Log: Political Mumbo Jumbo
Who: Atreyan, Dashaya, Isobel, Jiella, Tilin, T'rev, NPCs: Lord Visrain of Boll, Holder Rivellan of Fort Sea, Holder Trevor of Gar
When: It is a winter morning, 11:00 of day 12, month 13, turn 20 of Interval 10.
Where: Council Room, Fort Weyr
What: A contingent of holders descend on Fort to make various demands and requests. The game is afoot. T'rev is definitely in way over his head.
It's cold. There's snow falling off and on, though right now it's a clear patch with sun shining down on the white stuff and a very chilly breeze running through the Bowl. Spaced apart by just a few minutes, watchdragons arrive from Boll, Gar and Fort Sea and let loose their august passengers. Lord Boll heads directly for the Council Room, while the other two go off towards the caverns to locate various children. So it is that T'rev is surprised by the southern lord first where he sits, hard at work on some hides and papers.
Isobel walks in alongside Atreyan, the pair of them trailing behind their father. Isobel looks intensely curious, and is whispering to Atreyan as they enter the room.
Tilin, when his grandfather comes looking for him, is busy working at housekeeping, doing a bit of sweeping in one of the tunnels near the commons cavern. Not, exactly, the kind of job he'd want his grandfather to find him doing. So, with fewer questions than he might normally ask, he follows his grandfather along.
"Shells, son, it's /cold/ up here!" Would be the surprising entrance of Lord Boll, still spritely despite age and his dependence upon a walking stick to help bowed legs keep him upright. In thick fur-lined jacket and a too-large hat to match, Visrain tap-tap-taps his way in to the council chamber. Lacking any young'uns to find, this has given him a few minutes before the other Holders will appear, to get himself within the room before the proper, half-bow of greeting to the young Weyrleader will take place.
"Lord Visrain," T'rev says with startled politeness, alerted by the cane as he straightens up from his work, rises, bows in turn and promptly pulls out a chair for the elderly Lord of Boll. "Please have a seat. What brings you here to the cold, sir?" Deference in spite of equal rank offered and the Weyrleader turns to gesture to the sideboar. "Drink to warm the bones?" It's not long after that voices echo up the passageway, among them Rivellan's robust tones. "Yes, of course, Gar. Of course, I agree entirely. Tilin, /attend/, boy." And that makes T'rev's brows hike up quite a bit, hand on a decanter of brandy. More company?
Of course, there was probably little locating actually performed by Trevor and more sending of the first idle caverns worker he saw to run and find his children. Waiting doesn't do a heck of a lot for a man on a mission and even if it took a mere five minutes to find them, it's been five, slow, irritating minutes. From there, there was the herding of his children across the bowl and the pleasant luck of finding another blooded candidate en-route. By the time the Holder reaches the council room, he's got Atreyan and Isobel trailing behind him, accompanied by Dashaya. He just about manages to make his, "Good morning," sound not entirely grudging, before manners prompt a bow to the room's occupants.
Jiella is playing dutiful daughter this evening - or is playing such when her father actually bothers to look her way. Otherwise, when the lot of them enter, she's pretty much sullen silence, preferring to stay well behind him and to one side for the moment - like she can disassociate herself from him with mere distance. This sort of meeting is /clearly/ not her thing; already restless and bored, she flashes the other candidates the briefest of sympathetic smiles, then gives T'rev a little wave, expression apologetic. Hi! Yeah, sorry my dad's a jerk.
Atreyan is straight-backed and somber-faced: he follows behind Trevor with measured strides, a certain efficiency of movement typifying his guardesque manner. He raises a hand, discreetly, to Isobel, hardly a motion but more a 'wait and see' gesture. His neutrality seems almost forced, a strain about his eyes belaying his otherwise calmly formal facade. He's dressed in his typical browns and taupes-- never let it be said that some of Hold Gar don't cut quite a figure. His bow is less grudging than Trevor's, accompanied by chin dip of a nod.
Dashaya might be a curious sight to see bringing up the rear of the Gar entourage, but she seems the perfect example of a holder's child. Conservative. Proper in a high neck and long sleeves. Her shirts are thick and swirling around her legs, making a soft, feminine swish though her head is pointedly down and a mask of polite distinterest firmly in place. Chancing a glance up, she regards those gathered from the corner of her eyes and ghosts a shared sympathetic shake of her head at the other candidates and a rather bemused glance toward Trey and T'rev. She's been hijacked. But any expression pauses and her chin lifts with pride suddenly like a blasted mantle. So fun.
"Thank you m'boy," Visrain continues informally whilst it is still just himself and T'rev, his creaky voice unlikely to carry far. Not above taking advantage of his age, he takes that seat with gratitude, hat and jacket both coming off and one gnarled hand smoothing back over his balding pate. "Well now--" but, other voices, and the Lord's brows lift but he falls silent. So there he sits, firmly ensconced with his cane across his knees, still a proud man with head up and eyes keen. The arrival of the other Holders brings from him a nod of greeting to each in turn, chin dipping with the correct amount of respect due their stations from one of his, dark eyes taking in as well the presences of the children.
"Holders, candidates," T'rev collects himself, nods to each of Gar and Fort Sea's holders politely and finishes pouring Lord Visrain's brandy, bringing it over to the old man. There's a brief smile flickered Jiella's way and then one for Dashaya bringing up the rear too and the Weyrleader's gaze roams the entire assemblage. "Please come in, have a seat if you'd like, a drink?" When in doubt, offer hospitality? "Lord Boll," Rivellan greets politely, sweeps a deeper bow to the older Lord than he did just now to the Weyrleader. "Always a pleasure. We do have some matters of great urgency to present ..." and he tapers off, brows lifted in inquiry, "we're not, I hope, interrupting?" His voice and manner both are smooth, though there's just something about his gaze that speaks of a lack of willingness to be denied.
Tilin stays back by Jiella at first, as they walk in, seeming to want to stick close to his aunt. Likely he isn't any happier than her to be dragged along to this, though he hides it a little better. At Rivellan's command, though, he steps quickly to catch up to his grandfather, "Yes sir." He gives a bow to T'rev as well as they arrive, though adds a slightly more casual, "Hello, sir." Then he quiets again, glancing around at the others present and then back to the Holders, Lord, and Weyrleader, listening for now.
Either Trevor assumes his children - and the girl he's temporarily adopted - /will/ behave, or he's simply decided that they will be seen and not heard. "Thank you," for the offer of a seat, though drink is refused or ignored. Crossing the room, he drags out a chair and isn't exactly subtle in how he tries to direct 'his' charges to stand behind him. If they don't jump-to quick, there's more directing, even more obvious, and he clears his throat just a little too loudly. "I should hope that we will be allowed to speak and not turned away."
Isobel moves to stand to the right and just behind Trevor's chair, hands folded in front of her. Despite her evident curiosity, she's quick to obey her father, and silent, too, though she shoots a dark look at Atreyan, certain that he must know what's going on and is keeping her out of the loop.
Atreyan maneuvers to the left-hand side of Trevor, behind and in a formal parade rest, hands held behind his back, eyes focused forwards with a certain impassiveness. He doesn't look towards Isobel. Or towards Dashaya. Or towards anyone. And especially not T'rev. Nope. Definitely not T'rev. And Rivellan doesn't exist. Actually, none of them exist. He's just standing here. Lalalala.
If there's a perfect example of a holder child here in her fellow candidate, Jiella could seem to be to opposite, in her simple and devastatingly expensive low-cut blouses and tight skirts. She has little for Tilin but a patient smile and a wave towards the Lord - yes, go /attend/. If she didn't have a reason to be here, she'd look like she was aimlessly loitering, in sharp contrast to Atreyan and his formality. If Rivellan looks her way, she's somber and slightly vacant, otherwise? Not so much. And the blonde is definitely looking at T'rev, because he's way more interesting than just about anyone else in the room. In her mind, anyway.
Visrain is an old hand at this game, not wholly the affable, doddering old coot some might take him for. Rivellan's politeness is met in kind, the second inclination of his head a gracious one. "Holder Rivellan," he responds to his son-in-law, "tell me, how is my daughter?" Head bobbing just a little, "Of course not, of course not. Important matters must be addressed. As they will be, Holder, as they will be." That last more for Gar, the aged Lord's head turning at the pointed throat-clearing and somewhat rude comment. Don't mind Gramps.
If Isobel's got the right, then Dashaya's going to fall into step right off to the left of even Trey, though back a step of two. More dynamic that way, of a sort. Hands fold behind her at the small of her back, she cants her head to include the others in the room in the odd glint of it. That soft sound that someone can baaaarely hear? That's a slipper tapping. No, it's not coming from her. Though it might be under her skirt. Impatient? No, not her.
Given that both holders ignored the offer of a drink, T'rev doesn't pour again but moves to stand at the head of the table, arms held behind his back, hands clasped together. "I'm sure I can't think of any reason to turn any of you away," the Weyrleader says pleasantly though with a faint note of puzzlement in his voice and looks towards each of the Lord and Holders in turn then his gaze skims the little assemblage of scions of Fort's region. "Please, do speak and enlighten us," he says with continued politesse. Rivallan gives his father-in-law a little nod. "Jivira is well, thank you. I'll convey your regards, sir," he says in a quieter tone, "but, important business I'm afraid," and his voice lifts in both volume and power. "For a clutch of fourteen, how many young bloods to you see in this room, Weyrleader?" he asks in an almost deadly calm way. "Five, Holder," T'rev replies promptly. With a little flick of his hand to one perfectly well-kept sleeve, towards imaginary dust, Rivellan nods twice. "Mmm. Nearly a third of the expected impressions." His eyes lift towards the young Weyrleader's face. "Don't you think -- it's a little too many?" It's possible that that very slight shift in T'rev's shoulders is his hands tightening together. Very possible.
"Five," Trevor echoes, with a glance either way behind him to acknowledge the three candidates there. "I was not aware that it was a requirement for candidates to be born the blood of good, respectable Holders who have thus far not interfered in the Weyr's affairs. I'm simply curious as to why it - you - see fit to meddle with ours." A long look is given Atreyan and Isobel in turn. "These are my children, sir. They have perfectly decent lives and purposes without anybody sending such out of order merely to 'see if they will suit' whatever hatches from that clutch." His gaze lingers a little longer on Dashaya, a once-over and glance back to T'rev. "I hardly believe that this young lady should be introduced to this sort of... environment."
Isobel cuts another glance over at Atreyan, eyebrows raised: a 'seriously, do you know what this is all about or what?' look. Apart from that, she stands still, posture perfect, absolutely silent.
Atreyan may possibly stiffen at Trevor's statement. He may even open his mouth as if to say something-- but eventually his jaw grinds shut and he stiffens again. He does, for once, relent to look over a shoulder at Dashaya and her... tapping. He very silently lifts an eyebrow at her, grey eyes dropping to her feet then back up to her face. He turns back about, and cuts a glance sideways to Isobel in time to catch her 'wtf' look. He sucks on his front teeth, briefly, and gives a similarly concise nod before going back to his granite impression, though... it's really a remarkably tense granite he's trying to impersonate.
Jiella turns a curious gaze on Rivellan as he begins to make his case - not really surprised, but somewhere between amazed and impressed. And mildly irritated. Narrow eyes glance from her father to each of the other candidates dragged into this little drama, arching light brows as if to say, 'seriously?'. Trevor's '...environment' causes her to give a quiet snort that she only covers by coughing - and though she and Atreyan just might be on the same page, it's hard to communicate with stone.
Tilin frowns at his grandfather's words, glancing back to Jiella and then forward again. He stays quiet still for the moment, just listening, watching specifically for T'rev's reaction, but just in general curious where this will be going for the time being. And maybe just a bit nervous. Still, he grins a little as he hears Jiella's snort.
Otherwise still now, T'rev's gaze roams the group: Atreyan's impersonation of a statue, the tension in his frame, the look he gives Dash which leads to a flick of brown eyes downward towards her feet. If things weren't more serious, he'd probably chuckle. Isobel's confusion briefly touches his features with compassion but Jiella's snort-cough nearly breaks his composure and he has to cover himself by reaching forward to straighten one of the papers on the table. When he looks up again his expression is mild. "Do you then, contest the Search of each of these candidates, even in the face of prior granted permission to Search in your Holds, sirs?" is the simple question, and again the Weyrleader aims to cross gazes with each of the people currently clustered around the table. "Candidates - do you feel that you were brought here -- mistakenly? Against your will? Are you unhappy with your environment?" If Rodric were here, he'd telegraph something to his son about not giving anyone an opening that wide ever again.
Dashaya's toe-tapping stops the moment just before Trevor starts looking back over the younger ones in the room, though there's nothing that comes in response to the look over, by him or by Atreyan. She's as good and still as a statue, though the latter comment about the environment draws her glance dashing faintly toward Trevor, the other holders, and finally over to T'rev to gauge his reaction, her brows lifting in a small arch of the blackness. Clearing her throat softly, the temporary adoptee seems to know better than to reply to that comment first. And such an open one, which she doesn't seem to like at all.
Important business? /Important/ business? Visrain tips his head to look at Rivellan, his expression difficult to define beneath the mass of wrinkles that have overtaken his face. Mahogany brown eyes are steady and might as well have the Thread-shutters closed, as readable as they are. Slowly enough one could imagine hearing rusty hinges -- or is that, protesting joints? -- squeaking, he then once more turns his head in the other direction, that unwavering gaze directed on Trevor as if Boll's got the darts and Holder Gar is the dart board. Of course, Lord Boll's opinions of the Weyr have never been a secret; he and his wife have always openly supported Fort and the traditions inherent to an area's survival within a Pass. "This, /this/ is what you deem important enough to leave your Holds for? With the strife that has been plaguing so many areas within the region, and you're complaining about your children -- /my/ granddaughter --" (Hello, yes, Jiella dear, Gramps saw you over there.) "--being given the /honour/ of Standing? Shame on you!" And THUMP goes his cane on the floor, his bushy white eyebrows pulling down into a frown. Turning towards T'rev, the quaver in his voice having been banished while scolding the young (comparatively) Holders, he continues, "/I/ Weyrleader am not here to contest any Search. I am here to request the aid of the Weyr on the /important/ matter of dealing with these raiders who've been attacking honest traders and supply ships." Well then.
As the uncomfortable silence grew, Isobel had started to open her mouth to answer T'rev - but then when Boll speaks up, she shuts it again without saying a word.
"I find it highly unlikely that your search requires /two/ of /my/ children and-" There goes Trevor gawking over at Lord Boll like he's suddenly sprouted wings. Lucky for him, he's able to school his features into something more appropriate; a glare apparently being appropriate to him. "Perhaps, sir, you do not consider family as important as I do. This is an interruption in their lives. Meddling with their hopes and dreams. I certainly consider my children to be more important than the strife of which you speak. Do you not find it a little strange that the Weyr has found so many bloods suitable?" Now he doesn't look back at the candidates. Perhaps he doesn't dare to, considering the questions posed their way.
Tilin, unlike some of the others, does speak up, answering T'rev by shaking his head, "No sir. I was happy to be Searched. It wasn't against my will at all." He gives a nervous glance up to his grandfather after he answers, then again as Lord Boll gives his reply.
Visrain's anger lifts Rivellan's brows slightly and he reaches over a solicitous hand towards his father-in-law's sleeve. "Sir, do not overwork yourself," he says soothingly. "I'm sure that Boll's guard are fully competent and can handle these little ... troubles," his fingers flick again, dismissing the raids casually. "Traditionally, of course, Holds and Weyrs are autonomous, we can't presume upon the Weyr especially after they've had such difficulty with the tithes, this turn," he adds on, voice pitched to be soothing and understanding towards the Weyr. His gaze slips backwards towards Jiella, Tilin. "I am very interested in what you might have to say, all of you." His gaze jumps to the other young bloods in the room, then back to Tilin as his voice lifts. Briefly nostrils flare and his lips compress, but he schools his features quickly, locks eyes with Jiella.
Atreyan lifts his chin, slightly, gaze drifting over the room in reflexive assessment. T'rev-- "No, sir," he states, loud and clear in the wake of Lord Boll and Trevor and Tilin. He risks his neck. He doesn't look at any but T'rev, now, grey eyes finally calm. Death sentence, hi! He doesn't wait for the crickets in the wake of his statement. He clears his throat and paves yet more. "I'm proud for the honor of Standing for Elaruth's clutch," he states in his light baritone, his voice carrying.
Jiella has the cutest, sweetest smile for her grandfather - like she's about ten turns younger - and doesn't take any openings given by the Weyrleader, though it's very likely that /everyone/ is now well aware of the blonde's aversion to 'hard labour'. She's doing just fine. With a little grin shot Tilin's way, she looks back up to notice that her father's finally deigned to pay attention to her. Oh yay! Expression blank and not a little vacant, she stares back at Rivellan - letting Atreyan's declaration stand at the moment it is before this anti-climax; "What? You /said/ I could go."
Isobel now looks less puzzled and more like a deer in headlights. A lot of headlights from a ring of cars all pointed at her. "I... suppose I did not realize that it would be such a great problem for me to stand," she says quietly, "but if you wish, Father, I will withdraw from candidacy. I do not wish to inconvenience anyone."
Whatever answer Rivellan was looking for from Jiella: that wasn't it and the sudden ferocity in his eyes, though directed only at her and not immediately visible to others given his position looking away from them at her, shows it. "I do not contest your Search, Jiella, nor yours, Tilin and I'm pleased that you are both so -- willing," Fort Sea's holder says. "I said I was interested in hearing what you had to /say/," then he turns away, cold-shouldering them both again and regards the Weyrleader calmly. "Fort Sea does not seek to remove any candidate from candidacy. However, we do ask, that in the future, the Weyr exercise more ... restraint when searching Blood. It's Interval and the holds all need to look to their prosperity, while continuing to support the Weyr appropriately." Smooth bastard.
T'rev waits through the testimonies, smiling at Tilin and Atreyan for that steadfastness, biting down on the humor that Jiella's answer elicits and finally settles on Isobel again, sympathetic. To Trevor: "Sir -- I did request permission for your daughter's Search personally -- you voiced no objections at the time?"
Two? By Visrain's count Trevor's got three. "You! Who is your family, girl?" Dashaya, in the spotlight! "Does Holder Gar speak for you?" The old codger twitches his arm, ostensibly adjusting the slant of his cane as he thumps it again on the floor, though much more quietly this time. It /does/ take his sleeve out of his son-in-law's reach, however. "No I do not find it strange, I find it heartening. Lets us know our Blood is still strong, not weakened and watery." Unlike certain fathers in the room. Tilin, Atreyan, Jiella. Looked at in turn as they speak up for themselves and the old coot's openly approving. Isobel... such a disappointment, but well, girls you know. "Traditionally, of course," and it's so very hard to be able to label his repetition as mockery of his son-in-law, his flare of temper seemingly cooled and the words calm and measured, the creakiness back in his voice, "it has also been well within our rights to request aid from our Weyr in times of need." Only the tiniest, almost missable, stress on the possessive 'our.' "Do neither of you look outside your own borders?"
Blocky features darken with flaring anger, brightly dark in fierce brown eyes. Trevor is not pleased, but other than the sudden vivid flush of irate emotion, and a grind of his teeth at his son's words, he's silent for a moment. Gruff bass states out in a gravelly manner that brings to mind the grinding of his teeth from a moment prior: "Hold Gar understands the... honor of Blooded children Standing. However," he pounds his point with unblinking forward momentum: "-- this does not lessen the fact that it is a considerable inconvenience to our Holds, especially smaller holds as my own, to have such crucial individuals missing from the day-to-day affairs." He doesn't deign to reply to Isobel, and sure as hell doesn't acknowledge the young man who, a moment prior, was considered his son. For the first time, Trevor takes a vocal stance of support for Rivellan. "As Fort Sea says, so does Gar agree-- we do not," and Trevor nearly grinds his teeth as he is forced to yield, "--contest the Searching of our Bloods at this time. We wish that you do not put us in this situation again, of risking the weyr's ire by refusing to allow it to take our precious children." Ellasyn's phrasing is clear enough for anyone familiar with Gar's lady.
Oh, is it Dashaya's turn? As eyes slip her way, she purses her lips faintly and clasps her hands before her in one of those darlingly sweet-girl moves, though she gathers an owlish 'who, me?' look. Pulling herself up straight and tall as she can, which isn't much. To the room at large, rather than to one, so speaketh the china-doll. "I stand for Peyton Hold, under my father's holdership. I am also proud to stand for the clutch that has brought myself and the other Blooded youth to the Weyr. My father and grandmother support this decision."
Atreyan stands, impassive now once more. He cares not for his father's ire or some rest of the room's support; there is something similar to a flinch for Isobel's words, but his spine straightens almost painfully upright. Dashaya redeems her tapping previous for her stand for Peyton, but Trey's internal thoughts do not show on his face. His eyes, however, eventually land on Jiella, in a remotely assessing manner.
Tilin looks to Isobel at her words, frowning again and he shakes his head slightly. He almost opens his mouth to object, but a glance towards T'rev and then his grandfather later, he shuts it again and just stays quiet.
Dash's response again brings a small smile to T'rev's face and he nods her way. "Thank you, Dashaya and Peyton Hold for your loyalty," the Weyrleader tries to cut in. "We're proud to have you and the other Blood standing here to represent the region and it strength in really difficult times. Lord Boll, likewise, your support is invaluable as is that of Fort Sea, for the help with the -- lack of tithe from some places this turn and Gar always, for keeping shipping going." He pauses, takes a breath. "As for helping with the raids, the Weyr is happy to provide whatever eyes we can on the seas to help stop what's going on. It affects us /all/, after all. As for future Searches, the Weyr can certainly be more careful about the -- balance of every group. Though I hope that the holds aren't planning to bar us from Search altogether." Deceptively mild, that.
Rivellan's eyes narrow a little as he considers the Weyrleader's words looks over towards his father-in-law, then Holder Gar, rakes all the 'kids' briefly then looks back towards the Weyrleader. "Of course, if it's too difficult for the Weyr, which is understandable, we'd be happy to send a guard-ship, sir," this to Lord Boll.
Jiella is just - incredulous, really. Though that anger in her father's eyes might make her flinch, she seems secure enough in /something/ that she doesn't totally shrink from Rivellan. Sugar sweet again, "You did ask me to be willing, Father." And that's about all she'll say, though she gives her head a little shake, still in her 'seriously?' mode. Glancing from her grandfather to Dashaya as she states her credentials and hold's support, her gaze eventually shifts to Atreyan. Watching him watching her, she flashes a little grin. Hey there.
Isobel lapses back into confused silence. She's just going to not talk or anything, because this makes NO sense to her.
So four out of five have proven to have spines, and that suits Visrain just fine. Satisfied by Dashaya's response he settles down a bit further. Old folks these days, full of spit and vinegar! No wonder 'everyone' thinks Lord Boll needs to retire into his dotage already. The Peyton girl remains locked under his gaze for a moment more -- she might be interesting to talk to later. Once the children have all been categorized, he can once more focus properly upon the Holders and Weyrleader. The baby -- to his eyes -- bronzerider receives the briefest of looks for that so-mild declaration of hope, Holder Gar has apparently been consigned to the ranks of blustering fools for all the notice his teeth-grinding receives, and as for his son-in-law, old Lord Boll puts on a perfectly genuine expression of puzzlement. "Did the Weyrleader say that? It's a kind offer Rivellan but I'm certain you require all your ships to guard your own coast and port from these brigands." There, there, boy, don't trouble yourself.
Trevor's nostrils flare and his jaw clenches. "As we have witnessed the aftermath of raids, so will Hold Gar pledge any assistance necessary," he's quick to back the motion to find the raiders. Mention of the weyr being banned from Search receives a slight flattening of lips that may have been a beginning of a smile before it was murdered in infancy. He turns his head to consider Isobel, and then nod at her-- a paternal gesture of affirmation.
Atreyan offers Jiella a single quirked brow as if to silently ask her what the hell the room is smoking. The deadpan expression on his face isn't hindered by the upwards mobile twist of said eyebrow-- all in all, it could be considered a hilarious expression in the right light. Especially given the fact his father's charging from not-so-veiled insult of the weyr to full-blown support of the measure to contain any raiders right next to him, and Trey just looks like he really doesn't give half a damn about it.
"It's no hardship to help out," T'rev answers Rivellan, with an acknowledging nod to Visrain. "We all need to stand together," he says with what he's probably aiming to be inspirational fervor. "In times like these, the bonds between Hold, Weyr and Halls is all the more important than ever, both traditional bonds and new relationships," the Weyrleader continues. He's trying, really trying to stay on top of this political stuff, but it's possible he's starting to run out of steam. He straightens his shoulders though, does another slow gaze-meet around the room. "If I understand everything we've said, all of the candidates are remaining through the hatching, with the Weyr mindful of the needs of the Holds for the interval for our next clutch which is likely at least a turn or two away," he does also remind. "As for the raids, the Weyr will look to providing escort for ships, if this is an acceptable solution, Lord Visrain."
Grawr! Dashaya nods her head in general acceptance of T'rev's thanks on behalf of her hold and the rest, though she turns the look over to include the others in it and nods faintly to Visrain with a considering look that takes place from under her lashes. However silent and falling into the background she may be, the Peyton girl still has a careful watch and ear to the talk. Waiting. Listening.
The whole raiding situation is something Jiella is maybe less interested in, for whatever reason; she isn't paying strict attention to the conversation at hand, but that might be momentarily due to Atreyan. With a little shrug for the unasked question, the blonde's lips curve into a grin at his expression - though there's a tone of finality to the proceedings that pulls her gaze away and back to the assembled holders and the Weyrleader. Though there's some badness in the situation, there's boys to look at, so life's not so bad.
Tilin nods a little quietly in agreement with T'rev's words about standing together, glancing up to Rivellan again to watch his reaction to that specifically. The nervousness from before is gone now, now that he's sure he'll be allowed to stay, and curiosity has replaced it.
Trevor finally circles back to the point, his dark eyes glinting as he all-but-glowers at T'rev. "You will," he rumbles out in tone just this side of a warning, "be sure to-- supervise /all/ your candidates, to ensure that the virtue of all the young ladies will remain, in fact, intact?" He's not beligerant, really. You're thinking of that other Trevor. "On that provision alone will I allow my Isobel to remain." It's not a statement, not a question, but some hybrid thereof.
"Of course we do Weyrleader, within the roles and rights that each of our situations traditionally cleaves to," Rivellan says with a little nod. "I do however, agree with Trevor on the matter of the young ladies. I implore you to /personally/ ensure that the virtue of each of these excellent young women is well-guarded, as, should they return home, marriages, good matches might be made -- difficult if there's a whiff of impropiety from their sojourn at the Weyr," the holder of Fort Sea says with a perfectly bland expression. And that might be just horrendously /funny/ given whom he's speaking to. His chair is pushed back then and he rises. "Otherwise, I am satisfied by your word on future Searches and again extend a hand to any in need due to the troubles these raiders are causing."
Atreyan similarly turns his gaze towards the proceedings again, his facial expression coolly distant, as if he is focusing on a noise just beyond his hearing. His father's statement regarding Isobel is cause for a smile, slight as it is, and perhaps a bit wan; still, it is evident upon his expression. His grey eyes shift to focus in on her for a moment, then back to the room at large.
Isobel is still silent, but her face and ears are getting red, and she looks put out, perhaps at the implication that her virtue might be (or be going to be) anything other than intact.
Atta boy! Lord Visrain thumps that cane of his again, thump-thump, which is really much more discreet than a 'hear, hear' but he's doing the best he can under the circumstances. Two stroppy Holders with their noses out of joint and one poor Weyrleader in over his head, he knows which of the three has his support, but despite his little kerfluffle one must swim carefully in such deep political waters. He's perhaps tweaked enough noses today with his 'old-fashioned' attitudes, and it's time to let ruffled feathers smooth again. Though those bushy eyebrows of his are raising again, as he glances from Trevor to Rivellan at their, ah, demands. His words, however, are confined to: "Perfectly acceptable, thank you, Weyrleader," with exactly the correct depth to his nod to indicate he's speaking to an equal. One might think he would be off with big fat, furry hat in hand for warmer climes on that note, but hey, he's got a snifter of brandy as still needs drinking. It wouldn't be polite to leave it sit there, after all. Lifting that glass to his face to take apparently all-consuming interest in the aroma of the liquor, the crafty old codger is intending to allow the Holders to take their leaves first, once their 'issues' are concluded.
It's comical really, the stillness to T'rev as the holders press him for that promise. That /personal/ promise. Still, he holds onto his poker face, if only by a hair. "You have my word," are perhaps fateful words, "that their virtue will be safeguarded to the best of my and the headwoman's ability," the Weyrleader promises, "though I encourage you to speak with your children and relations on the matter ah -- privately as it's really -- none of my business," is T'rev's qualifier to that oath. It's Isobel and her pink ears that his gaze lingers on for a moment, perhaps recalling a certain recent bathing 'incident'. What /does/ count as 'virtue' after all? "Thank you, Lord Visrain, I'll let you know about the arrangements. Holder Fort Sea, Holder Gar, if you have need, please let the Weyr know." Beat. "Candidates, thank you for your time, you're dismissed back to your duties for the day." He not-so-subtly takes back a little bit of control. "Provided your relations do not wish to speak to you further."
Tilin nods a little to T'rev's instructions, "Yes sir." Making it obvious that he'd have immediately left if not for that last qualifier to the Weyrleader's statement. Instead, he glances up to Rivellan, waiting to see if he does want him to stay.
After that, Jiella looks much like a woman who's been presented with an icepick and an iceberg. Break it down. No problem! With a somewhat weary sigh, she takes the cue to leave - though she's not so stupid that she won't be waiting in the bowl to get yelled at later.
Granted that she has no relationships with those that are stationed in the room, there's really no reason for Dashaya, who's mastered this state of being long quite, to linger in the room after the dismissal. Yet she does remain for a moment longer to regard the other candidates and the holders, using a single little backstep to slide into a shadow. But if there's nothing interesting, then she just might be slipping out to join Jiella.
Trevor abruptly bows, as shallow as he can get away with; with that, he turns, and exits, without further ado. Atreyan, after a long moment of consideration, turns and follows his father out the door.
Rivellan's eyes narrow again faintly at that conditional T'rev puts on things but he merely nods to the Weyrleader, nominally polite, but he doens't offer to shake the man's hand. He looks like he might argue that dismissal too, for a second, but perhaps bites his tongue and instead seeks to fall into step with Trevor on the way out.
When: It is a winter morning, 11:00 of day 12, month 13, turn 20 of Interval 10.
Where: Council Room, Fort Weyr
What: A contingent of holders descend on Fort to make various demands and requests. The game is afoot. T'rev is definitely in way over his head.
It's cold. There's snow falling off and on, though right now it's a clear patch with sun shining down on the white stuff and a very chilly breeze running through the Bowl. Spaced apart by just a few minutes, watchdragons arrive from Boll, Gar and Fort Sea and let loose their august passengers. Lord Boll heads directly for the Council Room, while the other two go off towards the caverns to locate various children. So it is that T'rev is surprised by the southern lord first where he sits, hard at work on some hides and papers.
Isobel walks in alongside Atreyan, the pair of them trailing behind their father. Isobel looks intensely curious, and is whispering to Atreyan as they enter the room.
Tilin, when his grandfather comes looking for him, is busy working at housekeeping, doing a bit of sweeping in one of the tunnels near the commons cavern. Not, exactly, the kind of job he'd want his grandfather to find him doing. So, with fewer questions than he might normally ask, he follows his grandfather along.
"Shells, son, it's /cold/ up here!" Would be the surprising entrance of Lord Boll, still spritely despite age and his dependence upon a walking stick to help bowed legs keep him upright. In thick fur-lined jacket and a too-large hat to match, Visrain tap-tap-taps his way in to the council chamber. Lacking any young'uns to find, this has given him a few minutes before the other Holders will appear, to get himself within the room before the proper, half-bow of greeting to the young Weyrleader will take place.
"Lord Visrain," T'rev says with startled politeness, alerted by the cane as he straightens up from his work, rises, bows in turn and promptly pulls out a chair for the elderly Lord of Boll. "Please have a seat. What brings you here to the cold, sir?" Deference in spite of equal rank offered and the Weyrleader turns to gesture to the sideboar. "Drink to warm the bones?" It's not long after that voices echo up the passageway, among them Rivellan's robust tones. "Yes, of course, Gar. Of course, I agree entirely. Tilin, /attend/, boy." And that makes T'rev's brows hike up quite a bit, hand on a decanter of brandy. More company?
Of course, there was probably little locating actually performed by Trevor and more sending of the first idle caverns worker he saw to run and find his children. Waiting doesn't do a heck of a lot for a man on a mission and even if it took a mere five minutes to find them, it's been five, slow, irritating minutes. From there, there was the herding of his children across the bowl and the pleasant luck of finding another blooded candidate en-route. By the time the Holder reaches the council room, he's got Atreyan and Isobel trailing behind him, accompanied by Dashaya. He just about manages to make his, "Good morning," sound not entirely grudging, before manners prompt a bow to the room's occupants.
Jiella is playing dutiful daughter this evening - or is playing such when her father actually bothers to look her way. Otherwise, when the lot of them enter, she's pretty much sullen silence, preferring to stay well behind him and to one side for the moment - like she can disassociate herself from him with mere distance. This sort of meeting is /clearly/ not her thing; already restless and bored, she flashes the other candidates the briefest of sympathetic smiles, then gives T'rev a little wave, expression apologetic. Hi! Yeah, sorry my dad's a jerk.
Atreyan is straight-backed and somber-faced: he follows behind Trevor with measured strides, a certain efficiency of movement typifying his guardesque manner. He raises a hand, discreetly, to Isobel, hardly a motion but more a 'wait and see' gesture. His neutrality seems almost forced, a strain about his eyes belaying his otherwise calmly formal facade. He's dressed in his typical browns and taupes-- never let it be said that some of Hold Gar don't cut quite a figure. His bow is less grudging than Trevor's, accompanied by chin dip of a nod.
Dashaya might be a curious sight to see bringing up the rear of the Gar entourage, but she seems the perfect example of a holder's child. Conservative. Proper in a high neck and long sleeves. Her shirts are thick and swirling around her legs, making a soft, feminine swish though her head is pointedly down and a mask of polite distinterest firmly in place. Chancing a glance up, she regards those gathered from the corner of her eyes and ghosts a shared sympathetic shake of her head at the other candidates and a rather bemused glance toward Trey and T'rev. She's been hijacked. But any expression pauses and her chin lifts with pride suddenly like a blasted mantle. So fun.
"Thank you m'boy," Visrain continues informally whilst it is still just himself and T'rev, his creaky voice unlikely to carry far. Not above taking advantage of his age, he takes that seat with gratitude, hat and jacket both coming off and one gnarled hand smoothing back over his balding pate. "Well now--" but, other voices, and the Lord's brows lift but he falls silent. So there he sits, firmly ensconced with his cane across his knees, still a proud man with head up and eyes keen. The arrival of the other Holders brings from him a nod of greeting to each in turn, chin dipping with the correct amount of respect due their stations from one of his, dark eyes taking in as well the presences of the children.
"Holders, candidates," T'rev collects himself, nods to each of Gar and Fort Sea's holders politely and finishes pouring Lord Visrain's brandy, bringing it over to the old man. There's a brief smile flickered Jiella's way and then one for Dashaya bringing up the rear too and the Weyrleader's gaze roams the entire assemblage. "Please come in, have a seat if you'd like, a drink?" When in doubt, offer hospitality? "Lord Boll," Rivellan greets politely, sweeps a deeper bow to the older Lord than he did just now to the Weyrleader. "Always a pleasure. We do have some matters of great urgency to present ..." and he tapers off, brows lifted in inquiry, "we're not, I hope, interrupting?" His voice and manner both are smooth, though there's just something about his gaze that speaks of a lack of willingness to be denied.
Tilin stays back by Jiella at first, as they walk in, seeming to want to stick close to his aunt. Likely he isn't any happier than her to be dragged along to this, though he hides it a little better. At Rivellan's command, though, he steps quickly to catch up to his grandfather, "Yes sir." He gives a bow to T'rev as well as they arrive, though adds a slightly more casual, "Hello, sir." Then he quiets again, glancing around at the others present and then back to the Holders, Lord, and Weyrleader, listening for now.
Either Trevor assumes his children - and the girl he's temporarily adopted - /will/ behave, or he's simply decided that they will be seen and not heard. "Thank you," for the offer of a seat, though drink is refused or ignored. Crossing the room, he drags out a chair and isn't exactly subtle in how he tries to direct 'his' charges to stand behind him. If they don't jump-to quick, there's more directing, even more obvious, and he clears his throat just a little too loudly. "I should hope that we will be allowed to speak and not turned away."
Isobel moves to stand to the right and just behind Trevor's chair, hands folded in front of her. Despite her evident curiosity, she's quick to obey her father, and silent, too, though she shoots a dark look at Atreyan, certain that he must know what's going on and is keeping her out of the loop.
Atreyan maneuvers to the left-hand side of Trevor, behind and in a formal parade rest, hands held behind his back, eyes focused forwards with a certain impassiveness. He doesn't look towards Isobel. Or towards Dashaya. Or towards anyone. And especially not T'rev. Nope. Definitely not T'rev. And Rivellan doesn't exist. Actually, none of them exist. He's just standing here. Lalalala.
If there's a perfect example of a holder child here in her fellow candidate, Jiella could seem to be to opposite, in her simple and devastatingly expensive low-cut blouses and tight skirts. She has little for Tilin but a patient smile and a wave towards the Lord - yes, go /attend/. If she didn't have a reason to be here, she'd look like she was aimlessly loitering, in sharp contrast to Atreyan and his formality. If Rivellan looks her way, she's somber and slightly vacant, otherwise? Not so much. And the blonde is definitely looking at T'rev, because he's way more interesting than just about anyone else in the room. In her mind, anyway.
Visrain is an old hand at this game, not wholly the affable, doddering old coot some might take him for. Rivellan's politeness is met in kind, the second inclination of his head a gracious one. "Holder Rivellan," he responds to his son-in-law, "tell me, how is my daughter?" Head bobbing just a little, "Of course not, of course not. Important matters must be addressed. As they will be, Holder, as they will be." That last more for Gar, the aged Lord's head turning at the pointed throat-clearing and somewhat rude comment. Don't mind Gramps.
If Isobel's got the right, then Dashaya's going to fall into step right off to the left of even Trey, though back a step of two. More dynamic that way, of a sort. Hands fold behind her at the small of her back, she cants her head to include the others in the room in the odd glint of it. That soft sound that someone can baaaarely hear? That's a slipper tapping. No, it's not coming from her. Though it might be under her skirt. Impatient? No, not her.
Given that both holders ignored the offer of a drink, T'rev doesn't pour again but moves to stand at the head of the table, arms held behind his back, hands clasped together. "I'm sure I can't think of any reason to turn any of you away," the Weyrleader says pleasantly though with a faint note of puzzlement in his voice and looks towards each of the Lord and Holders in turn then his gaze skims the little assemblage of scions of Fort's region. "Please, do speak and enlighten us," he says with continued politesse. Rivallan gives his father-in-law a little nod. "Jivira is well, thank you. I'll convey your regards, sir," he says in a quieter tone, "but, important business I'm afraid," and his voice lifts in both volume and power. "For a clutch of fourteen, how many young bloods to you see in this room, Weyrleader?" he asks in an almost deadly calm way. "Five, Holder," T'rev replies promptly. With a little flick of his hand to one perfectly well-kept sleeve, towards imaginary dust, Rivellan nods twice. "Mmm. Nearly a third of the expected impressions." His eyes lift towards the young Weyrleader's face. "Don't you think -- it's a little too many?" It's possible that that very slight shift in T'rev's shoulders is his hands tightening together. Very possible.
"Five," Trevor echoes, with a glance either way behind him to acknowledge the three candidates there. "I was not aware that it was a requirement for candidates to be born the blood of good, respectable Holders who have thus far not interfered in the Weyr's affairs. I'm simply curious as to why it - you - see fit to meddle with ours." A long look is given Atreyan and Isobel in turn. "These are my children, sir. They have perfectly decent lives and purposes without anybody sending such out of order merely to 'see if they will suit' whatever hatches from that clutch." His gaze lingers a little longer on Dashaya, a once-over and glance back to T'rev. "I hardly believe that this young lady should be introduced to this sort of... environment."
Isobel cuts another glance over at Atreyan, eyebrows raised: a 'seriously, do you know what this is all about or what?' look. Apart from that, she stands still, posture perfect, absolutely silent.
Atreyan may possibly stiffen at Trevor's statement. He may even open his mouth as if to say something-- but eventually his jaw grinds shut and he stiffens again. He does, for once, relent to look over a shoulder at Dashaya and her... tapping. He very silently lifts an eyebrow at her, grey eyes dropping to her feet then back up to her face. He turns back about, and cuts a glance sideways to Isobel in time to catch her 'wtf' look. He sucks on his front teeth, briefly, and gives a similarly concise nod before going back to his granite impression, though... it's really a remarkably tense granite he's trying to impersonate.
Jiella turns a curious gaze on Rivellan as he begins to make his case - not really surprised, but somewhere between amazed and impressed. And mildly irritated. Narrow eyes glance from her father to each of the other candidates dragged into this little drama, arching light brows as if to say, 'seriously?'. Trevor's '...environment' causes her to give a quiet snort that she only covers by coughing - and though she and Atreyan just might be on the same page, it's hard to communicate with stone.
Tilin frowns at his grandfather's words, glancing back to Jiella and then forward again. He stays quiet still for the moment, just listening, watching specifically for T'rev's reaction, but just in general curious where this will be going for the time being. And maybe just a bit nervous. Still, he grins a little as he hears Jiella's snort.
Otherwise still now, T'rev's gaze roams the group: Atreyan's impersonation of a statue, the tension in his frame, the look he gives Dash which leads to a flick of brown eyes downward towards her feet. If things weren't more serious, he'd probably chuckle. Isobel's confusion briefly touches his features with compassion but Jiella's snort-cough nearly breaks his composure and he has to cover himself by reaching forward to straighten one of the papers on the table. When he looks up again his expression is mild. "Do you then, contest the Search of each of these candidates, even in the face of prior granted permission to Search in your Holds, sirs?" is the simple question, and again the Weyrleader aims to cross gazes with each of the people currently clustered around the table. "Candidates - do you feel that you were brought here -- mistakenly? Against your will? Are you unhappy with your environment?" If Rodric were here, he'd telegraph something to his son about not giving anyone an opening that wide ever again.
Dashaya's toe-tapping stops the moment just before Trevor starts looking back over the younger ones in the room, though there's nothing that comes in response to the look over, by him or by Atreyan. She's as good and still as a statue, though the latter comment about the environment draws her glance dashing faintly toward Trevor, the other holders, and finally over to T'rev to gauge his reaction, her brows lifting in a small arch of the blackness. Clearing her throat softly, the temporary adoptee seems to know better than to reply to that comment first. And such an open one, which she doesn't seem to like at all.
Important business? /Important/ business? Visrain tips his head to look at Rivellan, his expression difficult to define beneath the mass of wrinkles that have overtaken his face. Mahogany brown eyes are steady and might as well have the Thread-shutters closed, as readable as they are. Slowly enough one could imagine hearing rusty hinges -- or is that, protesting joints? -- squeaking, he then once more turns his head in the other direction, that unwavering gaze directed on Trevor as if Boll's got the darts and Holder Gar is the dart board. Of course, Lord Boll's opinions of the Weyr have never been a secret; he and his wife have always openly supported Fort and the traditions inherent to an area's survival within a Pass. "This, /this/ is what you deem important enough to leave your Holds for? With the strife that has been plaguing so many areas within the region, and you're complaining about your children -- /my/ granddaughter --" (Hello, yes, Jiella dear, Gramps saw you over there.) "--being given the /honour/ of Standing? Shame on you!" And THUMP goes his cane on the floor, his bushy white eyebrows pulling down into a frown. Turning towards T'rev, the quaver in his voice having been banished while scolding the young (comparatively) Holders, he continues, "/I/ Weyrleader am not here to contest any Search. I am here to request the aid of the Weyr on the /important/ matter of dealing with these raiders who've been attacking honest traders and supply ships." Well then.
As the uncomfortable silence grew, Isobel had started to open her mouth to answer T'rev - but then when Boll speaks up, she shuts it again without saying a word.
"I find it highly unlikely that your search requires /two/ of /my/ children and-" There goes Trevor gawking over at Lord Boll like he's suddenly sprouted wings. Lucky for him, he's able to school his features into something more appropriate; a glare apparently being appropriate to him. "Perhaps, sir, you do not consider family as important as I do. This is an interruption in their lives. Meddling with their hopes and dreams. I certainly consider my children to be more important than the strife of which you speak. Do you not find it a little strange that the Weyr has found so many bloods suitable?" Now he doesn't look back at the candidates. Perhaps he doesn't dare to, considering the questions posed their way.
Tilin, unlike some of the others, does speak up, answering T'rev by shaking his head, "No sir. I was happy to be Searched. It wasn't against my will at all." He gives a nervous glance up to his grandfather after he answers, then again as Lord Boll gives his reply.
Visrain's anger lifts Rivellan's brows slightly and he reaches over a solicitous hand towards his father-in-law's sleeve. "Sir, do not overwork yourself," he says soothingly. "I'm sure that Boll's guard are fully competent and can handle these little ... troubles," his fingers flick again, dismissing the raids casually. "Traditionally, of course, Holds and Weyrs are autonomous, we can't presume upon the Weyr especially after they've had such difficulty with the tithes, this turn," he adds on, voice pitched to be soothing and understanding towards the Weyr. His gaze slips backwards towards Jiella, Tilin. "I am very interested in what you might have to say, all of you." His gaze jumps to the other young bloods in the room, then back to Tilin as his voice lifts. Briefly nostrils flare and his lips compress, but he schools his features quickly, locks eyes with Jiella.
Atreyan lifts his chin, slightly, gaze drifting over the room in reflexive assessment. T'rev-- "No, sir," he states, loud and clear in the wake of Lord Boll and Trevor and Tilin. He risks his neck. He doesn't look at any but T'rev, now, grey eyes finally calm. Death sentence, hi! He doesn't wait for the crickets in the wake of his statement. He clears his throat and paves yet more. "I'm proud for the honor of Standing for Elaruth's clutch," he states in his light baritone, his voice carrying.
Jiella has the cutest, sweetest smile for her grandfather - like she's about ten turns younger - and doesn't take any openings given by the Weyrleader, though it's very likely that /everyone/ is now well aware of the blonde's aversion to 'hard labour'. She's doing just fine. With a little grin shot Tilin's way, she looks back up to notice that her father's finally deigned to pay attention to her. Oh yay! Expression blank and not a little vacant, she stares back at Rivellan - letting Atreyan's declaration stand at the moment it is before this anti-climax; "What? You /said/ I could go."
Isobel now looks less puzzled and more like a deer in headlights. A lot of headlights from a ring of cars all pointed at her. "I... suppose I did not realize that it would be such a great problem for me to stand," she says quietly, "but if you wish, Father, I will withdraw from candidacy. I do not wish to inconvenience anyone."
Whatever answer Rivellan was looking for from Jiella: that wasn't it and the sudden ferocity in his eyes, though directed only at her and not immediately visible to others given his position looking away from them at her, shows it. "I do not contest your Search, Jiella, nor yours, Tilin and I'm pleased that you are both so -- willing," Fort Sea's holder says. "I said I was interested in hearing what you had to /say/," then he turns away, cold-shouldering them both again and regards the Weyrleader calmly. "Fort Sea does not seek to remove any candidate from candidacy. However, we do ask, that in the future, the Weyr exercise more ... restraint when searching Blood. It's Interval and the holds all need to look to their prosperity, while continuing to support the Weyr appropriately." Smooth bastard.
T'rev waits through the testimonies, smiling at Tilin and Atreyan for that steadfastness, biting down on the humor that Jiella's answer elicits and finally settles on Isobel again, sympathetic. To Trevor: "Sir -- I did request permission for your daughter's Search personally -- you voiced no objections at the time?"
Two? By Visrain's count Trevor's got three. "You! Who is your family, girl?" Dashaya, in the spotlight! "Does Holder Gar speak for you?" The old codger twitches his arm, ostensibly adjusting the slant of his cane as he thumps it again on the floor, though much more quietly this time. It /does/ take his sleeve out of his son-in-law's reach, however. "No I do not find it strange, I find it heartening. Lets us know our Blood is still strong, not weakened and watery." Unlike certain fathers in the room. Tilin, Atreyan, Jiella. Looked at in turn as they speak up for themselves and the old coot's openly approving. Isobel... such a disappointment, but well, girls you know. "Traditionally, of course," and it's so very hard to be able to label his repetition as mockery of his son-in-law, his flare of temper seemingly cooled and the words calm and measured, the creakiness back in his voice, "it has also been well within our rights to request aid from our Weyr in times of need." Only the tiniest, almost missable, stress on the possessive 'our.' "Do neither of you look outside your own borders?"
Blocky features darken with flaring anger, brightly dark in fierce brown eyes. Trevor is not pleased, but other than the sudden vivid flush of irate emotion, and a grind of his teeth at his son's words, he's silent for a moment. Gruff bass states out in a gravelly manner that brings to mind the grinding of his teeth from a moment prior: "Hold Gar understands the... honor of Blooded children Standing. However," he pounds his point with unblinking forward momentum: "-- this does not lessen the fact that it is a considerable inconvenience to our Holds, especially smaller holds as my own, to have such crucial individuals missing from the day-to-day affairs." He doesn't deign to reply to Isobel, and sure as hell doesn't acknowledge the young man who, a moment prior, was considered his son. For the first time, Trevor takes a vocal stance of support for Rivellan. "As Fort Sea says, so does Gar agree-- we do not," and Trevor nearly grinds his teeth as he is forced to yield, "--contest the Searching of our Bloods at this time. We wish that you do not put us in this situation again, of risking the weyr's ire by refusing to allow it to take our precious children." Ellasyn's phrasing is clear enough for anyone familiar with Gar's lady.
Oh, is it Dashaya's turn? As eyes slip her way, she purses her lips faintly and clasps her hands before her in one of those darlingly sweet-girl moves, though she gathers an owlish 'who, me?' look. Pulling herself up straight and tall as she can, which isn't much. To the room at large, rather than to one, so speaketh the china-doll. "I stand for Peyton Hold, under my father's holdership. I am also proud to stand for the clutch that has brought myself and the other Blooded youth to the Weyr. My father and grandmother support this decision."
Atreyan stands, impassive now once more. He cares not for his father's ire or some rest of the room's support; there is something similar to a flinch for Isobel's words, but his spine straightens almost painfully upright. Dashaya redeems her tapping previous for her stand for Peyton, but Trey's internal thoughts do not show on his face. His eyes, however, eventually land on Jiella, in a remotely assessing manner.
Tilin looks to Isobel at her words, frowning again and he shakes his head slightly. He almost opens his mouth to object, but a glance towards T'rev and then his grandfather later, he shuts it again and just stays quiet.
Dash's response again brings a small smile to T'rev's face and he nods her way. "Thank you, Dashaya and Peyton Hold for your loyalty," the Weyrleader tries to cut in. "We're proud to have you and the other Blood standing here to represent the region and it strength in really difficult times. Lord Boll, likewise, your support is invaluable as is that of Fort Sea, for the help with the -- lack of tithe from some places this turn and Gar always, for keeping shipping going." He pauses, takes a breath. "As for helping with the raids, the Weyr is happy to provide whatever eyes we can on the seas to help stop what's going on. It affects us /all/, after all. As for future Searches, the Weyr can certainly be more careful about the -- balance of every group. Though I hope that the holds aren't planning to bar us from Search altogether." Deceptively mild, that.
Rivellan's eyes narrow a little as he considers the Weyrleader's words looks over towards his father-in-law, then Holder Gar, rakes all the 'kids' briefly then looks back towards the Weyrleader. "Of course, if it's too difficult for the Weyr, which is understandable, we'd be happy to send a guard-ship, sir," this to Lord Boll.
Jiella is just - incredulous, really. Though that anger in her father's eyes might make her flinch, she seems secure enough in /something/ that she doesn't totally shrink from Rivellan. Sugar sweet again, "You did ask me to be willing, Father." And that's about all she'll say, though she gives her head a little shake, still in her 'seriously?' mode. Glancing from her grandfather to Dashaya as she states her credentials and hold's support, her gaze eventually shifts to Atreyan. Watching him watching her, she flashes a little grin. Hey there.
Isobel lapses back into confused silence. She's just going to not talk or anything, because this makes NO sense to her.
So four out of five have proven to have spines, and that suits Visrain just fine. Satisfied by Dashaya's response he settles down a bit further. Old folks these days, full of spit and vinegar! No wonder 'everyone' thinks Lord Boll needs to retire into his dotage already. The Peyton girl remains locked under his gaze for a moment more -- she might be interesting to talk to later. Once the children have all been categorized, he can once more focus properly upon the Holders and Weyrleader. The baby -- to his eyes -- bronzerider receives the briefest of looks for that so-mild declaration of hope, Holder Gar has apparently been consigned to the ranks of blustering fools for all the notice his teeth-grinding receives, and as for his son-in-law, old Lord Boll puts on a perfectly genuine expression of puzzlement. "Did the Weyrleader say that? It's a kind offer Rivellan but I'm certain you require all your ships to guard your own coast and port from these brigands." There, there, boy, don't trouble yourself.
Trevor's nostrils flare and his jaw clenches. "As we have witnessed the aftermath of raids, so will Hold Gar pledge any assistance necessary," he's quick to back the motion to find the raiders. Mention of the weyr being banned from Search receives a slight flattening of lips that may have been a beginning of a smile before it was murdered in infancy. He turns his head to consider Isobel, and then nod at her-- a paternal gesture of affirmation.
Atreyan offers Jiella a single quirked brow as if to silently ask her what the hell the room is smoking. The deadpan expression on his face isn't hindered by the upwards mobile twist of said eyebrow-- all in all, it could be considered a hilarious expression in the right light. Especially given the fact his father's charging from not-so-veiled insult of the weyr to full-blown support of the measure to contain any raiders right next to him, and Trey just looks like he really doesn't give half a damn about it.
"It's no hardship to help out," T'rev answers Rivellan, with an acknowledging nod to Visrain. "We all need to stand together," he says with what he's probably aiming to be inspirational fervor. "In times like these, the bonds between Hold, Weyr and Halls is all the more important than ever, both traditional bonds and new relationships," the Weyrleader continues. He's trying, really trying to stay on top of this political stuff, but it's possible he's starting to run out of steam. He straightens his shoulders though, does another slow gaze-meet around the room. "If I understand everything we've said, all of the candidates are remaining through the hatching, with the Weyr mindful of the needs of the Holds for the interval for our next clutch which is likely at least a turn or two away," he does also remind. "As for the raids, the Weyr will look to providing escort for ships, if this is an acceptable solution, Lord Visrain."
Grawr! Dashaya nods her head in general acceptance of T'rev's thanks on behalf of her hold and the rest, though she turns the look over to include the others in it and nods faintly to Visrain with a considering look that takes place from under her lashes. However silent and falling into the background she may be, the Peyton girl still has a careful watch and ear to the talk. Waiting. Listening.
The whole raiding situation is something Jiella is maybe less interested in, for whatever reason; she isn't paying strict attention to the conversation at hand, but that might be momentarily due to Atreyan. With a little shrug for the unasked question, the blonde's lips curve into a grin at his expression - though there's a tone of finality to the proceedings that pulls her gaze away and back to the assembled holders and the Weyrleader. Though there's some badness in the situation, there's boys to look at, so life's not so bad.
Tilin nods a little quietly in agreement with T'rev's words about standing together, glancing up to Rivellan again to watch his reaction to that specifically. The nervousness from before is gone now, now that he's sure he'll be allowed to stay, and curiosity has replaced it.
Trevor finally circles back to the point, his dark eyes glinting as he all-but-glowers at T'rev. "You will," he rumbles out in tone just this side of a warning, "be sure to-- supervise /all/ your candidates, to ensure that the virtue of all the young ladies will remain, in fact, intact?" He's not beligerant, really. You're thinking of that other Trevor. "On that provision alone will I allow my Isobel to remain." It's not a statement, not a question, but some hybrid thereof.
"Of course we do Weyrleader, within the roles and rights that each of our situations traditionally cleaves to," Rivellan says with a little nod. "I do however, agree with Trevor on the matter of the young ladies. I implore you to /personally/ ensure that the virtue of each of these excellent young women is well-guarded, as, should they return home, marriages, good matches might be made -- difficult if there's a whiff of impropiety from their sojourn at the Weyr," the holder of Fort Sea says with a perfectly bland expression. And that might be just horrendously /funny/ given whom he's speaking to. His chair is pushed back then and he rises. "Otherwise, I am satisfied by your word on future Searches and again extend a hand to any in need due to the troubles these raiders are causing."
Atreyan similarly turns his gaze towards the proceedings again, his facial expression coolly distant, as if he is focusing on a noise just beyond his hearing. His father's statement regarding Isobel is cause for a smile, slight as it is, and perhaps a bit wan; still, it is evident upon his expression. His grey eyes shift to focus in on her for a moment, then back to the room at large.
Isobel is still silent, but her face and ears are getting red, and she looks put out, perhaps at the implication that her virtue might be (or be going to be) anything other than intact.
Atta boy! Lord Visrain thumps that cane of his again, thump-thump, which is really much more discreet than a 'hear, hear' but he's doing the best he can under the circumstances. Two stroppy Holders with their noses out of joint and one poor Weyrleader in over his head, he knows which of the three has his support, but despite his little kerfluffle one must swim carefully in such deep political waters. He's perhaps tweaked enough noses today with his 'old-fashioned' attitudes, and it's time to let ruffled feathers smooth again. Though those bushy eyebrows of his are raising again, as he glances from Trevor to Rivellan at their, ah, demands. His words, however, are confined to: "Perfectly acceptable, thank you, Weyrleader," with exactly the correct depth to his nod to indicate he's speaking to an equal. One might think he would be off with big fat, furry hat in hand for warmer climes on that note, but hey, he's got a snifter of brandy as still needs drinking. It wouldn't be polite to leave it sit there, after all. Lifting that glass to his face to take apparently all-consuming interest in the aroma of the liquor, the crafty old codger is intending to allow the Holders to take their leaves first, once their 'issues' are concluded.
It's comical really, the stillness to T'rev as the holders press him for that promise. That /personal/ promise. Still, he holds onto his poker face, if only by a hair. "You have my word," are perhaps fateful words, "that their virtue will be safeguarded to the best of my and the headwoman's ability," the Weyrleader promises, "though I encourage you to speak with your children and relations on the matter ah -- privately as it's really -- none of my business," is T'rev's qualifier to that oath. It's Isobel and her pink ears that his gaze lingers on for a moment, perhaps recalling a certain recent bathing 'incident'. What /does/ count as 'virtue' after all? "Thank you, Lord Visrain, I'll let you know about the arrangements. Holder Fort Sea, Holder Gar, if you have need, please let the Weyr know." Beat. "Candidates, thank you for your time, you're dismissed back to your duties for the day." He not-so-subtly takes back a little bit of control. "Provided your relations do not wish to speak to you further."
Tilin nods a little to T'rev's instructions, "Yes sir." Making it obvious that he'd have immediately left if not for that last qualifier to the Weyrleader's statement. Instead, he glances up to Rivellan, waiting to see if he does want him to stay.
After that, Jiella looks much like a woman who's been presented with an icepick and an iceberg. Break it down. No problem! With a somewhat weary sigh, she takes the cue to leave - though she's not so stupid that she won't be waiting in the bowl to get yelled at later.
Granted that she has no relationships with those that are stationed in the room, there's really no reason for Dashaya, who's mastered this state of being long quite, to linger in the room after the dismissal. Yet she does remain for a moment longer to regard the other candidates and the holders, using a single little backstep to slide into a shadow. But if there's nothing interesting, then she just might be slipping out to join Jiella.
Trevor abruptly bows, as shallow as he can get away with; with that, he turns, and exits, without further ado. Atreyan, after a long moment of consideration, turns and follows his father out the door.
Rivellan's eyes narrow again faintly at that conditional T'rev puts on things but he merely nods to the Weyrleader, nominally polite, but he doens't offer to shake the man's hand. He looks like he might argue that dismissal too, for a second, but perhaps bites his tongue and instead seeks to fall into step with Trevor on the way out.