Pie Crust? Financial Trust? Excuses.

Xanadu Weyr - Weyrleaders' Office
Office and retreat, this is the domain of Xanadu's Weyrleaders. The door is in the southern wall, quite close to the western end while the northern wall is dominated by big, expansive windows, framed by sumptuous deep blue drapes edged with a brilliant gold braid and tied back with a thick rope of braided gold and blue cord. In between, the western wall is covered floor to ceiling with shelves that house all sorts of records, manuals and supplies that are used on a day-to-day basis.
The southern wall has the Weyrleader's desk — plain fellis wood, well polished and masculine. From behind his desk, the Weyrleader can look straight through the windows and out onto the main airspace of Xanadu. The eastern wall is where the Weyrwoman's desk resides: a lovely piece of furniture made of warm cherry wood. From her seat, a glance sideways gives her an equally good prospect out the window. There are a few other seats, some comfortably arranged around a low round table for small, informal meetings while there also some that can be drawn up to one of the desks.
On the west side of the door, the space is occupied by a low oblong table where refreshments can be set without someone needing to intrude. There is also an 'incoming' tray where incoming correspondence or similar items can be left.

It is the nicest of days in Xanadu The sky is clear. The air is warm. The sun is shining. It is a perfect day for going to the beach! Which is exactly what Alexa intends to do, right after her task is completed. Why else would she volunteer for a job that could just as easily have been done via Firelizard, or even dragon (she's delivering a letter. That's it. It's not even a very important letter)? But, with Fort fully consumed by snow and ice and winter, one must do what one must do, to get a bit of sun. And if that means seizing a flimsy excuse to visit a southern Weyr, and then casually electing to stick around a bit "to be polite" afterward, well… it's a hard job, but someone's gotta do it? Raaneth, lounging in the meadow, is perhaps not as pleased with her rider's pretense for being here, but she's not so bothered that she'll make a fuss about it. She's said her hello's (a great deal more quietly than Leirith likely returned it) and has found herself a nice, sunny spot to settle down and soak up the rays while Alexa scurries around trying to deliver her letter. Because gosh-darn-it why are people not where they're supposed to be? After the fifth failed attempt, she's rounding the corner on a hallway that looks suspiciously like the sort she's probably not supposed to be wandering down without invitation or escort, and promptly knocking on office doors until she finds one that is occupied. LOOK. Listen. Alexa is a lot of things, but smart is not always one of them.

To be sure, Raaneth's greeting was met with a dizzying cacophony of thrumming bass and bombastic sound. THERE WERE A LOT OF MENTAL CAPSLOCK and little sense to be had from the Senior Queen of Xanadu Weyr (and how she maintains her metaphorical crown is anybody's best guess, though rumor has it that Xanadu's Weyrleader swept through ranks and fired everybody who'd questioned it turns ago when he came into his highly coveted (and for him, unwanted) knot). Maybe nobody is where they're supposed to be because they're fleeing from the monstrous audacity of having to deal with two dragons without any compunctions about invading everybody's thoughts these days, but the reality is probably just that they're busy. Risali certainly is, and given that R'hyn's desk sits empty catty-corner to hers, it's probably safe to say that the Weyrleader is too. What Risali is not is a paragon of professionalism. She's in her office, sure, but where there should be a woman sitting proud-backed and high-chinned, there is only a pile of blankets and what looks suspiciously like a (tiny, fierce, focused-and-failing at whatever it is that she's doing) Weyrwoman attempting to decipher the puzzle of words laid out for her on paper. She does look up when that knock comes on her door, but not quick enough to bar the temper borne on words of, "Did R'hyn send you? Because I swear on every egg that has ever shelled in this Weyr, if he asks me for that file one more — " Grey eyes are slow to blink to Alexa's face, slower still to regain some sort of composure, as annoyance shifts to mild surprise on her face. "Oh," comes intelligently, and without one single iota of the authoritative dignity probably expected from the weyr's top woman-in-charge. "Hi. Uhm…" A beat, and then… "May I help you?" Don't mind Risali pulling her klah-filled mug closer to her person; despite all the posturing, she certainly doesn't think that Alexa came to rob her of her energy-giving juice. … Though she may be trying to hide behind it. "… R'hyn didn't actually send you, did he?"

Alexa is probably wishing she'd paid a little more attention to the (undoubtedly very specific and perfectly understandable) instructions give to her when she accepted this excuse to go to the beach errand, because running into the Weyrwoman was definitely not part of the plan. But she recovers fast enough to plaster a friendly-but-empathetic smile on her face as she returns that temper-borne inquiry with, "Sorry, no," because alas, R'hyn did not send her. And then just as quickly there's a "Sorry to interrupt," that doesn't sound that sorry. Or at least, it is not as sorry as it probably should be given who it is she's interrupting. "Alexa," is offered at that 'uhm'. "From Fort. Raaneth's… rider." Which sounds a little funny to Alexa, but maybe that's because she put it all in the wrong order. "Are you cold? I mean. You look cozy as heck but that's a lot of blankets," is probably not a thing she should say either, but oh well, she's said it. A beat later and she recalls that she's actually here for a task and was asked a question about it. "Oh! Oh. Uhm. I'm looking for…" A squint at the letter in her hand but whatever's written seems to be either illegible or unpronounceable because after a bit of squinting and attempts at sounding it out, she gives up and declares, "A guy about a pie crust." It's actually about a financial trust but whatever.

If Alexa was looking for a Weyrwoman interested in deference earned simply because of a title, she came to the wrong weyr. Risali's confusion draws her brows in, those grey eyes taking in Alexa as she speaks as if making connections to faces she should know and — "Ah," comes on the same breath that Fort's Junior Queenrider uses to introduce herself. But Risali, in an equal lack of manners, still does nothing to correct her form, to offer up the simple respect it would take to not be a blanketed heap sitting amid a mess of papers sprawled in chaotic discord across the spanse of her desk. "Well met, Alexa," comes hushed even as she lifts a swatch of fabric and drops her grey eyes, tasking them with its inspection. Is she cold? "I'm hiding." NOT VERY EFFECTIVELY, IT WOULD SEEM. Or so says that sigh as Risali shrugs out from beneath her mountain of comfort. AT LEAST SHE STILL HAS THE KLAH. "But it seems I'm found, so that party's over." The quiet smile complementing those words harbors amusement, a manifestation of irreverent mischief that pulls at one corner of her lips and lingers in the set of her eyes. At least it does, right up until Alexa's last about needing to see somebody about a pie crust has it guttering out. "Don't tell me V'ayn poisoned somebody again." LOOK. V'ayn hasn't poisoned ANYBODY and this is a TOTAL DEFAMATION OF CHARACTER, but Risali will never forgive him for that one time he fed her disgusting things while she was pregnant. "Actually, don't answer that yet. I haven't had enough klah and I really don't want to know. R'hyn does though. We can deliver that complaint to him along with his file. How are Inri and Th'ero doing? Are they well?" The answer should probably be obvious to the woman weyrmated to the latter's son, BUT HERE WE ARE.

There is no upset taken over the supposed lack of manners. Honestly, Alexa probably didn't notice that they seemed to be lacking (which is good, given she, herself, seems to be forgetting hers somewhat). Weyromen in blankets seem perfectly fine to her. Heck, she'd probably love to be in a pile of blankets right now. Actually, she'd love to be stretched out on the beach beneath the sun, but back home where it's winter she'd absolutely love a pile of blankets to burrow in. Or. Hide in. "Ahhhh," is a little less certain than it could be, but there is equal parts confusion and amusement in that one little word. "I mean, it probably would have worked," she allows. "If you hadn't spoken. Blankets don't usually talk." In case Risali was unaware of this. "And also. I mean. If you really wanted to hide, I'm not sure hiding in your office is the best place." Don't mind her! Just a foreign junior advising a senior weyrwoman how to properly hide from responsibilities and stuff. "Hmmmm," comes with another squint down at the note she's clearly rumpled beyond recognition (and undoubtedly smeared with sweaty hands). "I don't think it says V'ayn. And, I don't see the word 'poison' anywhere. Or, well, maybe that one was… Eh. I'm sure it's fine." And thus, the note gets shoved into her pocket and relegated as 'irrelevant'. She came. She tried. She failed. No one died so it's all good. "Oh! They're… good." That's super confident sounding, yup. "I mean. Inri is good, for sure. And Th'ero is… Well. Th'ero." And here comes a very terrible impersonation of the Fortian Weyrleader's stoic glower (can glowers be stoic? They are now). "I'm sure you've met him." Does Alexa know of this connection between Weyrwoman and Weyrleader? Surely it's not a secret, but just how much does she read up about foreign pairings? "But he's not like, sick or anything." Was that a concern? Maybe Alexa should stop talking.

Risali laughs, a hush of quiet laughter, suppressed too quickly to be more than a huff of amusement despite the way it lingers on her lips and in the set of her eyes. But she doesn't pursue talk of blankets and just how effective camouflage they might be were Risali to forgo speech once beneath them; instead the weyrwoman allows Alexa to attempt another reading, to discard the note meant for her weyr (in some capacity), and while those grey eyes linger on the pocket it's been shoved into like so much discarded trash, the weyrwoman only looks more amused when the conversation turns to Fort's leaders. "Many times," she acknowledges. "So his head healed up alright?" You know, from when he WENT AND GOT HIMSELF BLOWN UP alongside her Weyrleader. "That's good to know." But Risali's hand comes out to lay flat across the spanse of her desk, palm up, fingers flexing open and close in the universal sign for, 'gimme'. "Let's see if we can't figure out what your letter actually said, hmm? I can at least point you in the right direction, if nothing else." And join her on the walk there if all goes well, probably to have an excuse so that she can actually escape the mundane repetitiveness of endless paperwork.

"Define 'alright'?" The quirk of her lips gives the tease away, if it wasn't already obvious. "It's still attached, at least." Which is the important part, yes? "He's alive. He's been working and walking around." Shrug. "Seems fine to me." It could be that Alexa doesn't really know if Th'ero is okay and, rather than confess as much, she's opted for quips and dismissal, an air of 'it's probably fine' in the little flap of her hand that seems to brush aside the topic of her Weyrleader (one would think she'd be more invested but, well. Maybe not). It's the 'gimme' fingers that have her grimacing a little, a flash of something like chastisement across her face as she dutifully steps forward and fishes the note from her pocket once more. It's crumbled up good, though Alexa will be quick to say, "It was handed to me like that," to explain it. "I fold things." She tried to fold this, too. It's not much of a note; about a quarter of a typical 'sheet' of paper, torn off from something else and written with quick little scribbles, hastily written by someone who didn't seem to care overmuch if it would be legible to the recipient. If successfully deciphered, it will reveal itself to be little more than a solicitation to discuss a financial trust with whomever it was intended for (a pernese version of cold calling, perhaps?).

Risali's answering smile is irreverent at best, the Senior Weyrwoman's lips pulling sideways before she clears her throat and drawls (with bored disdain, might we add), "I suppose you can define, 'alright' as his Lord Broody McBroodpants still having it in him to be detached and broody." … Did she just adopt Th'ero's tones, his cadence, to MOCK HIM BEFORE HIS JUNIOR? Yes, yes she did; more than that, Risali is unapologetic about it, huffing a soft laugh that lives the span of her exhale and fades again. "Walking is important," she notes, and then it comes time to reveal the contents of that letter. Risali watches Alexa's face, the manner in which she retrieves that parchment, and her expression softens, becomes something muted and apologetic, rife with sympathy, something redirected towards hardly-legible scrawl and turning quick to bemusement as she skims the contents. "It looks to be for a financial trust, not a pie crust," comes with a hint of humor, a flicker of Risali's eyes up before they drop to the paper again, brows drawing in. "But I can't make out the name." There's a long pause here, Risali flipping the paper to look at the empty canvas on the reverse before carefully folding it up and sliding it to one corner of her desk. Dismissed… for now. A beat, two, three, and that chin tilts, Risa's head cocking to one side, curiosity in the gesture even as the goldrider clears her throat and brings her hands to settle in her lap, behind the desk and out of view. She tucks her shoulders in towards her chest and leans forward, eyes fixed on Alexa's. "You don't have to look so uncomfortable, Alexa," comes soft, "or explain yourself to me. I'm not going to yell at you for how many wrinkles are in a piece of paper, and I'm certainly not going to make you stay if you don't want to be here." She's just not that kind of person (and okay, maybe she's a little busy, too). "You shouldn't let anybody else yell at you about that either. Or keep you where you don't want to be." This time that smile is soft, warm, perhaps just a touch fey, but it gutters quickly. "Some things are more important than crumbled up paper." Like pride, like self-worth, like Alexa. It's not a dismissal, per say, but Risali's eyes linger only a moment more, as if to emphasize her poing, before they fall away, shifting towards less hastily constructed scripts on her desk.

The snort and choke of laughter is probably really unbecoming of Alexa, given it comes at the expense of her own Weyrleader. There's probably an unwritten (or hey, it might even *be written) rule about not laughing at one's sort-of boss, but oh well. The grin that curls at the blonde's lips is bright, as is the mischief dancing in green eyes as she settles into something almost relaxed once again. "He is definitely still brooding," she confirms. So he's clearly fine. Relieved of her note, Alexa spends a moment trying to figure out what to do with her hands before settling for folding them behind her back where they can fidget out of sight. "He didn't tell me, either," she sighs, for missing names. "Or if he did, he didn't say it very clearly." As for the contents of that note, well… a quick, "I didn't read it," she admits. "He just… told me what it was." Which is probably why she got it horribly wrong. Pie crust indeed. "I mean. I did try to read part of it. When you asked. For the name." Sigh. It's a lot of work trying to explain how she's not lying, which is starting to sound a lot like lying. Green eyes flick to the note when it comes to rest at the corner of her desk, but as Alexa was not particularly invested in it's delivery to begin with, she's far from concerned about where it might end up now that it's been relieved of her. Standing still, there's a marked moment of awkward that comes with Risali's curiosity. An awkwardness that presents in the want to rock on heels and toes but valiantly resists the urge and settles for just looking somewhat sheepish. "Oh, I want to be here," comes quick, only to just as quickly be amended with, "Well, not here-here. Like. In the office here. But I want to be in Xanadu. Erm. Yeah." Sigh. "Not that it's not a nice office…" Is she avoiding the point? Probably. But the next time that Alexa's gaze finds Risali, the quirk of her lips is wry; a smile born of self-deprication rather than mischief and mayhem. "Sometimes, you don't have much choice in the matter." But she's not upset about it, if that is the case and not a simple hypothetical. "But uh. I mean. I do appreciate that. Thanks." At least she doesn't ma'am her! "I'll um. I'll let you get back to work." She'll even take a few steps back for that very purpose before there's a pause and another, "Really. Thanks."

"Well," comes around an honest smile, "as long as Fort Weyr is still basking in all that magnificent brood." Because what would Fort Weyr be without the brood? COLD. EMPTY. DEAD. LONG LIVE TH'ERO'S ASSETS. LONG LIVE THE KING. But right. There were important inter-weyr business transactions at hand (more specifically: the passing of a note from one Weyrwoman to another) and Risali's lips pull gently outward, patient, as Alexa stumbles her way through an explanation. "I imagine that if it was that important, it would have arrived in the hands that wrote it — or at least in a slightly more legible script." Which is to say that Risali doesn't care if Alexa read it because the one who wrote it clearly didn't care to make sure anybody else could read it, either. "It's okay." Whether she read it or not. It's that last that has Risali's own self-deprecation rising, an expression made in tandem with a dip of her head that is less concession than acknowledgement of that truth. "We always have a choice, Alexa. Even when it feels like we don't." To demand better treatment, to play the game or walk away, to choose how they react. "The lie is believing other people when they tell you that you don't." But now she's rising from her seat, this smile tired if no less amused, no less deviant. "It looks better when you're walking out of it, by the way," the office, she means. "Thank you, Alexa — and well met. I'll figure out what I can about your letter and," a beat, softer as Risali's eyes drop to the scatter of documents across her desk and then slowly, slowly, Risali sinks back to settle on the lip of her chair, "I hope you enjoy your stay in Xanadu. Thank you." But she's already shrugging blankets back over her shoulders, pulling more paper towards her and letting her gaze fall back to the work she was shifting through before Alexa walked in.

Add a New Comment
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 License