Who | |
What |
Igen's new starcrafter formally presents herself for duty. W'rin is W'rin. |
When |
It is midmorning of the twenty-fifth day of the seventh month of the second turn of the 12th pass. It is the eighty-fifth day of Summer and 107 degrees. The small dark cloud has grown rapidly over night, covering the blue sky. It blows a furious rush of hot, stirring wind. In a moment, the daylight is gone as visibility plummets. The clouds of burning sand mercilessly flog all living things as the air itself turns against you. Every living thing chokes on sand and dust before escaping inside. |
Where |
Council Chambers, Igen Weyr |
OOC Date |
Council Chambers
However disheveled the corridor outside might lie, THIS room - the sole dominion of the Weyr's upper elite - is always sparkling, ever swept, ever dusted, its walls scrubbed free of the grime of ages. A certain spartan grandeur fills the Council Chamber, with its foreboding stonework and heavy wooden door. A round table fills the bulk of the space, an ancient creation of fire-hardened wood, carved with the three dune'd symbol of Igen Weyr. Chairs surround: hard-backed things (with thin cushions) for the most part, but two grandiose chairs, on opposite sides of the table, that seat Weyrwoman and Weyrleader. The walls are lined with elegant old tapestries, depicting scenes of ancient Igen glories.
The heat this summer at Igen has been epic, that is stories will be told of it for generations to scare weyr brats into behaving- when little kids are bad the heat comes. Even the weyrleader can't complain that he is stuck in meetings in the cooler inner caverns of the weyr. At least, he can't complain as much. At the moment, the council chambers are empty except for the massive bulk of the man, and his infinite number of charts. Stealing a moment between meetings to work on whirlwind formations, tumbler of whiskey more something to be played with than actually consumed this early in the morning, thick fingers twirl the cup on the bottom edge, round and round on thet able as he thinks.
And this, of course, is the heat of Igen that Elle is initiated into. As they say, forged by the crucible… or should that be distilled? Regardless, the starcrafter is here, appearing at the doorway, her knock surprisingly loud given she's just a wee slip of a lass. She has a few of the tubal containers that one carries blueprints and starcharts in tucked under an arm and a ledger in that hand, leaving her free hand for this business of knocking. "Weyrleader, sir?" Her voice is deferential without being submissive, confident without cockiness, ease in her interruption of his thinking.
As usual the man's eyes lift to noise without movement of his face, there is always a brief moment of study before deciding whether whatever sound is worth ending full engagement of the task at hand. The small size of woman given the sound of the knock draws an interested lift of his eye brows and man's head rises to meet his gaze. Further study of the individual finds and undeciphers her knot. More intrigued the charts before him a slowly rolled up, and a space made for whatever it is she lugging with her. "I heard they sent a woman." They meaning her craft of course. "No doubt they felt Igen the least of the weyrs." Clearing his throat he lets the apparent insult hang in the air. Surely it is an insult. Of her? Of the weyr? Both? "Please tell me their assessment of you and your lack of man bits is a blantaly idiotic as their assessment of us." A thin sardonic grin spreads for a moment before falling away to his normal stone expression. "Whiskey?"
She stands beneath his regard, Elle, patient and waiting — this isn't something she is unfamiliar with, a nowtimer woman with a knot like that. The starcrafter enters with a smile as enigmatic as W'rin's words are blunt. "Oh, weyrleader, you are every bit the refreshing breeze they promised me." Her eyes are cool and professional, hinted only slightly with a sardony that is clear reflection of the man's own mien. "To be candid, my having tits never stopped my mind from working." Dry, dry. "But let us be clear from the onset; I asked for this posting. I am Elle, starcraft journeyman, first of my class and first of my rank. I could have had Benden if I had wanted it." There is a quiet intensity to her words, for all of her youth. And a familiarity. Does W'rin remember the young starcraft girl who came, turns ago, with the group that served to chart their path back to Rhaeyn's time? Regardless, a smile blossoms on her face at the end: "Oh yes, please, neat."
"I never suggested they did." As for her assessment of his demeanor, he only cocks one eyebrow higher than the other, "Yes, well. As I stated I have little regard for their thoughts on much of anything. And as for my personality, you'd had better get use to it we'll be working together a lot." And he doesn't plan on changing. Hefty grunt and leverage on the arms of his chair lift him from his seat. Neat. He seems to appreciate at least that, and two fingers of his good stuff are pour delicately into a tumbler. A lot has happened since the turns, young people change, and W'rin isn't likely to remember someone he met yesterday if they aren't some how important to his running of the weyr. Which she is now. Glass set before her, the man reclaims his seat. "You brought…things." A hand waves at her charts. "And I have some ideas. So lets get started."
A shrug of narrow shoulders for W'rin's commentary: probably acceptance. Elle's moving along in spreading out the contents of what she has brought, in neat order, one after the other. There are a few starcharts to reference, but of glorious importance are the detailed maps of Pern, and the lovely striations of Threadfall predictions, done in bands running southeast to northwest, shaded slightly to show densities. "Thank you," she murmurs about the whiskey, taking a sip (and giving a murmur of appreciation for the quality) before setting it aside. Work first. "This is what we expect Thread to settle into, this pattern. It defies all logical notion of what we know from past Passes, but…" She gives an artless shrug, again. "It is what we see, and I'd rather trust my own two eyes than ramblings from someone two hundred - or four hundred - turns ago."
W'rin likes charts, charts are understandable, charts don't talk back, charts are reasonable in their dealings with a person. Eyes scan down with the gusto a normal male might take in the lines of a woman he loves, or how he might study the fine legs of a red wine; he takes a moment in appreciation of every drawn curve of Pern, the data shades of thread pattern, the detail. But then it strikes him: This chart makes no sense. It is like nothing he studied of pervious passes. Brows crinkle in resistence to the information, but it isn't voiced, instead he listens. Jaw clentching and unclentching as he brain turns over the information. Her choice of number of turns, 400, draws a soft growl from the man, protective of the people he brought forward. It is as gentle a warning as the man gives. And he moves directly back to business. "Alright." A final acceptance of what has been laid out before him. "I'll trust you until I have a reason not to." He pauses, "After all. I have to." An genuine smile is given at his new co-worker, but it is only a flash. A welcome. "If you notice any changes…" But he has a feeling she isn't the kind of person who needs reassurances to come into the chambers when necessary so he just lets the order off midway through.
W'rin will be accustomed to Elle's nonverbal responses, just as she will get used to him, certainly. She gives just another shrug. Eventually, her fine voice carries forth. "It baffles us. The only explanation I can give you," here there is a hesitation, "Is perhaps the comet changed something. It is the only incident that we can possibly assume would have such an effect upon the red star itself." She absently makes a warding gesture as she says the name, glancing about to make sure she hasn't startled any firelizards with it. "Of more concern, honestly, is the weather patterns you have been facing." She rifles out a chart from the bottom: it is a map of Igen, painstakingly wrought, with a few locations marked in effortlessly neat handwriting. "I'm not entirely familiar, mind, but it appears that this season has seen a considerable uptick of storm activity."
"It baffles you, but you are certain?" The weyrleader shifts physically under the mental uncomfortableness the idea brings. Certainity without explanation. "The comet." At least it is something he can use to explain the situation to himself. "I don't like it." The changes, his gaze falls to the chart again, "If this is true, our strategy will have to change." But it gives him a reason to do less work with holders, and more work with wings, and for that a content grin spreads across his face. Silver linings, perhaps not the color most people would find comforting during a pass, but for W'rin it brings a certain zen like peace. "No the weather has been…as you say, baffling. But we can handle storms, we've been training in them for turns." He sighs, running a hand through his beard, "And who doesn't like a challenge?" Though, they can't really afford for things to get much more challenging than they have been.
Elle pauses, seems to pick her words carefully. "If you watch a herdbeast graze northerly every day for a turn, then suddenly start grazing westerly every day for two weeks, you know the pattern has changed. You can predict it will graze westerly after enough repitition of the pattern. But you may not know the reason. We are secure in our observations, but reconciling the facts are for the Master-circle to officially announce." Politics, in other words; politics and bureaucracy's red tape. "I will, with your permission, continue to work on the specifics of Thread predictions, and perhaps see if I can find a pattern with the storms as well." She frowns downwards, tapping her finger against that hide as if physical contact may yield insight. The starcrafter breaks down and takes a longer sip of her whiskey, as if to fortify her against the work ahead. "The great thing about challenges is it's entirely possible to come out ahead."
Small eyes roll as W'rin picks up on the unverbalized politics reference. He has little tolerance for it, and what he does have has been beaten into him by his weyrwoman's sheer force of percistence. He replys with only a heavy sigh before nodding. "I wouldn't rat you out if you gave me your thoughts." But he lifts a finger to dismiss her from actually doing so. "Yes. Continue and keep me posted." Pupils shift to one side, he's forgetting something, and then suddenly he adds on, "Please." With a grunt, he offers, "And if not to over fill your plate, I'll add another challenge. We'll have candidates soon, and hopefully…" Faranth willing there isn't something wrong with Kaelidyth, "A lot. I'd like them to have very basic starcraft classes. What they'd give to very young apprentinces?" Candidates do have to take reading and writing too, so it wouldn't be entirely new. "Just to get them use to looking at charts. Do you have the time for one or two for each clutch?"
"Perhaps another time with more whiskey and we can theorycraft exactly why Thread has decided to change its tune after thousands of turns," Elle, dry. But she nods, a hint of respect there for both the comment and his acceptance of her not discussing her private thoughts. Is that a flicker of a smile for the belated plese? "Certainly, weyrleader," about keeping him posted. The last draws her mouth up, selfsame sardonic expression that she wore earlier. "It is as if you know what my journeyman project was, weyrleader." That cryptic statement aside, her voice is light. "I could fit a weekly class in. It would be better than trying to cram information at them all at one time. If.. you think that is proper?" She yields to his experience and domain with a graceful inclination of her chin.
If it is a flicker of a smile, W'rin misses it. Missing social cues is one of his specialities, he's really good at it. A starched nod is given to her idea, "Once a sevenday, if you can manage it. I'll let the Weyr Woman and headwoman know what I am thinking." A nod to technicality that they running candidacy. He knows his place. Lifting his tumbler and offering a grin, "To the challenges ahead, Journeyman, and to our coming out ahead." (re)
Poor W'rin. Always missing things! It makes little difference, since Elle is generally a calm and competant soul. (Generally. Don't ask T'ral what he thinks. Puny blueriders. -.-) "Excellent. With your leave, I will track down the weyrwoman to make sure she has no other priorities inasfar as weathercasting goes, and coordinate a class schedule." For the end, her smile is wide and whimsical, and she lofts her glass, tilting to tip it with a chime of glass-to-glass to W'rin's toast. "Hear-hear, good sir."
W'rin lifts an eyebrow, at the idea she'd prioritize the goldriders over him, but that's a battle he'll hack out with Sadaiya later. Should he have to. "Yes, you're dismissed." He'll even offer a salute to stamp the order officially. And with another belated pause, "And, uh, welcome to Igen?" That was correct social behavior. Correct. He'll double check with the weyrwoman later.
Silly men. Weyrleaders come and go, but weyrwomen are always here to stay. Elle may work directly with the fighting wings most of all, but she'd be blind to not acknowledge the shape of the world she lives in. In all directions. "Thank you, sir. On both accounts." She settles her whiskey glass down, deftly gathers her hides, and slips out — back to work, and back to the countless hours of counting stars.
Cute lil' scene guys!