Difference between revisions of "Logs:Lilah's Reaction"

The holder of Lux's Ledge was a lean man, like the land he held. Truth be told, he reminded Lilah somewhat of Kirke; something buried in his mannerisms and the way he looked at the goldrider when he thought she wasn't looking. Not that he did not show her the respect due to her station, but she could tell that it galled him to beg a young woman he probably still considered a child.

« Male holders will always underestimate you in that way. You cannot let it upset you, or you give them the upper hand, » was Eliyaveith's firm reminder, as if this time, with her patience, she could make her rider understand that even in the heat of emotions.

It isn't when it's them that upsets me, Lilah answers immediately, as her fingers curve all the tighter around the offered, weak klah. It is when it's crafters or other dragonriders, or--.

It wasn't true; they both knew it. Eliyaveith's warm pressure against her mind reminded her that it wasn't, not bothering to search out the times and shove them in her rider's face but not letting her get away with that lie, either.

"We cannot provide anything more than we have, Holder Barrec," she answers aloud, as patiently as the usually sharply-edged goldrider can manage. "We have two classes of weyrlings to feed and clothe ourself, soon, and with the loss of tithes we can expect from the storm and our own losses--. I am sorry, it just isn't feasible."

« Good, » encourages Eliyaveith, a brush there to try to push her rider in the right direction before she withdraws in concern of the previous times. Those times where her dragon's intervention only sent Lilah in the opposite direction; where that interference upset whatever conversation or little bit of warmth that the goldrider let bleed through.

"You are condemning us to die, then! We won't survive the winter! Do you realize what you are doing, you--." Barrec bit back the words that he wanted to say, his demeanor quickly changing to exhale a breath and beg of the weyrwoman, "Please. Anything at all that you can spare. We have tithed Fort loyally for years, and you in turn. This is all we ask."

« We already know not to expect their tithe, » points out Eliyaveith, her political thoughts racing with her rider's. « It would be-- better of you to at least offer to forgive the tithe. Words that will help. » A pause, before she seeks out gently, « Should I ask Elaruth and hers? »

No. It is a firm, sharp thought to her dragon, spilling over into the line of Lilah's lips despite any attempt to keep her features neutral. They will want to help, but we all know that we cannot. Why burden them by bothering them with this?

Lilah's words are flat, where she counters, "No. We will forgive your tithes; you need not worry about that. And we are more than happy to lend hands and help where we can. But we don't have anything else to spare, holder."

The nudge of Eliyaveith's flames against the goldrider's mind produces an, "I'm sorry," from somewhere within, gentler still than her previous words.

That is as far as this conversation gets. Usually, Lilah would be grateful; she hated these things. It would be hours of pointless talk, back and forth, until the time came that they could go. But the end came so suddenly, the rumble of the earth moving and then the collapse of the hold's wall nearby, only to be replaced by dirt and mud and rubble.

Her first thought, Eliyaveith! She'd been up the mountain, on it. There was no immediate pain, nothing to alarm her but-- And then the image came; the golden queen's luck having her just above where the landslide had begun, the picture of destruction that she had of below so encompassing.

« I am fine. The eggs are fine, » she assured her, even as Lilah was already storming out of the hold, to try to find Ebeny or another rider or--. She gave orders as she went; round up the Candidates, get a headcount. Call the Weyr. Call Elaruth now.

For a brief moment in the chaos, in trying to organize it into something else, she wished she could be with Eliyaveith just for a second, to curl up against her and feel the growing hardness of her queen's stomach. But it passed. There was too much to do.