Logs:Alliance
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| RL Date: 19 November, 2015 |
| Who: Dahlia, Mirinda, Taeliyth, Zaisavyth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Fort's weyrwomen meet for the first time. Much is said and decided. |
| Where: Council Room, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 24, Month 4, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Blume/Mentions, E'dre/Mentions, Ebeny/Mentions, Erinta/Mentions, Guzman/Mentions, Hattie/Mentions, I'kris/Mentions, Olivya/Mentions, M'kris/Mentions, N'rov/Mentions, R'oan/Mentions, Vaion/Mentions |
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>---< Council Room, Fort Weyr(#839RJs$) >------------------------------------<
The Weyr's meeting space is a long, oval space with a large stone table
placed in the middle. There's seating enough for twelve around the table:
plenty of room to welcome most of the Weyrleaders and a good portion of
the Lord Holders from the north, though additional seating might be needed
if a Pern-wide meeting were to be held here.
A sideboard stands ready to serve, regardless of the occasion and is kept
well-stocked with carafes of wine, water and several fine liquors. Fresh
flowers, appropriate to the season are changed out regularly in the vase
atop the sideboard. Tapestries depicting Fort's illustrious history from
founding, to Moreta's role in the Plague to Lessa's arrival to bring the
Weyrs forward in time bedeck the walls, leavening the omnipresence of
cool, gray stone. Well-lit, the chamber boasts glows in niches around the
room, as well as oil lamps hanging from the ceiling.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Dahlia F 18 5'9" sturdy, dk. brown hair, hazel eyes 0s
Mirinda F 30 5'5" slender, black hair, brown eyes 45s Still wrapped up in her mate, Zaisavyth evidently doesn't feel the need to make a show of it upon Taeliyth's return; plainly, she's aware of it, but the younger queen remains unmolested (though the senior queen watches, certainly, from the Weyrleader's ledge where she has taken up temporary residence, having reluctantly permitted continued use of her own to its previous occupant). Tucked out of the way of the removal process, Mirinda has taken up residence in the council room, face mask and gloves in place as she works through a stack of recent records. Word around the Weyr is that she's been making rounds for hours already; now, her brow is furrowed as she peers at the hide in front of her. With Taeliyth's return to the Weyr, there comes a subtle reinforcement to the mental landscape. It's not that it changes (though it is changed since the junior gold was here last), but the Weyr somehow seems more right, now, more unified deep below the surface of what can be seen and felt, right down to the core of what is known and knowable. There isn't even a flicker of the gold's thoughts towards Zaisavyth. Vhaeryth (the traitor) might as well not even exist. Besides, Taeliyth has business to be about. She doesn't linger long on her ledge before she's launching up into the sky to take a perch on the starstones, to watch the Weyr below her. When Dahlia leaves her weyr, it is freshly bathed and in a brand new set of riding Fortian brown leathers, accented by black trim, tailored to fit her tall and graceful frame. Today, more than any that has come before, Dahlia looks the part of a weyrwoman. Her expression is stoic as she takes in the senior queen on her temporary perch, eyes not lingering anymore than she does on her brisk walk toward the Council Chambers. She skirts the ongoing activity, not interrupting the flow, perhaps already having said her goodbyes, or planning to do so when things aren't so busy and when there aren't other matters to attend to. She stops just inside the doorway to quickly assess the woman with her eyes before aiming to interrupt her work with a too professional, "Weyrwoman." Mirinda glances up, those dark eyes betraying no surprise-- Zaisavyth, it seems likely, has already warned her of Dahlia's impending presence. "Dahlia," she greets, rising from her chair in a smooth, seamless movement, hands clasped to her sides. "I'm--" Mirinda? Sorry to have stolen your Weyr? Glad you're back? All of the above could certainly apply given the expressiveness of the new weyrwoman's eyes, even if so much of the rest of her face is covered. "Please. Will you sit?" There's hopefulness rather than command in her voice. Dahlia's hazel gaze doesn't leave Mirinda's darker one. She makes no comment about the mask and gloves, no comment about what might have followed the truncated beginning. It's not hesitation because it seems more orderly than that, but nor does it seem to be designed to keep Mirinda on tenterhooks because it doesn't last that long. Likely, there's just a lot of decisions being made in these tense moments. On both sides, there's probably a lot of different feelings to overcome. When she moves, with the ease of habits already formed to take the seat beside the senior. "We have a lot to do," is an observation, perhaps even a suggestion that politics and feelings can wait. Mirinda's exhale is obvious; it releases some of the tension in her shoulders, allowing that so-stiff posture to droop into something at least a little more natural. At another time she might comment on it, but for now, that chin drops to acknowledge Dahlia's words, the corners of her mouth twisting upwards ever so slightly. "I barely know where to start," is an admission, made quietly. "I was hoping to have you-- our headwoman show me around, but I understand that she has also fallen ill." She pauses, those brown eyes focusing upon Dahlia again. "You are well enough for this? I don't want to interrupt your recovery. I-- I'm going to need you." There's a tip of Dahlia's head that's a curt confirmation of Erinta's illness; it's not news. Her expression is set as 'serious' but otherwise unreadable. "The truth is, Weyrwoman, that with Hattie leaving and Erinta ill, it doesn't really matter if I'm well enough for this. I have to be. The Weyr needs me." There's a slight incline of her head toward the older goldrider as if to acknowledge her own admission. "I won't distress myself unduly but there is work to be done and there is only us to do it." It's not a particularly comforting idea but thems the breaks. "Have you met Blume yet? I'm given to understand she stepped in when Erinta took ill, if not in an official capacity." Silent for a few beats longer than is probably necessary, Mirinda seems uncomfortably ill-at-ease. Then, she squares her shoulders. "Not yet," she admits. "She's promised me some time later today. I think the implication was that I should familiarise myself with things a little first, so that she could take me through matters I had some understanding of." It's clear from the way that she says it, Mirinda is choosing to take this as smart advice in a crisis rather than a dismissal of her abilities. It's equally clear that she's finding this difficult. One might imagine that it's harder to take apologies for usurpation at face value than it is to accept that now having usurped, it's a daunting challenge to take on the Weyr. If Dahlia were vindictive, this story might play out differently. As is, something about this particular admission seems to help her, a slow breath exhaled taking some of the tension from her own stiff shoulders, rolling them forward as she leans a little against the familiar wood of the table. She doesn't look at Mirinda now, but at the table. "Blume is good. At what she does. I only had a few lessons with her before she retired from the Headwoman's staff. She visited me when the fever was lower, to assure me, I think, that things were being done. She loves this place." That counts for something with the junior. "It's... a lot to adjust to," she'll offer tentatively, slanting a look toward the senior, guarded but curious. If there's anything Dee could relate to, it's that. Mirinda focuses her own attention downwards, fiddling with the edges of the hide in front of her. It's easier than looking at Dahlia, or at the rest of the room-- this room that is so different from what she's used to, back home. Back, that is to say, at Monaco. "I understand what it feels like," she says, finally. "To have an outsider come in and take what should have been yours. I'm sorry for it, Dahlia." It's the elephant in the room, and now, finally, the new Weyrwoman tackles it directly, turning her gaze back towards the other woman. "I want to get Fort back on her feet. I want to see her stable. I'd like to work with you to make that happen, because I don't know For the way you do. Or the way Blume does. But once that's done... this knot doesn't have to be for life. It doesn't have to be." Dahlia manages not to drop her gaze, even manages to make it a steady meeting. The answer is long in coming. "You have no idea how much I wish I could take you at your word, Mirinda." It's an unconscious dropping of title, not a pointed thing. Right now, she's just being candid, her expression (however briefly) open and vulnerable. She's still a young girl playing the games made for the older and wiser. "It's easy to get used to even an uncomfortable idea," sounds like it comes from experience. "I want what's best for Fort. Right now, that's you and me working with you. Taeliyth doesn't like it. Taeliyth will probably never like it. I struggled with the idea that I would have to find a way to lead this place well at eighteen, and that was with Hattie. Without her," there's a pause, though it's brief, "I need you as much as you need me." It's not necessarily a comfortable truth, but it's a truth that puts them on an even playing field, in this. "I know," is Mirinda's answer, expressed wryly. "I didn't want to Impress a queen, Dahlia, and I didn't want to lead a Weyr. You get used to what you have to, because... because that's the way life works. But I promise: I want what's best for Fort, too. What I want is to keep training you to be senior one day, as best as someone who has never been senior can. We'll learn together, if that's acceptable to you. And I promise, I'll do my best to keep Zaisavyth from bothering Taeliyth." Her hands, finally, still. "I'd like it if we could be friends. In time, I mean." "Well," the younger woman considers, leaning back in her chair. "That makes two of us," who didn't want gold. "But, as you say, you get used to it. My lifemate wants the seniorship." She'll say it. "Because she's too paranoid and untrusting to trust anyone else to keep her Weyr safe and well." She'll even explain. Dahlia lets her fingers drum on the edge of the tabletop. "And even if she doesn't get her way in the relative soon, she will one day." There's a wry smile for her lifemate's tenacity. "So I do need to learn." She looks to Mirinda, thoughtfully, but doesn't say more, not yet. Lifting her chin, Mirinda nods. Evidently, she can read between the lines-- or believes she can-- enough to pick up more even than what is said. "When the time comes," she reiterates, "Zaisavyth and I will step aside. Not now, and not for some time, I think-- not until Fort is safe and well. But when the time comes. I'd prefer we don't make that public, as I'd rather not be seen as someone temporary who can be bypassed, but I'll write it and sign it, and give that declaration to you, if it helps. In the meantime..." There's another nod of her head, the mask over her mouth puffing out as she exhales. "We'll need to meet with Blume later today. We'll also need to appoint a new weyrlingmaster, but we've a few months before that becomes vital, thankfully. What else do I need to know, that I may not already?" "I'm not sure that writing it would help. Weyrs are autonomous," is punctuated here by a poignant and purposeful pause, "until opportunity rears its ugly head." There's a touch of bitterness in that. Dahlia looks away, to the unoccupied Weyrleader's chair. She sighs, almost a sound of defeat. "You can't afford to look weak; that kind of document can't exist, but I appreciate that you offered." That seems to close that matter, for Dahlia anyway. She drums her fingers again, still looking at the Weyrleader's chair. "We're lucky it was N'rov," she seems certain of that. Her eyes cast back to Mirinda. "He's my friend," and that seems significant somehow, even with the professional shifts. "So if we're going to be friends eventually, you should probably call me Dee, when we're friends. Dahlia for--" She flicks a gesture to encompass the room and what it means. "They're autonomous until they aren't," says Mirinda, with an exhale and a nod. But she accepts the rest of what Dahlia has to say without further pause, and if she seems faintly relieved... well, perhaps that's only to be expected. "N'rov's a good man," she confirms. "As far as I can tell. I'm glad that he works for you, too. The three of us, and his weyrsecond-- if he has one; if he wants one-- are going to need to work very closely." Saying all of that may be cover for processing her reaction to the last of Dahlia's words, because as she finishes, she seems faintly at a loss. Until, "Dee, then. I've always been just plain Mirinda, except to Olivya-- she's always called me Rin." It seems for a moment that Dahlia might not speak as she looks at Mirinda. "I asked him to try. If it came to it. I didn't expect it to come to it, but I asked him, knowing he didn't want it. I asked him because he is good. It's-- good, in the grand scheme, I guess, that you're you, and not-- someone else. But I wanted him to win, if it wasn't Taeliyth's flight because he'll know how to help you. Us. The Weyr. Even when he doesn't think he knows," she concludes, a little awkwardly. Confession done, she asks, "Do you like Mirinda or Rin better?" "Thank you," seems deeply genuine, at least. "For thinking of Fort. For Fort." Mirinda runs gloved fingers over gloved palm, clearly uncomfortable with the fabric but also, no doubt, uncomfortable without it. "I'm not sure any of us think we're ready for such a thing. I think anyone who wants power for the sake of power probably shouldn't have it." The look in her eyes as she says that suggests quite clearly that she's thinking of someone in particular, and given her history... perhaps it's not difficult to guess. "I don't mind. Whatever comes easiest to you will be fine with me." Dahlia listens in a way that suggests she's really listening, giving Mirinda her full attention. She nods slowly, but when she speaks, it's not to address those things. It's to say, "I know we have other things to do first, but I want to visit the Holds. I could take riders who've survived this with me. We can find out what kind of aid we can lend, as we're able. The stewards aren't likely to be leading for long, but our actions now could weigh with whomever gets confirmed. And it's the right thing to do." That last is probably most important to Dee, but the former arguments are more professionally framed. Mirinda's hesitation over this idea is clear, but at the same time, it's not something she's willing to dismiss out of hand. Instead, she rises from her seat, pacing up and down the room as she considers. "It would," she supposes, as she walks, "present a strong message to the holds. That we want to help. That we... can help." She turns her head to glance back at the other woman. "Volunteers only, though. There will be those that... I know that the healers say you cannot be reinfected. And that you shouldn't be able to infect anyone else, now. But people can act irrationally when they're afraid." "They can," Dahlia acknowledges readily. "We should coordinate with the stewards, of course, and Lord Vaion before we would go anywhere." They can talk about those details later, though. It seems to be enough that Mirinda is willing to look toward doing it. That she is makes Dee relax, leaning even more into the back of her chair. "I'm from Southern Weyr, you know? N'rov's been helping me salvage wood to try to make the inside of my weyr a little bit more like a bungalow. Something sensible with wood walls, and a door." There's a wistful sigh at the last. "If you get homesick, you can visit." There's something wry to that and she has a lopsided smile for the Monocoan. Mirinda turns to move back towards the table, both hands coming to rest upon the back of her chair. "A formal envoy," she agrees. "We're all going to need each other, aren't we?" But that's more of a sidebar, because Dee has moved on, and so too will Mirinda. "I-- I'd like that. Do you know, until last night I'd never slept beneath stone before? I find it... oppressive." Her dark eyes turn towards the walls and ceiling, taking them in. "I'm sure I'll feel more at home when my things are here, but... I'd rather not risk any more Monacoans coming here until things are simpler. You're not in the weyr closest to mine, are you? It seemed empty when I walked past." "Especially with eggs coming, especially given that the last two cycles we've been short on candidates," Dahlia informs grimly. "And that's not even considering the tithes, the work that's going to need to go into the crops to see what can be salvaged given the extreme loss of manpower to tend them over the last month." Then she adds, "I was also a farmcrafter," as a brief item of note that explains her thoughtfulness in that direction. "I slept under stone for a little while, when I had classes at the crafthall that my master back at Southern couldn't teach. I'm still gathering materials and well, that's not happening now, but when it's done..." Mirinda's invited. "If you go to sleep imagining the way a real roof looks in the dark, it helps." She offers the advice before shaking her head, "No. I'm off the junior ledges." A shrug probably offers as much information as she has about why that is. With her own grim look, albeit one half-hidden by that mask, "I do hope Zaisavyth keeps her clutch small. I know we'll eventually need to replenish the wings, but... now is not the time. Perhaps we can beg from the southern weyrs. It's going to be all hands on deck, I think, probably for a long time to come." But Dee's former craft has put a light in the new weyrwoman's eyes, one that seems to buoy her mood somewhat. "I'd like you to think about moving up here, then," she says. "I'll also be making sure N'rov takes his rightful weyr, although I understand that's a little complicated in the short term. Eventually, though, I'd like for us all to be together." Dahlia gives a slight nod of her head, "Southern Weyr sent a few the last time," a slight gesture indicates herself. "Perhaps even the eastern Weyrs, depending..." She frowns a little, but doesn't follow that as far as it could go. Instead she glances out toward the ledge, brow furrowing slightly. "I'll do it." This must meen she either sees the wisdom in it or has her own reasons for accepting. Then, briefly, "The--" she almost trips over her words because so many titles have changed. "Vhaeryth caught Ebeny's Laurienth and there's a baby. Former acting weyrleader E'dre is-- was N'rov's wingleader, weyrleader, and is-- was? is? Ebeny's weyrmate." She sums up the complications in complicated fashion, then falls silent. "There's something else. Not about N'rov, but that you should know. About me." Mirinda's approval, her relief, flares briefly for Dahlia's acceptance, and then dims and dies for the rest. "Ah," she says, which is probably the best she can manage; that's a lot to take in. But it's that last that she's focused on, brows raising as she regards Dee directly. "Yes?" she prompts. "Ah," Dee echoes with a brief, sympathetic smile. It's nearly a comradely gesture. But isn't this just exactly the sort of thing Mirinda needs Dee for? Learning Fort and all its complications? The look sobers in the moments that follow and she takes a deep breath. "I spent almost two sevens in the dragon infirmary, I watched a lot of people die and more nearly do so. I knew a lot of them." She turns her head as if to look through the wall to see that place now. "I lost them. And I lost someone. I'm-- better, but I'm not well. I don't expect to be for a long time." She turns her too knowing look on Mirinda. She might be eighteen, but she's seen more ugliness than most people past their prime. "I'll do my best to be better enough to do what we need to do, but you should know that--" Well. She already said it. She's not well. Solemnity floods Mirinda's expression, and her low, careful nod follows almost immediately, even as Dee is still speaking. "I understand," she says. And then a pause; she makes a face. "No, let me correct that. I don't understand, because I can't. I've lost people--" and that does express itself in those dark, quiet eyes, "--but not in the same way. I need you to tell me, when things are too much, or if there's something I can do, some burden I can lift. I will do my best to give you the time and space you need, Dee, I promise." Dahlia watches Mirinda's expression, what she can see of it, and her reflects back the solemnity. "When this is over, we need to do something, to recognize the loss, so the area can begin to heal." She says it with a quiet resolve. "I'm not the only one. Children, parents, siblings, lovers-" there's a little hitch in her voice, "-this illness is much more than just a blight on the body. It's a wound in the heart, too." She's silent a moment and then shakes her head a little. "Maybe once we're friends," after that eventually that was spoken of so casually before, "I'll try to explain. In the meantime, I'll tell you, even if I can't explain." "A memorial of some kind," agrees Mirinda, firmly. "I don't imagine there is anyone at Fort who has not known loss of some kind, and I'm sorry for it." Of the rest, she has another nod; she expects no more than that, not yet. "I appreciate that, Dee. Now-- can you walk me through some of this? I'd like to at least sound like I have an understanding when we meet Blume." |
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