Logs:Finding Replacements
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| RL Date: 1 December, 2015 |
| Who: Mirinda, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Fort's Weyrleaders discuss some of the gaps that need to be filled. |
| Where: Council Room, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 6, Month 6, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ebeny/Mentions, M'kris/Mentions, Kh'tyr/Mentions, Kyouri/Mentions, Olivya/Mentions |
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| The crisis, as they say, is over. Nothing, of course, is quite so simple, and it certainly isn't at Fort, where the death toll has left some significant gaps in the Weyr's smooth running. Six weeks since the flight have passed in a flash, without leaving much time for anything more than bailing things out; actual future planning has always, always had to wait. This morning, however, Mirinda sits primly in her seat at the council table, ignoring the pastry and klah to her left so that she can focus dark eyes upon N'rov and say, "We'll need candidates in another six weeks. It's inconviently timed for the harvest, but we're going to need to Search outside the Weyr. Is that going to be feasible?" N'rov, never one to sit for longer than he must, checks one more thing on the charts he's been leaning over, shuffling between, updating; now he straightens, looking back at her. "It's going to have to be. It might," he says, scooping up his mug to round the table towards that same klah, "mean more girls. Do you mind that?" Prefer that? "Should I?" Mirinda seems surprised by the question, the thin, professional line of her mouth sharpening slightly before it relaxes. "I'm weyrbred; no, I don't mind. I wonder at an influx of holder women, though. But perhaps they'll naturally increase the birthrate, which is another thing we'll need to consider going forward. I can," she adds, then, less certain, "ask Monaco for candidates, if we need them. If we don't think we can get enough. If Zaisavyth clutches too many." "'Too many.' It's still strange thinking that way," N'rov says as he pours, with a hike of his brow offering to top off hers as well. "'As long as they don't lay a queen,'" has those same audible quotes, utterly unconvincing in tone. "If you want me to ask Kyouri, I can. Call it their," his mouth twists, but mostly in amusement, "leftovers." Mirinda extends her mug, though mostly-- it seems-- automatically, as it's still half-full from the first serving. It's in the solemn tip of her chin that she agrees, silently, with his first remark, saving her words for, "I forget, sometimes, that you know her. Perhaps better than I do. Would you? It'll be turns before they need them again, most likely, and I wouldn't say no to some older options. Though, of course, then we open ourselves to the implication that we are letting Monaco take over." She, of course, is included in this; her moue acknowledges this, too. He pours; he puts the pot back; he moves on, to the sideboard with its assemblage of cold cuts and cheeses: enough, if not a superfluity, with the fresh bread. "Happy to." N'rov might know her better than Mirinda does; he might even know her better than Mirinda, still. "How much older are you thinking? I don't mind some Monaco candidates, not when it's in addition to our 'good, hard-workin', 'Star-fearin' locals.'" "Good," is Mirinda's firm conclusion; that matter now settled productively. Setting down her mug, her eyes and hands go back to the papers in front of her, the latter shuffling through them as if in search of something. "I don't mean old candidates. But they might be more willing to loan us the ones who are, say, twenty-three or above-- the ones who might not get another opportunity at Monaco. And that would give us adult riders, not children." "It'd also give us riders set in their lives, who we can't train up and," a hand inserts itself in front of her papers, finger-joints flexing at the air, "mold into proper Fortian ways." The hand retracts if it hasn't been swatted away already, though the statement doesn't. "There's much to be said," N'rov adds, "for youth and willingness to jump at the new. Not to mention, a tolerance for push-ups." Dark eyes lift, first to watch those flexing finger-joints, then to seek N'rov's face again. She smiles, though it's a small thing, really. "There is," she agrees. "But we may be less likely to be offered them, unless they are particularly impatient and reluctant to wait another few turns for another chance. Speaking of--" A pause. "We need a new weyrlingmaster." There's studied reluctance, there; as if she's afraid of making reference, however obliquely, to the former weyrlingmaster. "We may. We may have to raid further afield, instead," and N'rov looks briefly wistful for the days of swooping down and selecting some terrified youth, the days that he never got to live. But, "I suppose so." That's terser, now. It's a moment or two before he says, "She has assistants, at least." 'Raid.' It lifts Mirinda's brows, but only for a moment; she's amused, perhaps, but just barely. His terseness has her picking her next words carefully. "I've studied their records. It's not that I don't believe them competent, but... To be honest, I'd like to suggest Olivya. I know she's newly transferred, but she has experience as an assistant weyrlingmaster and as wingleader and wingsecond. She knows her stuff." "Are you ever not honest?" comes not suspiciously, but with a sort of familiar affection, as though he can't believe it's so. More to the point, though, "I'd rather see a Fortian." N'rov returns, even so, to place near her the second of the plates he's put together: nearer than the pastry, close to the papers but not touching. Not that. "Someone who's learned Fortian... stuff." It's a statement; it's definite; it's also something to which he remembers to add in so many words, because she's new and not a wingmate, "Why not them?" After another look at Mirinda, he gives her, "Why her?" "There are times when I keep my opinions close to my chest," returns Mirinda, serious-but-also-not. Of the rest, she's more cautious; more thoughtful. "I know it would be better to have a Fortian. But... which, N'rov? Do you actually see any of the proper Fortians as being ready to step up? Olivya will jump in with both feet. She won't get stuck on 'this is how we've always done it' and though I don't at all mean to imply that the Fortian program needed shaking up, new eyes are always useful." "Which, we can figure out," N'rov says with a lift and fall of his shoulders. "Can't say as I know them as well as when I worked there," yes, says the quirk to his mouth, he did do that in some shape or form. "Can't say as I'd want to decide for them right off, not on as much responsibility as this is, you know? Who wants it, who doesn't, what makes them think they're capable, what the others think of them, that's something to find out. With as much shaking up as Fort's seen, I don't know that we need extra." N'rov spares a wry moment for that before adding, "An assistant like Kh'tyr, though, I wouldn't have qualms about that." "We need to appoint someone sooner rather than later," points out Mirinda, evenly, though the faint flush in her cheeks betrays the fact that she's at least a little flustered by this conversation. "Because whomever it is, they'll need time to prepare things. To prepare themselves. To convert the barracks back into space fit for weyrlings and not..." She breaks off. "I've not met Kh'tyr. He's from Igen, isn't he? And there throughout all of this." She taps one finger to her mouth, making a face that perhaps she didn't even mean to: unimpressed. "'And not'?" N'rov prompts. Starkly: "People dying of plague." Mirinda's mouth tightens. She's no longer wearing her gloves and mask combination, but it doesn't mean that topic is any less troublesome for her. "Yes." N'rov exhales heavily. It's not glib when he continues, no political stealing of words, just slow and quiet: "Another reason not to fault a man for obeying quarantine." Maybe. He nudges the plate towards her, just a fraction. "Sell me on Olivya. Tell me about her experience, what a friend knows, what the numbers don't say. Why she'd be good for Fort. What we'd have to watch for, too, because there's always something." Mirinda taps her fingertips to her mouth again, exhaling as she focuses on the question, and not the rest of what N'rov has to say. "She's holder-bred, and had the whole education; she was always head-and-shoulders above everyone, even me, and I--" Mirinda breaks off from that. "Arguably, she made wingsecond out of nepotism, but that doesn't mean she wasn't good. She twenty, twenty-one at the time, and she did it well. She wasn't sleeping with-- M'kris," a beat, awkward and obvious, "when he promoted her to wingleader. I think she was good at that, too, but honestly, weyrlingmaster was always what she wanted. She's smart. She's determined. She thinks outside the box. She... doesn't always think traditionally, which can be good and bad, but the thing, N'rov," and now she's getting fired up, "is that she cares. She's spent the past six weeks stepping in and trying to get information from healer hall, to help us. She's perceptive. She's..." Mirinda's best friend, and probably her role model; it's pretty clear. "Pretty amazing." N'rov had grimaced for M'kris, so awkward, but listened with clear interest throughout; he doesn't even follow up where she had broken off, now, despite the glint in those gray eyes. "Sounds like I should talk with her. Are you open to talking with Kh'tyr and the others? He should be back anytime now. And afterwards... we can compare notes." "You should," agrees Mirinda, firmly. "I... will. All right. I'll keep an open mind. I'd like to have a decision made within the next two sevendays, if that's acceptable to you. In the meantime, I'll be asking Blume to step up as Headwoman, so that's one very much local appointment to please people." "Let's aim for that," N'rov agrees, and he has a quick nod for Blume. "Sounds like that will be a help, and she seems capable. No new shake-ups on my end. Be careful, or I'll steal your Olivya for my Weyrsecond." He leans on the table, looking at her. "That weyrlingmaster investigation: now that we're getting a better idea of who's left," he doesn't say that lightly, "I'm going to have to do the same thing, figuring out who's capable and who can be made that way. Also, reconfiguring the wings somewhat." "I'll wrestle you for her," suggests Mirinda-- and that is enough to make her cheeks turn pink again; oh well. More seriously, and with a sharp nod that suggests she's moving rapidly on from the whole joking thing to focus on the rest: "I imagine you are. So many wingleaders... it's going to take some time. The same is true in the caverns, which just makes me all the more glad for Blume." N'rov grins at her, a slow grin; he adds after a moment, "She," Blume, "prepared savories for you, too," with a nod to her plate. "Two questions. First: in reconfiguring those wings, I'm going to have to look at what we really need, and how we can be nimble," there's a wry turn of phrase there, "in getting to what comes up in the future. Is that something you want in on? Seems like it could be complementary to what you do, and I'd like your ideas. But I get it, if your plate's full enough already." Or if it's just not what matters. A pause. Mirinda gives that plate a guilty glance, and then reaches; she'll eat. She has to eat. "Yes, mom," she says, with a note of dark, wry amusement. And a flush, too, just for good measure. "I'd like to be," she adds, then, focused down upon the food and not on N'rov. "At least to throw ideas around. I'm open to it. I'd like... to know more about your side of things. It's not something I had any involvement with, at Monaco. But it seems important, in a partnership." For that, he has to lean to knuckle her shoulder (it's that or ruffle the shining hair) on the way to reclaim his klah and, at last, to get back to drinking it. "Then we'll do that," N'rov says. "If there's anything else you want to do, speak up. And..." the grin's audible in his voice. "I believe I owe you a question." Mirinda has to pause, has to at least take a bite of food, and a mouthful of klah to wash it down with. "A question, not an answer? Well - go ahead, then." There's a certain determined seriousness to how she fields this, how she always fields this, as if she's putting on her armour to prepare. "Next time," N'rov promises. "This one, hm, let's see." Some days, it's as though he's carried the question around with him like a pebble, polishing it with his thumb; other times, it's a mote of dust or light from midair. Today: "If you got to switch the Weyrs' colors around, which would you like to wear all the time? Black and... or not black at all?" Mirinda chews on this as if it were the food she's barely tasted, though this earns more focus and more thoughtfulness. "In the south," she points out, "not all of us have black to our names. I was always partial to the blues Monaco had, but..." Abruptly, she smiles; a genuine one, even. "Ierne's purple and black. I've always felt bad for Southern... green's unlucky, or so they so. And Fort..." Brown. So very dull. N'rov squints one-eyed at her, as though imagining her in each and every hue; "Point," he says for the one, and then, "Purple," is definite agreement. No brown, not when fantasy doesn't have to worry about costly dyes. But the half-bow he sketches her isn't for the answer, it's for having answered; as he turns away to replenish his plate, he adds, "You could even update Citrine's badge, you know." "Could I? I suppose I could." Mirinda's interest in that-- or rather, lack thereof-- is obvious from her tone, largely dismissed in a moment. "I imagine I have other priorities. At least I have my things, now." Such a relief. "Is there anything else? Only, I do need to speak to Dahlia and Blume." "Maybe Dahlia will want to," N'rov suggests, subtle teasing in his voice. "No, I'll be off. Enjoy your chatter," which is to say, work. He has a head start. He'll make it. |
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