" His words come lazily.

Brushing the report towards K'ane, T'ral folds down onto the bench, hitching jacket and pant to comfort before settling. It's the 'unwritten' that draws T'ral's eyes back from admiring the view of the bowl and buildings climbing the inner slopes of the caldera. The written records were interesting enough… the rumors about Lynx? As much as Serval will ever be knit in the fiber of his being, the very foundation of his riderhood, there's big part of T'ral that leapt at the idea of leading Lynx to crawl inside that mystery. Even so, they're tight, these Lynx. And T'ral has thusfar only scratched the surface of their potential. "Naturally. But bias aside, I've a disproportionately small complement of blues in my roster. I'd like some outriders with more stamina. Or a lot more greens." Cha'el transferred in a mess of them, they're just lying around for the taking right?

"Aye, well." K'ane acknowledges T'ral's point without quite committing himself to providing the wingleader with the additional support he's requested. It's all very vague. It's like he has experience at dodging unwanted questions or anything. "Start vetting your guys again," is what he chooses to say, after a moment. "I need…" He lifts a hand in the darkness, more motion-visible, the shadow of Belior's light outlining his digits as he counts on a hand: "..four, f — aye, five or six of th' most solid." It would help if he actually expounded, wouldn't it? "Least likely t' blab." Discretion is a good thing. "An' maybe you," the weyrleader tosses in, amusement rifling through his deep Paradise-accented voice, eyes turning towards the wingleader again: "If y' can keep your hot temper under check, maybe. Quit gettin' all riled up so easy."

"I have a list of pairs in mind, Sir." Because of course he does. "Also in the report." Because of course it is. When K'ane reads the report he'll find a number of trades the bluerider wants to make. Strange trades. It's like T'ral has some kind of Pernese Sabermetrics (he does) that he's judging his riders by. He clears his throat, coughing mildly. T'ral's attention shifts from K'ane's moonslit digits to the shadowed planes and hollows of his face. He holds up a hand, "K'ane. Sir. Just…" it's always going to be his first question — thank Ch'ael — when Leadership tasks him with something, "Everyone gets to observe basic hygeine, yes?" He doesn't look at K'ane directly, waiting a moment while that hand is raised. Then dropped before T'ral leans back against the bench and fixes the Weyrleader with a wry look. "Depends. You plannin' on kickin' me in the head again?"

"Y'know T'ral," K'ane idly comments, "Someday I'll teach y' the art of correctly politicking. Part of it is makin' others feel like you haven't out-thought everything they're possibly thinkin' of, an' already have planned for it." If there were more light, his look would be calmly pointed; but it's not, and it isn't. Well, it is, but T'ral can't see that. "Uh. Washin' and shit? Yeah, I mean, why…" Oh, right. K'ane doesn't follow-up with that line of inquiry. "You? Kick you in th' head, T'ral? Now why would I do that?" He leans back on the bench, and while his face is only outline-visible, the smirk is probably able to be felt. "I wouldn't want t' hurt my foot like that."

"I didn't think I needed to politick with you, K'ane." T'ral's tone is vaguely surprised, "I'm not negotiating. I don't have anything to negotiate with. What are we gonna do?" he laughs a rueful bark, "NOT show up for a Fall because you won't or can't get us what I'm asking for." This is T'ral's naivete. "I'm telling you what I think Lynx needs. How you get it to us," he pauses to allow, "Or if is in your hands. I can only see my piece." His trust is implicit. It's as simple as that to the younger man. He squints at K'ane, the accompanying slight motion of turning and the sense of eyes on K'ane is like to be tangible. Clearly there are thoughts churning there. He settles against the bench in a bit of silence to ponder the implications of what the Weyrleader is telling him. "My cranial density and dubious talent at politicking aside," T'ral wasn't picked for this post because he's K'ane's favorite, "What do you need?" T'ral really isn't negotiating, he'll do whatever K'ane asks. If K'ane wants to teach T'ral politicking some time, he'd better pack a lunch.

"Oh, T'ral." K'ane's voice is thick with fond amusement. "That's why y' start with me," he gently points out. "Test your political claws on me." Take the blinders off, T. "Early bird an' all that." Makes no sense, K'ane. MAKES NO SENSE. Or maybe it does. Then, gently: "It may not always be someone like me, or Cha'el, T'ral. Y'may need t' color… outside th' lines, t' ensure your people are taken care of." His voice is serious. But he leaves it, after a minute or three. "I want t' chart something. But it's… potentially dangerous. I don't know what we'll find." His voice is reflective. "Could be nothin'. But."

"May I say, Sir," the bluerider's tone is deep and grave. "You're looking rather clever today." Challenge accepted in true T'ral fashion: facetiously. "And, uh, virile." He looks at K'ane with eyes widened, eager, 'did I do good, boss?' The glint in dark eyes gives away his amusement, before he settles and looks askance at K'ane. A different thread in the man's voice for the guidance offered. Serious. Thoughtful. "I take your point." And, "Thanks." He does rather get hung up in just doing things. He looks back out over the moonslit vista, a bird passes between the Belior and their own stony perch. "A'wing or a'foot?" Or a'something else he didn't enumerate. "What kind of danger?"

"Ha," K'ane snorts at T'ral's commentary: "I said politickin', wingleader, not toadyin'." Apparently there is, in fact, a differentiation between the two! The big man is quiet in the moonlight. "Both," he says, after a moment, quiet. "Dunno. Maybe neither." There's only teeth gleaming for a moment, wry and dangerous both. "Depends on if you run into any sweepriders." It's like pulling teeth, isn't it T'ral.

T'ral's grin is broad, "Now, see, if I was really smart, I'd be able to say I said that on purpose so you could correct me." But he's not saying that's what happened. Or is he? (He isn't) No, he just laughs. "I'll need a digram. And a drink. And some crayons." T'ral would totally make flowcharts with crayons while intoxicated. (coughHAScough) They're more flow-y that way. "Stars forfend we ever have a Weyrleader who wants toadies." Lynx will be fine if T'ral has anything to say about it. He waits patiently, letting K'ane reel out the suspense. Sweepriders! Hard blink. "How long am I supposed to let you tease before I press for all the detail? Or are you seeing what questions I'll ask. Or how long I'll let you dance around?" His brows tick up and down, "Yanno, politicking-ly speaking." Half-joking, half-serious.

"Crayons an' alcohol?" K'ane shifts over to glance at T'ral: "Typically I give th' alcohol when I'm done playin' with crayons." Did he just insinuate that he gives a little vodka to ensure his kids go to sleep on time? … … … maybe. "I want t' map th' Northern wastes," is what he says, after a moment. "Consider it a," and here he pauses, choosing his words carefully, "… warm up." And there he allows his words to cease, though his grin continues on, scarcely seen in the moonlight.

K'ane's potentially dubious (or genius) parenting aside, the Weyrleader has his wingleader's attention, "Not very warm." For a warm up. T'ral's dry observation is distracted as gears are already spinning up in his head. He gives himself a shake and turns to look at K'ane, "What are we looking for?" He squints a bit in the dim light, he can't tell if that's a grin or not. There's a narrowed, weighing look as T'ral turns the focal point of his eyes to a nearby paver to let the bit of his vision better at seeing in the dark take in the bronzerider's body language.

"No," K'ane agrees. "Not very warm." He leans back further on the stone bench he's claimed as his own, and his voice is placid when he says, "I think you'll see it when y' see it." There's a beat: "If y'see it," tacked on, amended, clarified. He's just an asshole at this point, let's be real. "It's probably up in th' northernmost reaches, up by th' north pole, if it's anywhere. Hard terrain, but easy flyin' for people adjusted t' Southern Barrier, I'd think."

T'ral is quiet a long moment. "Is that all you're going to tell me?" T'ral tongues the back of his teeth and regards the man across from him, eyes shadowed in dark sockets.

A decision made. "For now," K'ane confirms. "There are things to be found an' places t' be explored. But I need a dry run to ensure confidentiality is a thing that'll actually work."

"Ah. I see." T'ral nods. "A test." There's a long moment, "You are a horrible tease, Sir." If he does say so himself. "Is there anything else?" The bluerider sits forward, running down a list of riders he'd entrust with such a mission. A number of them aren't in Lynx. He hitches, pulling his coat free from under him, "Is part of this test keeping things in the Wing?" Because there are an AWFUL lot of miscreants about and T'ral will avail himself.

"I am," K'ane allows - admits - owns, his lips twisting to a side. And then he creaks up to his feet, one hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck, as if there is something that pains him there, a strain from the day finally felt. "Lynx-only, for now. Might as well not set y' silence up t' fail. The smaller th' circle th' better-off you'd be, I'd think." He rubs his chin. "But if y' run into issues… come talk t' me."

The bluerider levers up when K'ane does, still watching him in periphery, still trying to get a sense of just how much ass-millinery is afoot from tone and tension in the big man's voice, frame. "Yes, Sir." In the family for now. T'ral's brow knits with concern at the strain assensed in that pinch of Ox neck. He cocks his head speculatively, adding a quiet, "Likewise." He bows a bit, more an inclination of his head and a gathering intent to depart. "If there's nothing else, I'll get right on this, Sir."

While broad an Ox may be, wide also frequently are their burdens, and the many yokes upon this particular one doubtlessly leave marks if not bruises. "Sounds like a plan, T'ral." K'ane's voice finally sounds weary instead of fey-amused, and he inclines his chin: "I'll send over the particular areas I'm interested in havin' mapped out, though I'll trust you t' use your fine judgment on the scope of th' rest of it."

What is it farm folk say? 'Many hands make lighter work.' That and something about the importance of crop-rotation? T'ral backpedals a step or two and pauses looking at the Weyrleader, noting the weariness surfaced in his voice. "The finest judgment I can muster, Sir." Very dry, the tone. He holds up forestalling hands, "Which is relative, yes," he holds up forestalling palms, "but entirely sufficient." Hopefully. T'ral is not worried. Though maybe he should be. "G'night, K'ane." T'ral nods again and dips. Like, literally, spinning away and boots rattling on the stones leading down to the Bowl. Probably should also send someone with 'stealth advice' along with those charts, K'ane. Some time the next seven, to the Weyrleader's desk, a small package is delivered: a shot glass and a big damn box of crayons.

Thoughtfully, K'ane will drink out of that shot-glass (washing it first in case of mystery poisons, SORRY T'RAL) and then sit down with his kids and add another layer of murals onto the walls of his weyr.

It's flattering that K'ane thinks T'ral might have that much spy game. Or maybe K'ane is just afraid the bluerider is someone's patsy (beside K'ane's). Folk DO like to get poisoned hereabouts.

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