Who

Divale, K'vre, Sa'mael

What

No one died (spoiler alert?) but Parhelion gained one more rider to their fold…

When

It is afternoon of the nineteenth day of the first month of the seventeenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Sands, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 19 May 2019 04:00

 

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Sands

The out-of-doors of Igen Weyr seems a blissful respite from the oppressive heat of this sandy colosseum. Heated from beneath by volcanic vents, the air above the hatching sands shimmers, lending a sort of unreal, dream-like quality to the area beyond even the magic that happens here at Impressions. Despite its blistering temperatures, the sands are incongruously soft, almost powdery, and flat save for the worn stone queen's bower that rises up to break the monotony and provide a place of respite for the doting mother-to-be.


A new tradition — or maybe an old one revisted. Rhovvth has reached out to Lukoith and Czhaevth, wyldfire-laced seabreeze questing with a POLITELY WORDED please to be visiting the Hatching Caverns on the weyrleader's request, thank you. Kev is here already, with a crew of lower caverns workers who are filling every glow-basket strung over the Sands themselves. The pre-clutching inspection has evidently arrived.

Politely worded! From Rhovvth? Lukoith is immediately dually suspicious of a trap and yet too intrigued to push at the brown further beyond a thinly veiled feral grinned acknowledgement. Divale will arrive some time after the initial summons, still dressed in the majority of her riding gear though her jacket will be left behind by the stands. Brows are faintly knit, dark gaze alighting on K’vre with open puzzlement for once. “Is there something you need, Weyrleader?” Clearly, she is not expecting to be part of the inspection, despite knowing of the routine.

Hung on the edge of the abyss until Nasrin promised to secure him a place to stay — a lonely cave high above the bazaar was deemed prize enough for her — Sa'mael does as he's requested. Heavy footfalls consume the ever changing ground beneath his feet, and soon enough the bronze rider appears, rounding the corner that brings into view the tableau of sands. Czhaevth conveyed not the type of request nor context nor who sent it, it seems. For upon the visual identification of Igen's Weyrleader and once clutch mate, Sa'mael gives pause. Consideration or the mental fist punch to his life mate. It's a tossup. "Apparently," the sardonic lace to words dropped with the delicacy of an anvil lends more towards his life mate than the situation at hand, "You rang." A quick glance at Divale, curious. Nasrin's promise included only invitation, but no knot of consequence. Ahhhh, but the Hatching Caverns tugs at him through Czhaevth, and once again, his steps pause.

In the end, any and all polite wordings come from only one thing: the brutal exertion of K'vre's will over Rhovvth's. He never pretended to be a nice man, after all. "Ah yes, wingleader. Will you please join me?" He gestures with arms wide to the Sands around him. "I would prefer Parhelion to attend our formal inspection." His expression is not quite as animated as he takes in the foreign bronzerider: but there is a more reserved welcome. "Sa'mael," he grees the other man. "I would have you join our sands inspection, if you don't have anything… more pressing to do with your time." Is that a hint of particular amusement underlaying his words? Kev's spent way too much effing time with Divale to be picking up queues like that.

Lukoith senses Rhovvth is back to his bad-humour as he shoulders into those gentleman's quarters. « Aye, an' me asshole rider has another thing tae do, or so he's thinkin'. How does yours think of takin' the madman under her wing? Raja's told us that he's not like tae to back to Southern, an' why should he, they're a weyr of sweaty cunts, » BUT HE DIGRESSES, « An' Kev, stupid fucking man he is, thinks Parhelion can make an Igen rider out of him. »

“I am… unsure of what you’re looking for exactly or concerned to find if you require Parhelion’s aide,” Divale’s voice is slightly hesitant, to match the equally as mild wary look she casts for the Weyrleader. It’s almost a refusal on her part. Perhaps, unlike Sa’mael, she does have more pressing matters? Today will not be the day she tests those waters and some of the tension in her posture ebbs as she relents a fraction. Similarly, her glance to Sa’mael is just as curious and finished with a respectful nod. “Wingrider.” she murmurs.

Sa'mael's expression twitches as if realization that yes, the smallest grains of sands will infiltrate his purpose and tie him to this place. A knot of his own desire, but a knot all the same chafes when your only longing is freedom. Raising his eyes, he quirks a little grin, "Weyrleader," he drawls. It's done in a gleeful madman's way as if he ran off with the melting sweet ice and left behind the bill. That knot is not one he wants. Ever. "Why are we inspecting it? It's sand," comes the obvious, delivered with a hefty dose of dubious question. Sa'mael is many things, but an idiot he is not; he knows to how to kiss some good ass when it comes to the rungs of rank. A quick glance at Divale and a brow raises. "I've got all the time in the world," it is said perhaps to be contrary and in opposition for Divale's subtle hint that her time does have pressing things to consume it.

That intrusion won’t be bristled at and neither will the crass message that follows. Fire’s glow flickers across the walls and while there is no image of himself, Lukoith is certainly there and the implied wolfish grin with it. « Madman, you say? » He’ll absorb the rest by not commenting on it, but mutually agreeing. « If Czhaevth’s is vouched for, she won’t have much reason to deny the offer. » It’s a tentative ‘yes’, then?

Divale will be met with a look of utter reproof from K'vre. "Oh," he says, his voice deepening. "I would love to hear what exactly is so pressing to supersede your mandate of assuring that two thirds of our goldriders are safe on the Sands during the extent of their being sands-bound, wingleader?" His voice is deferential, attentive in the way of an asshole. To Sa'mael, he just shrugs his shoulders. "From the histories I've read, Igen heralded the Pass by their weyrlingmaster being violently killed and shoved into a well. I'd rather be safe than sorry."

Lukoith senses Rhovvth seems quite content with the response. « I'll tell him that yours says yes, then! » because that's how draconic telephone works, right? Or any game of telephone, really. Rhovvth seems just very excited to extricate himself from this whole dialogue.

“We implement the same plan, as we’ve done so in the past,” Divale’s reply is blunt and cooly spoken, dark gaze settling once more on K’vre with just a hint of a smirk. “At least since I’ve been under Parhelion. The weyrwomen are always safe guarded.” Confidence and question, both! “But if it reassures you to have me here as part of the inspection, sir, then I agree to it.” Either much is implied there or nothing, but she’s not waiting for that to settle. Divale’s back to giving Sa’mael another sidelong look. Appraising, perhaps? She clicks her tongue slightly, as K’vre dredges up old history for the bronzerider’s answer. “That was well before my time and yet it was a one time occurrence, I believe? And I know of no active threats towards our weyrwomen, staff or… leadership.” There’s a pointed look for the Weyrleader then in passing before she moves on to glance about the massive cavern. “Where are we to start?”

"Damn, that's some fucked up luck," Sa'mael whistles, noting the interplay between Divale and K'vre, but doing little more than kicking the sand. "I am sure it is safer now," he comments, slanting a look at the Weyrleader and the Wingleader. Lots of 'brass' confined in this space, of which he's incredibly good at ignoring. Meandering farther, he does call out with only a hint of belligerence, "Did they move the well, then?" Surely it was in the sands, right? To be a cause for inspecting it. "Or do you… post some kind of guard here? I seem to remember there being guards involved when I was a Candidate." To be frank, his time was spent battling against inner demons that had yet to settle upon chewing only on his soul and not his life. "I found it!" The sharp retort of explanation has Sa'mael fishing up a rock. "Good thing we found this." A joke? Probably. Sam is good with sarcastic humor. "It could have slain us all." But see, into the sands it goes. "Do you often get active threats to the weyrwomen?"

"It does reassure me to have the wing provisioned with defence here," K'vre comments drolly in return to Divale. "I'm also not worried about the threats we know about. Which is why we're here looking for ones we don't, aye?" his Keroon drawl momentarily deepens, and he starts pacing the Sands, poking with his foot here or there. "I think a standard grid pattern. Down and back, intervals of… every twenty feet perhaps?" He reaches down to grab a piece of ossified eggshell, blowing sand off of it to get a glimpse of what color it might be. "I believe the well is still there," he absently replies to Sa'mael, "But perhaps they moved it." Then his attention sharpens on the bronzerider, and he furrows his eyebrows at the rock. That weariness that engraves itself in the lines of his face? It's threatening to return. Not TWO of them! "Yes, we'll post a weyrguard." He nods towards Divale briefly and continues his measured stride toward the other side of the caverns. "And perhaps extra Parhelion riders." Because it's not like they don't have enough already on their plates, yes?

Divale’s smirk is both a touch tense and grim but she’ll reluctantly nod, biting her tongue on further comments — for now. There’s work to be done, after all! Serious work. Ignore the slight scoff of amusement for Sa’mael’s discovery! Setting off in quietly measured steps, predictably (to her) she will find nothing of note. “I would assume they’d fill it or, at the very least, seal off access. I’d not trust the water, if it were functional.” Do the records ever state how long the body was down there? Because that’s apparently what she’s more concerned about. “Extra Parhelion riders.” It’s echoed back, almost wearily; must they hash this out too? Normally she’s all for pushing buttons but not quite in situations as this. Still, the moment the words leave her mouth, she’s glancing Sa’mael’s way again, ever thoughtful.

"Awesome. Drinking dead man's flesh," Sa'mael pipes up, a sharp quip as sharply honed as a razor. Still, he's rather game this afternoon, trotting around the sands and kicking it up. Truth be told, given the lack of, ah, importance he feels to the task, Sa'mael is half-assing it at best. A kick here, a kick there; all good. Nothing to see here. With a pause, the foreign bronzerider lifts his head and squints at K'vre. "I get being paranoid. I've been there, done that before, but you really worried 'bout someone making off with the brooding goldriders?" He's experienced enough of his fair share to know they can't just easily flee, so in part, it's a serious question. If only in part, because there's still enough of an asshole in him to tread the line when not truly assimilated.

"It'll make hair grow on your chest," K'vre asides to Sa'mael. "Perhaps it was due to the fact that I Impressed around the time Southern had eggs stolen, but… I've always considered security to be the greatest priority." He shrugs his shoulders in a way incongruously elegant: "Sue me if you wish." His eyes are on Divale for THAT statement. "Hmm. You do seem to have a dearth of Parhelion riders on the Sands, wingleader," he casually says. "Sa'mael, would you like to rectify that? If you would join Parhelion's ranks as an Igen wingrider it would go quite a long way to making me feel that our goldriders are protected." His lips curve briefly. "If Divale will have you, that is." As it's a done decision to Kev, evidently.

Divale scoffs again, almost to a dark-threaded chuckle for the back and forth between Sa’mael and K’vre concerning tainted water and the effects. It’s a mood that rapidly sobers, when her gaze narrows. “… they actually pulled it off?” Now that will take a moment to sink in. K’vre earns a sharper look from her when he goes on to offer a place in Parhelion. “Are you looking to tie my hands in all matters concerning my Wing?” she remarks dryly, with a low exhale and a belatedly added. “Sir.” Not that that takes all the edge off of it. Shaking her head, she turns away and approaches Sa’mael instead; yet another near comical in stark contrasts in height that has her tilting her head up. “Not that I am against the idea.” Which clearly shows that no, she does not mind. She’s just going to add to the on-the-spot pressure on the bronzerider, while she’s at it. “We could benefit from some new blood. But,” A shadow of a smile, one that never quite reaches her eyes, is briefly shared. “It is your choice.”

Sa'mael hadn't forgotten Southern's woes, but neither was he really digging deep for them. It is a time best left to the hazy memories of first Impressions. That or he's just being a dick — which is also entirely possible. K'vre's proposal brings a halt to the idle kick Sa'mael was about to deliver to an offending mound of sand. Poised just so, he looks as if he's about to crush rather viciously a trundle bug beneath his boot. "You aren't?" the question is delivered first to Divale, a hint of sardonic question underscoring the statement, though Czhaevth is quick to remind him of the fact that he is a veritable beast against Thread. Coldfire blue eyes narrow as suspicion rises to the surface, pushing against the dormant rage. "Is it ever our choice?" he queries the air, the question layered with meaning beyond this month and the here-and-now. "I accept." Gaze flicks to K'vre, the man stuck with the shiny knot. A faint amusement twitches at the edges of his harsh expression. "Sure, why not. I need something new. Can't go back, gotta go forward. I'll be your man." That grin, ever widening, ever rife with the twisted barbed wire of a man bent on self-destruction also contains a bit of cat-got-the-creme. They might come to regret this, but Sam's gonna grab this cat by the tail and run with it!

"Never heard the story of H'kr?" K'vre absently inquires of Divale, lifting his eyebrows. "May have been before your time, I suppose." Tales of the wildling theft of eggs might also have been actively suppressed outside of Southern's borders — oops. In a more practical tone of voice: "I would never ask you to do something I didn't think you could handle, Divale." He obviously thinks the brownrider is MORE than up to the occasion of handling one blonde bronzerider. "Not my man," he tells said bronzerider, pointing at Divale: "Her man." Though his smile is unusually broad for the moment, as if he's managed to pull something off that was a vague goal and now executed. "She's much harder to make happy than I am." Sam can also be his man, but that's a topic for a whole other environment.

“Either before my time,” Divale confirms to K’vre, with another one of her shadowed smirks. “Or I was, quite literally, living under a rock.” It’s no secret that she was once of the Underground when it went under that name. There is more of that dark humour, as her focus turns to Sa’mael and she’ll subtly note those little details. How curious? If she comes to regret it, some day, she won’t be one to openly admit it. For now? Done is done. “He’s not wrong.” she agrees to the Weyrleader’s statement and said brownrider earns a belated look. “I’ll take some reassurance from that, then.” Simply and cleanly spoken, though her tone still remains low and somewhat dry. If the inspections are still underway, Divale will begin to turn back to that work. Not before she pauses, turning once more to Sa’mael. “You’ll join us tomorrow, at dawn. Lukoith will inform Chaevth as to the location.” Do not disappoint her — at least, not within the first week.

"Weyr's man, whatever." Sa'mael waves his hand to sweep his statement by and large. "Czhaevth won't fail." A promise lorded in the moment, writ in the heat of the sands until the sands themselves burn the soles of the feet. Pain and pleasure; life and death — all things come to a close and so does this moment. On his turnday, no less. Does he mark it's passing? Not especially, though he does beg off early as Divale and K'vre have but a small portion of sands left. In the shadows of night where nothing but treasured moonlight outlines a night rife in aching beauty does the bronzerider note the changing time. That, however, is not here-and-now. For however long it takes to get to that point, Sa'mael half-asses his way across the sands. Perhaps. Perrrrhhhhappps, just belligerently enough to make more work for Divale, but not belligerent enough to cross that line. Because why not? Divale definitely needed more riders to babysit! No? Too soon? So Rukbat closes on yet another chapter of… Who Died In Igen Today?

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