LOG: Balance
Date: Day 11, Month 8, Turn 26
Location: Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: Meara's a little unnerved by Riorde's ideas.
Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.
A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.
Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
The afternoon's basic dragonhealing lecture has concluded, now, and the class been dismissed. For some - particularly those lacking time earlier in the day thanks to their remedial harper classes - this has given an excellent opportunity to get the little dragons washed; for others, the warm, fine afternoon is invitation enough. Amidst the flurry of weyrlings (and weyr residents) at the lake's edge, Meara is a a pillar of calm: she sits cross-legged on one of the boulders, staring out over the water as Isath nudges one of the smaller dragons away from the depths with a maternal warble.
The little dragons are growing, and with plenty of energy to spare. Riorde's thoroughly soaked but doesn't seem to mind. Trying to kill two birds with one stone, she recites anatomy as she washes her dragon; Sforzath luxuriates in the water and the feel of his weyrling's hands, then stirs to action when one of the smaller green clutchmates seeks to spur her brother to snap and frolic in the shallows. The litany of Riorde's mumbled dragon parts is broken by a sharpish, "Hold still!". She's said it several times already so the fondness is starting to wear thin.
Despite her calm, Meara's ears are pricked, and though Riorde's litany has not caught her attention, the timbre of her sharper words certainly does. The greenrider stretches, shifting middle-aged muscles so that she can turn and give the brown pair her full attention. "I thought he enjoyed being washed," she remarks, levelly, lifting her voice to carry over the light hubbub of the lake. Isath, too, turns her attention towards the pair, extending a tendril of rustling, moonlit grass towards the brown: sit, stay.
Riorde lets go of Sforzath's left wing, and the trailing edge hits the water lightly before the small brown refolds the wing along his back. His tail lashes twice, back and forth, forth and back, before obedience to the older, larger, wiser green has him settling under Riorde's hands as if nothing ever happened. "He does," Riorde answers Meara, something defensive entering her tone. It's mild though; she's always mild when under the eyes of the weyrlingmasters, or if not mild, then at least quiet and watchful. Unobtrusive. "I remember the names of his bodyparts better than the names of the Lords and Craftmasters," she says, which isn't quite an explanation for her temper but is a subject change. "I don't have any pictures to go with them."
"That wasn't intended as a slight on either of you, you know," remarks Meara, patiently, hopping down from her boulder so that she can wade closer, moving through the water heedless of the damp on her trousers. Hands on hips, she regards first Sforzath and then his rider for a few quiet seconds, before she adds, "So you're a visual learner. Perhaps I should start collecting dragonpoker decks." She doesn't seem to be being completely serious about that remark; her smile is girlish and cheeky, and is quickly followed by a shake of the head.
Riorde must know that she's overly quick to take offense. There's a quick, rueful turn to her lips before her "oh," and both she and her brown are still with the consciousness of being looked at and possibly assessed. "I guess." Riorde shrugs as she gives a rather noncommittal answer, but her expression is thoughtful. "I just thought learning was learning. I'd have to learn how to play dragonpoker, too. Can't be harder than all these names. Think the harper'd substitute that for arithmetic one morning?" Her voice lightens a little, proof of better humor, though she's straight-faced.
"He'd probably be hopelessly offended at the mere suggestion, alas," admits Meara, not without a rueful smile as she casts a lazy hand through her silver-touched hair. "I never much liked arithmetic, either. But. At least the decks have pictures on them. Faces to names, even if the /learning/ of the game came later." Her hands, now, slide back towards her sides, resting aimlessly as her gaze slips back off towards Isath, out in the water. "How are you doing, with it all? Honestly. Because if you feel like there's too much to learn, and that you're drowning, well, it'd help to know."
Sforzath has been too long stationary. All his youthful energy comes boiling out, and he makes the shallow water roil with silt and mud as he bounds off to play, clean from his bath -- or clean enough. "Too bad. I think I'd like the game. Pictures would still be good though." Riorde keeps an eye on Sforzath at first, with a glance every so often at Meara. She weighs her answer before coming out with, "You have a lot of history."
Water splashes further up Meara's trousered legs as Sforzath makes his escape, but this, too, the Weyrlingmaster seems unconcerned about. "Maybe once you get all the names down, we can put in some more-- fun lessons. Dragonpoker is something /most/ of us in the weyr know, after all." The greenrider is clearly thinking as she talks, cheerful and enthusiastic with the idea; her next words are more sympathetic, but the good humour is far from gone entirely. "We do. And-- well. A lot of it is pretty complicated. Particularly in recent turns."
"Seems complicated," Riorde agrees. As she continues to watch Sforzath, her vigilant watchfulness softens into indulgence. "All that stuff about Crom and a land deal. What'd the Weyr do with more land, anyway?" The question sounds honestly curious, the sort of thing she should have asked in class but, for one reason or another, didn't.
"'More land'," says Meara, quietly, and not without some small measure of amusement. "The weyr doesn't really /have/ land: just what's inside the weyr bowl, really. You'd have to ask the Weyrleader to get the full ins and outs, but effectively… during Interval, there's always the fear that the holds will stop tithing to us. Because we don't have leverage, not really." The greenrider stretches, arching her stiff muscles carefully. "K'del hoped to protect us from that, by giving the weyr more control. It's difficult, being beholden."
Without true annoyance, Riorde makes a little face at the slip that shows her misunderstanding. She frowns, Meara's explanation sounding a note of discord between reality and the former islander's shallow theoretical understanding of Pernese society. "I thought they couldn't do that, though. That it was part of the deal: protection for tithes. I learned a song about it." The last phrase comes out purposefully plaintive, Riorde's try at levity.
It works - the levity brings another rueful smile to Meara's face, for all that her expression had turned more measured in the wake of her own words. "That's true," she agrees. "But sometimes, Holds decide that they don't really need the weyr, in the Interval. That the weyr isn't providing enough to deserve the tithes. It can be an awkward balancing game. During the Interval, we don't really have the leverage we do during Pass." And so, she shrugs her shoulders, adding, "It's not been a concern these last few turns. Not really."
Riorde turns contemplative after her stab at humor, listening with the same close attention she pays to lessons and lectures -- for this is one, for all that it masquerades as a more informal discussion. "So the Weyr wants its own land in case there's problems later on," she says in conclusion; but she doesn't stop there. "There will be, too. There has to be, when there's two hundred turns in an interval. The Weyr doesn't /have/ to balance, though. If they stopped holding up their end of the bargain, I don't see what stops the Weyr from going in and taking their share."
Meara's expression turns fairly rapidly from pleased and approving to somewhat aghast; she swallows, clearly fumbling for words, her mouth opening and closing a few times before she manages to come up with some kind of answer. "You--" she begins, uncertainly. "Think we should just walk in and take what we want? Steal it? No - no that's no kind of an answer. If the holds stop tithing, we withdraw our support: no transport, no delivery, no emergency assistance. That's the way of things. We have to maintain that balance. We need them."
As soon as she perceives Meara's expression take a turn for the worse, Riorde stops before she can go any further and land herself in the Weyrlingmaster's bad graces forever with a statement like, 'well, they don't really have any recourse against fire-breathing dragons.' Riorde adopts a look that's meant to show the understanding of her error, mouth rounding into a slow, "Oh, I see."
The look Meara aims at Riorde seems to suggest that she isn't completely mollified by that answer, for all that she nods her head. "It's complicated," she says, carefully. "A number of our riders are holdbred, and that complicates things further." Which could oh-so-easily be taken to mean things she obviously doesn't intend it to. "I'm sure it will all become more obvious with time. The intricacies."
Riorde looks and sounds earnest as she says, "I'm just trying to understand." She smiles, close-lipped to hide how her jaw is lightly clenched. Politely, as she gestures off toward where Sforzath's got to, Ri takes her leave. "I should go get him. Thank you."
For better or for worse, Meara's not perceptive enough to see even the faintest suggestion of that clenchedness, though she does hesitate for a long second before acknowledging Riorde's departure. "Of course. I'll see you in class tomorrow, Riorde," she says, pleasantly enough.
Location: Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: Meara's a little unnerved by Riorde's ideas.
Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.
A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.
Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
The afternoon's basic dragonhealing lecture has concluded, now, and the class been dismissed. For some - particularly those lacking time earlier in the day thanks to their remedial harper classes - this has given an excellent opportunity to get the little dragons washed; for others, the warm, fine afternoon is invitation enough. Amidst the flurry of weyrlings (and weyr residents) at the lake's edge, Meara is a a pillar of calm: she sits cross-legged on one of the boulders, staring out over the water as Isath nudges one of the smaller dragons away from the depths with a maternal warble.
The little dragons are growing, and with plenty of energy to spare. Riorde's thoroughly soaked but doesn't seem to mind. Trying to kill two birds with one stone, she recites anatomy as she washes her dragon; Sforzath luxuriates in the water and the feel of his weyrling's hands, then stirs to action when one of the smaller green clutchmates seeks to spur her brother to snap and frolic in the shallows. The litany of Riorde's mumbled dragon parts is broken by a sharpish, "Hold still!". She's said it several times already so the fondness is starting to wear thin.
Despite her calm, Meara's ears are pricked, and though Riorde's litany has not caught her attention, the timbre of her sharper words certainly does. The greenrider stretches, shifting middle-aged muscles so that she can turn and give the brown pair her full attention. "I thought he enjoyed being washed," she remarks, levelly, lifting her voice to carry over the light hubbub of the lake. Isath, too, turns her attention towards the pair, extending a tendril of rustling, moonlit grass towards the brown: sit, stay.
Riorde lets go of Sforzath's left wing, and the trailing edge hits the water lightly before the small brown refolds the wing along his back. His tail lashes twice, back and forth, forth and back, before obedience to the older, larger, wiser green has him settling under Riorde's hands as if nothing ever happened. "He does," Riorde answers Meara, something defensive entering her tone. It's mild though; she's always mild when under the eyes of the weyrlingmasters, or if not mild, then at least quiet and watchful. Unobtrusive. "I remember the names of his bodyparts better than the names of the Lords and Craftmasters," she says, which isn't quite an explanation for her temper but is a subject change. "I don't have any pictures to go with them."
"That wasn't intended as a slight on either of you, you know," remarks Meara, patiently, hopping down from her boulder so that she can wade closer, moving through the water heedless of the damp on her trousers. Hands on hips, she regards first Sforzath and then his rider for a few quiet seconds, before she adds, "So you're a visual learner. Perhaps I should start collecting dragonpoker decks." She doesn't seem to be being completely serious about that remark; her smile is girlish and cheeky, and is quickly followed by a shake of the head.
Riorde must know that she's overly quick to take offense. There's a quick, rueful turn to her lips before her "oh," and both she and her brown are still with the consciousness of being looked at and possibly assessed. "I guess." Riorde shrugs as she gives a rather noncommittal answer, but her expression is thoughtful. "I just thought learning was learning. I'd have to learn how to play dragonpoker, too. Can't be harder than all these names. Think the harper'd substitute that for arithmetic one morning?" Her voice lightens a little, proof of better humor, though she's straight-faced.
"He'd probably be hopelessly offended at the mere suggestion, alas," admits Meara, not without a rueful smile as she casts a lazy hand through her silver-touched hair. "I never much liked arithmetic, either. But. At least the decks have pictures on them. Faces to names, even if the /learning/ of the game came later." Her hands, now, slide back towards her sides, resting aimlessly as her gaze slips back off towards Isath, out in the water. "How are you doing, with it all? Honestly. Because if you feel like there's too much to learn, and that you're drowning, well, it'd help to know."
Sforzath has been too long stationary. All his youthful energy comes boiling out, and he makes the shallow water roil with silt and mud as he bounds off to play, clean from his bath -- or clean enough. "Too bad. I think I'd like the game. Pictures would still be good though." Riorde keeps an eye on Sforzath at first, with a glance every so often at Meara. She weighs her answer before coming out with, "You have a lot of history."
Water splashes further up Meara's trousered legs as Sforzath makes his escape, but this, too, the Weyrlingmaster seems unconcerned about. "Maybe once you get all the names down, we can put in some more-- fun lessons. Dragonpoker is something /most/ of us in the weyr know, after all." The greenrider is clearly thinking as she talks, cheerful and enthusiastic with the idea; her next words are more sympathetic, but the good humour is far from gone entirely. "We do. And-- well. A lot of it is pretty complicated. Particularly in recent turns."
"Seems complicated," Riorde agrees. As she continues to watch Sforzath, her vigilant watchfulness softens into indulgence. "All that stuff about Crom and a land deal. What'd the Weyr do with more land, anyway?" The question sounds honestly curious, the sort of thing she should have asked in class but, for one reason or another, didn't.
"'More land'," says Meara, quietly, and not without some small measure of amusement. "The weyr doesn't really /have/ land: just what's inside the weyr bowl, really. You'd have to ask the Weyrleader to get the full ins and outs, but effectively… during Interval, there's always the fear that the holds will stop tithing to us. Because we don't have leverage, not really." The greenrider stretches, arching her stiff muscles carefully. "K'del hoped to protect us from that, by giving the weyr more control. It's difficult, being beholden."
Without true annoyance, Riorde makes a little face at the slip that shows her misunderstanding. She frowns, Meara's explanation sounding a note of discord between reality and the former islander's shallow theoretical understanding of Pernese society. "I thought they couldn't do that, though. That it was part of the deal: protection for tithes. I learned a song about it." The last phrase comes out purposefully plaintive, Riorde's try at levity.
It works - the levity brings another rueful smile to Meara's face, for all that her expression had turned more measured in the wake of her own words. "That's true," she agrees. "But sometimes, Holds decide that they don't really need the weyr, in the Interval. That the weyr isn't providing enough to deserve the tithes. It can be an awkward balancing game. During the Interval, we don't really have the leverage we do during Pass." And so, she shrugs her shoulders, adding, "It's not been a concern these last few turns. Not really."
Riorde turns contemplative after her stab at humor, listening with the same close attention she pays to lessons and lectures -- for this is one, for all that it masquerades as a more informal discussion. "So the Weyr wants its own land in case there's problems later on," she says in conclusion; but she doesn't stop there. "There will be, too. There has to be, when there's two hundred turns in an interval. The Weyr doesn't /have/ to balance, though. If they stopped holding up their end of the bargain, I don't see what stops the Weyr from going in and taking their share."
Meara's expression turns fairly rapidly from pleased and approving to somewhat aghast; she swallows, clearly fumbling for words, her mouth opening and closing a few times before she manages to come up with some kind of answer. "You--" she begins, uncertainly. "Think we should just walk in and take what we want? Steal it? No - no that's no kind of an answer. If the holds stop tithing, we withdraw our support: no transport, no delivery, no emergency assistance. That's the way of things. We have to maintain that balance. We need them."
As soon as she perceives Meara's expression take a turn for the worse, Riorde stops before she can go any further and land herself in the Weyrlingmaster's bad graces forever with a statement like, 'well, they don't really have any recourse against fire-breathing dragons.' Riorde adopts a look that's meant to show the understanding of her error, mouth rounding into a slow, "Oh, I see."
The look Meara aims at Riorde seems to suggest that she isn't completely mollified by that answer, for all that she nods her head. "It's complicated," she says, carefully. "A number of our riders are holdbred, and that complicates things further." Which could oh-so-easily be taken to mean things she obviously doesn't intend it to. "I'm sure it will all become more obvious with time. The intricacies."
Riorde looks and sounds earnest as she says, "I'm just trying to understand." She smiles, close-lipped to hide how her jaw is lightly clenched. Politely, as she gestures off toward where Sforzath's got to, Ri takes her leave. "I should go get him. Thank you."
For better or for worse, Meara's not perceptive enough to see even the faintest suggestion of that clenchedness, though she does hesitate for a long second before acknowledging Riorde's departure. "Of course. I'll see you in class tomorrow, Riorde," she says, pleasantly enough.