Logs:Dragonlumberjacks
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 20 January, 2016 |
| Who: Dahlia, N'rov, Roveny, Taeliyth, Vhaeryth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Dahlia scopes out N'rov's willingness to do a deal with WoodCraft. |
| Where: Weyrleader's Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 16, Month 11, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Mirinda/Mentions, N'muir/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Backdated. |
    |
| There are safer places to take shelter from all those tithe deliveries than a ground weyr, such as the southern continent; N'rov has not, however, elected to do so, and as he is not busy oiling Vhaeryth, the bronze (who is perched on the side of the Rim that overlooks that outer entrance and its wagons, but at least has consented to stay a distance where it won't more than unnerve the animals) is not above relaying his presence to a chosen few. Taeliyth is not nearly so busy as her rider today, but she's lending Dahlia what mental assistance she can and the sheer volume of activity over the past three days might account for the brisk inquiry to the bronze, « Where is he? Dahlia has questions. » Ones that seem to require some variety of immediate response. It's possible that Taeliyth has been a little more brisk and professional with Vhaeryth on the whole since she flew, though fortunately the memory of his choices that day are long lost to time. So brisk is she that Vhaeryth scribes a mental trail the roundabout way: a dotted red line that gradually wanders through the bowl, towards the lake... and then out again, still wandering, over by the baths and this way and that until finally there's the Records Room... and through it to the upper entrance and into the council chamber and... out again, until finally it dead-ends upon his ledge. There. « She'll be quiet, » the bronze notes cheerfully, « if she knows what's good for her... answers. » Around the time she'll arrive, a buxom woman, the details of her bodice concealed by a discreet wrap, will be departing the Weyrleader's weyr; she'll give Dahlia a distracted smile and a dip of a curtsey but intend to leave quickly. Overcast and clammy out in the Bowl, inside it's comfortably warm even without a sweater (even for someone from down south) and the reason for that has to do with a reclining Weyrleader, who's adopted a chair with a slanted back and sliding rails. Also a footrest. Also a swaddled creature who's pretty well occupying his chest wherever his shirt isn't. It's very quiet. Taeliyth registers annoyance for Vhaeryth's trail. Apparently the time when she found that charming or endearing is over and done. He's wasting her time and she doesn't appreciate it. There's not so much as a thank you before her presence is closing off from him, leaving only the smallest chink in overlaid gnarled branches that if he should need her for something, as the Weyrleader, she may still be reached. Dahlia has a polite smile for the woman in passing, and as the heat hits her, she peels off her one layer of sweaters leaving her in a blue blouse beneath. Even that needs to have her sleeves rolled up and buttons undone a few and she's working on that when she comes into view of the Weyrleader, stopping short. She stares openly at this paternal view, the unconscious smile of a woman who appreciates a good father when she sees one coming to her lips and softening her tired features before she draws nearer, meaning to crouch. N'rov doens't exist right now, only the tiny bundle which has stolen the goldrider's attention for the time being. Vhaeryth's amused. Vhaeryth readies a tiny transparent dart, aiming not for the chink but for the branches themselves, adding a streamer of woods-green; worst comes to worst, it falls as a tiny pile of broken glass. N'rov... rolls his eyes the goldrider's way, lest he have to move his head. "Careful," he murmurs above the little bundle (the little hairy bundle: dark hair wisps and curls on that also-little head). "Another reason to be glad, never got hold of a firelizard egg." While he's at it, something rare: "Sorry. I know she's gravid," inflected to suggest he'd talk him down. Is that how Vhaeryth wants to be? Fine. The chink shuts, letting his projectile slam harmlessly against branches so far from Taeliyth's core that they barely count as a piece of her. Sticks and stones may break her bones, but his stupid games will never matter. If the Weyrleader needs something, he can go to someone else. Dahlia flinches, visibly, but her smile only diminishes slightly. "You look very natural with her," is her soft murmur. She doesn't reach to touch, only looks. "Have you been able to take much time for her?" And, "Some firelizards know how to behave. Some would even snuggle up with her to nap. You can borrow mine if you like," holds humor but that doesn't make the offer any less genuine. It almost seems like she's not going to say anything of the dragons, but then, a little roll of her shoulders, "He lost her respect, choosing as he did. He's not going to get anywhere with her that way." With his games. "So it might just be this way, from now on." Her tone is matter-of-fact, but her expression is dubious as if the weyrwoman isn't sure that Vhaeryth has any other way of being, or if he would choose to exercise it if he did. That's an idea: not so much breakage as a rattle-tat-tat with a beat; it must be N'rov who convinces the bronze he has better things to do in (what's left of his) life than bother an increasingly pregnant queen. Even if she's usually more interesting, and he's confident she could be that way again soon enough. It's added a crease to his rider's brow, one that doesn't entirely disappear as one eyebrow hikes up for the compliment; "Here and there," he says briefly, quietly; when the little girl stirs, he secures his arm around her. Her shoulder hitches in her sleep, as though she'd really like to get her arm out of there. "Would they feast on her nose?" is only a passing, somewhat doubtful question; there's the rest of what she'd said to consider. He studies her. "I'm not sure where she gets that," he says, his baritone low. "What's not to respect. Bijedth may have chased his junior, but I'd wager most Weyrleaders don't." It might be the heat in the cavern that has Dahlia licking dry lips before she murmurs an answer, "She needed him. Specifically him. Thought she did, anyway. He chose Zaisavyth. He didn't choose her. He wasn't there for her when she needed him." There's no passion to this argument because it isn't an argument, just an explanation from the goldrider. "It changed how she feels about him." Hazel eyes rise to rest on N'rov's face briefly and then she's looking to the floor and rising from her crouch. "I came to ask you about making a deal with WoodCraft to increase our wood stores for winter." Something official. Something that would steer them clear of any sticky personal items. She speaks; N'rov watches, mouth pulling to one side, deliberating. In the end, his voice lower still: "Keep reminding her, it's a commitment you asked for." When does he ask her for anything? Beyond that, after a glance at Roveny that leads to scooping up a bit of slime from her mouth and wiping it on her cloth, "Let me guess: transportation." There's surprise briefly before the woman's expression becomes guarded. Her lips tighten and conflict flickers across her mask. Dahlia's hazel eyes close briefly and there's a visible swallow that speaks to some substantial emotion that's been controlled. Moments later, with hands folding in front of her, she murmurs, "Labor. It's short-notice to be making any sort of deal with them and it's not like the Holds have hands to spare if we can convince them to allow it. Would you allow it? I need to know what we can offer on our end." N'rov starts to straighten, only that leads to Roveny stirring, and the Weyrleader stops. He eyes the top of her curly head and settles for words as he looks back at Dahlia; "What kind of labor do you have in mind?" There's a meaningful lift to Dahlia's brows, as if N'rov ought to be able to guess her response to that. "Are you more willing to let there be dragonlumberjacks than you were to let there be dragonfarmers?" Though she, professionally, only expressed her opinion once, it was expressed, articulately, the once that Dahlia felt that Southern Boll's request for help was not the moment to be drawing lines between dragonmen and those that support them through the turn. N'rov eyes her; "Does it matter?" isn't wholly a question, given that they did have some out there. "Details, woman." No getting up. No moving. Just a lift of brow and a dry smile; who knew a baby's small mass could be so heavy. "Of course it matters," Dahlia returns, mimicking his look, eyeing him in turn, but seriously. She could explain how he always has a choice, could joke about the unhappy consequences poor choices here could result in, but she had too much respect for both her Weyrleader and the memory of their dead to do either. "If by some miracle of diplomacy, personal cajoling and bribery we can manage to bring together the necessary Hold or Holds and the Crafthall, it will be largely for our benefit, for our peace of mind that no one will freeze this winter in the Weyr." She's solemn as she says it; this is a weyrwoman addressing an issue at her Weyr with its 'leader. "There are a number of things we could bring to the bargaining table, hands to do the labor is only one of them. Transportation, warm places to be brought between shifts, klah and warm food for our workers," she name a few. N'rov, respected. "You know," he says abruptly. "How much would it be worth to a Hold," the tilt of his chin makes that its Holders, its workmen, whatever, "to go between a couple hours to somewhere amazing they never went before. The Lords won't amaze as easily, but the rest... Mind you, we'd have to fly a fine line between 'reminding them to respect dragons' and 'flying so memorably that they lose control of their bowels.'" A quick glance down at Roveny has him speculating the more quickly for how she's started to toss and turn. "Between would freeze them back up after they warmed up, I suspect. Some sort of portable shelter would help. Malachite could conceivably test their skills on hauling from close quarters, all the better if it's firewood instead of fine wood. And," there comes the first gurgling bleat of a sound that isn't yet a wail. Dahlia gives a nod with a satisfied sort of look before that sound from the baby interrupts work. Briefly, she looks amused before she murmurs, "You'll have a chance to review the deal, just easier to work one out if we know where to start in negotiations. I'll let Mirinda know you're open to it." More open to it than dragonfarming anyway. "Good luck," she wishes him before she's walking away because soothing the soon to be squawling child is not part of her job description. "Roughly open," N'rov determines, standing for good and hoisting the baby higher, where she can wrinkle her little nose and make faces over his shoulder. "Possibilities." It's enough to send her off with, into these negotiations the weyrwomen have to deal with, and no doubt he'll confer with Mirinda himself as matters draw on; in the moment, though, he must be left to hope that his dragon to dragon to rider to staff communication reaches the person whose job description it is, and soon. |
Leave A Comment