0001-03-07 - Feeling Things Out

Alendis is nice, really. She waits a few days, gives the new wing time to settle in, and only then does she have her queen cast out a friendly suggestion towards the new wingleader's bronze. << Alendis likes to meet the new ones, >> she says. << Bronzes. We like knowing with whom we'll be dealing. There are so few of you. >> Lots of transferee browns and blues and greens, but bronzes not so much. << Is he free? Will he indulge her. >>

She has a reputation, Alendis: straight-shooter, larger than life.

<< It's her dice night. Come and join her. >>

J'rias has kept his head fairly low in these first few days. He's been visible, learning the lay of the land, taking meals in the caverns, but saying little beyond pleasantries: yes, he's settling in fine; yes, the weather will take some adjustment but the spring so far is pleasant; no, he hasn't yet tried said local dish, but let the recommendations keep coming.

As for Zhareth, he's much like his rider, if somewhat more silent. He watches, that big-winged bronze. Flies to the highest point and tests out the winds, a dark blip against the Igen sun.

His is a cool voice, remote in the way of mountains. <<He would be happy to meet your Alendis.>> He tries out the name carefully, naming the goldrider as a measure of respect. <<We would also like that. Tell us where to go.>>

Lycaszaeth is pleased, although maybe it is her rider that is pleased; it's hard to tell except that someone is pleased, and willing for that pleasure to be shared. Her instructions are quick and clear: outside the Weyr, in the little waystation known as the Midnight Oasis. Alendis will be expecting them.

Expecting them-- but perhaps not awaiting their arrival with baited breath. The weyrwoman sits atop one of the tables, her impressive bulk carried without apology or attempt to shrink herself down to more accepted dimensions. She's leaning in, crowding out the table as she lets her dice fly-- and lets out a whoop of satisfaction at the result. "I'll be taking that eighth mark," she says, her voice deep for a woman and also loud, pitched to carry. "Thank you very, very much."

J'rias arrives in short order, after a quick change into fresh clothing. He won't keep this weyrwoman waiting.

His crisp white shirt looks that much sharper against his dark skin. The brown leather jacket is off as soon as he enters the Oasis, folded over his arm. He pauses just inside to get his bearings, scanning the room, looking for women playing dice -- the clues picked up from Lycaszaeth, given that he does not, in fact, know what Alendis looks like. She's hardly the only woman in the place.

So, holding there near the door, a request is relayed: <<We are here. Would you share a picture, so I can direct him?>>

Oh, Lycaszaeth is amused by that. << You can't miss her, >> she promises. << Has no one mentioned my Alendis to you? >>

She's saved from having to share the image, though, because Alendis has hopped down off of her table, made a passing, outright ribald comment at her dice partner, and now saunters towards J'rias with all the confidence in the world. "You," she says, "Must be J'rias." She offers her hand, ready for a tightly gripped handshake. "Alendis. Len, when off duty, and tonight counts. What are you drinking?"

Zhareth isn't so serious or aloof that he can't be self-deprecating. He allows a wave of that sensibility to wash out from him. << Maybe, >> he suggests, << she cuts such an impressive figure everyone assumes it goes without saying. >>

The approach of the weyrwoman has J'rias turning, ready with a smile. If he's surprised by the sight of her, it doesn't show. He's shorter than Alendis by far, slimmer too, but at ease in his own body when he steps forward to meet her and shake hands. "That would be me. Pleased to meet you." As for the drink: "What do you recommend? I like a good whiskey, but I'm sure there are local drinks worth trying."

<< That may be so, >> Lycaszaeth confirms. << She is... unmistakable, my Alendis. What about your rider makes him unmistakable, I wonder? >>

Alendis doesn't hold back in that handshake, but nor is she aiming to incapacitate (something the strength of her grip suggests would be entirely within her power). "We'll get you a whiskey, but first you'd better have the local rotgut, just so that you can say you've had the full experience." It's some kind of tequila, two shot glasses slid across the bar towards the pair. Alendis picks up one, gestures towards the other.

"I wonder. Are you ambitious, J'rias? Wingleader."

That is quite the question. Zhareth turns it over in his mind, rolls it this way and that. << Perhaps, >> he says at last, << you will tell me, one day. >> For now, he keeps his own council.

"Lead the way." He is easy with his smiles, and the corner of his lips stays lifted as he accepts the offer, puts out a hand to indicate Alendis' lead, and follows her to the bar. It's there too when he takes up his shot glass and salutes Alendis with it, then downs the liquor in one go. Surely that's the reason his eyes shut for a second, mobile expression taking in the impact of the alcohol. With a little shake of his head -- oof, but that shot stings! -- he sets the small glass down on the bar with a click.

"J'rias," he corrects. "We're off duty, aren't we?" Are they ever, truly? "What wingleader isn't, to some degree?" He looks up at Alendis assessingly. "What have you heard? If I may ask."

<< Perhaps I shall, >> she agrees, easily. << Perhaps I shall. >>

Alendis lifts her glass in returned salute, downing it without so much as a wince. That J'rias displays some response to it doesn't escape notice, but there's no disapproval in the goldrider's glance; just a nod. "Whiskey," she adds, for the barkeep, and this time what's slid across is two glasses, each with a measure of a finer quality of peaty whiskey, clearly imported.

"We are. J'rias, then." She lifts her glass, turning it in her hand. The glass is cheap compared to the drink, but she treats it with care nonetheless. "Not much. You brought with you your little brother, also a bronzerider. Asked for his inclusion specifically, I think? What should I have heard about you, I wonder."

Zhareth leaves it there, receding, but the queen will surely know that he remains attentive to both her and what's happening with his rider.

"I did." A nod of confirmation. J'rias reaches for his own drink and brings it to his lips. "It was my prerogative, as wingleader, to tap some of the graduated weyrlings. The fact that the transfer had been negotiated doesn't change that." He's firm on this point, unapologetic. "And yes. I am ambitious." He acknowledges this truth now, grants Alendis the respect of his honesty. He's watching her closely, still, looking for her reaction. "It's why we're here, at the end of the day. Because we were outmaneuvered."

Alendis is silent for long moments, studying J'rias. It's not, perhaps, the most comfortable thing for her: she's clearly a talker, not a thinker, at least in most circumstances. "Because you were outmanoeuvred," she repeats, and this time there's the faintest hint of a smirk. "Right, J'rias. Come, let's sit at that table in the corner, and you can tell me your tale of woe. And what, exactly, you're after, now that you're at Igen."

J'rias bears up under her scrutiny well. Maybe it helps that he has a drink in hand to slowly sip. His shoulders lift in a shrug when Alendis repeats his assessment of the situation: what can he say?

Once they're settled out of the thick of it, tucked away in the corner table where it's quieter, J'rias spins out his story further. It isn't woe, exactly, though there's certainly chagrin when he admits, "Fort's Weyrleader decided fewer bronzes was to his advantage. I don't blame him. I would have done the same thing. There will always be challengers, when it comes to flying the queen." He's matter-of-fact about this, the jockeying for position of which Alendis herself must be all too aware.

"And now you're here," concludes Alendis, with a smile that is all teeth. "Ready to jockey after our queens, not to mention the one you've accompanied. The question is, what will you add to Igen. And that's not something you can answer for me now, let's be honest. You're all ambitious, you bronzeriders. Most of you, anyway. How much idea, though, do you have of what you would do, ambitions realised? And don't spin me bullshit. I've seen too many of you come and go."

A nod. No bullshit.

J'rias doesn't immediately give her an answer. Maybe that's for the best, how he sits and thinks about it instead of quickly spouting out grand ideas or boasts that can't be proven, especially when he's untested and unknown in Igen's eyes. "What would you do? If you had the opportunity. You know this Weyr, and I don't. You know its relations with its Holds and Crafts. What I would have done at Fort -- that doesn't matter, now. So tell me about Igen."

"I'll warn you now," says Alendis, unashamed to acknowledge her own weaknesses. "I'm not much of a politician. I look after the home fires, because if left to me, it would mostly be fire and burning and stupid faces punched."

That's one way to set the scene.

"Lord Keroon is a dumbass. I think his wife is a bit less so, but she's pretty much under his thumb. Igen and Igen Sea are a little better. They're all getting a sharp wake-up call, of course, but we've not had enough 'falls yet," with thread so infrequent in these earliest days of the Pass, "for it to really sink in for anyone. I imagine that'll be the challenge. If it were up to me, we'd be less complacent. Less compliant. Frankly, if it were up to me we wouldn't have traded for your little junior. We've already got an untrained junior of our own; what need have I for two of them?"

J'rias laughs at that, a warm sound.

"You don't," he readily concedes, when it comes to the gold his wing has accompanied. "If it had been me, I would have traded Lanelle for your weyrling, when she comes of age." He's thinking now, picking up on her cues about the Holds and putting it together with his own experience of those that tithe (or don't) to Fort. "I wouldn't stand for another rotting shipment or another lean train. We've had too many of them, and even one shows us how they really think of us. I'd require that those Holds make up for it, now." His tone has hardened, now: he's lived through those hard times.

"As would I," agrees Alendis, frank but not at least inclined to roll her eyes at the decision that was made. "Of course, more baby dragons is all the better, given givens. If we can feed them. Fort's had some of the same issues we have?"

It's not really a proper question: the answer is clear enough. "I can't argue with you." Won't, anyway. "The holds need to pull their weight. They get complacent, in the Interval. It's not the Interval anymore."

A small nod; it's the same situation for all the Pernese Weyrs, variations on a theme, and J'rias doesn't extrapolate on Fort's issues when it isn't asked for. And, for that matter, when it's no longer his problem. "Are your holds stepping up now?" he asks instead. It's not just a polite question. These details become the crucial stuff of life and death: shipments determine the wartime strength of the dragons and their riders. "How are the herds? Given how those baby dragons are likely to double within the next Turn or so. Have you had to ration?"

"Some are, some aren't," is an easy enough response to make; Alendis, sipping her whiskey with unapologetic enjoyment, doesn't elaborate too much on that. "Keroon's the tricky one, for the most part. There's a long history there, and it's a pain in my ass. The herds are in relatively decent shape, but that's mostly because we've been making the effort to breed our own as much as we can, rather than just relying on tithe beasts. You'll notice, though, how little meat there is on the menu for the rest of us."

"Nothing new, there," J'rias remarks wryly. "I think I remember what herdbeast tastes like, but it's been awhile." He ruminates over his whisky, silent for a few long seconds as he studies Alendis. Then: "Can I ask you a question? Since we're being open and honest while off-duty." The wry touch is still there. He knows quite well he's being tested, sussed out.

"I'm not much for obfuscation," says Alendis.

Probably she means: go ahead.

So he forges right ahead: "What do you think of your seniors?"

Oh, the things Alendis could say. Her pause is, surely, only so that she can take a sip from her drink, sniffing at the whiskey and letting it linger upon her tongue. Or maybe it's to marshal her thoughts, to tread that line between 'blunt' and 'too blunt'.

"She's old. She should have retired a decade ago, but her queen did want to keep on rising. You'll find I'm the one with fingers in all the caverns pies. I'm not ambitious." Lie. Correction: "I'd do things differently. Her way's not mine."

Also? "I wouldn't have put us in a position with an elderly queen, a mature one, and two mere babies."

J'rias nods, and his brow furrows too, like he's trying to read between the lines and figure out more than what Alendis is willing to say aloud. There's a frown, before he hides it behind the final sip of his drink. There's more, surely, about what Alendis' "way" would be, beyond different decisions about what queens remain in Igen, but damned if he can figure it all out on this first meeting. He doesn't press further, instead changing the subject to something lighter, more suited to this off-duty time. "It's your dice night, isn't it? I don't want to burden you with all this talk -- show me how you play down here in Igen."

If Alendis was expecting something else, she doesn't share it: not in words, and not in her expression, either, though she's not exactly an expert in obfuscation (or subtlety).

She purses her lips together, though, just for a moment, and then nods. "You dice? Good. We're going to get along just fine."

And if she can win an eighth mark or two off him in the process, all the better.