Logs:Formal Knot Change
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| RL Date: 20 December, 2015 |
| Who: Mirinda, N'rov, Olivya |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Mirinda and N'rov appoint a new Weyrlingmaster. |
| Where: Council Room, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 7, Month 8, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Breezes start in the morning as Rukbat rises, warming and strengthening throughout the afternoon to a steady wind. By evening, they settle back to a pleasant breeze that chases away a few clouds to leave an impressively starry summer sky overhead. |
| Mentions: Dahlia/Mentions, K'varl/Mentions, Ali/Mentions, Blume/Mentions |
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The Weyr's meeting space is a long, oval space with a large stone table
placed in the middle. There's seating enough for twelve around the table:
plenty of room to welcome most of the Weyrleaders and a good portion of
the Lord Holders from the north, though additional seating might be needed
if a Pern-wide meeting were to be held here.
A sideboard stands ready to serve, regardless of the occasion and is kept
well-stocked with carafes of wine, water and several fine liquors. Fresh
flowers, appropriate to the season are changed out regularly in the vase
atop the sideboard. Tapestries depicting Fort's illustrious history from
founding, to Moreta's role in the Plague to Lessa's arrival to bring the
Weyrs forward in time bedeck the walls, leavening the omnipresence of
cool, gray stone. Well-lit, the chamber boasts glows in niches around the
room, as well as oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. It's been a couple of hours since Olivya left Mirinda sobbing in the galleries (and won't news of that have spread, even if the weyrwoman did very quickly hurry herself home to compose herself). Zaisavyth's awake, now, but Vhaeryth is present and that gives Mirinda a temporary reprieve-- which is good, because she's needed in the council room, sitting alongside N'rov, and awaiting the recently-summoned (by Vhaeryth, not Zaisavyth) Olivya. Pale, and a little fragile looking, Mirinda has nonetheless pulled herself together and waits, now, with solemn focus. "I believe we're at twenty candidates so far," she tells N'rov, part of a conversation in focus. "So those additional five, if they come through, will go a long way." "They will. Which I'm planning on noting next time we drop by the Holds, that it's something we worked to make happen given the givens... for all that we'd rather have our own areas' blood. The way I hear it, most also have some skills to their name." No crafters, of course, but it's not as though Monaco can give away those. In the meantime, "Another glass," N'rov encourages, reaching deftly for Mirinda's glass: stay hydrated! Ivraeth's vines had twined against Vhaeryth's mind for a moment, attempting to probe out a reason for the summons complete with the intoxicating and alluring scent of blooms in her mind. She promised her rider's presence even without it, a long enough delay given that it's almost certain that she conferred with Olivya before giving it. And if Olivya's worried about what the summons is for, especially in light of the incident before, it doesn't show even slightly as she appears in the doorway of the council room. Instead, she only greets respectfully, if distantly, "Weyrleader, Weyrwoman," as she slides a look over the picture of the two of them, taking it in in a moment's study. Whatever she makes of the bronzerider pouring the glass and the fragile looking goldrider, she still steps forward with ease to claim a seat across the table gracefully, as if it were all one movement. "You're going to drown me in--" begins almost cheerfully, though that fragility is unquestionably audible. It ends rather abruptly, however, as dark eyes lift from the glass to focus upon the incoming greenrider, dark lashes lifted, dark brows straightened. "Greenrider," she finishes with. "Thank you for attending." Her formality is a little stiff, but firm, too: she is here, she is the Weyrwoman, and by Zaisavyth's shell no one will forget it. As she approaches, N'rov sets down the pitcher and stands, politely; when she's mostly situated and his Weyrwoman's spoken, he says, "Catch." There's a small orange-skinned citrus fruit heading Olivya's way, an informal easy-to-snag arch over that formal table. Vhaeryth hadn't been helpful exactly, except where he was, all that metal-backed glass mirroring those blooms back for Ivraeth to make that jungle that much vaster. In there, somewhere, was the answer. "Between summer and sands, I have hopes it's finally warm enough for the both of you. How goes it?" Olivya does catch, her reflexes sharp and her smile just as quick to appear for the Weyrleader's throw. But then perfectly manicured and sharp-tipped nails dig into the fruit's skin, peeling it back as she answers with her dry humor, "And I had the chance to pop down to Boll the other day to get my fill of beaches. It's almost like I never left home." Her gaze slides for a moment to Mirinda, ocean blue eyes sweeping over her before she tears off another piece of that peel and lifts her attention back to the bronzerider. "Congratulations on Vhaeryth's eggs, N'rov. He must be proud. Fourteen." The line of Mirinda's mouth is even as greenrider and bronzerider exchange words, though it tightens obviously as Olivya passes on those congratulations. "We're very pleased with their efforts," she says, stiff and only a very little bit sharp. "Of course, now that there are eggs upon the sands, the matter of a weyrlingmaster becomes more urgent." Those dark eyes turn up and back towards N'rov, as if to encourage him to take the lead, now. She seems to have no more time to waste on pleasantries. N'rov, standing half behind Mirinda's chair and half beside her, has her back. "Indeed," he confirms. "We were fortunate to have multiple qualified applicants; our hope is to work together, the three of us, on this." Together, his gray gaze underscores, and if it were possible to also relay 'and don't make her cry,' undoubtedly his would. "Are you prepared to accept the knot, and the responsibility, from our hands?" From his hands, literally; he's pulled out that complicated weyrlingmaster's knot, as magically as he'd summoned the fruit. There's no surprise in Olivya's features, but neither did she seem to be expecting it. She meets that look steadily, giving away little except that her friendliness, that ease slips away and is replaced again with polite reserve. "Of course," she answers simply, her gaze touching on N'rov and then Mirinda as anyone would expect, when accepting the knot from them both. "It's also our hope," continues Mirinda, whose dark gaze has turned back to Olivya but gives away little of her personal feelings, "that you will be able to work with the other applicants. Naturally, we understand that that is not always possible, but our aim is, absolutely, on having the best possible team on hand for Zaisavyth and Vhaeryth's children, and Taeliyth's in the future." She's hiding, just a little, behind this formality; that much is obvious from the stiffness of her tone. "Ultimately, of course, the decisions as to who assists you are up to you. We won't push anyone on you." Though the brief, humored slant of N'rov's glance Mirinda's way might suggest he might be tempted. Still, it's all appropriate and even solemn as he moves to accouter Olivya with her new knot, arranging its loops in place to solidly hold. "There's the new weyr, of course, when you had just gotten the old one. How's that sit?" The knot; all of it. "I will consider seriously anyone that wants," a subtle emphasis there, "to work with the weyrlings and assist me based on their merits and qualifications alone," answers Olivya, only the subtle shift of her eyebrow upwards as she meets Mirinda's dark gaze and her formality. Her bright red jacket and that knot being placed on her shoulder draws her attention away, however. "It sits fine, darling." Mirinda holds her tongue as N'rov arranges the knot, though her cool-eyed gaze lingers on the process, meeting Olivya's gaze for only a single, neutral moment; still mad. "Good," however, is what she says, gaze focusing now upon N'rov, if only briefly. "I'm sure we look forward to your regular updates as to progress, and any problems you encounter along the way. If you need hands to assist preparing the weyrling complex, I'll make sure Blume can provide them." N'rov stands back, that job complete, just past equidistant; he leaves that slight crook of one brow at the appellation behind. "Is there anything you feel you need to move forward? The headwoman has been apprised of your change in circumstances," which undoubtedly means not just weyr but access, perquisites, and pay. Before N'rov steps back, Olivya lifts her hand to pat a gentle, friendly gesture against the man's cheek once the knot is situated. "If you can get me a list of the Candidates that have been brought in, so far. I would like to get them into rudimentary classes to prepare them for Impression. A jump start on weyrlinghood, if you would," she addresses to N'rov, with a smile. "I will make sure to arrange their time with the headwoman and her staff, of course. But if possible, I'd also like Dahlia to help. I think it would be a good step in her training to be involved with their training." A pause, before she adds, "And of course, you may look forward to my reports." "I'll arrange for a list to be sent to your office," says Mirinda, putting in her reply to Olivya's words before N'rov can possibly say anything-- despite his being the focus of the weyr weyrlingmaster's attention. "I will spare Dahlia where I can, but, as I'm sure you can understand, we're already very busy, particularly when so much of my attention is presently focused upon Zaisavyth." She might as well be gritting her teeth. In fact, no sooner has she said that much, she's rising from her seat. "You'll have to excuse me. She needs me." (Vhaeryth might argue otherwise; the queen seems perfectly content at the moment.) RUN AWAY. It's a cheek that withdraws with an abrupt shake of his head, and led N'rov to stand nigh to Mirinda's side instead; he doesn't intercede between the two women, but rather says with deliberate respect, "Weyrwoman," as she chooses to go. And, with Vhaeryth's assistance if need be, tracks her. Barring something that would require his attention there, though, when she's gone he places both hands flat on the table and looks at Oivya. "What was that about," he says with quiet force. Mirinda, for the record, really does go to Zaisavyth, though it mostly seems to be so that she can hide behind the queen's bulk and bury her face in that warm, soft hide. It's possible she's crying again. Oh, Mirinda. "Of course, when she can be spared from her duties," agrees Olivya simply, her gaze sliding briefly back to Mirinda for that moment. "And if she would like to." The new weyrlingmaster isn't going to force anyone into anything. But when she leaves, she salutes respectfully and moves to stand herself. It's only the quiet force of N'rov's words that keeps her in place, but one she meets with a steady look of her own. "It's a personal matter." "It doesn't seem to be a smart matter," N'rov states, eyeing her: as though this is beneath her, as though he'd expected more of her than this. "I don't know that that is your call, sweetie, without knowing either of our sides," Olivya points out, the line of her lips setting firmly. With that, she shifts to leave with a respectful salute, intending to go. "Hold off, weyrlingmaster." It's firm, expectant. N'rov waits. It's when it's clear that Olivya's staying that he eyes her, rolls his shoulders, and lets some of that formality drop; he hasn't started pacing, but something about his balance suggests he'd like to. "What happened out there, that's between you two. To a point, anyhow, but I'd like it between you two." Wouldn't they all? "In here, stay professional. What was going on? It started all right." She came, she saw, she peeled. There were beaches. That's a good start, right? Olivya does hold, turning back to N'rov to meet his gaze with a steady look. "I won't tell you what happened. Whatever else, I still support Mirinda, even if she can't do the same for me," the greenrider answers, a moment of annoyance seeping through her reserve for how much she said there, before--. "I am sorry, Weyrleader, but I was just as professional and formal as the Weyrwoman was. Did I leave any question unanswered? Did I not agree to her unnecessary warnings about other applicants and Dahlia and reports?" She doesn't cry; that isn't how the greenrider reacts to anything. But the more she speaks the more clearly her reserve cracks and shows the underlying upset. Somehow, the upset helps, paired as it is with a lack of vituperation; "Look. Olivya," and N'rov purposefully, visibly tries. "It's not what you said or didn't say, mostly; it's how it went down. I don't know her as well as you do," he says, "but I could see her shutting down when you just congratulated for Vhaeryth's eggs, not that he's not proud, and the 'darling' and all. It seemed like you got to focusing on me; and while I am glad that you are talking to me and not just to her, it's important that it's to both of us." For that upset, the more rare for its being hers, "Was it different for you? What did you mean?" "And I treated you on the same level that you treated me, just as I did her," replies Olivya, her brows curving upwards as she draws in a deep breath and then exhales it. "I won't defend myself against-- whatever you are accusing me of. Of not properly congratulating her on the eggs, of calling you darling. Especially not since it's obvious that you've already taken her side. Unless you would like to take my knot back, unless you would like to send me back to Monaco where I have someone who would take my side--." It's clear that she means for that as a way to dismiss herself, but she doesn't turn to go. Indeed, she only grips the back of a chair for the moment, studying her fingernails as the words tumble out. "I'm not saying you're a big meanie, Liv. I'm just," he exhales, all quiet frustration. "I'm not hungry to take back your knot," N'rov says now. "You just got it. I want us to figure this out." "Then stay out of it." The words are softened, for once, only offered on a sigh before Olivya lifts her gaze to the Weyrleader. "She is my best friend, N'rov. I am not going to allow-- this to come between us. But she needs to understand that she's wrong, that her decisions affect me as well," she tells him carefully, skirting around what she won't tell him. A pause, before she adds, for all she just told him to buzz off in a way, "With all due respect, Weyrleader." "Good," N'rov says for what she won't allow, with wholesale approval and would-be wholesale confidence in their success. "What you keep out of my business, I'll keep out of. What's here, though," this metaphorical 'here,' "is not." He regards her. After a moment, "Notice that I didn't ask you about this right then and there, in front of her; I wouldn't have even if she hadn't left. If you two disagree on approaches, and I think you're right, I plan on saying so, preferably in a way that will bring her closer to accepting it," but he's human, says his wry shrug. "That may mean after the fact, when tensions aren't as sharp. But don't expect me not to support her as well, because that is my job." "I will keep it out of here," agrees Olivya, but her gaze lingers on him for a moment. "But next time, if you're going to ask me about something like this again-- I expect it to be more than I am a big meanie. If I am less than respectful, if I do not answer or acknowledge you appropriately... Fine. But that does not mean everything I say or do." She moves to straighten, giving a respectful salute to the Weyrleader. But instead of retreating, she taps those fingers against the back of the chair, considering the bronzerider before she says, "I am glad she has your support. And she has Dahlia's as well. But I came here from Monaco too, and while she has the protection of a queen and her rank-- Well, Fort has not been glad for my presence, either." Exasperation thins his lips briefly (meanie) but N'rov decides not to counter, decides to push that away. He listens and then nods acknowledgment in the end, instead; and when that's not after all the end... there's recognition openly in his gaze even before he replies. "My clutchmate had much the same, when he chose to go to Southern with Ali. He rides green too; Boll's grandson, from the galleries. It's a risk, it's true." Olivya tips her chin to acknowledge the other greenrider's story, looking to the Weyrleader for confirmation and agreeing thoughtfully, "I could imagine, and at least for him, your weyrwoman was chosen to succeed at Southern, wasn't she? Not forced upon the Weyr by the Council." There is a hint of a small, sad smile and she continues, "I knew the risks. I knew what it'd be like for us, coming here. But they were always worth it, for Mirinda, because she needed someone to come with her." And that seems to be all she has to share, shaking her head rather than explaining the rest. "Have a good night, N'rov." N'rov confirms with a nod; he doesn't speak of the riders with craft training, the other compensation. Not today. "It's a choice I could not have made," carries the weight of more than personal choice, of ramifications unelaborated. "It's one I respect as well. Good night, Liv." Olivya nods, no more smiles or salutes before she turns to retreat from the council room with her new knot. |
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