Who

Lendai, T'ral

What

T'ral interviews Lendai for his TREATISE.

When

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

Where

Southern Weyr

OOC Date

 

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Living Caverns

Grand and spacious, the cavern curves high aloft in naturally-vaulted ceiling that soothes any sense of claustrophoba. Rich woods line the cavern floor, varnished and stained a rich mahogany, while round tables scatter about candlelit and intimate. The largest table lies southerly next the sideboard, long trestles that seem oriented to providing for the weyr's youngest. The rich blue of Azov can be seen from a distance in good weather, when the heavy stone doors covering the entrance are allowed to stand open.

It is the fifty-fifth day of Spring and 93 degrees. It is a clear night.


Spring time at Southern Weyr, even at night, is hot and humid. Most intelligent members of the Weyr have long ago moved into the Tipsy Kitten or simply gone to bed to sweat it out there. But not Lendai, instead the Weyrwoman sits at one of the large tables, a chilled bottle of wine being pressed against her bosom, though rapidly becoming less chilled with each moment it's held up next to heated skin. "It's… so… hoooot." A whiny note from the Weyrwoman's own lips, a frown upon her face, as her other free hand has the glass in which the wine keeps refilling. Half-sloshed already, her face tinged a delightful pink, Lendai is happily drinking her worries away in a rather public place. Caring right now, however, is not her middle name. "MORE ICE, DRUDGES! IIIICCCEEEEE!" A hiccup, a giggle, and another sip of wine. Let the night commence!

T'ral had noted Southern's Senior settling into her cups when he'd eaten some time ago. He's returned now, crisp in dark pants and a white shirt, a blue neckerchief at his throat. He's sweating, sure, but he does it well. Bootheels ring on the stone floor as the bluerider approaches Lendai. He's got a bundle of hides tucked under his arm. Her bellow for ice rocks him back a bit, eyebrows bobbing before he gives her a snappy salute and asks, "Lendai, Ma'am. Are you busy?"

Whereas T'ral sweats and owns it, Lendai is generally just… damp. And maybe even a little smelly. The woman purposely keeps her arms down, just incase, as she turns in her seat at the sound of her name. The wine in her glass sloshes a little, though stays within the confines of her glass. This time. Her eyes squint a moment, before they focus on the person in front of her. A smile of reocognition at the bluerider, before Lendai is scooting over and patting the bench area next to her with the wine bottle. "Not at all, not at all! Just… drinking." Ahem. "My sorrows away, if you will. Couldn't sleep. Too hot. So. Booze." It made sense in her head at the time. The goldrider takes a deep breath, placing the glass down carefully, as well as the getting-warmer-by-the-minute bottle. Moving herself to face T'ral, Lendai puts on her serious face. "Now," Another deep breath as the world stops tilting. "What can the Weyrwomanleader do for you?" It's her new title. Cause she said so.

T'ral hasn't noticed any scents. Yet. That sloshing arc is watched closely. T'ral is, as ever, wearing a white shirt. "Thank you, Ma'am." He does not exactly eschew her invitation to sit next to her, but takes a seat opposite her. Maybe he did get a whiff. He sets the hides down and keeps them well away from that sloshing glass. As he's settling the pages, flipping through them, dark eyes flicker up to Lendai's own, "Sorrows?" Blink. A polite inquiry. There were many to be sure. Murder. Injured dragons and riders. Mountainfolk. The new Hold. He puts a palm over the stacked pages. "I'm working on a project about the differences between goldriders and fighting riders. And etiquette." Perhaps between them. "I wonder if you'd mind if I interviewed you?" T'ral. Pern's own Late Night Talk Show. He needs a couch for Esanth, so the blue can laugh at all his jokes. He picks up a stack of papers and tap, tap, taps them into order in his hands.

"Oh, you know, my first Weyrleader hated me. Then his dragon got so horribly injured that he can't be Weyrleader anymore. So my next Weyrleader, acting as he, rest his assholeish head, may be, was killed. So I have to wonder, am I cursed? I mean, I didn't sleep with Ja'kai. So maybe not. Though he was Weyrleader, even if only for a little while." Shoulders shrug, her bemusement showing. "The next Weyrleader will surely only last a sevenday, at this rate. Poor rat bastard that wins." Tsk tsk, Lendai shakes her head, sad for what will so obviously be a sad fate for whoever wins the next time Talicanitath flies. The Weyrwoman's interest piques, however, as T'ral explains why he is there. Her back straightens and the alcohol is pushed to the side, carefully, to not marr the surface of T'ral's hides. "Oh! Well! I don't think I've ever heard of anyone really doing any sort of hidework on the actual differences of goldriders and fighting riders. How intriguing!" Leaning over the table, the woman tries to get a glance at any of the hides in question. "Of course, of course! Ask whatever you need. I'm an open book!" It helps Lendai likes talking about herself.

T'ral puts the papers down and folds his hands neatly over them, listening attentively. "Q'fex hated you?" T'ral blinks, mystefied. He wasn't privy to any of that and couldn't remember it if he was. The strained relationship had reached some sort of tense equilibrium that folks didn't discuss. At least, T'ral hadn't heard anything. To the last, "Cursed? It seems unlikely, Ma'am." He shakes his head, "I don't think you have enough data to establish any causal relationship between your, uh," he scratches at his jaw, beard scritching, "relations and any after effects." So, collect more data Lendai - clearly. He lifts his hands clear so that she can see the papers, when she cranes her head around to look. He laughs, "Ja'kai assigned it to me as a punishment. It, ah, sorta took on a life of it's own." Undead Punishment Essays. He fishes a silver stick from a pocket and twirls it in his lips before inspecting the tip. Satisfactory. He flattens out a fresh page, titles it with the time and date and Lendai's name and sits forward, "First, I'd like to hear your definition of the goldrider's role." Silverstick to hide, he tips forward, listening closely.

"To some extent, I'm pretty sure he did." Lendai says, almost entirely too nonchalantly. A quirk of a grin twitches on the sides of the woman's lips. Her inebriation is pushed to the back of her mind as she laces her fingers together and sits up a little straighter in her seat once more. "Not enough… data?" An eyebrow arches at that, the utter humor of the words washing through the Weyrwoman. "I like you!" She says suddenly, beaming at the bluerider. "I need to be around you more. Now, a punishment from Ja'kai, you say? Good to know you are still pursuing it, even with his death." A nod of respect at that, "Perhaps all is not lost for riders after all. Good respect you are showing." It pleases the Lendai. Yeeeesss. "A goldrider's role?" Pause. "I've always seen as us the… mother of the Weyr, if you will. Not only do we bring new life into the Weyr, both through our dragons, but through our policies as well. We are the very brain of the inner workings of any Weyr. All commands begin and end with us. Though at the same time," Lendai settles make, musing over her answer a moment. "we are nothing without the lifeblood, the residents, that make up our home." Her head tilts to the side now. "That's the easiest definition. I could go into how we also are in charge of keeping the archives up to date with certain information, how we are diplomats to the Holds and Crafts, how we must support our Weyrleader, how we run our own Wing, but those are less of the role… and more just the jobs that come with the role, rather than the role itself." Lendai gives her nose a wrinkle. "Bailey might be better at answering that question with less… metaphors. Though there you have it."

T'ral sits back as a pair of drudges haul in a bucket -probably from the laundry- filled with ice and WHOMP, dump it on the table. The contrast in temperature between the ice and the air has it steaming. He sits back, sheltering his pages with a guarding arm. T'ral purses his lips a quick sad twist for the bad blood between Weyrwoman and Weyrleader and then dark eyes glitter, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a sly smile, quickly banished. Not everyone picked up on his jokes. After all the stories he'd heard, the weyrwoman didn't seem THAT crazy. Or, not even really crazy at all. He blinks at 'all is not lost,' scribbling a note to himself at come back to that at a later date. He scribbles furiously as she speaks, a curious shorthand that isn't really readable. He skims over his notes and makes a few notations. "Okay," he squints at his other stack of documents, paging, "I'm going to skip ahead. I'd like you to describe a time someone unexpected showed you respect and then a time you showed respect to someone who didn't expect it. Take your time answering." She's, uh, experienced. There are bound to be many, many examples, right? Right?

The ice is a welcome sight for sweaty eyes. Lendai helps herself to a few cubes, plopping them right down, into her tunic. Just ignore the budding wet spots as the freezing cold slowly melts into a luke warm puddle on the Weyrwoman's blouse. The blissful look on Lendai's face says she doesn't care much for her appearance at this exact moment, just relief is all she needs. Aaaaahhhhh. The next question, however, throws the woman for a loop. It takes a few minutes of silence before she is able to truly answer. "A long time ago, I had only recently graduated weyrlinghood… or maybe I was still a weyrling. I can't say I remember," Her voice is hushed somewhat, walking down memory lane. "It was the heir of Ista Hold. The next Lord Holder. He obviously outranked me at the moment, plus Thread was no longer falling, but still, he was… extremely respectful. Both to myself and to my dragon, in a time when many holders were not. It made me feel worthwhile, at a time when I felt very much so unworthy of the color I rode." Quiet follows that answer. Though soon the woman is clearing her throat and continuing. "Since then, I can't say anyone unexpected has showed me respect. Even if they don't agree with me, you can't help but respect Talicanitath and what she represents. I'm merely the human embodiment of that." Her head is nodded, content with that answer. "As far as respect I've shown who didn't expect. There are a number, I'm sure. I've had more than my fair share of selfish, power hungry moments, when the gilded sheen of my dragon's hide has blinded me. Perhaps, a bit more in my youth, when I would be more quick to salute even the lowest of apprentice, or look fondly on the next generation of holders, and give them my sheer appreciation. I… hmm…" A sharp look at T'ral now. "I can't say I've done that all too much recently." There's some food for Lendai to dwell on. She muses a bit, before discussing things further, recounting tales of her younger turns, throwing in some history, and stirring it with all the knowledge she can think of after turn after endless turn of goldridering. The two riders talk long into the evening, asking questions, answering questions, information happily flowing.

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