"A Weyr /is/ an armed encampment..."
Who: Lexine and Sian
When: Day 19, month 2, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
What: Lexine approaches Sian about a few good men...
Evenings are a quiet time at High Reaches Weyr in the winter, the early darkness driving people inside from the cold to the warmth of fires and company. This evening is even quieter, the Weyr still in shock from the losses of the first 'Fall, and the continuingly questionable state of the Weyrleader. Most are in their rooms, voices are lowered, and there's an air of palpable tension. Through it all walks the Weyrwoman, her left arm held in a sling of black linen to support her injured shoulder, as cool and unflappable as ever. There's a knock on the stone to warn of her approach, but little more, before she steps to the entrance with all the assurance of an owner. "Lady Sian."
Lexine(#357PJXc$)
At sixty turns - too old for pretty - Lexine still merits the description of striking. Pale blonde hair, the shade of good champagne now shot through with as much white as blonde, is cut short save for the longer silk-fine bangs that fall around sharp features, brushing at a cleanly angled jaw and austere, chiseled cheekbones. Angular eyes of a startling bright and clear green are framed by deep crow's feet at the corners, wrinkles creeping towards her cheekbones with each new turn. Otherwise, she seems to have only grown more polished with age, skin growing thin and pulling tight over already sharp features. Her lips are thin, though pleasantly curved, suited to smirks and quiet, secret smiles as sharp as the line of a sloped nose.
Always slender at five feet and five inches tall, that very slightness has been forgiving as she has aged, keeping her from drooping or sagging too much. There's still the wiry strength of a veteran dragonrider in her arms and legs, though aching joints make movements once graceful now a little more stately. She wears simple, elegant clothes suited to High Reaches, a soft sweater of burgundy cashmere wool woven in the pattern of Tillek's Blood belted over a warm, dark grey wool skirt. Close-fitting breeches of black suede fit beneath the skirt, and the knot of the High Reaches senior Weyrwoman rests on her shoulder.
Sian arches a brow as she looks up from the work at her desk. "Weyrwoman." She sets the stylus down and wipes her fingers on a small cloth before regally gesturing for you to approach. Two can play at that game. Only when you fully step in, does she rise, hands settling before her. "You seem to be healing well. My condolences on the losses."
Hair of ebony silk is braided back from the woman's face, caught up in heavy loops that, even pinned out of the way, brush to her waist. Hammered silver clips pin the weight of it out of her way and offering a fitting 'crown' to the regal features. Legendary beauty has a way of often disappointing. Not in this case. Creamy skin, a blush of health to cheeks and a sparkle of intelligence in eyes of sapphire blue. A slender nose, full lips, and a figure that this woman of 43 turns, 0 months, and 7 days could rival a girl of twenty years her junior.
Deep green brushed wool, trimmed in dark yellow-gold needlework is fitted with scooped neckline to best reveal her assets, and left to spill in soft folds to the tops of green-dyed leather short boots. Sleeves are tied at the elbow and left to spill in loose folds over the back of elegant hands bearing a wedding ring on one hand, an heirloom piece of sapphire and garnet on the other. A soft leather belt, hand-worked with glowing citrines and emeralds to match the gown, wraps her waist, holding an eating knife in its scabbard, a small pouch and a ring of keys.
Lexine dips her chin just slightly, an acknowledgement of the sentiments offered. "Such have been suffered for six Passes now," she murmurs, smile faint. "We will survive." She takes a glance around the room then, quiet, before continuing. "I hope you're finding the accomodations here to your liking? If you find you require something more, please don't hesitate to ask."
"It is sufficent. When I feel the need to stretch out, I simply go to the Hold for a bit. But, Lexine, you did not come here to discuss the accommodations or the state of the weather. Please, do take a seat and come to the point?" Sian replies, gesturing to the chair across the desk from her own.
Lexine twists a small smile at that, the sharp expression likely familiar from the days and weeks after the end of the Rebellion. "You always did understand the value of efficiency, Sian," she laughs low, though she moves the chair to your side of the desk before claiming her seat, a subtle reminder. "I'm sure you understand my situation right now. I have a sixth part of the planet to protect, and no one to lead the charge. And Vasyath and I are hardly in any shape to make ballads by attempting to lead ourselves. Thirty turns ago, perhaps," she allows, the smile growing rueful for just a moment.
"And the weyriders are getting excited." Sian replies, relaxing back in her seat, hands settled in her lap. "And of course you want E'sere to take lead, but that would mean you retired - and I cannot see you wanting to give up control so soon." She grins at you and taps a finger against the back of her hand. "Or...well, no, you've probably already thought of that. So...why are you here again?"
Lexine chuckles softly, dipping her chin once in agreement. "A mother's dilemma. When do you step aside for your son, and when do you make your decision in the best interest of your Weyr...or Hold, for that matter," she agrees with that same, edged smile. "I could name E'sere. His Morelenth was the last winner of a native goldflight. He's the wingleader. But it would make him no more than intermediary until Vasyath rose. I could allow the winner of the next flight, be it Vasyath or Nenuith, to claim the position. But if it's Vasyath, then E'sere loses his chance, and if it's Nenuith, I've as much as proclaimed her senior." She pauses, gaze significant. "We wouldn't want that, would we?"
"It would seem that the decision between motherhood or Weyr is easily made. Children come and go, but the Weyr is more important. Just as the Hold is more important." Sian shrugs delicately. "If Samian had not proved fit to serve, then I would have had to find someone else worthy. Luckily, that was not the case in my choices."
"And thus we come to my predicament," Lexine agrees obliquely. "I need to choose a Weyrleader before Thread falls again in just days. More importantly, I need to choose one that the rest of the Weyr can support, and I'm sure you understand the difficulties of that decision," she smiles faintly. "If no one else, I've no doubt R'vain will make trouble." She looks towards the tapestries for a moment, then speaks again, voice even. "In the next few days, I'll be bringing in members of the Hold Guard from Tillek and Nabol. They'll be here to keep order, should anyone get any ideas about pressing their claims. We can't have our students put at risk, now can we?"
"I'm not so sure I like that." Sian replies softly. "So many guards from other Holds? That isn't in the best interest of High Reaches, that I can see. And it's bound to cause unrest and disturbances among my people. Sounds like you're creating an armed encampment, and that is deeply unsettling."
"A weyr /is/ an armed encampment, Sian," Lexine notes, looking over with an arch of a brow. "An armed encampment with the purpose of protecting the planet from an enemy who doesn't distinguish between guilty and innocent, between young and old, between Blood and criminal." She stands then, gesturing elegantly around the room. "The bare stone of this room is all you might have, were it not for the lives given for thousands of years by the Weyrs, battling that enemy. The problem, Sian, with this armed camp is that we have no one to keep a hold on them, and there are still battles to be fought." She comes back to the chair, grasping the back with her good hand. "I am requesting your assistance. I don't have the luxury of vastly outnumbering my bronzeriders. In addition to our own bronzes, a good thirty, at least, I have another twenty ambitious young men in the Caucus. Nabol sends fifteen. My brother sends twenty. Ten men, Sian, under their own captain of your choice."
"Don't lecture me about the status of the Hold /or/ Weyr, Weyrwoman. You might have a dragon that gave you power, but mine came from Blood and intelligence. And the Caucus is a separate entity unto itself, not to be ruled by Weyr or Hold. And if not for the Hold's supplying it, the Weyr would not have the means to support the efforts it takes to fight the Threads. We are not one without the other, but a symbiotic relationship. Except for the Caucus. Now...if you need guards to protect the students, that is fine. I'm not so sure that Hold guards should be allowed into the Weyr for the express purpose of guarding one Weyrwoman."
Lexine laughs, smile flashing broad at the sound. "Sian, my darling," she says, coming closer to rest a hip against your side of the desk, a distinctly predatory look in her eye. "I was playing this game the day you were born. Scion of a minor hold who married up, are you not?" The smile slips crooked, a knowing smirk. "You'll not lecture me about Blood, Sian. I've far more blue in mine than flows in yours." Crossing her arms loosely over her chest, she considers you in arch silence for a long moment. "Without a Weyrleader who has the support of the rest of the bronzes, there will be no Hold to protect."
Sian's eyes narrow and she lifts her chin. "And for all the /extra/ years spent playing it, you must resort to cadre of guards to hold what is slipping from your fingers? Time passes for all of us, Lexine."
"All the extra years I've spent have taught me that caution is often well-rewarded, Sian," Lexine replies, unruffled. "If all goes well, then they'll be little more than extra hands in the bowl during 'fall. And if not, then the Weyr remains stable. Remember, Sian, that these are hard times. The Weyr needs experienced leadership. They'll need my hand at the helm a little longer. And what the Weyr needs, the Holds need." She tilts her head then, eyes narrowing slightly. "Send us ten men, and we'll count their services against your next tithe."
"Have your brother send ten and I'll offer twenty." Sian replies. "There should be more from here than elsewhere. Or, do fifteen from each, if you /must/ resort to this."
"Fifteen from each," Lexine concedes with a nod, speaking before anything else can be offered. "As the Weyr protects each Hold equally, so each Hold will safeguard the stability of the Weyr in equal parts." She straightens then, offering a small smile. "Relax, Sian," she murmurs, laughing low. "This, too, shall pass. Your men will back home in no more than a turn's time. "
"Is that all, Lexine?" Sian offers a faint smile. "I -do- have lesson plans to attend to. Unless you enjoy having your weyrmates eating with their fingers?" Double entendre there? Yes. Definitely.
Lexine rolls her eyes just slightly, smile tight. "I do wish you luck with that, Sian," she replies bemusedly. "Keep an eye out for the beastcraft apprentices who came in this fall. They should keep you quite busy." Much to her pleasure, to judge by her smile as she heads towards the door. "Thank you, Lady Sian," she concludes politely. "Reaches' duties."
Activity test.
Sian says, "That's what I have assistants for." she murmurs, eyes narrowing. "Good eve'n."
When: Day 19, month 2, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
What: Lexine approaches Sian about a few good men...
Evenings are a quiet time at High Reaches Weyr in the winter, the early darkness driving people inside from the cold to the warmth of fires and company. This evening is even quieter, the Weyr still in shock from the losses of the first 'Fall, and the continuingly questionable state of the Weyrleader. Most are in their rooms, voices are lowered, and there's an air of palpable tension. Through it all walks the Weyrwoman, her left arm held in a sling of black linen to support her injured shoulder, as cool and unflappable as ever. There's a knock on the stone to warn of her approach, but little more, before she steps to the entrance with all the assurance of an owner. "Lady Sian."
Lexine(#357PJXc$)
At sixty turns - too old for pretty - Lexine still merits the description of striking. Pale blonde hair, the shade of good champagne now shot through with as much white as blonde, is cut short save for the longer silk-fine bangs that fall around sharp features, brushing at a cleanly angled jaw and austere, chiseled cheekbones. Angular eyes of a startling bright and clear green are framed by deep crow's feet at the corners, wrinkles creeping towards her cheekbones with each new turn. Otherwise, she seems to have only grown more polished with age, skin growing thin and pulling tight over already sharp features. Her lips are thin, though pleasantly curved, suited to smirks and quiet, secret smiles as sharp as the line of a sloped nose.
Always slender at five feet and five inches tall, that very slightness has been forgiving as she has aged, keeping her from drooping or sagging too much. There's still the wiry strength of a veteran dragonrider in her arms and legs, though aching joints make movements once graceful now a little more stately. She wears simple, elegant clothes suited to High Reaches, a soft sweater of burgundy cashmere wool woven in the pattern of Tillek's Blood belted over a warm, dark grey wool skirt. Close-fitting breeches of black suede fit beneath the skirt, and the knot of the High Reaches senior Weyrwoman rests on her shoulder.
Sian arches a brow as she looks up from the work at her desk. "Weyrwoman." She sets the stylus down and wipes her fingers on a small cloth before regally gesturing for you to approach. Two can play at that game. Only when you fully step in, does she rise, hands settling before her. "You seem to be healing well. My condolences on the losses."
Hair of ebony silk is braided back from the woman's face, caught up in heavy loops that, even pinned out of the way, brush to her waist. Hammered silver clips pin the weight of it out of her way and offering a fitting 'crown' to the regal features. Legendary beauty has a way of often disappointing. Not in this case. Creamy skin, a blush of health to cheeks and a sparkle of intelligence in eyes of sapphire blue. A slender nose, full lips, and a figure that this woman of 43 turns, 0 months, and 7 days could rival a girl of twenty years her junior.
Deep green brushed wool, trimmed in dark yellow-gold needlework is fitted with scooped neckline to best reveal her assets, and left to spill in soft folds to the tops of green-dyed leather short boots. Sleeves are tied at the elbow and left to spill in loose folds over the back of elegant hands bearing a wedding ring on one hand, an heirloom piece of sapphire and garnet on the other. A soft leather belt, hand-worked with glowing citrines and emeralds to match the gown, wraps her waist, holding an eating knife in its scabbard, a small pouch and a ring of keys.
Lexine dips her chin just slightly, an acknowledgement of the sentiments offered. "Such have been suffered for six Passes now," she murmurs, smile faint. "We will survive." She takes a glance around the room then, quiet, before continuing. "I hope you're finding the accomodations here to your liking? If you find you require something more, please don't hesitate to ask."
"It is sufficent. When I feel the need to stretch out, I simply go to the Hold for a bit. But, Lexine, you did not come here to discuss the accommodations or the state of the weather. Please, do take a seat and come to the point?" Sian replies, gesturing to the chair across the desk from her own.
Lexine twists a small smile at that, the sharp expression likely familiar from the days and weeks after the end of the Rebellion. "You always did understand the value of efficiency, Sian," she laughs low, though she moves the chair to your side of the desk before claiming her seat, a subtle reminder. "I'm sure you understand my situation right now. I have a sixth part of the planet to protect, and no one to lead the charge. And Vasyath and I are hardly in any shape to make ballads by attempting to lead ourselves. Thirty turns ago, perhaps," she allows, the smile growing rueful for just a moment.
"And the weyriders are getting excited." Sian replies, relaxing back in her seat, hands settled in her lap. "And of course you want E'sere to take lead, but that would mean you retired - and I cannot see you wanting to give up control so soon." She grins at you and taps a finger against the back of her hand. "Or...well, no, you've probably already thought of that. So...why are you here again?"
Lexine chuckles softly, dipping her chin once in agreement. "A mother's dilemma. When do you step aside for your son, and when do you make your decision in the best interest of your Weyr...or Hold, for that matter," she agrees with that same, edged smile. "I could name E'sere. His Morelenth was the last winner of a native goldflight. He's the wingleader. But it would make him no more than intermediary until Vasyath rose. I could allow the winner of the next flight, be it Vasyath or Nenuith, to claim the position. But if it's Vasyath, then E'sere loses his chance, and if it's Nenuith, I've as much as proclaimed her senior." She pauses, gaze significant. "We wouldn't want that, would we?"
"It would seem that the decision between motherhood or Weyr is easily made. Children come and go, but the Weyr is more important. Just as the Hold is more important." Sian shrugs delicately. "If Samian had not proved fit to serve, then I would have had to find someone else worthy. Luckily, that was not the case in my choices."
"And thus we come to my predicament," Lexine agrees obliquely. "I need to choose a Weyrleader before Thread falls again in just days. More importantly, I need to choose one that the rest of the Weyr can support, and I'm sure you understand the difficulties of that decision," she smiles faintly. "If no one else, I've no doubt R'vain will make trouble." She looks towards the tapestries for a moment, then speaks again, voice even. "In the next few days, I'll be bringing in members of the Hold Guard from Tillek and Nabol. They'll be here to keep order, should anyone get any ideas about pressing their claims. We can't have our students put at risk, now can we?"
"I'm not so sure I like that." Sian replies softly. "So many guards from other Holds? That isn't in the best interest of High Reaches, that I can see. And it's bound to cause unrest and disturbances among my people. Sounds like you're creating an armed encampment, and that is deeply unsettling."
"A weyr /is/ an armed encampment, Sian," Lexine notes, looking over with an arch of a brow. "An armed encampment with the purpose of protecting the planet from an enemy who doesn't distinguish between guilty and innocent, between young and old, between Blood and criminal." She stands then, gesturing elegantly around the room. "The bare stone of this room is all you might have, were it not for the lives given for thousands of years by the Weyrs, battling that enemy. The problem, Sian, with this armed camp is that we have no one to keep a hold on them, and there are still battles to be fought." She comes back to the chair, grasping the back with her good hand. "I am requesting your assistance. I don't have the luxury of vastly outnumbering my bronzeriders. In addition to our own bronzes, a good thirty, at least, I have another twenty ambitious young men in the Caucus. Nabol sends fifteen. My brother sends twenty. Ten men, Sian, under their own captain of your choice."
"Don't lecture me about the status of the Hold /or/ Weyr, Weyrwoman. You might have a dragon that gave you power, but mine came from Blood and intelligence. And the Caucus is a separate entity unto itself, not to be ruled by Weyr or Hold. And if not for the Hold's supplying it, the Weyr would not have the means to support the efforts it takes to fight the Threads. We are not one without the other, but a symbiotic relationship. Except for the Caucus. Now...if you need guards to protect the students, that is fine. I'm not so sure that Hold guards should be allowed into the Weyr for the express purpose of guarding one Weyrwoman."
Lexine laughs, smile flashing broad at the sound. "Sian, my darling," she says, coming closer to rest a hip against your side of the desk, a distinctly predatory look in her eye. "I was playing this game the day you were born. Scion of a minor hold who married up, are you not?" The smile slips crooked, a knowing smirk. "You'll not lecture me about Blood, Sian. I've far more blue in mine than flows in yours." Crossing her arms loosely over her chest, she considers you in arch silence for a long moment. "Without a Weyrleader who has the support of the rest of the bronzes, there will be no Hold to protect."
Sian's eyes narrow and she lifts her chin. "And for all the /extra/ years spent playing it, you must resort to cadre of guards to hold what is slipping from your fingers? Time passes for all of us, Lexine."
"All the extra years I've spent have taught me that caution is often well-rewarded, Sian," Lexine replies, unruffled. "If all goes well, then they'll be little more than extra hands in the bowl during 'fall. And if not, then the Weyr remains stable. Remember, Sian, that these are hard times. The Weyr needs experienced leadership. They'll need my hand at the helm a little longer. And what the Weyr needs, the Holds need." She tilts her head then, eyes narrowing slightly. "Send us ten men, and we'll count their services against your next tithe."
"Have your brother send ten and I'll offer twenty." Sian replies. "There should be more from here than elsewhere. Or, do fifteen from each, if you /must/ resort to this."
"Fifteen from each," Lexine concedes with a nod, speaking before anything else can be offered. "As the Weyr protects each Hold equally, so each Hold will safeguard the stability of the Weyr in equal parts." She straightens then, offering a small smile. "Relax, Sian," she murmurs, laughing low. "This, too, shall pass. Your men will back home in no more than a turn's time. "
"Is that all, Lexine?" Sian offers a faint smile. "I -do- have lesson plans to attend to. Unless you enjoy having your weyrmates eating with their fingers?" Double entendre there? Yes. Definitely.
Lexine rolls her eyes just slightly, smile tight. "I do wish you luck with that, Sian," she replies bemusedly. "Keep an eye out for the beastcraft apprentices who came in this fall. They should keep you quite busy." Much to her pleasure, to judge by her smile as she heads towards the door. "Thank you, Lady Sian," she concludes politely. "Reaches' duties."
Activity test.
Sian says, "That's what I have assistants for." she murmurs, eyes narrowing. "Good eve'n."