August 11, 2004
R'hyn finally meets the infamous Trusilwyn.

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You head through the tunnel to emerge in the living cavern.

Having had her fill of a day, one that included a green flight interrupting the last meeting of the record keepers, Trusilwyn has found solace in a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. In unusual repose, she's kicked her boots off and has her feet tucked under her as she lingers in a chair before one of the evening hearths.

R'hyn hurries through from the bowl with a particularly disgruntled expression, utterly sopping, despite his jacket. This fairly useless item of clothing is hung up by the door, and, attempting to shake some of the water out of his hair, he makes hurried steps towards a table not far from Trusilwyn's. In an utterly surprising move, he then leans down and starts hunting - apparently - for something on the floor.

Men running in sopping wet and then diving for the floor to look for things are sights to behold all in their own right. But when it's the Weyr's leader? A couple heads turn, two night nurses knitting in a corner starting a hushed whisper, and all of it in combination makes True look over. She's probably never really gotten a good look at the man, but that hasn't stopped her from hating is Istan guts. The girl sniffs quietly at him, her snooty attitude quickly going back to her cookies. Of course he'd lose something. What /else/ would you expect from "those Istans".

R'hyn, flushing furiously, is clearly aware of the attention sent in his direction, and ducks his head further downwards. It doesn't seem to do much good; whatever he's searching for is very quickly established as being Not There, and he stands, scratching stubble and leaning up against the table, glancing about the room thoughtfully.

Trusilwyn is pointedly not watching. Watch how her posture is excellent and her eyes are focused forwards and no where near the Weyrleader hunts. But the haughty expression she takes can no more be covered by her glass of milk then can the patronizing chuckle she lets go before taking a drink. No, really. She hasn't a clue what his problem might be.

R'hyn, sighing, takes a few steps towards the next table, and asks a question in a low voice to the small group of people sitting there. He seems to be describing something, and indicates his wrist, looking hopeful. But, no, they tell him, shaking their heads. Haven't seen it.

Does that mean she's in some sort of line up? True makes some sort of scoffy sound, so put upon. But it cleans her expression up, leaving her less Disdainful Adolescent looking and more Bland Resident like.

It doesn't take R'hyn long to get around to Trusilwyn, really, and he hesitates nearby. She's probably never even been pointed out to him - thus, he goes in blind. "Erm - hey there. You haven't, maybe, seen a little silver bracelet? It must have slipped out of my pocket, or something." No, he doesn't look impressed with himself.

Trusilwyn blandly regards the man, looking up at him from over the rim of her glass. She eyes his sweater in sketchy ways, one eyebrow creeping up, before shaking her head. "No sir, I can't say as I have. But - and it may have already been suggested to you - you might want to check with the night staff in the kitchen. They might have scooped it up when cleaning supper's dishes." And see? That wasn't even sassy! Maybe not the most enthusiastic of responses, but no one could fault it for being uncivil.

R'hyn's expression turns pleasantly surprised at the civility of True's response, and he smiles. "That's, er, a good idea - thanks. That's the first helpful answer I've gotten. Guess it's my fault for being so - careless, I suppose."

"It happens to everyone." Trusilwyn smiles, and it's not even all that bad of a smile, but it's laced with a certain amount of sarcasm just under the surface. Is it really there? Maybe it isn't. It's one of Those Things. But True smiles, and holds her expression pleasantly. Even if she eyes his cockeyed sweater again.

R'hyn, for a moment, pauses, as if attempting to confirm the sarcasm, though his embarrassed smile doesn't waver. "Perhaps," he agrees, finally, a little lamely. "Erm. Well. Would you mind keeping an eye out? I mean, if the night staff haven't got it." If he's aware of her scrutiny of his sweater, he makes no especial mention of it in his body language; the nervousness seems almost permanent.

"There's that obnox-- that kid, that's always running around and grabbing stuff, too. Faelan?" Brining her finger to her upper lip, Trusilwyn gives it some genuine thought before going on. "Something like that. Fae-something. Kind of short. Fuzzy brown hair. She's a bit -- rambunctious. And has a habit of taking off with things that aren't nailed down firmly. And I thought I saw her running around in here." Because, really. If Trusilwyn is going to get anyone else involved/in trouble, she might as well exact a bit of revenge while doing it.

R'hyn, eyes lighting, "The kid that ran into me! At dinner. That makes sense - I mean, my pockets are big enough that things shouldn't just fall out." Running his hand through his - admittedly, very short - hair, he grimaces, adding, "Now I'll have to track her down." Almost unconsciously, he sinks against the edge of the table.

Trusilwyn snorts, "Good luck," into her milk glass before taking another swallow. Serendipitously, through the shifty view of her peripheral vision, she tries to get a better look at him beyond his knitted wonder.

"You think I'll need it?" R'hyn's grimace remains more or less in place, and he sighs. "I was hoping to get it sent off tomorrow. I'll have to make sure that child gets disciplined - this kind of thing just can't keep happening." He's apparently unaware of True's attempts to get a better look at him, staring, instead, somewhat moodily towards the hearth.

Trusilwyn doesn't /necessarily/ answer him, but her snide snort of a laugh should give him a fairly accurate idea just how much "luck" he's going to need. "I don't know who's fostering her, but she lets the kid run around wild. So... yeah."

R'hyn mmphs, making a face. "I hate it when people let their children - foster or otherwise - run wild like that. There has to be discipline. Without order, they just don't learn." This is probably mostly said to himself, especially as he's still staring off at the hearth, vacantly.

Trusilwyn rolls her eyes a bit, though those are at least silent. Where he someone else, she might agree with him. But since he came from Ista, this automatically makes his idea "dumb". She fills the silence by reaching into the plate of cookies in her lap and taking another for herself.

R'hyn can only sit in silence for a little while, having run out of conversation on that topic, before apparently becoming uncomfortable. He hastily turns back to glance at True again - and offers his hand. "I'm R'hyn, by the way. I mean... I guess you know that, but it's polite, anyway."

"Yes, I -did- know that." Brushing her fingers off of crumbs, she eyes his extended hand and gives it some serious, time-taking thought. As gingerly - and as curtly - as she can, she takes it, looking up into his eyes as she palms the offering. "I'm Trusilwyn. Of Fort Weyr." While it's an obvious statement of their location, it also carries a wagon load of symbolic weight behind it.

R'hyn, though he grasps and shakes True's hand firmly, silently mouths her name. "Ah," he says, finally, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes his hand back. "So you're Trusilwyn. Of Fort Weyr." His whole posture changes, becoming suddenly ramrod straight, shoulders pulled back tight.

"I am. Does my reputation proceed me?" Tilting her head at an almost coy angle, True effects a casualness she may or may not actually feel. But clearly she has an audience in R'hyn, so she plays the part she's become known for. It isn't so much a disrespectful attitude, as an intimate familiarity she certainly doesn't possesses. In punctuation, she takes a bite from a cookie.

"Surely you'd be surprised if it hadn't," remarks R'hyn, without any particular emotion, his arms crossed easily over his chest. "I do tend to get informed when two young women attempt to tear each other to strips in my living caverns."

Trusilwyn shakes her head, taking a moment to swallow instead of retorting with a full mouth. "I'm more surprised to find you do then I'd be to find you didn't. Considering what a minor incident it was in the scheme of things, I wouldn't think you'd take the time out of your busy, busy schedule to commit to memory two little girl's names instead of the many -other- intricate details necessary to run Fort Weyr." There's a wealth of insinuation and criticism to be inferred from her tone of voice, but she does a fair enough job of keeping her expression clear of its venom.

R'hyn's expression turns to all seriousness, and he regards Trusilwyn unwaveringly - there's a kind of backbone involved in this. "On the contrary, I treat that kind of incident very seriously. I will not tolerate physical violence in this weyr - particularly among those old enough to know better. /Particularly/ when we are doing our best to make the transition as smooth as possible."

"Well. Thank you then, sir, for the chastisement. Almost two months later. I'll do everything in my power to keep it in mind as you gut my home." Trusilwyn's own expression grows stoney, a hard and bitter look that while tendered by her youth is made raw by frustration.

R'hyn has - almost - an expression of hurt on his face, but it's barely a flash, before he seems to school his expression into something more authoritive. "I suggest you keep your prejudice out of this," he suggests, sharply. "Like it or not, Kiora and I are in charge here -- and we are doing our best to rebuild /our/ home. Get used to it."

With the amused sarcasm only gifted to those between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, Trusilwyn smirks in an almost absent after the fashion way, openly regarding the man's knitted disaster of a sweater. "I'll do my best. Sir. As you... "rebuild"."

R'hyn, increasingly frustrated, though he seems determined to not show it, merely glares at True for a time. "If only I could believe you," he says, darkly. "But then, I don't suppose you really expect me to. Whatever you think, Trusilwyn, your weyr needs our help, and for whatever reason, that has fallen to me. And that is what I am doing." He self-consciously pulls at his shorter sleeve, attempting to cover the cuff of his shirt.

"Well, that "reason" would be because you /conveniently/ showed up, and then you didn't have the respect for those of us here to conceded the knot. That'd be the -reason-. Which is ironic," Trusilwyn says, slowly uncoiling herself from the chair. She stashes the plate of cookies on the table and comes onto the stone floor of the living cavern in her bare feet. She's a good two inches shorter then most people are used to seeing her at because of it. "Since the last time that very thing was even -tried-, an entire weyr lost both their Weyrwoman and Weyrleader. Of course, Ista does it and it's sparkling wine and roses for everyone." With a curl of her lip and a high arch of her brow, she mocks his cuffs feeble attempt. "I've never been heard to say Fort didn't need help -- just that it didn't need /your/ help."

R'hyn echoes Trusilwyn's movements, standing abruptly. "That reason would be because I showed up for a legitimate, unrelated errand, and having legitimately - if unintentionally - landed that knot, I felt it my /duty/ to do my best for this weyr. When those riders showed up, though," he adds, with half a smirk, "that would have been before you were really old enough to understand, they came in force. Many of them. That, in addition to /other/ damning evidence, is what lost Fort her Weyrleaders. I'm sure it's easy to turn a blind eye to those problems, of course." His anger is barely controlled - unusual, and clearly frustrating for him, his cuffs ignored, her mocking unnoticed. "I suggest you try growing up, and learning about politics before you try and claim to know all."

"I'll do just that then, sir. I suppose that, what... two turns? I mean, that's how much /older/ and /wiser/ my ancient Weyrwoman is to me, right? If I'm sixteen?" Trusilwyn takes no -directly- threatening stance save to lift her chin defiantly and fold her hands behind her back. It's certainly a graceful posture, one filled with righteous purpose. Too bad it's just on the other side of R'hyn's cause.

"Maturity isn't all about age," says R'hyn, coolly. "You seem to have no more than a toddler, trying to take your frustration out on someone else - anyone else, really." He looks Trusilwyn up and down, almost thoughtfully, though his expression remains fairly unimpressed.

Trusilwyn says, "No, maturity isn't." With a disdainful sarcasm, Trusilwyn takes R'hyn argument and turns it into a supporting statement for her own. She arches her eyebrow again, suggestion in the very degree it attains."

R'hyn shrugs his shoulders easily; he seems to have calmed down - he even manages to smile. "You can be as bitter and unhappy as you like, my dear, but it's not going to get you anywhere. Kiora and I are going nowhere. If you cross the line, and take your resentment too far, you will face the consequences. Otherwise--" he shrugs again, digging his hands into his pockets.

The depth of the spring night settles in, long and dark. Full winds stir the air considerably, enough to send branches swaying. A few clouds dot the otherwise clear skies. The spring air is cool, still brisk but no longer icy. (44F, 7C)

"No, you're right." Trusilwyn's face crumples under the weight of her sudden sorrow. "I mean," her voice sing-songy, "What am I to do? While you thrash everything Fort stands for, and pocket the Weyr Council like so many jacks, I'm just an -honest- girl trying to make the best of a terrible situation in her own home. You're absolutely right, there's nothing I can do about it. But, " and she bucks up, lifting her chin again in a display of coy determination. "I'm ready to assume the burden like so many of us are once you move on. Southern Weyr, Ista Weyr, now Fort -- we all only assume it's just a matter of time." All pretense dropped like a ton of bricks, True brings her chin down and levels a stare at the man.

R'hyn is rather taken aback by this particular statement, if his expression is anything to go by. It takes him a moment, but he does laugh. "If you'd like to hold on to that dream, Trusilwyn, by all means, be my guest. But I'm not going anywhere. If you'll excuse me, I have--" he doesn't sound as confident as perhaps he might like, but he's trying, "your weyr to trash to pieces, isn't that right?"

"And your bracelet to find. It's so good to see how well you keep all the small things in check, sir." Trusilwyn's haughty expression follows him.

"I do my best to present myself well," returns R'hyn, though, once he's turned around and on his way out, his face has started to blush scarlet again. He grabs his jacket, and is gone - back out into the rain.

You head out the tunnel to the bowl.

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