Difference between revisions of "Logs:That's 'Weyrwoman' to You"

Tiriana, in the galleries, with the paperwork. Certainly sounds like a recipe for murder, doesn't it? In fact, just look at her berating the poor little Weyr runner who's cowering down and very much regretting volunteering to give the Weyrwoman the latest messages for her tonight. Eventually, though, he escapes, and whatever it says, the letter's balled up and thrown hard as she can at Iovniath, down there on the sands. It doesn't make it, but Tiriana certainly seems to feel better for trying.

Teris probably hasn't come this way to see the Weyrwoman but as she makes her way up the stairs into the galleries, it's kind of hard to not notice the woman or the runner that moves past her rather quickly to get away from her. She turns her head to watch him for a moment, then continues on her way. "I hope that's not my replacement," she raises her voice slightly to carry even though her path is headed vaguely Tiriana-wards now.

"No," Tiriana breathes out a sigh at that, flopping gracelessly down on the bench behind her, hands rubbing over her face. "Faranth. I don't know. It's--Balen." That word's a growl, fury still bubbling beneath the surface as Iovniath, untouchable, continues turning each one of her eggs in precise order. Lest she dwell too long on that one hold, though, Tiriana counters, "What are you doing up here?"

The no makes Teris smile at least for a moment and when she's close enough to speak comfortably, she sits down carefully and stretches her legs out in front of her. "Balen," she sighs out. "Balen, Balen, Balen." Not a whole lot for her to say about Balen, apparently. "Am I not allowed to be up here?" she asks with a touch of her own irritability.

"It was just a question," is Tiriana's peevish answer to Teris' latter. "Surely you had some reason for coming up here, and for bothering me. Gloating, I expect, about me having to deal with all this crap on my own again." That earns a morose expression, and if she had something else to throw at the sands, she probably would. As it is, she curls her hands tight around the lip of the seat to either side of her.

Teris gives Tiriana a look that can really only be described as scolding. "Don't be foolish. Seems the opposite, anyway, all of you gloating that I'm having to sack firestone and clean out fireplaces." The scolding expression turns into something that's more like a pout. "It's warm," she finally answers. "And I didn't think anyone'd really be here right now."

"Oh. Well." Teris has a point: just look at Tiriana's smug, self-satisfied little smile now. This? Has probably just made her night. "Oh. There's always somebody here, seems like. Me, usually, or people looking for me--or hiding out from me, if I'm not around," she concedes that point. "They're not really that fascinating after the first day, you know. They're just eggs. Even the gold one, I can only stand looking at it so much before it's just boring."

Oh hey, there are eggs! A cluster of riders, bearing Fort colors, rowdies into the galleries with general good cheer. One, a tall young man in the back, has a tendency towards amiable flashes of white teeth bared in friendly grins, a hearty laugh, and peculiarly upright carriage. The main group splits into two groups, one to the back and the other ending up near Teris and Tiriana. Take a guess at which At're's in. The grey-eyed man gives a rather affable, "If you would excuse me, miss, miss," as he passes, light baritone a burr as he follows a long-haired brownrider past the Two Terrible T's, just to sit on the other side. Once there-- "She's a beauty, isn't she?" from said Garian, his focus on Iovniath rather than either of the two very striking women he just passed. Hey, maybe he's gay after all.

Rolling her eyes slightly at that smugness, Teris turns her attention out toward the eggs when Tiriana brings them up. "I didn't really come to see them," she admits. "I've seen eggs before," she adds a little more dismissively as her attention is pulled toward the stairs where Fortian riders appear. She even recognizes one! She watches him for a moment but perhaps she doesn't remember his name because she doesn't say anything in the form of fishing for recognition from him. "Not /that/ boring, apparently."

Iovniath, always so quick to notice outsiders in her Weyr, straightens a little, arching her neck just so as she's watched. She doesn't look at the new arrivals, though, and instead pretends to focus all her attention on turning each egg so precisely on the sands. And Tiriana? She's got none of that grace. "Yeah, well. Me, too. And Iovniath. But she still won't leave them alone, and it gets boring sitting around our place if R'uen and Zaiventh aren't there, so." She shrugs. And then, as the Fortians go by, she turns to scowl at them. "Hey, watch it," she snaps off.

To Khazioth, Iovniath, a brush of coolness and winter-white, brushes across the foreign contingent in a touch of ice and gentle snow that seeks out each one in turn for a moment of recognition. Then, collectively, she offers them a prim, « Fort. »

There's a swinging glance back towards the pair, "I'm sorry, ma'am," At're replies, with the grace to look half-chagrined - even though he likely /didn't/ brush up against either of them. Teris receives a longer glance, the spark of recognition obvious in grey gaze, though it's also very patentedly obvious that... he can't exactly place her. "Fort's regards," he directs towards the blonde. "I'm sorry, do I know you from somewhere? You look..." A half-distracted glance towards the door, and he continues to ignore Tiriana for directing the comment to her once-assistant, "...very familiar." A puzzled smile, chagrined again.

Warucori comes quietly up the last few dragonlengths that lead to the galleries. She shakes off her outer coat to knock off the dusting of snow before it can melt and soak the heavy woolen fabric. This done she settles down by herself and pulls a messily wrapped sweetroll from her pocket. The others get a wary look and a smile before she settles down to eat and watch the goings on out on the sands.

"You could do your work there, at least," Teris points out. She grins a little too broadly, then, and offers, "Or you could do my chores and I could do your work." It's rather clear that she doesn't expect a positive response to this by the almost wistful way she says it. But at least it can't be said that she didn't suggest a way to resolve both of their issues. According to her. "You should. We've met before," she assures the bronzerider, offering her best mostly genuine smile. She doesn't offer her name, though, glancing toward the stairs again when the girl appears.

To Iovniath, Khazioth carefully lays out a strategic, triangular formation inwards to Iovniath's snow, his of blazing summer heat, muggy and heavy with Louisiana-grade sweat. Swamp gas rises, werelight flares of ghoul-green and pleasant firefly-orange, crickets a welcoming counterpoint to the buzzing impacts of concussions, far-off. « Fort's sincerest duties to you and your rather impressive clutch, » in the short, crisp tone of a warrior in peacetime.

"Well. Not that /I/ mind actually working for a living," Tiriana points out to Teris, with a smirk. "Done it most of my life, anyway. It's good for you. Builds muscle. You'll need that, for weyrlinghood." A sage nod, and then she's noticing the latest arrival in the galleries, Warucori, with a faint frown. "Popular spot. --The Reaches' duties. What are you doing here?" That presumptive greeting, totally for the Fortians.

Disguisting. Of course, Iovniath never quite says as much, but she does a rather poor job of hiding it all the same, snow retreating into white as she withdraws slightly from the bronze. Still-- « Thank you, Khazioth. And our duties to your Weyr as well, » though those are only polite, preening as she is over the compliments. « It is quite kind of you to visit and say so. » (Iovniath to Khazioth)

"My apologies," Trey extends to Teris, apparently not too terribly injured regarding her entire lack of extending a name. He does so, with a certain charming cluelessness: "Well, if you've need of me, I'm At're. Khazioth's," absently tacked on, his expression far-off a moment in that classic thinking-to-his-lifemate arrangement. Back to the present, and torn between something his brownriding wingmate said and Tiriana's prompt question. "We came to look at the eggs, ma'am," with his laid-back smile, skin crinkling in crows-feet about his eyes. "A few of us hadn't seen a gold," self-effacing with a thumb to his chest, "--egg, that is, and then we decided that booze here is just as good as booze elsewhere." He's obviously quoting that last bit, with a crooked grin towards his own wingmate, who's... stifling a laugh, perhaps, as /she/ has identified Tiriana, at the least.

To Iovniath, Khazioth hasn't a concern for his slightly sulphur-scented mindscape, the wet heat as familiar to him as his own blackened hide. « I only speak the truth, » again with his not-unkindly short manner, plumb matter-of-fact as at home as his raspy, deep baritone. « I reckon a gold isn't too surprising, given the circumstance, but it is something to crow about. » There's a certain smugness at that last, as if he personally takes some of the credit for a foreign weyr's success. Or maybe he just won an argument with the green shouldered close to him in the Bowl-- who knows.

Warucori looks up from her eating, mouth full and gives the Weyrwoman, the other candidate she's speaking with, and the visiting guests a curious smile before putting more sweets into her mouth to eat. Then she's squinting back at the eggs, as though in haste, in case she should be told to get out.

Even though she expected it, Teris frowns slightly when Tiriana doesn't jump at the offer of changing roles with her. "I don't need muscles. The ones I have hurt enough. And look at my hands," she holds one out. It's scratched and maybe a little dry but doesn't actually look too bad. "At're. That's right. You were moping, I think? When I saw you. Or eating." Her own expression goes a little distant but those are all her own thoughts in there. "It's Teris," she finally offers, then glances toward Warucori again. "Hey, you! You don't need to sit all alone. You should come meet some of Fort's pretty riders."

"... Pretty?" TIriana seems rather bewildered by this announcement, and she peers from Teris to At're and back again. "Did somebody hit you upside the head with a shovel or something?" she wonders eventually, frowning. The hands offered just make her roll her eyes, unimpressed, and--wait, they hadn't seen one before. While Teris hails Warucori, Tiriana busies herself looking even more smug. "Well. They are quite rare these days, after all," she tells the Fortians. "And it's only Iovniath's second clutch, too. /And/ our booze is the best, of course. The Snowasis, have you been there?" And suddenly she's almost friendly. Amazing what flattery will do.

Mincing back closer, and curling her snow and ice firmly around her to combat the mugginess of Khazioth's touch, Iovniath agrees, « Given the circumstances. » But that matters less to her than the crowing part, and she sparkles, light glinting off the crystals in her mind. « Still, truth though it is, it is still pleasant for you to say so. Perhaps you and yours will be able to see them hatch, Khazioth? »

Warucori's smile turns shy and wariness turns to shy fear. "I really should get going back to chores." Speaking around a mouth full of food she gets up and bobs her head before running back out into the snow.

There's a furrowed brow from At're at Teris' denouncement of 'pretty' -- not like he hasn't been called that before, of course, but this is Trey, the ex-guard, where such comments were most likely made derisively. But, always prettily-mannered if not called-pretty, the young man states, "Well-met, again, Teris. And congratulations on the honor," with a gesture towards the white knot. He seems rather genuine about that, too. Towards Tiriana, his face breaks out into another grin-- "They are! Thank you for saying so, ma'am," with a severe look over towards his now-helplessly-chortling wingmate. "I /told/ you I wasn't wrong for not seeing one before. They made fun of me, you see," to Tiriana; "But I think they are quite rare, these days. And that doubtless with hatch a beauty, with one like that." His admiring gaze turns back to Iovniath, again. And then-- Warucori's fleeing, and his gaze is turning after the girl with puzzlement. To Tiriana: "Yes, I have, actually! I received rather splendid service, last time I went."

"Of course no one hit me upset the head," Teris gives Tiriana a quick look and sighs again, this time more dramatically obvious. But her displeasure becomes a little more obvious when Warucori runs away rather than joining them. For a very brief moment, the dread ex-assistant Teris seems almost hurt. "Thank you," she returns to At're, not looking all that excited about her honor but she's polite all the same. "So long as some damned convict doesn't impress her." It's not really under her breath but it's more of a thought than a statement for the conversation at hand.

Maybe she was too quick to dismiss the prettiness. Tiriana is certainly looking a good deal more charmed at this rate, and weyrmate or no, she's hopping over her bench and scooting closer to the Fortians. "First one clutched here since Rielsath, and that was back in turn... Um. Seven or eight of 'em ago, at any rate," she boasts, chin in the air. "And--of course it will be beautiful. It's Iovniath's daughter. Not that the last bunch turned out great, but they totally took after Cadejoth, and a gold /has/ to look like Iovniath, right?" Her eyes narrow, like she's daring them, any of them, to differ. Tacked on, "But not /as/ pretty, of course. Wait, no." And she has to stop there, turn and stare at Teris. "She wouldn't. She's smarter than that. None of those people are impressing /my/ dragons. Except maybe that one girl because she's actually going to fight me, but still. Not /her/." And she gestures to Iovniath and the gold egg she's keeping a very tight hold on.

To Iovniath, Khazioth isn't quite given over to his lifemate's manner of being excessively flattering - at least in situations as this. But he does give credit where credit is due, without any grudge. To the future, there's a vague softening to his heat, a northern breeze still quite a level warmer than the gold calming the crickets into silence, until all that is left is sleepy birdsong. « If I can remember, I would like that. To see them hatch - we haven't had a clutch, since my hatching, at Fort. And my Trey says that the babies are damn cute. » A beat, and belatedly, « Ah, begging your pardon. » Stupid curse words and stupid Trey demanding stupid manners.

There's a flare of light from Iovniath at the cursing, the word striking sparks from her mind. But still, it would be impolite to harp on it, and she only remarks, mildly, « I have heard more and worse from my own rider. » And that apology is brushed aside, in favor of the low white that characterize her mind, and beneath it, be-icicled fur. « Remind yours, and perhaps you can be there. He seems as though he would enjoy it as well, no? » (Iovniath to Khazioth)

"I fear someone who would be that forward with you, miss Teris; you seem to be one who would hold her own in a fight," with a gleam of mischief sudden on Trey's face. There's a sudden shock, then; "Convicts? What... convicts?" There's a distinct pause in between the last two words, the last a bewildered thing, taken aback as if he's not quite sure if he should trust his ears. But Tiriana's conversation is so much more pleasan--holy crap, who would have ever seen this sentence coming--t. "The eldest of my three sisters took after my mother, and it is your senior's first gold, is it not?" He's still clueless. Can't you tell? "I would imagine a gold, being female, would take after the maternal line rather than the paternal line, but... that is conjecture, I reckon. Even if she's half as pretty as that one out there, she'll turn out just fine." By now, his wingmate's having trouble breathing, and Trey shoots her a weird look, like wtf dude. Then: "Begging your ladies' pardon, but... convicts?"

To Iovniath, Khazioth is appropriately apologetic, however, offering a rather *obvious* sweetly-scented breeze in a silent plea of forgiveness: magnolia, redolent with deep-South richness, with highlights of honeysuckle's whimsy and gardenia's lingering clean lines. « I /am/ sorry. Mine doesn't. Not sure where I picked up the habit, » with his short-toned manner of speaking, « Maybe Mohraith. » Because they always blame Mo! Anyhow. « Trey says... » Pause, and Khazioth's tone turns lighter, with a more sonorous pitch than his typical rasp, though the effect is rather unconcious: « That it would be his highest honor, and that he will request special dispensation from our wingleader to have leave to go, whenever the time does come. » If the verbage alone doesn't scream 'pulled directly from At're's mind', the verbal effects must, right?

"Hey," Teris says when the goldrider starts moving down closer to the Fortians. "She could," she presses. "At least if she does, none of the other Weyrs will want to take her so she can't just run off because her feelings were hurt." Or, you know, something like that. She looks at At're and his friend, arching a brow at his first comment with a small, wordless shake of her head. "I don't fight. You do realize you're talking to the Weyrwoman, don't you?" Although she's smiling so she must like the idea that he doesn't have any idea. She's not commenting on the convicts herself, though. It's not her mess.

"I look like my daddy," is Tiriana's almost glum answer. "And I act like him, too. And you--" she rounds on Teris. "You and B'tal don't look anything alike. But he's definitely nothing like /your/ dad." Which leaves the implication that Teris is like B'mel unspoken, at least. The rider's lips purse up, and she looks quite thoughtful about this as she decides, "I guess it's just potluck, mostly, what you get. But K'del better not screw this up for us, either." And she glowers at the sands, just for a moment, as though that can impress on Cadejoth, K'del, and the incubating gold herself that she better not take after /her/ daddy. That duty done, she can look from At're to Teris and back again. "The convicts," she says, in a very duh tone of voice. "The ones fixing our star stones? Surely you noticed /that/ part. --And if she's a convict, she should be tough enough not to get her feelings hurt. Although there's always /somebody/ desperate enough. I mean, the Reaches took me." Beat. Teris explains who she is. Tiriana eyes At're suspiciously. "Wait. You /didn't/ know that?"

A /most/ baffled look to Teris, at her notation of goldriders running off- At're has heard the rumors of such, but for it to be addressed so bluntly, and in front of outsiders at that... it breaks his little holder brain. But not so much as her *next* comment does, and he looks like a fish out of water for a moment, mouth opening and closing, then a helpless little smile for Teris, and Tiriana. Sheepish. That's the word for it. Sheepish. "I, uh, my apologies. I did not realize." He straightens his already correct posture self-conciously, a hand brushing down his tailored jacket in vain effort of making himself presentable. Tiriana goes on, and he relaxes just a smidgen-- "Of course. We had to take the visualization on the Hold, and fly straight from there, so the-- devastation done to the star stones..." Obvious. The sentence trails, however, and At're clears his throat, ducking his head in an unconcious gesture. "No, ma'am. I'm sorry," apologizing *again*! "But--" He gestures at her knotless shoulder as if that explains it all, and returns. "So, convicts working on restoring the star stones... have been searched?" An odd look on his face, then, as if the question tastes weird. Or maybe he's just in the Twilight Zone. Lalala.

The shift in Khazioth's voice makes laughter, sparkling and throaty, bubble over in Iovniath's voice. « Yours is very gentlemanly, » she approves. « Perhaps if you come again, some of that will rub off on mine eventually. Though I expect little at this juncture. » For all the dreams of a very ladylike gold, her tone's nothing but fond in thinking of her rider. « We would be very honored, at any rate, to receive you again at my hatching. » (Iovniath to Khazioth)

"Yes, well, you're the desperate one right now, aren't you?" Teris isn't being nice. It might be her attempt at trying to get back for the implication about her father that Tiriana didn't actually say. "Too many of them have been Searched. Are you sure they didn't just bribe Searchriders to Search them so they could get an easier time of it? You know that happens." She's such an optimist, yes. It's an aside to the goldrider that has her saying, "I guess Fort doesn't really choose for smarts either, hmm?"

When At're gestures to her knotlessness, Tiriana just looks blank. "But I'm the Weyrwoman. People /know/ me," she says, as though this should be obvious even to those from far-off locales. After all, the /other/ Fortian got it. A shake of her head dismisses it, though, except for, "And you still said all that? About her being pretty and stuff?" Now this is brain-breaking; Tiriana doesn't look like she quite knows what to make of apparently genuine compliments (nevermind she didn't seem to mind them before this revelation, either!) As for convicts? After a brief dark look at Teris, Tiriana explains grudgingly, "Well, yeah. Couple of idiots--Z'yi and Faranth knows who is, dumbasses all of them--got it in their heads that that'd be a /great/ idea. So now we're stuck with them, because what if they're right and one of the dragons /does/ want a convict for a rider?" She despairs, or would if Teris didn't have her snickering in return for her comments. "Dragons, most of 'em have no taste at all anywhere they hatch," she agrees.

Sudden, rather fierce affront rises on At're's face, at Teris' last-- it's a fire that sparks hot, soon to be replaced by a small smile, grey eyes hawkish, "You should know better than to insult your weyrwoman so directly," he comments, tone rather mild- a small twisting of her words, nothing too strong, right? To Tiriana, his smile is still easy enough; "I'm afraid the only mind I'm capable of reading is my lifemate's, ma'am," again apologetic. "Your-- Iovniath, is it not?" He's careful to pronounce it correctly, a brief unfocused look indicating Khazioth's influence in getting it just right. "She is lovely, and no doubt about it. Khazioth says she has beautiful manners," and his smile of bemusement breaks through whatever lingering irritation Teris' earlier comment may have brought. He refrains, rather politely, from saying anything of his opinion of convicts on the Sands... and/or pointing out the fact that any insult tended to baby dragons, from a dragonrider, could rather be brought back to bite them in the ass, logically. Lalala. Looking pretty. Lalala.

To Iovniath, Khazioth withdraws, slightly - there is a murmur, a far-off conversation that bleeds slightly into his crickets and wartime pandemonia. « He is. » A goober. « And we /will/ be here, he says. I look forward to it, » with a hint of pleasure in the sentence-- Khaz /will/ look forwards to it, for the next fifteen minutes that he can remember it!

To Khazioth, Iovniath's touch flares with diffuse white as he withdraws, and she does likewise, curling in on herself in a blanket of cool fur and maternalness. Though she doesn't frame it in words again, her pleasure's evident in a last brush of that fur against Khazioth--though she retreats before it can soak up any swampwater.

Teris smiles rather openly to the foreign rider. Candidate or not, she's not really all that worried about offending him. Truthfully, she looks a little more disappointed that he doesn't offer a very good reaction to it. "I didn't insult her directly," she points out. So there. "You sort of force poor taste on the poor things. And I'll bet you money that none of Isforaith's candidates impress at all-- Well, maybe not money. But something." It's not as though Teris is loaded or anything. "I think come the hatching, the convicts ought to stand further away so that they're a last resort." Because that's how it works, right?

Tiriana, again with the lack of comprehension, this time at At're's sudden anger, "But she's my assistant. Or /was/, anyway." Glower; as though this excuses whatever sniping passes between the two of them. Quickly, lest she be confused too much in this whole conversation, Tiriana adds, "And I'm the damn Weyrwoman here, and I can stand up for myself without some snooty /Fortian/ interfering in my own Weyr." Beat. "Do you think that'd work? I don't think that'd work. I mean, if that worked I wouldn't have to put 'em on the sands at all. Would I?"

Aaaaand that is his cue! At're offers a brief smile to both women, and rises to his feet. "It was lovely meeting you both-- you, again, Teris," with an edge to his smile, "Fort's duties, Tiriana," to the other, and a gracious nod before he moves to rejoin his wingmates, far above in the nosebleeds.

"Was. I will be again, Tiriana. Don't worry. I know you miss me." Teris is apparently in a much better mood now that she's had the chance to pick on someone else just a little bit. "Have a nice evening, At're," she calls after the bronzerider, stretching her legs out in front of her again. She doesn't seem to have a problem with him going. "I don't know if it would work. But some distance, at least. So they can be found if they must be but give them the good ones first." Where good equals not-a-convict, presumably.

"That's Weyrwoman to you, Fort!" Tiriana hollers after At're, just for good measure. She sniffs, straightens her collar, and tries to look proper again once the invader's run off. To Teris, "But then we'd have to rank everybody, not just them. And that'd just be annoying and easier to just let the dragons sort it out as they will."

"I can't believe he didn't know who you were," Teris says to her companion in a slightly more quiet voice when the bronzerider has fled to a safer distance. "That just seems like poor form." Even poorer to Teris in particular, who likes to find slights even where there aren't any meant. "Why would you have to rank everybody? Anyway, you know better than me how it all works." The blonde will trust Tiriana's knowledge in this, at least.

"Well." Tiriana has to think about this one. "Wouldn't you want the best person to be the very first? To give them the best chance? Instead of them being mixed in with a bunch of people who maybe aren't convicts, but still aren't really... desirable, either. You know? Like that Gustav kid. Put him at the back of the pack. Or Inviere? Whose dumbass idea was /she/? I'd rather have convicts than some of these people."

Teris' expression darkens somewhat at the mention of Gustav. "That bastard screwed with my cot. He put like... shit in it." Beat. "Not literal. But still gross. I think you ought to kick him out." No, she doesn't think she has that much clout. It's said in more of a whining sort of tone than the confidence she's more well-known for. "I haven't spoken much to Inviere. Anyway, I suppose ranking would be unnecessarily difficult."

"Trust me, if I had a real reason, he'd go before any convict," Tiriana promises, just shy of pinky-swearing it. "I gave him to Saliqa. You know, for her to nanny, and train up into something approaching human. Because, y'know, she's got all those manners and all." Pause. "And it was just funny, her expression." Cue the snickering. "Though if he just keeps on screwing with you, just tell one of the convicts to make him their bitch--doesn't even have to be serious and for real and all--and he'll straighten up."

That makes Teris smile, at least, satisfied for now on the subject of Gustav. "You should tell him to move his cot right next to hers, too. Seems like she could use him as much as he could use her, maybe." She's serious about that. And thoughtful. Then she laughs. "I will definitely be telling him that." Probably whether he keeps screwing with her or not. "I should probably get headed back, actually. And you looked like you had work to finish." Isn't she so nice for reminding?

"You tell him," Tiriana says. "Aren't you like my mouthpiece anyway, practically? Nobody's going to fuck with you because they know I've got your back." She shrugs like it's nothing, and not some sort of friend-like declaration. But work? "Fuck you," is all /that/ earns, though she grins as she says it.

"Practically," Teris says because it's not as though she's going to go denouncing a thing like that. That would just be silly. And the rest, even the last, has a little, completely genuine smile on her face. "Thanks, Tiriana," she says as she rises to her feet, stretching the muscles that tightened up while she sat. For a moment she looks like she might say something else but her smile just broadens for a moment and she offers instead, "Have a good evening." And then she's heading back toward the stairs and on her way.