Logs:Pregnant, Not Feebleminded
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| RL Date: 8 June, 2011 |
| Who: K'del, Tiriana |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: K'del presents Rynien's offer to Tiriana. |
| Where: Tiriana's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 20, Month 12, Turn 25 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: V'teri/Mentions |
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| Tiriana is pregnant. So very, very pregnant. And with R'uen gone, she's left to entertain herself for a bit, which means laying sprawled on her couch and glaring at the glass on the table just out of reach. It's kind of pathetic, really. It wasn't long ago that Cadejoth fought heavy winds and unyielding snowfall to land on his ledge; now, still dressed in his visiting-Lord-Holders clothes, K'del crosses the distance between his weyr and Tiriana's, calling out just before he passes inside, "Got something to talk to you about, Tiriana!" It's a good thing she's not naked, because he doesn't pause for confirmation. "Shit shit shit." Curses probably frequently proceed such meetings, though now they're accompanied by Tiriana finally, bodily, hauling herself up to a seat like she wasn't just being completely worthless. She tries to compose herself, too, smoothing her clothes, combing through her hair, and then just glaring at K'del when he barges on in. "Don't you fucking ever knock?" "No," says K'del, unapologetic, as he helps himself to a seat across from Tiriana. He doesn't seem to have noticed what she's been doing - or perhaps he has, and is being very diplomatic and not making mention of it. "Not when it's afternoon, and important. I've been at High Reaches Hold." He sounds triumphant, as though this should mean /everything/. Tiriana just groans. "What the hell did you do /now/?" Judging by her tone, the only thing it explains is why everything is going to fall apart. K'del puts both hands on his knees, shaking his head. "Just shut up and listen, will you?" He doesn't pause for her to respond, instead barrelling ahead with, "He's offered to make us a deal. All we need to do is integrate the exiles into the weyr. As-- you know, whatever. Candidates. Crafters. Workers of various kinds. If we keep them busy, so they don't go off and bother him, they'll give us five turns of enormous tithes." Again with the triumph. "So... he gives us five good turns," Tiriana says, frowning as she works through this. "And in return, we get to deal with all these stupid people for the next century, like as not. Sounds ike a /great/ deal." That's sarcasm, by the way. The air hasn't quite been sucked out of K'del's sails, though he gives Tiriana a meaningful glance: meanie. "He gives us enough to feed everyone, and enough to stockpile for the future. We maintain a good relationship with him, and don't have to deal with some massive inquiry into their rights. It's a /good/ deal. We'll sponsor them into crafters, or just put them to work; whatever. They're used to work. It keeps the peace." Tiriana snorts. "He owes us enough to feed ourselves anyway. It's his /duty/," she stresses. "Besides, aren't we supposed to be dumping them back on the islands." She doesn't sound hopeful of that, though: exiles are like puppies that have followed them home. Nobody's really going to take them to the pound. "The crafts won't want them, either," she warns instead, "and they don't know anything in the first place, how to live and be useful here." "Of course he does. And now he'll give us even more." K'del sounds only slightly impatient, pushing those words out before he really considers the last of what the Weyrwoman has to say. "They'll have to start at the beginning with the crafts, of course. But they can learn. They have /some/ useful skills: laundry, mending, cooking, whatever. What else would you have us do with them? They can't really go back." Tiriana, bullheaded, "Why not?" K'del, eyebrows raised, and with meaning: "Because there's /nothing/ there. We found them. High Reaches Hold wants to pretend they were never exiled, which means there's no record of it. They're our responsibility." "Then maybe High Reaches should deal with them. It would serve them right," but even Tiriana can't muster much feeling for it. "Why does this always happen to us?" she complains instead, sullen. "First rebels, then convicts, now exiles? The worst that ever happens to Ista is a bad crop year." K'del's expression turns rueful, and he leans back in his chair, splaying fingers across his legs. "At least that beast plague that's been-- forgive the pun-- plaguing Fort hasn't made it into our area?" Also, "And at least our queens haven't been murdering each other: we're not that stupid. We've had a few quiet turns, and now... I'm not exactly pleased about having this responsibility drop on us, either." But it has. "There's that," agrees Tiriana, her own mouth twisting unhappily all the same. "There's stuff, in the cabinet." She gestures to the liquor cabinet, but leaves it to him to fetch it if he wants any; she has her own glass now within reach, although it's only water. Grudgingly, "Teris is managing them now, day to day; but I'll talk to them and see if I can find something for them to do. K'del's nod accepts the invitation to Tiriana's liquor cabinet. As he pours himself a finger's width of whiskey, he suggests, "I think we should keep them where they are for now. Gradually give them more freedom. But they can definitely be put to work. I suppose we should assign a harper to them, too. Give them some basic education." Tiriana scowls. "And now you're going to tell me how to do my job, too," she accuses. "I'm pregnant, not feeble-minded. There's no point teaching the adults too much history or writing or anything; I'll send Rorkes to teach them the basic songs. It will keep them busy while they're all trying not to die and shit my floor, too." So nice, isn't she. "And I'll make sure the kids get into the actual classes." K'del would put up both hands in that universal gesture of 'yield', but one of them is full of glass, and that would probably be bad form. He goes for the one-handed yield, then, and nods. "I'll leave it all in your capable hands, then," he promises. "There are some recalcitrants who seem to want to go back to the island. I guess I'll send out a team to see what it all looks like, once the weather clears a bit. I don't really want the responsibility of knowing there are people out there, too. I won't support them." Tiriana purses her lips. "They made it eighty turns," she decides. "If they want to go back to die, let 'em. Or--" She pauses for a beat, glances toward the ledge where Iovniath lays, snug in her couch. "If you're that squeamish about it, they've built quite a life out there. Those little huts... If there wasn't anything for them to go back to--Hell. A storm this bad could cave the whole mountain in, like as not." K'del's face turns slightly pale at the implication, and hastily, he attends to his drink rather than show too much of that. When he's swirled, sipped and finally swallowed, he allows, finally, "I suppose. Let's see what kind of state the whole place is in, first, and /then/ worry about the rest of it. I suppose if someone wants to go back and start again, more or less, without any support from us..." His brow furrows; he's thinking. "Suit yourself," says Tiriana, with a shrug. "But if they go off and get themselves killed, it won't be on my head. All I know is, I am going to exile V'teri for this." "Or mine," admits K'del, chewing on his lip. "That's kind of the problem." There's a pause in which he takes another sip from his drink, and moves back to the chair he abandoned earlier. "I'd like to talk to him about all of this," he allows. "'Treasure'. How much did he know? And /why/." "I could have Iovniath question Riuscyth," admits Tiriana, easy enough. "But it will be more fun to beat the truth out of him before I drop him on an island. If you want to actually /talk/ to him, you best hurry." Just barely perceptible, K'del's brows raise, and he considers Tiriana for a moment. Is he deciding whether he's taking her seriously or not? It's hard to tell exactly /what/ he's thinking. His answer, made after another careful sip, is a calm, "I'll do that." And then, casually, "I suppose she'll rise again, after the baby is born. A while after." Tiriana's face darkens then. "She'll rise when she's damn well good and ready, and you know it," she spits back at him. "Same as she did the first time, and the second, and as she'll be doing for the next fifty turns, long after /he/ can't get it up anymore." K'del is, for once, undaunted: he merely nods. "Of course she will." It is, however, probably a good time for him to leave: he drains the remainder of his glass, sets it down, and rises to his feet. "Have a pleasant afternoon. I'll get that contract signed and sent off." Tiriana, dismissively, "Good day, Weyrleader." As he gets up, she's already scooting back, getting comfortable on her couch one more time. Yes, yes, that's right: K'del's off to do some work. Tiriana's going to lounge on the couch. Figures. Tiriana is /pregnant/, asshole. Like billions of other women haven't worked their entire way through pregnancy. Lazy bitch. DIAF. After you! |
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