Q'fex, Arianne, Renalde and Br'er


Southern's brass hold a meeting to discuss logistics, now that the Pass is really and truly here.


It is afternoon of the twenty-fifth day of the first month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Weyr - Council Room

OOC Date


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Southern Weyr - Council Room

Spacious, this room is cut from the same scale as the living caverns: vast and given to inspiring awe for those who enter. The floor is tiled in a shining cross-hatch of dark and light, an ironic chessboard setting for the looming and overlarge council table. Weathered it is, long and rectangular, with a matching sideboard twice again as long as it is. This is a room for meetings, for work, for decisions: such is evident by the hearth in the corner, and the always-fresh pot of klah.

It shouldn't be a surprise to aaaaaaaaaaaaanyone that a meeting was called, in short order, after the news travelled 'round Pern. Thread is here. That might be why the ranking riders present are talking quietly amongst themselves as they wait for the Weyrleader to call the meeting to order. Usually it's a bit more rowdy; rivalries being bandied about. Statistics from the last drills being lauded or jeered. There's not a word. Except maybe from that one guy. We all know that one Wingleader. The one that's pretending he's not at all worried about the Pass being here. %r%rAnd then there's Arianne. She even brought parchment and quill and ink with her, despite not actually needing to take notes on anything. She's also -so quiet-. Not even a boast this time. No taunting the boys. The klah in her mug sits there, cooling.

Br'er also has parchment and stylus and ink - but then, notetaking kind of IS part of his job. He sits at Arianne's side like a good Wingsecond, as silent as the rest of them, eyes lingering on the door. The greenrider is a bit pale, a bit distant in expression. He keeps absently fiddling with the silver ring lately decorating his hand.

Renalde has found himself a seat at the table. He speaks to no one unless spoken to, his posture perfect. There are things what to take notes with in front of him, but they sit undisturbed in front of his folded hands that rest just on the edge.

It is a meeting of the wings — though suspiciously, goldriders are absent from this little gathering, and instead Q'fex has apparently optioned to have a representative from the lower caverns instead of from the queens' wing. The Weyrleader sweeps from gathering his glass of iced klah and then settles down at the table, waiting for things to still. He looks from wingleader to wingleader: some intense, some jittery, some boastful. Those boastful turn less so at the eye-contact: it is only when the room has quieted that Q'fex announces, "Gentleman, ladies, the day has come. Thread has returned. This meeting is to assess where we're at, the state of our supplies, and the targets for our readiness."

Arianne is a mother-hen sort of type no matter what may be happening. So she pulls a space-invasion on Br'er for probably the umpteenth time, and reaches over to squeeze his arm lightly. She's concerned. He's usually more… passionate about everything then she is. So having him be just as quiet is plain old weird. "Sir, I think we need to consider stockpiling more leather. I know it appears we have a lot. But, we have to consider all of the riding leathers that will be ruined after each fall and must be replaced. As well as the strips needed for straps and their repair." From her pile of papers she pulls out what calculations they've made to give them to both Q'fex and Renalde. She's not brave enough to bring up firestone, however.

Br'er stiffens slightly, but tolerates Arianne's presence in his PERSONAL BUBBLE with a certain rueful resignation. His raspy voice echoes after the brownrider's, observing, "Numbweed as well. I know we have casks and casks of the stuff - but it's just coming into season now. We'll have to send the weyrfolk out to gather all they can. And," blunt reality, "we'll go through no end of it. Especially in the first Falls."

Renalde reaches forward to take the calculations from Arianne. His eyes skim across them quickly before they join the paper before him. "At least it is a resource we have plenty of. The herders have had a very successful year and the weyr hunters have tapped our jungle. We will just need to make sure all of that is cured properly." As for the numbweed, Renalde simply nods. That too can be accomplished.

Q'fex rubs his hand over his eyes and gestures at Yules, who sits in his proximity; she's his dutiful note-taker, and thus, notes are taken. On the heels of Renalde's statement: "Leather is perhaps the most do-able, yes. Tanner apprentices we can… procure, from the north, if we need to." Q'fex and his mysterious ways. His eyes go to a certain wingsecond and he considers Br'er for a long moment, before saying, "Numbweed - sounds like a good task for candidates, which we have a plethora of." He takes a breath, a half-inhale. "Some of you may know," he starts, slowly, "That the minercraft has sent a delegation. We are currently in the process of negotiating a share of the craft's output from Crom, but only time will tell what actual amount of firestone we'll see from that."

Arianne went for the low hanging fruit, it's true. And if Q'fex means 'kidnap' when he says 'procure', well… she'll certainly never let on. She just nods as if it's perfectly reasonable to expect that people are willing to drop everything and come on down to the jungle. When the topic of firestone is broached, her eyes dart amongst the others, before returning to the Weyrleader again. "Is… are they checking what's being mined there for safety? Somehow?" All she can see is the skeleton piles and pieces of floating paper with portents of doom on it. Now it's her turn to pale a little. Which she shakes off by gulping some klah. Precious klah.

"The Tannerhall is in Igen's territory," observes Br'er, ever so mildly. "If needed, we can ask their goldriders to help us out on that." Help with convincing, help with kidnapping, whichever. The greenrider's gaze lingers for a long moment on Arianne, then slowly shifts to Q'fex. "What will make the difference for us," he observes, raspy and slow, "is whether those grubs really… do what the stories say they do. If they do, we can concentrate our resources on the fisherfolk on the coast, and let the Wildmen find safety in their jungles. If they don't…" If they don't, Southern is so screwed.

Renalde has no input on the safety of firestone or the procurement there of. "The delegation will be treated well while here," is his only comment. He sits there like a statue, too poised to even fidget.

"That is why," Q'fex grimly states to Arianne, "We will not be allowing them to survey Southern for firestone." His voice has a heavy kind of finality in it. "The risk has been judged to be too great." He nods at Renalde, who doubtless has been in on those conversations. "After the quarantine." His voice is grim. He nods at Br'er. "Yes. There are talks with the Seacraft currently — if we are to fly Fall for them, they will have to tithe us." There's a grim sort of humor to his words, there: "Preferably in firestone." He slants a gaze towards Renalde, and then clears his throat. "We will be observing the first Falls over uninhabited areas, not fighting them," with a nod to Br'er, "To check to see if these legendary grubs are worth their salt."

"The ground-crews will be standing ready in case it does not. We have enough so long as the grubs do as they should." Renalde's voice cuts in smoothly after Q'fex pauses.

Arianne nods solemnly at Q'fex, her smile a ghost of what it usually is. And then to Br'er she nods in agreement. Grubs. Kinda gross, but they may just be Southern Riders' best friends. "Just not in shellfish, please. Please. We have enough already." This brownrider will resort to begging if needed, yes. Firestone=Hell Yes. Shellfish Tithe=Hell no! "I've got Serval's readiness report prepared. But since I know how busy you are, I'll summarize: We're ready." She says finally, and firmly.

"If we can't hope to find some, though," Br'er sounds tired, the slightest touch of his rarely heard Cromese accent - his real one - let slip, "we best be hoping someone else stumbles on a motherlode. The Miners do what they can, but Crom…" is not as amply stocked as it once was in firestone. But at the end of the day, there's nothing he can contribute there that hasn't been said by others - so he just gives Q'fex a strained smile and Renalde a nod, before echoing Arianne: "We're ready." Unspoken, but obvious in his expression: he hopes.

"Agenothree we have in spades, luckily. At the very worst, Southern will defend her skies as goldriders on the wing." Q'fex's voice is grim. The entire outlook is grim, isn't it? So very grim. "One thing we will look for is metal deposits, should our negotiations work well… for the building of more flamethrowers. Are there any specific questions?" He pauses, and looks around the table, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Arianne's expression may not change, but any dragon in viewing distance of Caelth knows that his rider just got an earful of bellowing displeasure at the idea of using flaethrowers. He wants to killitwithfire. His OWN fire. And yet, somehow there is just a professional mask where one might expect a wince. Okay, maybe her lips tighten a bit. "No sir. No questions from me." she returns in an equally calm voice. (She'll backhand someone later, maybe)

"Speaking of goldriders," Br'er's voice is PAINFULLY even, "we'll have to do a better job of protecting ours than High Reaches did." He's horribly quiet for a second. "Alasooth, their Senior, went Between." And the High Reaches curse claims another victim. One that… maybe had it coming. "Inlayraith told me right before the meeting started." So that happened. The greenrider clears his throat, and adds, tone professional: "No sir. No questions."

Renalde's expression flickers just slightly with distaste at the idea of the goldriders flying thread. "My traders have been keeping tabs on where they find different metals on the surface to report back to Smith Craft." A finger taps on the table, just the slightest of fidgets which stills abruptly at Br'er's comment. He closes his eyes momentarily, perhaps to block out the thought of his weyrwomen (even Hannah) getting hurt.

Q'fex inhales abruptly at the news, his face going a bit ashen — he does know Vienn, of course, on a personal level; the same as any leader would know another, at least. "Oh, Alasooth," is what he says, though, referencing Inlayraith's dam with a hint of true regret. "I…" The weyrleader drops his head into his hands, fingers carding through salt-and-pepper hair, and he goes quiet for a long, long moment.

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