Hold Over
Location: Lord Sorel's Library, Nabol Hold
Time: Night on Day 1, Month 8, Turn 3
Players: R'vain, Roa, Sorel (NPC), S'mir (NPC)
Scene: The Weyrleadership touches base with Lord Sorel and begins to decide what's to be done about the exiles at Five Mines.
S'mir is one of the Reaches' oldest riders. He and his brown Avornath have been limited to watch duties for almost a decade now, and those duties suit him well: the old fellow, crusty as he comes off, has a quick wit tempered by a wise tongue, a combination that makes him most welcome with most of the Holders whose lands he stands guard over. His place is especially assured now that Thread falls; too old, some would argue, to learn new tricks, Avornath is nevertheless sharp-eyed and reliably dedicated to his task. The aging brownpair, previously oft-stationed at High Reaches Hold, is one of R'vain's favorites for Nabol now that Odern is setting up shop out there at Five Mines. So it's likely no surprise that Avornath greets Ruvoth from the fireheights with a soft bellow - but Avornath is riderless up there, just now. He welcomes visitors by his lonesome.
The explanation for this is simple, and becomes obvious as a worried-faced young woman, some distant relation of Sorel's, leads the Weyrwoman and Weyrleader up to the library where Lord Nabol, like his infamous predecessor, greets company. The heavy door stands open, and the woman gestures R'vain and Roa to be welcome inside. Within, Sorel paces from a table bearing drink to one bearing glasses and a tray almost six feet away - an arrangement that seems to be created solely to keep his young feet moving - while S'mir stands a frowning, tension-filled guard in a back corner, arms crossed. His position gives him the advantage on the Lord in noticing their company has arrived, and he greets them by speaking their titles as well as by salute, so as to call Sorel's attention.
Riding on Ruvoth, or any dragon that is not her own, always seems a bit to Roa like trying to fit into someone else's clothing. But the situation has necessitated she scramble atop a bronze, and if the travel is a touch disorienting, the weyrwoman has regained her quiet poise by the time they reach Lord Sorel's library. She is dressed in lighter clothing this time than their last visit, and, also different, her knot is pinned to the shoulder of her shirt so that it is vaguely visible while she wears a coat, but will become continually present once that coat is removed. "Lord Nabol," the little weyrwoman says by way of greeting as she slips inside. And then there is a nod for S'mir and his own title murmured in soft offering. Once over the threshold, she waits for R'vain to join her before moving any further into the room.
R'vain has gone to no trouble where presentation is concerned. He wears his leathers, his knot on his jacket, a red shirt that makes his eyes beautiful but his complexion monstrous, and some but not all of the gear expected of a rider making a trip between. By the time they're at Sorel's doorway he's peeled down the jacket and stuffed the gloves and cap into its pockets and folded the whole thing lovely over his arm. No amount of grace can make his expression anything but roughly controlled, and S'mir gets only a green glance for his trouble. "Lord Sorel," rumbles the Weyrleader, a tidy little counterpoint to Roa's greeting, then steps forward into rank and file beside her.
"Weyrwoman," replies Sorel, paused halfway between drinks and glasses with a pitcher of something juice-like in one hand. "Weyrleader." He manages something of a smile, tense and hesitating. "S'mir was so good as to alert me of your visit. I trust your dragons are getting on - ? I hate to have them disturbed on an - evening like this." He lets all of those words - they sound a little practiced, like perhaps the young Lord gave some advance thought to what he'd say when the Weyrleaders arrived - echo in a moment's silence, then adds a hapless little shrug. What can you say? It's not like evenings 'like this' come along often. He regains his lanky gait and pours juice into two glasses. "Can I get you anything to drink?"
"I'm all right, thank you," Roa murmurs, though her eyes flick again to S'mir. "Tialith is doing well. She's working to restore the weyr's calm as quickly as possible. Which is to say," and here the weyrwoman's lips tip up into a tiny smile, "not all together so very quickly. Avornath is himself again?" This last is intended for S'mir. But then, to Sorel, she queries softly, "How much have you been informed, and how much is still supposition? We'll answer what we know, though it isn't much, yet."
"Avornath keeps watch," S'mir replies, with a respectful tip of head and a dry bit of smile, to his Weyrwoman's query. When is Avornath not himself?
"Sure," comes R'vain's swift reply, too easy, too instinctive, to Sorel's offer of drinks. He prowls inward, looking for a less awkward spot to stand around and not sit down, since the Lord seems fixated on being a squirrely sort of host. He appends one question only to all of Roa's: "Are th'hold's folk all settled?"
Sorel cannot accomplish what his watchrider does - dry amusement. The Lord's smiles are false, anxious, forced. They are not meant to deceive so much as to convey comfort, and at this they are likely to absolutely fail. "The juice is sort of exotic," he remarks, nervously fixated on his own topic ahead of his Weyrwoman's. "Lord Greenfields sent it at the end of their harvest last turn." This is called 'babbling.' Sorel realizes it, in a moment, and puts down the pitcher so he can take up a glass and swift-step over to R'vain with it. "I have wine also, Weyrleader." He replies at last, slowly, the questions they've asked. "S'mir has said the queen who started the cry was once Reachian," admits the Lord, with a glance back at the brownrider implicated. Then he looks into R'vain's face - they are of like heights, if not builds - and smiles what might at last pass for a real smile, if a wispy one. "They will be. My cousins and assistants spread the word that if a dragon has need, others will answer. If there is something that can be done for what caused them pain, the Weyr will tend to it. But - " His shoulders rise and fall, another helpless little shrug. "S'mir seems to think - " Sorel steps back, clearing space between himself and the broad weyrleader, to look back at the brownrider for help.
"They have six dead," S'mir provides, unfolding his arms and stepping only a few paces forward. One hand opens into an upward-facing palm, gesticulative. "There's nothing we can do to fix that; they went between. The question now is whether Nenuith just brought her brood, or whether - well, I fall into a realm of speculation and rumor at this point, Weyrwoman. Weyrleader." From one to the other of his young (relatively) leaders, S'mir nods.
The weyrwoman offers her weyrleader a brief glance before she speaks again. "So far as we are able to tell," she begins carefully, "there is more than just weyrlings by a significant amount. We think it is the island's entire compliment of dragons, and that means it's possible that more than just the riders and their lifemates have come."
"Sixtyish pairs," R'vain agrees in a rumble. "Their-- they should only have half that in weyrling-age dragons, give or take." Of non-riders he says nothing; of any number of things he /could/ say he says nothing, choosing instead to wrap a paw around the glass of juice he's been given and rumble lowly, "S'fine," with a jerk of his chin to the drink. A glance at Roa, a lift of the glass-- you want some?-- and the Weyrleader waits to hear their host's thoughts, mouth broad and thin.
"You believe Diya did go to live among the - exiled peoples, then," Sorel assimilates, after a moment's quiet in which he tugs on one earlobe, thoughtful. "And that she's brought them 'home.'" He wriggles a morose little smile around that word. "Do you have proof of this? Are we presently obliged? At the moment there's not even an authority to which we could turn them over. And - " The morose smile becomes more squirrelly still and the young, lean Lord Nabol backs up to his table boasting carafes and pitchers to pick up a pot, likely klah. "I must admit I'm not sure I have the muscle to 'turn over' anyone at Five Mines, Weyrleaders. Not that I should like that repeated."
"We believe that Diya left to live with those on the western islands," the weyrwoman agrees with a small nod, addressing Sorel before a small shake of her head turns away R'vain's offer of juice, "and we believe she lives with them still. The only proof we have is what our dragons have heard, but they do not lie about such things, nor are they often mistaken when it comes to detecting one another." Roa's hands clasp lightly in front of her. "I don't imagine there is any single hold with the muscle, as you put it, to manage an entire wing of dragons. This has never...I cannot think of a time when any number of dragons couldn't be clearly linked to one of the Weyrs, and I'm not sure...Some could argue that as holds are autonomous and they are on Nabol's land, you are the authority. Some might say it's us, as they're dragons within our coverage area. Some might say each rider's original weyr is responsible for their own. I don't...this hasn't happened before. I think everyone would agree that as they are on Nabol's land, you, as Lord, have a right in some way or another to want them on or off or to extend some form of contact or authority. Should you ask for High Reaches assistance in an official capacity, that authority would then also extend to us and the Weyr."
R'vain shrugs off Roa's defiance of juice and takes refuge in the glass himself. He tips it up and drinks, then lowers the glass and his head both while musing over the taste of the stuff and swallowing, or more to the point, while listening with keen attentiveness to what Roa says. The more of it there is, the narrower his unhappy green eyes become. "Given we're assuming they have particular criminals amongst 'em," let's just get that out in the air right now, "some would argue we're all acting in gross misconduct t'be standing here talking about 'em instead of acting on their presence." The Weyrleader heaves a rough sigh, miserable, and raises his glass for another gulp. Before he takes it, he appends, "Fact is we have t'seem t'be doing, or about t'do, something."
"I certainly have a right where wanting them on or off my land is in question," Sorel agrees, for a moment almost prim in his pause, beaked nose up, gaze focused on a wall hanging behind the table with the drinks upon it. Then he turns around, better composed with his fidgety little grin, to approach the tray with glasses and cups to pour klah. As he does so, S'mir steps forward - apparently this drink is meant for him, long-delayed as it is. "And I could, Weyrleader, send some sort of remark to that effect to my cousin." Sorel looks up at R'vain with a twitch of tense bemusement: right, -that- will do a lot of good, sir. "Aside from the illusion of action I am afraid I am not prepared to accomplish much. Weyrwoman - do you think the Weyr's assistance, in an official capacity as you say, is available?" He pauses a moment to show Roa his sudden, if less winning than sometimes, smile. "If that invented authority does come to extend to you as a result - is it worth it?"
She listens as R'vain and then Odern speak, but at the question addressed specifically to her, Roa offers a small nod. "Assistance is most assuredly available, although what, exactly, it will entail..." her faint smile shifts from comforting to rueful, "will depend on various things. In some ways, the Instigators are beyond just us. The whole of Pern addressed them before. Probably, the whole of Pern will want to do so again. But I imagine organizing such a thing will take time, and until it all gets sorted, having the Weyr offer you support seems a wise and prudent thing to do. We'd do our utmost to keep your people safe and them contained."
"Conclave, Grand Conclave," R'vain mutters and, having had his apparent fill of standing around drinking juice, puts the glass down on the nearest handy flat surface and stalks down a chair. "Your place t'call 'em, Lord." His prey chosen, he slumps into a seat and looks up from it at Roa, brows drawn heavy over his painfully bright gaze. "Contained," he echoes.
"Contained," adds Sorel, with a curious look over at the weyrwoman, then a return to the safety of his twitchy little nervous smile. He remains that way, obviously nervous, while S'mir picks up his cup of klah and retreats in silence. The young Lord Nabol then pours a second and lifts it, breathing the acrid steam. It seems to settle him, and he goes on after. "Containment has value. If I must request a Conclave or greater - " He will not quite repeat what the Weyrleader said, yet. "It will take time to convene and deliberate. I may meanwhile send a request for an explanation of some kind to my cousin and have my guard and the Weyr's authority to back up that - polite communication." After a sip of his klah he asks, "How do you propose to facilitate containment? I would rather not make any show of force - prematurely. Especially without knowing in certainty that Conclave will support it."
The weyrwoman glances towards her Weyrleader before she speaks again. She has remained standing and seems to have no interest in sitting just at the moment. For a beat, blue eyes meet green, but then she's turning back to Sorel. "With your agreement, we'd stop flying fall above Five Mines and her territories. I can only imagine that if Odern has facilitated their arrival, he expects them to meet threadfall. So. We let them. We let them fly fall. We let them ride sweeps. We let them occupy themselves with surviving, and keep them from occupying themselves with doing more. Thirty mature dragons, less than thirty more still weyrlings. They can manage falls, but not without all of them rested, alert, training. It would give us time. Give you time."
R'vain provides, to all of this, only a nod and a surly look as his approval. In this moment, the Weyrwoman plans and her Weyrleader approves (or complains churlishly)-- so it seems.
Sorel attends closely, over the rim of his cup, to Roa's remarks. He does glance at the weyrleader - a moment goes by in which the larger man's silence would be welcome to leave in favor of a few words - and then at S'mir, too, but in the end Lord Nabol is obliged to speak. He sighs lightly and smiles and, only a little bit good-naturedly put-upon, does so. "As long as you believe they have numbers enough to protect the land and people, I think I must agree, Weyrwoman. The simple withdrawal of service is - less aggressive - I like it."
"I believe they do," Roa agrees quietly. "We'll make sure they do, but I wouldn't suggest it otherwise. Will you keep us updated on your progress with the other holds? And we'll let you know what the other weyrs have to say about the situation. I would prefer, as much as possible, to keep violence out of this. From either side." One hand lifts briefly, fingers curled save for the thumb and index finger that seem ready to pinch something. The way the weyrwoman begins to duck her head down, likely, it's the bridge of her nose. But she catches herself, the motion halting before it gets farther than a tiny nod, and her hand falls back into her lap.
"S'good of you t'ask," rumbles R'vain somewhere under Roa's words, to Lord Sorel, as a temperance for his Weyrwoman's assertion she wouldn't leave Five Mines without coverage if she didn't think they could handle it. It's her the Weyrleader's watching, and her aborted motion seems to be his cue-- as soon as her thumb and forefinger raise, as soon as her head bows down, he launches up out of his chair and paws up his juice along the way. "Probably behoove us t'lock down traffic in and out of th'Hold-- Five Mines-- until you and-- y'cousin-- are on trading terms. If you agree, Lord Sorel?"
"I think we would all be most grateful if this situation did not need to come to blows," Sorel agrees, with a tip of his head to the weyrwoman. He looks politely away after that, when she seems to be so suddenly exhausted, and his bright eyes fall on the weyrleader in her stead. He replies first to the notion of closed trade with a murmur, then with a sip of his klah, then by putting down the cup on the tray it came from. "I would not wish to deprive the people of Five Mines of base necessities, of crucial supplies. To keep traffic to a minimum, however, seems proper. There is, after all, widespread belief that Five Mines is a dangerous place." A small smile. "I think I should let you return home, weyrleader," appends Sorel then, with a glance, significant if tiny, toward the small weyrwoman. "S'mir can walk you out?"
Perhaps Roa's chin tips up just a smidge at the way both men are so quick to cover for her show of weakness. But if her lips part so that she can say something in defense of her own fortitude, by the time the words travel from thought to tongue, that plan has already been revised. "Limited traffic to Five Mines," she agrees with a small nod as she pushes herself up into a stand, "and none from the Weyr for the time being." But after the statement she too looks towards R'vain, brows lifted in question. This was what they had agreed, yes? Assuming R'vain has nothing to add or modify to that statement she smiles quietly to Sorel. "Thank you for seeing us at such an unusual hour." S'mir is given a nod as well.
R'vain lowers his chin the least increment, his attention still more on his Weyrwoman than on their Nabolese Lord. But Sorel's words require reply, social and politic, and the Weyrleader obliges as best he can with a grin that wants badly to be a scowl, lip twitching against that impulse. "Thank you, Lord. S'mir." R'vain steps back to clear the way for the brownrider to lead, and for Roa to precede him, and flicks a ruddy brow at the Lord Nabol before trailing them out.
S'mir obliges, opening the door and waiting in the hallway for the weyrleaders to join him. He shuts the door after them, leaving Sorel to begin his 'polite' missive to his cousin Odern, then moves along down the hallway with expectation the other riders will do so as well. "If you have any need of me, sir," he notes as he paces R'vain, "Avornath and I are at your service." A salute, then a glance at the weyrwoman and a salute for her, too; if she obliges him he'll speed his step down the hallway and leave the leading pair in relative privacy.
"Lord Nabol," Roa offers, as a parting farewell, the same words she offered as a greeting. Then she falls into step behind S'mir and ahead of the weyrleader and moves down the hall until they're away from Sorel and the brownrider halts. For S'mir's words and his offer, Roa returns the salute with a sort of clean and crisp sincerity that is usually lacking in the gesture when she give it. Once the two of them are alone and S'mir departed, she looks up and over at the Weyrleader, mouth curling into a weary smile. "Could have gone worse," she says. "Lots worse. Good first step, I think."
R'vain returns S'mir's salute as well; as the watchrider's pace accelerates, the Weyrleader's slows down. He tips his head down toward Roa with a twitch of a grin, pleased as he could be expected to be. "Think if we intend t'get any of them out of there we might have a tougher road than we'd like. He," Lord Sorel, indicated by a backwards little jerk of his ruddy head, "is focused on doing nothing that'll upset th'Conclave. Not that I blame him--" The twitchy grin broadens a little, turning tired and knowing, and for a moment the Weyrleader seems closer to forty turns than he does on most days. "Think I can sympathize," he admits, gruff. "What d'you figure on next?"
"Next," Roa considers, canting her head to the side. "We go home. You touch base with the Guard, see if anything pressing needs to get dealt with. I'll peek in on the weyrlings and Issa and D'ven. Then we sleep. In the morning you go see M'lik, I go see the Headmaster and, before that, I'd like to tell R'en what happened. He ought to hear it, and he ought to hear it from one of us, and he takes bad news better from me than from most folks." The weyrwoman crosses her arms over her chest. "And then we figure out how to tell the Weyr what's happened and why we're no longer flying over Five Mines."
"Take a leash with you," rumbles R'vain, and says no more on the topic of R'en. "And we ain't goin' t'stop flying over. Just fighting 'fall," grins the Weyrleader, tipping another glance down at the Weyrwoman before putting out beside her his hand, broad and palm-up, half a courtly gesture (ha) and half a plead that she uncross her arms and relax her posture before they emerge into nightfall in the Hold's courtyard. "We have t'have sweepriders. No landings. I'll inform th'wingleaders and check over th'assignments. Um." The muscles beneath his eyes twitch and, just a step before the threshold, before opening the doors that will release them into the courtyard where Ruvoth awaits, R'vain stops short and turns toward Roa, suddenly frowning. "Y'think they have charts?"
For the leash comment, the weyrwoman snorts softly and shakes her head. Roa has nothing to say about fall or sweepriders. She glances down at the offered paw and at her own arms, and exhales softly. "Have to work on that," she mutters. Her arms drop to her side and her much-smaller hand is placed in R'vain's. "They should have charts," she tells him quietly. "They had them when they flew Nabol before."
R'vain replies with a rumble, his paw curving a little beneath her little fingers, though not quite encasing them. Instead his thumb comes down lightly on the back of her hand and outlines a few idle strokes there, meant to be comforting, while his mind seems mostly elsewhere. "Want t'make sure they ain't short anything. Ain't goin' t'look good f'any of us if they screw up. Bad f'Nabol first and foremost. Bad f'me." Well, it's true. May as well say it. "We can send 'em th'predictions and local charts just in case, and that'll be reason enough t'send a messenger. And a messenger can carry a warning. T'let 'em know they have t'do it. So there's no mistakes."
Her hand stays calm and still, no response either way for R'vain's attempts at comfort. Roa gives a small nod and asks only, "Who'll we send?" And then they're stepping out into the night air and making their calm and leisurely way towards the fireheights.
Time: Night on Day 1, Month 8, Turn 3
Players: R'vain, Roa, Sorel (NPC), S'mir (NPC)
Scene: The Weyrleadership touches base with Lord Sorel and begins to decide what's to be done about the exiles at Five Mines.
S'mir is one of the Reaches' oldest riders. He and his brown Avornath have been limited to watch duties for almost a decade now, and those duties suit him well: the old fellow, crusty as he comes off, has a quick wit tempered by a wise tongue, a combination that makes him most welcome with most of the Holders whose lands he stands guard over. His place is especially assured now that Thread falls; too old, some would argue, to learn new tricks, Avornath is nevertheless sharp-eyed and reliably dedicated to his task. The aging brownpair, previously oft-stationed at High Reaches Hold, is one of R'vain's favorites for Nabol now that Odern is setting up shop out there at Five Mines. So it's likely no surprise that Avornath greets Ruvoth from the fireheights with a soft bellow - but Avornath is riderless up there, just now. He welcomes visitors by his lonesome.
The explanation for this is simple, and becomes obvious as a worried-faced young woman, some distant relation of Sorel's, leads the Weyrwoman and Weyrleader up to the library where Lord Nabol, like his infamous predecessor, greets company. The heavy door stands open, and the woman gestures R'vain and Roa to be welcome inside. Within, Sorel paces from a table bearing drink to one bearing glasses and a tray almost six feet away - an arrangement that seems to be created solely to keep his young feet moving - while S'mir stands a frowning, tension-filled guard in a back corner, arms crossed. His position gives him the advantage on the Lord in noticing their company has arrived, and he greets them by speaking their titles as well as by salute, so as to call Sorel's attention.
Riding on Ruvoth, or any dragon that is not her own, always seems a bit to Roa like trying to fit into someone else's clothing. But the situation has necessitated she scramble atop a bronze, and if the travel is a touch disorienting, the weyrwoman has regained her quiet poise by the time they reach Lord Sorel's library. She is dressed in lighter clothing this time than their last visit, and, also different, her knot is pinned to the shoulder of her shirt so that it is vaguely visible while she wears a coat, but will become continually present once that coat is removed. "Lord Nabol," the little weyrwoman says by way of greeting as she slips inside. And then there is a nod for S'mir and his own title murmured in soft offering. Once over the threshold, she waits for R'vain to join her before moving any further into the room.
R'vain has gone to no trouble where presentation is concerned. He wears his leathers, his knot on his jacket, a red shirt that makes his eyes beautiful but his complexion monstrous, and some but not all of the gear expected of a rider making a trip between. By the time they're at Sorel's doorway he's peeled down the jacket and stuffed the gloves and cap into its pockets and folded the whole thing lovely over his arm. No amount of grace can make his expression anything but roughly controlled, and S'mir gets only a green glance for his trouble. "Lord Sorel," rumbles the Weyrleader, a tidy little counterpoint to Roa's greeting, then steps forward into rank and file beside her.
"Weyrwoman," replies Sorel, paused halfway between drinks and glasses with a pitcher of something juice-like in one hand. "Weyrleader." He manages something of a smile, tense and hesitating. "S'mir was so good as to alert me of your visit. I trust your dragons are getting on - ? I hate to have them disturbed on an - evening like this." He lets all of those words - they sound a little practiced, like perhaps the young Lord gave some advance thought to what he'd say when the Weyrleaders arrived - echo in a moment's silence, then adds a hapless little shrug. What can you say? It's not like evenings 'like this' come along often. He regains his lanky gait and pours juice into two glasses. "Can I get you anything to drink?"
"I'm all right, thank you," Roa murmurs, though her eyes flick again to S'mir. "Tialith is doing well. She's working to restore the weyr's calm as quickly as possible. Which is to say," and here the weyrwoman's lips tip up into a tiny smile, "not all together so very quickly. Avornath is himself again?" This last is intended for S'mir. But then, to Sorel, she queries softly, "How much have you been informed, and how much is still supposition? We'll answer what we know, though it isn't much, yet."
"Avornath keeps watch," S'mir replies, with a respectful tip of head and a dry bit of smile, to his Weyrwoman's query. When is Avornath not himself?
"Sure," comes R'vain's swift reply, too easy, too instinctive, to Sorel's offer of drinks. He prowls inward, looking for a less awkward spot to stand around and not sit down, since the Lord seems fixated on being a squirrely sort of host. He appends one question only to all of Roa's: "Are th'hold's folk all settled?"
Sorel cannot accomplish what his watchrider does - dry amusement. The Lord's smiles are false, anxious, forced. They are not meant to deceive so much as to convey comfort, and at this they are likely to absolutely fail. "The juice is sort of exotic," he remarks, nervously fixated on his own topic ahead of his Weyrwoman's. "Lord Greenfields sent it at the end of their harvest last turn." This is called 'babbling.' Sorel realizes it, in a moment, and puts down the pitcher so he can take up a glass and swift-step over to R'vain with it. "I have wine also, Weyrleader." He replies at last, slowly, the questions they've asked. "S'mir has said the queen who started the cry was once Reachian," admits the Lord, with a glance back at the brownrider implicated. Then he looks into R'vain's face - they are of like heights, if not builds - and smiles what might at last pass for a real smile, if a wispy one. "They will be. My cousins and assistants spread the word that if a dragon has need, others will answer. If there is something that can be done for what caused them pain, the Weyr will tend to it. But - " His shoulders rise and fall, another helpless little shrug. "S'mir seems to think - " Sorel steps back, clearing space between himself and the broad weyrleader, to look back at the brownrider for help.
"They have six dead," S'mir provides, unfolding his arms and stepping only a few paces forward. One hand opens into an upward-facing palm, gesticulative. "There's nothing we can do to fix that; they went between. The question now is whether Nenuith just brought her brood, or whether - well, I fall into a realm of speculation and rumor at this point, Weyrwoman. Weyrleader." From one to the other of his young (relatively) leaders, S'mir nods.
The weyrwoman offers her weyrleader a brief glance before she speaks again. "So far as we are able to tell," she begins carefully, "there is more than just weyrlings by a significant amount. We think it is the island's entire compliment of dragons, and that means it's possible that more than just the riders and their lifemates have come."
"Sixtyish pairs," R'vain agrees in a rumble. "Their-- they should only have half that in weyrling-age dragons, give or take." Of non-riders he says nothing; of any number of things he /could/ say he says nothing, choosing instead to wrap a paw around the glass of juice he's been given and rumble lowly, "S'fine," with a jerk of his chin to the drink. A glance at Roa, a lift of the glass-- you want some?-- and the Weyrleader waits to hear their host's thoughts, mouth broad and thin.
"You believe Diya did go to live among the - exiled peoples, then," Sorel assimilates, after a moment's quiet in which he tugs on one earlobe, thoughtful. "And that she's brought them 'home.'" He wriggles a morose little smile around that word. "Do you have proof of this? Are we presently obliged? At the moment there's not even an authority to which we could turn them over. And - " The morose smile becomes more squirrelly still and the young, lean Lord Nabol backs up to his table boasting carafes and pitchers to pick up a pot, likely klah. "I must admit I'm not sure I have the muscle to 'turn over' anyone at Five Mines, Weyrleaders. Not that I should like that repeated."
"We believe that Diya left to live with those on the western islands," the weyrwoman agrees with a small nod, addressing Sorel before a small shake of her head turns away R'vain's offer of juice, "and we believe she lives with them still. The only proof we have is what our dragons have heard, but they do not lie about such things, nor are they often mistaken when it comes to detecting one another." Roa's hands clasp lightly in front of her. "I don't imagine there is any single hold with the muscle, as you put it, to manage an entire wing of dragons. This has never...I cannot think of a time when any number of dragons couldn't be clearly linked to one of the Weyrs, and I'm not sure...Some could argue that as holds are autonomous and they are on Nabol's land, you are the authority. Some might say it's us, as they're dragons within our coverage area. Some might say each rider's original weyr is responsible for their own. I don't...this hasn't happened before. I think everyone would agree that as they are on Nabol's land, you, as Lord, have a right in some way or another to want them on or off or to extend some form of contact or authority. Should you ask for High Reaches assistance in an official capacity, that authority would then also extend to us and the Weyr."
R'vain shrugs off Roa's defiance of juice and takes refuge in the glass himself. He tips it up and drinks, then lowers the glass and his head both while musing over the taste of the stuff and swallowing, or more to the point, while listening with keen attentiveness to what Roa says. The more of it there is, the narrower his unhappy green eyes become. "Given we're assuming they have particular criminals amongst 'em," let's just get that out in the air right now, "some would argue we're all acting in gross misconduct t'be standing here talking about 'em instead of acting on their presence." The Weyrleader heaves a rough sigh, miserable, and raises his glass for another gulp. Before he takes it, he appends, "Fact is we have t'seem t'be doing, or about t'do, something."
"I certainly have a right where wanting them on or off my land is in question," Sorel agrees, for a moment almost prim in his pause, beaked nose up, gaze focused on a wall hanging behind the table with the drinks upon it. Then he turns around, better composed with his fidgety little grin, to approach the tray with glasses and cups to pour klah. As he does so, S'mir steps forward - apparently this drink is meant for him, long-delayed as it is. "And I could, Weyrleader, send some sort of remark to that effect to my cousin." Sorel looks up at R'vain with a twitch of tense bemusement: right, -that- will do a lot of good, sir. "Aside from the illusion of action I am afraid I am not prepared to accomplish much. Weyrwoman - do you think the Weyr's assistance, in an official capacity as you say, is available?" He pauses a moment to show Roa his sudden, if less winning than sometimes, smile. "If that invented authority does come to extend to you as a result - is it worth it?"
She listens as R'vain and then Odern speak, but at the question addressed specifically to her, Roa offers a small nod. "Assistance is most assuredly available, although what, exactly, it will entail..." her faint smile shifts from comforting to rueful, "will depend on various things. In some ways, the Instigators are beyond just us. The whole of Pern addressed them before. Probably, the whole of Pern will want to do so again. But I imagine organizing such a thing will take time, and until it all gets sorted, having the Weyr offer you support seems a wise and prudent thing to do. We'd do our utmost to keep your people safe and them contained."
"Conclave, Grand Conclave," R'vain mutters and, having had his apparent fill of standing around drinking juice, puts the glass down on the nearest handy flat surface and stalks down a chair. "Your place t'call 'em, Lord." His prey chosen, he slumps into a seat and looks up from it at Roa, brows drawn heavy over his painfully bright gaze. "Contained," he echoes.
"Contained," adds Sorel, with a curious look over at the weyrwoman, then a return to the safety of his twitchy little nervous smile. He remains that way, obviously nervous, while S'mir picks up his cup of klah and retreats in silence. The young Lord Nabol then pours a second and lifts it, breathing the acrid steam. It seems to settle him, and he goes on after. "Containment has value. If I must request a Conclave or greater - " He will not quite repeat what the Weyrleader said, yet. "It will take time to convene and deliberate. I may meanwhile send a request for an explanation of some kind to my cousin and have my guard and the Weyr's authority to back up that - polite communication." After a sip of his klah he asks, "How do you propose to facilitate containment? I would rather not make any show of force - prematurely. Especially without knowing in certainty that Conclave will support it."
The weyrwoman glances towards her Weyrleader before she speaks again. She has remained standing and seems to have no interest in sitting just at the moment. For a beat, blue eyes meet green, but then she's turning back to Sorel. "With your agreement, we'd stop flying fall above Five Mines and her territories. I can only imagine that if Odern has facilitated their arrival, he expects them to meet threadfall. So. We let them. We let them fly fall. We let them ride sweeps. We let them occupy themselves with surviving, and keep them from occupying themselves with doing more. Thirty mature dragons, less than thirty more still weyrlings. They can manage falls, but not without all of them rested, alert, training. It would give us time. Give you time."
R'vain provides, to all of this, only a nod and a surly look as his approval. In this moment, the Weyrwoman plans and her Weyrleader approves (or complains churlishly)-- so it seems.
Sorel attends closely, over the rim of his cup, to Roa's remarks. He does glance at the weyrleader - a moment goes by in which the larger man's silence would be welcome to leave in favor of a few words - and then at S'mir, too, but in the end Lord Nabol is obliged to speak. He sighs lightly and smiles and, only a little bit good-naturedly put-upon, does so. "As long as you believe they have numbers enough to protect the land and people, I think I must agree, Weyrwoman. The simple withdrawal of service is - less aggressive - I like it."
"I believe they do," Roa agrees quietly. "We'll make sure they do, but I wouldn't suggest it otherwise. Will you keep us updated on your progress with the other holds? And we'll let you know what the other weyrs have to say about the situation. I would prefer, as much as possible, to keep violence out of this. From either side." One hand lifts briefly, fingers curled save for the thumb and index finger that seem ready to pinch something. The way the weyrwoman begins to duck her head down, likely, it's the bridge of her nose. But she catches herself, the motion halting before it gets farther than a tiny nod, and her hand falls back into her lap.
"S'good of you t'ask," rumbles R'vain somewhere under Roa's words, to Lord Sorel, as a temperance for his Weyrwoman's assertion she wouldn't leave Five Mines without coverage if she didn't think they could handle it. It's her the Weyrleader's watching, and her aborted motion seems to be his cue-- as soon as her thumb and forefinger raise, as soon as her head bows down, he launches up out of his chair and paws up his juice along the way. "Probably behoove us t'lock down traffic in and out of th'Hold-- Five Mines-- until you and-- y'cousin-- are on trading terms. If you agree, Lord Sorel?"
"I think we would all be most grateful if this situation did not need to come to blows," Sorel agrees, with a tip of his head to the weyrwoman. He looks politely away after that, when she seems to be so suddenly exhausted, and his bright eyes fall on the weyrleader in her stead. He replies first to the notion of closed trade with a murmur, then with a sip of his klah, then by putting down the cup on the tray it came from. "I would not wish to deprive the people of Five Mines of base necessities, of crucial supplies. To keep traffic to a minimum, however, seems proper. There is, after all, widespread belief that Five Mines is a dangerous place." A small smile. "I think I should let you return home, weyrleader," appends Sorel then, with a glance, significant if tiny, toward the small weyrwoman. "S'mir can walk you out?"
Perhaps Roa's chin tips up just a smidge at the way both men are so quick to cover for her show of weakness. But if her lips part so that she can say something in defense of her own fortitude, by the time the words travel from thought to tongue, that plan has already been revised. "Limited traffic to Five Mines," she agrees with a small nod as she pushes herself up into a stand, "and none from the Weyr for the time being." But after the statement she too looks towards R'vain, brows lifted in question. This was what they had agreed, yes? Assuming R'vain has nothing to add or modify to that statement she smiles quietly to Sorel. "Thank you for seeing us at such an unusual hour." S'mir is given a nod as well.
R'vain lowers his chin the least increment, his attention still more on his Weyrwoman than on their Nabolese Lord. But Sorel's words require reply, social and politic, and the Weyrleader obliges as best he can with a grin that wants badly to be a scowl, lip twitching against that impulse. "Thank you, Lord. S'mir." R'vain steps back to clear the way for the brownrider to lead, and for Roa to precede him, and flicks a ruddy brow at the Lord Nabol before trailing them out.
S'mir obliges, opening the door and waiting in the hallway for the weyrleaders to join him. He shuts the door after them, leaving Sorel to begin his 'polite' missive to his cousin Odern, then moves along down the hallway with expectation the other riders will do so as well. "If you have any need of me, sir," he notes as he paces R'vain, "Avornath and I are at your service." A salute, then a glance at the weyrwoman and a salute for her, too; if she obliges him he'll speed his step down the hallway and leave the leading pair in relative privacy.
"Lord Nabol," Roa offers, as a parting farewell, the same words she offered as a greeting. Then she falls into step behind S'mir and ahead of the weyrleader and moves down the hall until they're away from Sorel and the brownrider halts. For S'mir's words and his offer, Roa returns the salute with a sort of clean and crisp sincerity that is usually lacking in the gesture when she give it. Once the two of them are alone and S'mir departed, she looks up and over at the Weyrleader, mouth curling into a weary smile. "Could have gone worse," she says. "Lots worse. Good first step, I think."
R'vain returns S'mir's salute as well; as the watchrider's pace accelerates, the Weyrleader's slows down. He tips his head down toward Roa with a twitch of a grin, pleased as he could be expected to be. "Think if we intend t'get any of them out of there we might have a tougher road than we'd like. He," Lord Sorel, indicated by a backwards little jerk of his ruddy head, "is focused on doing nothing that'll upset th'Conclave. Not that I blame him--" The twitchy grin broadens a little, turning tired and knowing, and for a moment the Weyrleader seems closer to forty turns than he does on most days. "Think I can sympathize," he admits, gruff. "What d'you figure on next?"
"Next," Roa considers, canting her head to the side. "We go home. You touch base with the Guard, see if anything pressing needs to get dealt with. I'll peek in on the weyrlings and Issa and D'ven. Then we sleep. In the morning you go see M'lik, I go see the Headmaster and, before that, I'd like to tell R'en what happened. He ought to hear it, and he ought to hear it from one of us, and he takes bad news better from me than from most folks." The weyrwoman crosses her arms over her chest. "And then we figure out how to tell the Weyr what's happened and why we're no longer flying over Five Mines."
"Take a leash with you," rumbles R'vain, and says no more on the topic of R'en. "And we ain't goin' t'stop flying over. Just fighting 'fall," grins the Weyrleader, tipping another glance down at the Weyrwoman before putting out beside her his hand, broad and palm-up, half a courtly gesture (ha) and half a plead that she uncross her arms and relax her posture before they emerge into nightfall in the Hold's courtyard. "We have t'have sweepriders. No landings. I'll inform th'wingleaders and check over th'assignments. Um." The muscles beneath his eyes twitch and, just a step before the threshold, before opening the doors that will release them into the courtyard where Ruvoth awaits, R'vain stops short and turns toward Roa, suddenly frowning. "Y'think they have charts?"
For the leash comment, the weyrwoman snorts softly and shakes her head. Roa has nothing to say about fall or sweepriders. She glances down at the offered paw and at her own arms, and exhales softly. "Have to work on that," she mutters. Her arms drop to her side and her much-smaller hand is placed in R'vain's. "They should have charts," she tells him quietly. "They had them when they flew Nabol before."
R'vain replies with a rumble, his paw curving a little beneath her little fingers, though not quite encasing them. Instead his thumb comes down lightly on the back of her hand and outlines a few idle strokes there, meant to be comforting, while his mind seems mostly elsewhere. "Want t'make sure they ain't short anything. Ain't goin' t'look good f'any of us if they screw up. Bad f'Nabol first and foremost. Bad f'me." Well, it's true. May as well say it. "We can send 'em th'predictions and local charts just in case, and that'll be reason enough t'send a messenger. And a messenger can carry a warning. T'let 'em know they have t'do it. So there's no mistakes."
Her hand stays calm and still, no response either way for R'vain's attempts at comfort. Roa gives a small nod and asks only, "Who'll we send?" And then they're stepping out into the night air and making their calm and leisurely way towards the fireheights.