0001-04-02 - The Weyrwomen's Meeting

Alendis hosts a regular goldrider's meeting... with, or more often, without Morag as their supposedly-but-well-you-know leader. Today's is one day after yet another fairly disastrous 'fall, this time over Igen River Hold; there's not much cheer around Igen Weyr today.

"So," says Alendis, presiding. There's klah, but no pastries (pastries are decadent, and there's not much room for decadence at Igen Weyr these days). "How are the infirmaries fairing, Lanelle?"

Lanelle, hair pulled up in a mess of a bun, sits in a seat with one foot planted on the chair so her knee is touching her chest. She looks tired, but not exhausted. Such are the joys of youth! "They would be doing better if the dragons would stay out of the way of Thread." As if the solution to the problem is really that simple.

Lo is seated just beyond Lanelle, her usual spot at this table, and just looks pretty damn tired. She slides a slip of hide down to the other young goldrider with a chart from the infirmary, Pern's answer to spreadsheets! That's her job. Procuring of the data. Just in case people really want the hard numbers. But for the most part, she's spent the time taking notes, listening in, and rarely, rarely offering a hesitant opinion.

As always, when Alendis is sitting, the eldest of the three junior goldriders looks as if she'd rather be elsewhere: moving, preferably. Beneath the table, one foot taps idly at the ground, though not so loudly as to be audible. She makes a face.

"I volunteer you to tell O'rin and S'yan to work on this," the goldrider says, with a roar of rueful laughter.

"Lo."

The look Lanelle gives Alendis isn't petulant, exactly, but there is some suggestion that she would if she thought it would actually do any good. She's not afraid of some dumb boys, and she's still young enough to think she knows something about the workings of the world. When the older junior says the weyrling's name, though, Lanelle reaches out to slide that slip back toward Lo with something like a challenging arch of one brow.

Lo might be mere months older, but the look Lanelle gives her coupled with Alendis' calling out her name with no other qualifiers, causes her to slink into her body and into the back of the chair. The hide comes back into her possession and she looks at Alendis expectantly. There isn't even time for there to be silence, before the weyrling clears her throat and says, "Yes, ma'am?"

Don't think for a moment that Alendis didn't catch that expression, Lanelle; and by her expression, by the twitching of her mouth, it amuses her. Then again, it's long been clear what her opinion of S'yan is (absolutely useless). She's less outspoken on O'rin-- but then, he's more competent.

"What's the mood in the barracks, Lo?" the more senior of the juniors asks, patiently. See? Not so scary! "We need to be mindful of that too."

"Do you even know your own mood, Lo?" Lanelle wonders out loud, even though that's probably a question she could have kept entirely inside her head. Not that she's going to take it back once it's out in the world, though at least her eyes are fixed on the table now, and not staring at the weyrling.

Lo open-mouthed stares at Lanelle, who is now staring at the table. The new weyrling of six months ago would probably tear up. It's probably happened a few times at this very meeting. The weyrling of now blinks furiously, and just manages to not cry. Progress! Finally, she works her jaw to respond, "The weyrlings are tired. Morale is low for the most part," that she knows of, "But some of the- uh, the riders can't wait to join wings to fight. I don't know," she adds, finally tearing her gaze from Lanelle to Alendis, "Whether there are enough weyrlings to make up the loss of lives in the wings."

"Lanelle." It's not quite a warning, because Alendis doesn't really do warnings. It's mostly just a statement, really: build your own interpretation.

Alendis sets both big hands down upon the top of the table, and nods, frowning. "There aren't," she says, bluntly. "That's just truth. We're not producing anywhere near enough dragons to replace what we're losing. Is Sreyoth showing any signs, Lanelle? I know Lycaszaeth's not due, and nor is Khataith."

A flickered glance is offered to Alendis, and Lanelle is wrapping an arm around her drawn up leg as though she's suddenly feeling defensive for absolutely no reason. "I don't know. I don't think so. She's not glowing or anything." This, of all things, seems to make the youngest, if not most junior, goldrider a little uncomfortable. "Anyway, it would be ages before they'd be ready even if she rose the day we arrived."

Something of Igen's plight makes sense to Lo on the heels of what Lanelle has said, the math of flights, clutches, hatchings, and transfers somehow all coming together in one swift, if belated, realization. Some of the more overt signs of woebegone hurt kept valiantly at bay recede, though the young woman, and most junior of the trio, does not look back at the Fort goldrider. Lo swallows hard, gripping the note taking pencil in her hand harder, and suggests, "You could trade us, once we're grown, for a dragon at another Weyr, who might be closer to rising, or already rose but not grounded yet. But even that's a half turn away." So maybe it's not the best suggestion.

"That's true enough," agrees Alendis, evenly. She reaches across the table to pour herself more klah (she drinks it black, no sugar no milk), using that as a task to fill time. Is she taking that time to think? Or is she encouraging the two younger women to think? Or maybe she's just being deliberately slow for some other reason.

"Realistically, we needed another junior or two five turns ago. Our girls will do their bit, as best they can, but what we really need is for the wings to stop getting so damn beaten up. Today. Not in six months. Not in a turn."

That's when Morag enters, officially; however long she might have lingered past the entry is another story.

"Treyah won't keep her leg."

Lanelle manages not to say anything regretful to Lo this time, even if she does turn her head to frown at the weyrling, so maybe it's in part thanks to Morag's distracting appearance. "Surely other Weyrs are managing better than we are?" she sort of says, sort of asks, like maybe no one has actually considered the idea yet that they could ask them for help.

"Who's Treyah?" asks Lo, lowly with a foot nudge, of Lanelle, forgetting, for the moment, the just seconds prior almost waterworks.

Alendis' expression sharpens, just slightly, as Morag enters. She considers the Weyrwoman over the rim of her mug, but says, only, "Well, she'd better damn learn how to ride with just one, hadn't she?"

She looks irritable, as if she'd like nothing more than to go out and simply punch thread into submission. Surely that would work?

"Treyah," Morag repeats, hands flat on the table, "will not keep her leg. Attend, Lanelle."

Lo gets a flat look, a brief look.

"Treyah," the senior says to the room, "would have been tapped to wingsecond if that Fort wing hadn't come in." If she and O'rin and Alendis hadn't brought the Fort wing in. "We need her, and it'll take about as long as it would for a new-hatched weyrling to be of use."

"It needn't be a full transfer. We can bargain for the promise of a clutch."

Lanelle lets her leg drop as she sits up a bit more straight, a bit more respectfully, whether she looks like she wants to or not. "Without that Fort wing, Igen would be in even worse shape," she points out, perhaps feeling more understandably defensive now. They didn't choose to come here, after all, and of course the young woman would latch onto the bit that she thinks is most applicable to her.

She is completely out of her element and knows it, even with the explanation of who Treyah is and why her leg matters. But Lo suddenly rises with a yelp. When you're a weyrling, you have multiple places to be at the same time, including necessary flying lessons. << We. Are. Late. >> is Eoventh's words, that are shared quite broadly and irritatedly. And with apology laden in her apologetic body and face, Lo scurries on out, leaving her notes in her wake.

Alendis sets down her mug, temporarily distracted by the fleeing Lo, whose departure earns a furrow of her brow. It's unfortunate, really, having to share a junior with the weyrlingmaster. Even if aforementioned junior is, indeed, a weyrling.

Still frowning, she considers Morag, and then Lanelle. "I leave that in your capable hands, Morag," she says. "But perhaps you can let Lanelle shadow you. She ought to see what negotiations are like from this end."

Also, Alendis sucks at negotiations. But that's beside the point.

"I'll take that on." That is broad indeed.

Morag rounds the table to Lo's notes. She'll take them, tidy them. "I understand your loyalty," she remarks to Lanelle. Without animosity, without kindness, "Do you miss K'lace?" K'lace, dead in the first Fall over Keroon. K'lace, only the first of that wing to go.

Before she has a moment to think about what she's saying to the Weyrwoman, and how it might actually fall on the ears of Igen's most senior goldriders, Lanelle is assuring, "My loyalty is to Sreyoth. Not Fort. Not Igen. Certainly not to J'rias or his wing. I didn't know K'lace any better than I know Treyah. Every body is essential. I don't see the point in making a fuss about where someone is from when they're here now. Presumably in part because of your decisions."

Dryly; "Tell us how you really feel, Lanelle."

It's a good thing Alendis is the composed type. She almost sounds more amused than anything. "It's a good thing to be loyal to your dragon. Isn't that right, Morag. But it doesn't hurt to be loyal to the people around you. Or, if not loyal, to at least trust them. I'll leave the negotiations to you two. I'll tackle the boys."

Surely a good strong talking to will help the Weyrleader and Weyrsecond improve their particular track record.

"Anything else?"

"And yet you were defending them," Morag muses to the never-most-junior. "I see."

To Alendis, "Nothing that won't wait. I'll reach out." Notes less squared away than fanned, she prepares to depart.

Lanelle flushes ever so slightly, perhaps somewhat hidden by the obvious touch of sun on her otherwise fair cheeks, in the wake of Alendis' comments. But she doesn't take her attention off of Morag. It's clear enough who the person she trusts the least is in the room, but she doesn't speak up now to defend herself further. Instead she rises and dismisses herself instead with a terse, "I'm sure the infirmaries would appreciate me getting back to work."

"Meeting," says Alendis. "Adjourned."

Excuse her if she rubs her brow with one large hand, afterwards. It's better than beating her head into the table. That would help exactly nothing.