Logs:I Messed Up
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| RL Date: 1 September, 2011 |
| Who: Leova, Meara |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Leova reports in. |
| Where: Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 21, Month 8, Turn 25 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Iolene/Mentions, Lujayn/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions, Teris/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
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| Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr Under the tenure of a new master, the changes to the weyrlingmaster's office are marked. A fitted, new door that smells of fresh wood has taken the place of the warped battered one and is a little thicker, a little more insulated in keeping the noises of without out. Instead of an imposing desk with its many drawers and definitive sides, a round one has claimed much of the space in the center of the room with five chairs spaced around its edges. Beneath it is a square rug pieced together with twisted rags, it would seem, that stretches from wall to wall wall to long bookshelves and filing cabinets. The tapestry of the Weyr's badge has been freshly cleaned and carries with it the faint scent of lemon bleach while new decorations have emerged with a freshly potted, and alive plant, as well as a tea cart pushed into the far corner of the room. The new doctor is in. Her office. She'll try that first. To bespeak would mean finding /words/ and... Leova just wants to walk, to keep walking, leaving the discarded beast for the firelizards and whatever else gets to it before the weyrlings clean it up. Around the corner, then. Into the outer cavern. Her strides lengthen. Her head turns, this way, that. Hunting. Meara isn't in the training cavern, though by now, some of the other weyrlings are - clustered in groups, preparing for lessons. J'vain's there, though, keeping them in line - and the door to Meara's office is open. That's probably a good sign. Sure enough, inside, the middle-aged greenrider is sitting at her desk, flicking through papers one after another, her tea-cup in close reach, just off to one side. Is it one of her less breakable cups? Leova doesn't so much stop short in relief as get caught up in a turn, backing up against the door. Can't back /through/ it, that way. "So." Her head ducks. Her hair's all ruffly. "I messed up. Io. Don't know what to do." The vowel's swallowed as short as it can get. "Tea?" There's more tea in the pot, on the nearby trolley, and a plate of fresh cookies, too: not just for upset weyrlings. Meara raises her eyes from her papers a few moments after she speaks, setting down the pile as she presses her hands together, fingers twining about fingers. "And then you can sit down and tell me about it." A quick shake of her head: no tea. Leova pauses by the door and kicks its wedge into place with her heel, effectively locking it, and slopes forward to drop unhappily into one of the harder-looking chairs. Penance. "She's doing that I'll-be-fine-no-really thing. Would drive me up the wall even more if I didn't think she meant it. But she's not /listening/. And Tiriana, she..." Leova pauses. Looks at Meara, straight on. "Who do you think of as your boss, these days." Meara drinks her own tea, then, sipping carefully though her eyes remained trained upon Leova as she does so. She's silent until the tea-cup is back on the desk, her hands intertwining for a second time. In answer to that question: "They both are. Tiriana and K'del. I admit, I find it easier to work with the Weyrleader, but the Weyrwoman is the one more likely to fire me in a fit of pique." Take that as you will. "Why? What did Tiriana do?" /Leova's/ hands aren't doing anything except for plastering their palms to her knees. "/Supposedly/, and don't know if that's really what she said or all she said, she could be joking, right? But Iolene got a wild hair that Tiriana said that she's a... a fluke, that's it. And that Quinlys shoulda got her. Ysavaeth, I mean. And that Iolene don't have the bloodlines, that she picked wrong. So I quoted Lessa and Satiet, even, at her and he just did the I'm-fine and I don't think she heard all I was saying, just what she didn't want to hear. And I don't know what Tiriana really said and what Iolene dreamed up but it's a right piece of work." She's hunched unhappily, still, her shoulders spread wingblades. Meara's face looks, frankly, a little grey by the time Leova has finished spilling all of that, and her mouth is a thin, hard line. "Listening to that, I wouldn't say that /you/ messed up. So much as-- it's probably a bit on both of them. Tiriana being cruel, Iolene reading more than was even said-- at a guess." And it really is only a guess, because Meara is shaking her head, baffled, her hands lifting, now, to rub at her temples. "What a mess, Leova, and no, I'm not blaming you. I doubt she'll listen to me, either." The younger greenrider's voice is low. "I also said that... that Olveraeth got to get who /he/ wanted. He hatched first. Said something about how queens shouldn't get dibs on that too." /Too/. Meara is clearly less sanguine about /that/ particular statement: she can't - or doesn't - hide her wince. "Well," she says, after a moment, though at least her tone is relatively even except for that note of dryness. "That probably wasn't the /best/ choice of responses, I'll grant you." "No," and Leova's voice answers dryness with wryness. She doesn't look up until the end. "'Least it was true." Better to be hanged for truth than a lie? Despite it all, Meara laughs at that - a low chuckle. "I won't argue with that," she says, just lightly, flexing out fingers upon the desktop, as though she can't quite keep them still. "I'll talk to her, Leova. We'll sort it out. And to the Weyrwoman." If her shoulders straighten just slightly, as though she's steeling herself to the task - well, it's just /slightly/. "Don't want her to get into trouble. More trouble." Leova's mouth pulls to the side, away from the humor Meara had briefly lent her. "Or us. I know. But mostly her. I think. I don't /think/ she's playing us, Meara. She could be. Another girl would be. Saying, oh-the-Weyrwoman's-so-mean, I-let-it-slip-it-was-an-accident," and doesn't she have the intonation down, Iolene's warped into something less guileless and more... coy. It may not be an exact mimic, but it's enough to make Meara smile again; ruefully, mouth twisted. "I don't think she is, either. That's the problem. I don't know that I'd be happy with Iolene as a goldrider, were /I/ the Weyrwoman." She's being honest. She sounds /tired/. "Or any of the exile girls. I probably would have preferred Quinlys. But that doesn't matter, does it? And it isn't so long before Iolene will need to begin her weyrwoman training." Amber eyes lift, half-squinted as if against Meara's light. "Heard they weren't even supposed to be there." But it doesn't matter. It will not matter. "Can it be put off a little? Work with Lujayn some, maybe. Could make a connection. Don't know that it'll endear her any, but it's that or Teris... " She shifts. "Was thinking, wouldn't be such a bad thing, that the big ones get delayed. Flying. Getting that muscle built up right." Meara can't deny it: they weren't. And she may well even know whose fault it was. /But/. "Lujayn. That's a good idea. Plenty of experience, Stood a couple of times before she Impressed-- I'll suggest it." She runs the pad of her finger over her cuticles, idly, considering Leova's suggestion for a few long moments before she nods. "It's a good idea. Take it slow. And their riders-- there's so much for them to catch up on. They need to concentrate on that, and not on anything extra." Like leadership training. "Extra." Leova hesitates. She's straightened up a little, not quite slouched but at least not slumped, her face less flushed by now in the coolness of the dim cavern. "How do you mean, ma'am?" A moment's pause, as though Meara is evaluating her own words. Then: "Leadership training. I don't think-- they have so much to catch up on, it seems like that would be an unnecessary burden, even for those who show potential." It's quietly said, and there's almost - just almost - a hint of guilt to it. Leova's gone and ducked her head again, rummaging in her pocket for that oddment, the bit of metal she'd been polishing. Now she's just rubbing her thumb over it. "Would be a waste, is what it would be." She pushes out a breath. "That girl, Riorde. And don't know about her /rider/, but Vrianth likes Amareth. Thing is, got to make them want to be like us. Something that they can try for, that's ours. Not just second-rate furs with bedbugs in 'em." "But are they going to be like us? Or are they always going to be their own group of people, separately?" Meara doesn't seem to be looking for a definitive answer with that question: it's thrown out there with a sigh. "I don't know what to do with them, Leova. Frankly. I suppose we'd better... wait and see." Beat. "Riorde thinks we should resort to piracy, if the holds don't tithe properly. Did you know?" But Leova gives her one anyway: "They /can't/. Not with their dragons. It won't work." But the thought of piracy brings her back, messing with the metal clip once again. Slowly,"So we teach them otherwise. 'S what we're supposed to do, teach. Teenagers, they got lots of strange ideas, they grow out of 'em, mostwise. These just have more than most. Maybe... maybe you could be like the mother?" A little quicker, "When da's gone out to the fields, not /tell/ Tiriana but sympathize. Protect her. Io, I mean. Make sure she trusts /you/. Explain how to work things. Maybe they don't know, on those islands, how to buckle up and /deal/ when you got a boss you don't much fit well with. And... see what happens." Meara's abandoned tea is reclaimed, now, as she listens to Leova's suggestion. She blows at the liquid - though it can't, surely, need it by now. It's more likely to be stone cold. Still. "See what happens," she repeats, a little wryly. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Ah, Leova. Perhaps I should feel bad for dragging you back into this." "But I was the one who..." Leova stops. Her mouth manages to tilt upward at one corner and then, more forcibly, at the other. "Yes. Well. All right then. Hope she'll listen to /you/ when she won't to me." There's finality to it. She shifts again, pocketing the metal, trading it for her own cup from before. "And..." she hesitates. "Not as though we haven't had uppity weyrlings before. But her Ysa-vah don't much like Vrianth telling her what to do. And you know Vrianth's..." her Vrianth, though her smoky voice is only briefly soft, "Well, not going to sweet-talk. Advice?" "I hope so," is Meara's quiet reply, matched with a rueful smile. She'll let that topic drop, though, concentrating instead upon this other conundrum. "Mm. More difficult. What is it with queens? Iskiveth was difficult, too. She needs to learn to listen. Better to be firm than not; if needs be, we'll enlist help." "Yes, but Iskiveth... she was /excited/ about things." Leova shrugs, one-shouldered, back to that more habitual gesture. "Anyhow. Let's tell the harpers to stay off of Lessa's /Ride/, and... what about something social? For all of 'em. When they do something good, we can make as if it's a reward. Something with dancing, maybe. Girls like pretty dresses, even when they're borrowed, hm?" Though she does pause. "And lessons, too. Easy things. And some residents with a good way 'bout 'em." It's the truth, and Meara accepts it, head shaking: what can they do? But for the rest: nodding, quietly enthusiastic. "That sounds like an excellent plan. A reward. They /do/ seem to be working pretty hard." She stretches out her shoulders, now, shifting in her chair as though her body is beginning to go to sleep despite her best efforts. "Something pleasant. Especially as the weather gets worse." "Might have to have them once a sevenday," Leova actually teases, and sighs, and manages another smile before straightening the way her own cup sits within the saucer. "Meantime. I'll take night shift, tonight." More penance. "Now, about E'tan..." but she's eyeing Meara and that awkward adjustment, and surely this part's bound to be shorter, if only by comparison. Meara's brows lift, perhaps in response to that penance, but she doesn't argue: a nod confirms it. "If you will." It's easier to accept that than to argue, or talk, for example, about her stiffening joints. "Ah, E'tan." Beat. "Yes, continue." Her smile is rueful, perhaps: if it isn't one weyrling, it's another. |
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