Difference between revisions of "Logs:(Un)Subtle Conspiracies"

Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr

Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground -- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers, and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black.

The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks, however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat.

Warmth permeates every corner of the hatching caverns, and the galleries, while its tiers of unused seating serve as a perfect respite from the chill still lingering in the Reaches' air. Here is where the two lower cavern girls have chosen to spend their time, with a quilt spread out for their comfort. Farideh reappears at the head of the stairs, grasping the handles of two steaming mugs, and shuffles slowly towards Lycinea, trying not to jostle the hot contents. "You know, if we were goldriders, someone would bring this to us," she grumbles, bending to set the mugs down, and then sits herself, cross-legged with her sweatered-hands wrapping around the sides of hers. "Unfair."

For her comfort, Lya is wearing a lighter (and older) set of garments, patched and uncoordinated, but at least she won't faint from the heat, although the steaming mugs are given an eyeing before she reaches for one, "I think we're finally about as hot as if we really were in Ista," though the regrettably not black sands are given a wistful look. "If we were goldriders, the Weyr would be lucky not to be a pile of ash and rubble," post-apocalyptic event, obviously. That's the confidence she has in them. "I wonder what the oldest shell shard you could find would be, if you dug. Some of the shells are awfully pretty. I hear sometimes they make jewelry from them for the riders."

Hot sands haven't kept Farideh from wearing a light sweater over wherhide pants, paired with boots and a messy bun on top of her head. It's how she looks so cozy sitting on the quilt, nestling the mug between her hands until it cools enough to take a sip. "They haven't done much better. Three goldriders dead, one murderer, one banished, and another one lingering in the infirmary after her dragon betweened. Would you call that doing well?" She gives Lycinea a tight-lipped stare and shrugs, instantly bored of the topic, moving onto another with the typical flippancy of a girl in her teens. "Shells? Whatever happened to precious metals and stones?" with a semi-pout; because baby dragon incubators, gross.

"Let's not forget the one struck by lightning," Lya chimes with an attempt at levity that simply doesn't make it there as she sighs over her cup. "I guess it's normal to feel like you give a shit about people you never really knew just because they sort of in a grand-scheme-of-things way took care of you for almost your whole life." But she doesn't like it. That much is obvious in the way that the blonde looks dejectedly from her mug to the sands before setting the former down on the blanket again. "Did you hear the rumor? That maybe Iesaryth wasn't struck by lightning after all?" She sounds scandalized enough that she just might buy it. Even if Farideh is bored by goldriders, evidently Lya has some amount of interest to at least talk about the kitchen gossip. "I can't afford any precious metals or stones," the kitchen help points out without bothering to say that she probably can't afford egg shell bits set into jewelry either.

"Not struck by lightning? What else would have killed a dragon? You think something just appeared out of the sea and.." Farideh laughs, but this time nervously, trying to hide her befuddled expression behind her mug. She takes a long draught and rubs her lips together. "That's ridiculous," the other girl provides, dispelling the notion with another shrug, this one more flippant. "It's just unfortunate, especially since this other one from Telgar went between too." Her eyebrows pull together, then smooth out as she wrinkles her nose towards the sands and the shells Lycinea is going on about. "Shells are cast offs." After a beat, she groans loudly and tosses her head back, "I knoooowwww. We can't afford anything." Leave it to Farideh to be dramatic about something.

"Well, I'm sure I don't know. But what if it was a harpoon or something? Or... I don't know, maybe she was swarmed by firelizards. Or maybe some dragon flamed her?" Not knowing won't keep Lycinea from guessing. "The flame could account for the look of the lightning. Or it could've just happened at the same time. Maybe? I'm not sure I really understand how dragons can fly in such bad weather to begin with though, so. Maybe we should make other people guess about it. Liiike... the weyrlingmaster?" She'd know, wouldn't she? The younger girl shifts with a sigh onto her knees. "We could make H'vier buy us things, but I might've burned that bridge." This is admitted with some reticence. "But you're still-- you know," since Fari doesn't want her saying such things aloud, "With him, right? So he could buy you some pretty things? Or is that too much like whoring for profit?" It's not an accusation, just a 'she really doesn't know' question. This might be the moment to be glad there's not a lot of other people in the galleries just now.

"Why would a dragon flame their queen? Aren't they bound by honor or dragon code or something like that?" Contemplation is a difficult thing, and just now while they're relaxing in their off time in the galleries, it's not easy to gather coherent thoughts. "You've seen her, right? She looks like she's a bitch." Quinlys, that is. Farideh sips from her mug, watching Lycinea talk over the edge; not letting the rim get too far from her lips, it being poised within a couple inches, she says, "H'vier? No, not that prick." She has an eye roll for emphasis, shifting slightly so her body is positioned better on the seat. "I don't anymore, with him, or with anyone, which is sad, but.." Moving swiftly from a pout - that she wore while talking about her lack of sexual encounters - into a sly smile, "Someone said they like me. Like me like me."

"What if it wasn't one of ours?" Lya counters, for the sake of argument. "No one even knows what they were doing out there to begin with. I'm not sure anyone's even trying to find out. I haven't heard anything, anyway." Of the weyrlingmaster, Lya has to shrug, "I dunno. I like her hair." That's a marker for personality, right? If only they could all be friends, then they'd be a complete set! What's not to like? "Like you like you?" Lya has to ask, of course. It's not disbelief, but interest. "That's exciting. Is he--" Then with a quirk of brows, "She?" She doesn't know these things after all, "Attractive?"

"Don't they all have to listen to all of the golds?" One of them, at least, knows nothing about dragons and their ways. "There's a council for that," Farideh says with a frown, eyebrows puckered again, "for the Weyrleaders to discuss to come to conclusions. If they haven't, there's probably nothing to worry about." And it's just that easy for the laundress to become un-worried by the troubling thought of a goldrider shot down by a freaking harpoon or killed by her own kind. She waves a hand and swings her other hand, holding the mug, out to the side. "A she? Really? We may live in a Weyr, Lya, but I am not that progressive. It's a he. A handsome he. A Holder."

Lycinea's shrug is less than illuminating. Growing up as just another unclaimed 'brat in the Weyr doesn't make her an expert. "The weyrlingmaster would know," shouldn't she? The 'mm' sound for the council is less than convincing. "She was a Vijay and from a Monaco egg," Aishani, not the weyrlingmaster. "What if there's a conspiracy on the council? The Weyrleader had her father hung, after all. "And that Monaco brownrider, I'kris, killed K'del's lover." See? It's all coming together!! "I dunno, this guy told me there's... I don't know, something about having the same parts?" She's not blushing, because she really doesn't know. Her eyeroll precedes her assessment of, "You ran away from your Hold just to let some other Holder fall in love with you? Kind of a waste of the Weyr, don't you think?"

"That sounds stupid." Disbelief and disapproval both flash across the laundress' face, before she schools her features into a semblance of refinery. "There are civilized people on Pern, perhaps a lack of them in Weyrs, but I doubt Monaco would perform such a faux pas." Farideh is convinced of the matter. It's so complete that she doesn't bat an eye in regarding Lycinea with growing annoyance for the second topic at hand. "I can't well shack up with a bronzeriding idiot who buys little girls clothes in exchange for favors, and ignores his children." Who knew she has such morals! But then, she straightens her spine and tries staring haughtily at the blonde. "I didn't come here to find someone, I came here to start new and do things on my terms, and if my terms include a cute holder, then I don't see the problem." After a pause, "Why are you trying to find fault with everything today?" Kettle, meet pot!

"It's not like I'kris had Monaco's endorsement, but that doesn't make Iolene any closer to alive and well." Lya points out before she has to roll her eyes at the other piece of cookware. "Because I'm not perfect. And I don't shack up with anyone." So there. And what's more, "Well, it sounds like your building your new terms on old foundations that're just going to have you new life looking like your old one. And your old one didn't make you happy." Or so Lycinea assumes, given that Farideh ran away from it. "I'm just--" The younger girl sucks in a breath and holds it before sighing, "I just want you to be happy with the life you make for yourself." She's lookin' out.

Farideh isn't budging on her opinion of Monaco or the absurdness of Lycinea's conspiracy theory, but she does listen to the rest. "So," she begins, tentatively, "you're saying I shouldn't like him back?"

"No," of course not! Lya gives Farideh a soulful look. "You can like anyone you want, back or otherwise, I'm just saying you should be really sure he's not planning on chaining you to the kitchen in some tiny cothold somewhere and keeping you pregnant without a shoe to make an escape with before you get too involved. Holders... I mean, they think they own a girl who give them a roll." Or at least, so she's heard, because she speaks with all the wisdom of one who knows nothing.

"You have a very good point," Farideh says, her eyes narrowing as she mulls over all the eventualities that statement encompasses. "That's the last thing I want to do." She is still for a time, with her eyes squinted and her lips pursed, and then she reaches a hand to try to slap Lycinea's leg. "You ask him. He might lie to me regardless, of his intentions, but he doesn't know you and he doesn't know I know you." Now, she's grinning as she waits for Lycinea's reaction to this great plan.

"Do I have to be subtle?" Lya wants to know. "Subtle isn't my strong suit," it's a disclaimer, but she's obviously not unwilling because the next question is the obvious one. "Who is he?"

"I don't care if you're subtle or not. But it's probably better if you're not. Get right," slinging her arm out in a weak punching motion, "to the point." Farideh approves of this plan if the grin on her face is any indication. "His name is Weylaughn. He helps in the archives now."

"Oh," Lya's lips round in surprise. Just oh.

"Oh?" Don't leave a girl hanging. Farideh stares at Lycinea, expecting more than just an utterance of sound.

"Well," Lya says briskly, suddenly leaning to pick up her all-but-forgotten mug, not meeting Farideh's eye. "You're half right. He doesn't know I know you."

Those narrowed eyes hone in on Lycinea. "Okay," Farideh says, still waiting.

"What?" Lya asks, raised brows innocently interrogative as she uses Farideh's own 'hide behind the klah mug' ploy against her.

"What's the rest of the story, Lya?" Farideh's using her not-impressed voice, having set her mug down so she can glare at her friend appropriately; mugs would just get in the way, or, give her ammo.

"There's no story, Farideh," Lya lowers her mug answering the glare with a pointed duckface of her own. "I met him. That's the story. How was I supposed to know you knew him and might like him like him back?"

A huff precipitates Farideh's next words, her gaze skipping off somewhere else. "Whatever, Lya, I've got things to do and you probably want to look for eggshells." She stands up and grabs her almost empty mug, looking down at the younger girl with obvious distaste; but that's just a Farideh thing, so maybe she's used to it by now. "Don't tell anyone." About Weylaughn, obviously.

"You know you're not going to be the only girl in the world he's ever met, even if he doesn't want to knock you up and get you to make him meatrolls." Lya's answer isn't any kind of farewell, but then why would she bother with niceties when her 'friend' was just so kind. She doesn't seem in a hurry to go. If anything, Lycinea will sit there and look totally unbothered until the brunette is gone. After... That's another story.