Difference between revisions of "Logs:Of the Weyr"

The work continues, thus far, my progress has been rewarded with such colorful and extensive commentary by Master Jeroman with regard to artfulness and feeling. How could I have ever conceived that clarity and accuracy would be the guides by which my progress is measured? (I hope I have at least mastered the art of sarcasm in text.) I am convinced. Master Jeroman is that kind of eccentric genius who is, driven to distraction by the subtleties of his profession and who, with such rants, would drive his students to the same madness!

Needless to say, my duties are once again, restricted to the grunt work of shelving materials, fetching klah, retrieving lunches, gathering supplies and of course, the most perilous task of running messages. (With all the scrapes, bumps and bruises this work entails.) It was gently suggested by one of my peers that I give up skirts for a time as tripping on them seems to account for seventy-five percent of my accidents (the other twenty-five a clear result of this damned penknife!) Alas fair dignity, I knew thee once.

At least, Nabol is not nearly as frustrating a topic. Weyrleader K'del was better than the promise he didn't give and presumably, Lady Ienavi pulled the necessary strings to secure the seed. Though it's a hard spring, there should be enough to harvest for the minor holds and of course Nabol herself to provide the Weyr with suitable tithes. That is of course, provided other political machinations don't tip the scales. It doesn't solve the larger problem though; a few weeks' farming is not going to change years of thread-free skies. The Weyr has to become as necessary in interval as they are in pass. How - well that's a question that has plagued weyrleaders and weyrwomen for hundreds of turns if the records are anything to go by.

We did discus things other than Nabol. The Weyrleader asked me if I would stand again, pointing out that it is my right now that I am "of the weyr". How strange that looks in my own hand, those three heavy little words, of the weyr. No longer Edyis of Esvay. My brother's silence since my refusal to return punctuates this difference more sharply. Am I of the weyr now? I know in my heart that some part of me will yet remain Edyis of Esvay, and will ache for the valley I called my home, but the waifish creature that used to look back at me from the other side of the mirror looks so different now.

She stands a little taller, has more mirth in her smile, more confidence in her stride, less fear in her heart. I like her I think, this Edyis of the Weyr.