05.15.3014: Recalibration
Summary: Roger reaches out to Nitrim for answers.
Date: 01 January 2014
Related: Salty Drake
Nitrim Roger 


Roger's Study - Beacon
Room description included in scene
May 15, 3014

The message comes in quiet and clear to Nitrim's tablet. From the safety of his apartments at the Blackspyre, Nitrim looks to his tablet, eyes darkening over the monitor glow as he reads the summons. The message alone brings his eyes to close and a long, mournful sight to escape his lips.

Roger Hollolas. Beacon. The time has come.

Grabbing his coat and leaving a quick message to the house staff, Nitrim straps his sword to his hips and throws his coat on over his shoulders. Stalking down the the corridors of the Blackspyre, he takes to the streets and through the Waygates; bound for the Northern Coast. Travel is quick and effortless these days, making it less than an hour until Nitrim is brought to Roger's study, a private room where he leaves his sword behind for safe keeping.

"Lord Nitrim." There's the Lord Hollolas himself, seated in the study, hands folded on a desk. "Sit down, lad." He's not trying to be loud; if anything, this is Roger's /quiet/ volume. It's still enough to fill the entire room and probably a good bit of the hallway outside. "Trust your trip was pleasant."

There's no opportunity for Nitrim to respond to the greeting, though, before he launches into the matter of the day. "I spoke with your father quite recently. Sure you've heard from him already." Pause. "And I hear that matters between yourself and Cyrielle have taken a turn."

Letting the door close behind him, Nitrim lowers into the chair across from Roger. He reaches into his pocket for a cigarette case, offering one to the Lord Commodore before opting to smoke himself. It's a clever way to request permission to smoke and be polite, all in the same. But polite doesn't match the expression on Nitrim's face. Unlike the hopeful, out-to-impress youth that was before Roger weeks ago, Nitrim has grown into a harder, more shadowed creature blends in better with wears the scars on his neck.

"I haven't heard from my father, Lord Commodore." Nitrim replies, settling back into his seat with a firmness to his jaw. His mouth opens, choosing his words carefully. "The last few weeks have been interesting and trying; things with your daughter being difficult would be a way of putting it."

For all his other vices, it seems that Roger Hollolas doesn't smoke. He waves the offered cigarette away, but there's no move to indicate that Nitrim ought to do the same as he settles a little further into his chair. Sea-green eyes gaze across the desk at him, unblinking.

"No? Well, there are a great many demands on his time. Surely you'd know." Muscular shoulders lift in a little shrug, and then he leans forward. "A way of putting it. I'm curious, lad, to understand /your/ way of putting it."

Licking his lips, Nitrim enters a polite staredown of the sorts with Roger, as if asking if he really wants to have this conversation. When the elder Hollolas presses on, Nitrim lowers his eyes to his cigarette case. Prying a cigarette free, he taps the filter against his knee twice before lighting it with a flame generated from his fingertips. The first drag in, he leans back in his chair to resume watching Roger from his perch.

"Lord Commodore, when I was last in here, I was honest with you and it's a conversation I don't want to ruin with things." Nitrim's lips purse to the side, blowing smoke away from Roger's face. "I take it my father told you about my brush with the Citadel? It's the only explanation."

"Jevon told me a number of things, lad. That was one of them." Roger's eyebrow quirks upward. "Speaks to a certain lack of judgment, Lord Nitrim. Don't misunderstand - I'm as fond of passion as anyone. I favor men of action, and sometimes action leads to a bit of /recklessness/." The Six know Roger's been as guilty of that as anyone else.

"But that's just one piece. Your father and I agreed that you've proved to be… unpredictable. Headstrong. Impulsive. Marriage, Lord Nitrim, is for men, not boys." Slowly he settles back into the chair. "That's why betrothal isn't in the cards, not yet."

Nitrim's eyes lid over the smoke-screen of his cigarette, casting a bitter shake of his head directed over Roger's shoulder. Brushing the back of his hand under his nose, he brings the cigarette back to his lips for a drag. The cherry tip of the cigarette flares an angry orange. The smoke fills his lungs, filtering around, before it is again blown to the side.

"I've learned a lot of lessons about coordination over the last few months, Lord Commodore, but I assure you I've made conversation with a Captain at the Citadel, and future work, things I've learned will be now coordinated through the right efforts." Nitrim pauses, eyes shifting back to Roger's face. "I went from worthless to reckless to aimless to wanting more and returning to my training and being done. This…entitlement I've carried around has been the death of me, and the only thing to solve that will be time and soul-searching."

"But what you've said hasn't upset me. I understand your position, and will agree with you." Nitrim adds, motioning across the desk to Roger's chest. "I promised your daughter that we would do all we could to earn your approval. I failed in that. She…made a decision as well."

"Is that so." Roger's thought process is transparent enough that even a non-Awakened could probably see him making a mental note to check with his own contacts at the Citadel regarding the veracity of that claim. "That's another matter your father and I discussed, Lord Nitrim. Regardless of your thoughts on the matter, we're at /war/, and you're expected to act like it." His weathered brow furrows. "Step in the right direction, if you're starting to see that."

That expression of agreement doesn't quite get Roger to smile, but it at least softens his expression a little bit. There's a nod. "Did she," he intones. "I'm wondering as to the consequences of that decision."

"Well…it's been kept quiet," Nitrim's head tilts pointedly, a nodding gesture towards Roger. "And it will stay that way. Few people know and I don't have any inclination to make life harder for you or for her for that matter. She deserves a better life than that and I'm sure the family of the other party would either take offense or pressure you."

Saying it, without saying it, and giving more of the details in one fell swoop, Nitrim turns his head from side to side, trying to find something nearby from which to ash his cigarette into. To protect his coat, he slides a hand under the stem of ashes so that they will fall to his palm instead. "Lord Commodore, I'm going back to war and I'm going back home, and if my father feels me right for a match then I'm sure he'll start sending missives. I love your daughter, but I'm not the man I should be right now. I'm done with struggle, and despite the months I honored her and prayed things to be true, the truth is we should have followed the correct channels from the start. If this is to happen, that's up to the Nymph, the Watchman, and the Lord Commodore to decide."

Indeed, that's quite enough in the way of details to say all that needs to be said, and the frown crossing Roger's face says that he catches Nitrim's drift. "Perhaps that's for the best, lad," he agrees. For perhaps the first time in his life, the Lord Commodore seems happy to keep something quiet.

"Mmmm. Now, that's the most encouraging thing I've heard from you today, Lord Nitrim." Because he wants to be rid of him, or because it's a genuine step toward maturity? Roger isn't clarifying, at least not outwardly. "You're young, lad. Take your time. Work out what you need to work out. Beacon isn't going anywhere." It's pretty easy to guess that Cyrielle isn't, either.

"We don't know that." The reply comes slow and dry, finger tapping the ashes into the palm of his hand. Shifting in his chair, Nitrim leans back to cross one shin onto his knee, getting comfortable. A solemn frown forms onto Nitrim's lips, matching the bitter look with a shake of his head. "Us Awakened, we get dreams. I've dreamed from the surface of Cantos and most of us right now are dreaming of ice and blood raining from the sky. We wake up feeling like things are happening, and we can see glimpses of the things to come, and it just makes us want to love, to protect the people we care for, and to act. It's…so distracting, Lord Commodore."

Biting down on the corner of his lip, Nitrim swallows and straightens his shoulders. Allowing himself to be seen by the man as nervous for the words he is about to say. "Bring your daughter home if you can find her. She needs help. She's…so remorseful and she knows that I still love her. This whole thing was just a massive mess, but she needs your help. She needs to be safe. She loves me still…so for now the best I could do for her or for House Hollolas, is to tell a father who I can see on his face loves his daughter very much, is hope for the best for her." Nitrim pauses.

"I've made peace with myself, Lord Commodore, and I understand now that I have duties. Doing them won't make things happen, they're not the answer. They just need to be done. I'll be there - not here - until the lords of house choose otherwise."

Dreams. It's not the first time that Roger has thanked the Six that he's not Awakened. It's not likely to be the last, either. He gives a little nod. "Don't forget, Nitrim, to distinguish between /dreams/ and reality. Could there be bits and pieces of truth in that? I'm sure. But they're not what's in front of you, and far as I'm concerned, that's what matters."

Leaning back a little further, the Lord Hollolas lets out a little sigh. His eyes finally leave Nitrim's to wander upward a little bit. "Duties have their purpose, lad. They help you understand that it's not about /you/. You're contributing to something that's bigger and more important than yourself." Nod. "Something you'll have to bring to your marriage, no?"

Leaning forward, slowly, Nitrim places his hand to the top of Roger's desk, staring pointedly to the elder Hollolas. "Your daughter needs your help." The statement direct and pointed, although vague, is a message.

Leaning back in his chair, Nitrim reaches into his pocket and pulls a tablet from it. Flipping over the screen, his face becomes awash in monitor glow and the flare of his cigarette as he takes a drag. "I'm not going to insult you by going through my many theories and things I've looked into; all that does is make me look a paranoid fool, but if something is coming, it's my duty to be at Volkan for its defense. I gather it's the same for wives. Just…please…understand I know well the difference between dreams and reality. Dreams are not men who have written to me for help that I've found murdered or humans playing at Hostiles with grotesque surgeries and neurotoxins."

Pausing the screen on his tablet, Nitrim sets it aside and looks to Roger. "I went wrong when I trusted no one. It ruined me and put your daughter at risk."

"Aye, she does. But I'm not here to help her right now, lad. I'm here to deal with /you/." There's no doubt that his daughter will be getting an earful sooner rather than later, but right now, after all, it's Nitrim who's sitting in front of him. No one ever accused Roger Hollolas of failing to live in the moment.

"You say all the right words, Nitrim Khournas," the Lord Commodore continues. "If there's something coming, then of /course/ you need to be there. It's an easy thing to say, lad. It's a tough thing to do."

Leaning forward again, Roger lets his eyes rest squarely on Nitrim's. "Show me you can act on it, Lord Nitrim."

The seconds tick by and the air in between Nitrim and Roger comes to a crisp silence that is broken by the ashing of Nitrim's cigarette. The front of Nitrim's lip bulges out as he runs his tongue over his teeth, parting his lips for another drag. It is Roger that wins the stare-down, forcing Nitrim to look away, finding an unimpressive spot on the wall over Roger's shoulder to turn his eyes to.

"Keep her safe, Lord Commodore. I need to think about her less, and truth is…after what has happened I have concerns. I know it's not much coming from a man lauded on the tabloids as an insurmountable fuck-up, but for eight months I was razor-sharp focused on her, and while that happened my sister died in a war camp." The frown on Nitrim's face comes easy. "I have to ask if I could have been there, and I have to ask if there's more pain or less in the love I have for your daughter. I should have been there, and she should have trusted me."

Nitrim's eyes trail back to Roger's, and he gives the man across from him a shake of his head. "I'm not going to do that, Lord Commodore." A pause. "I'm going to show my people and myself, because with all due respect his has gone too far and I can't let it be in my head anymore that this is about her."

"Don't worry about her, lad." Roger leans forward a little more, and this time, his expression softens. Just a touch, though. "Go back to your family. Lean on your father a bit. Do your duty to your House, and we'll… revisit this business when the time comes." Pause, and of course the Lord Commodore can't resist the analogy. "Keep the ship in dry dock for a while. And enjoy your evening."

That's probably as close as Roger's likely to come to a 'goodbye,' but he does pause for a moment and add, almost as an afterthought, "Not sure I said this, but… I /am/ sorry about your sister." That's uncharacteristically soft, so soft that even Nitrim might have to strain to hear. "Can't change the past, lad."

"No, we can't." Nitrim's brow twitches at the dry dock analogy, but the desire to smirk at the humor of it all is weighed down by the rare sympathy from the Lord Commodore. It sends Nitrim's lips to flatten into a long, thin line. "And thank you for your condolences, she would have liked Beacon."

Rising from his seat, Nitrim leans out to a garbage can beside the desk and lets the harmless, old ashes fall into the trash. Still half of a cigarette left, Nitrim bows his head to Roger, as is proper for the man's station. "Six be with you and yours, Lord Commodore. Good evening to you."

That's as close as he's likely to get to a smile, and Roger acknowledges the gesture with a little, genial nod. "Likewise, Lord Nitrim. May your travels be safe, and may the Six protect you and your family." That's said quite sincerely, but that hint of sympathy is just that - a hint.

Once Nitrim is gone, Roger settles back a little further in his chair, letting his eyes close. More to the air than anything, he mutters, "Funny. The lad may have done more to help his cause by givin' up than he did in eight months of trying."

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