Options.
The scoop: T'ral and Ginella discuss the new exile arrivals, and options for dealing with them.
Darageth's been hunting, and he brings with him the smell of the hunting grounds when he lands. T'ral was seated on the edge of his ledge, legs hanging over, watching his lifemate across the bowl. He's forced to jump up and trot backwards to make way for his dragon, wheeling about and turning to walk into the weyr, pulling off the jacket that's kept him warm, and cupping his hands to blow on them. It's dusk outside, and the air is cooling.
Inside, Ginella is lying on her stomach on the couch, feet up in the air, pen between her teeth. There's a pile of hide in front of her covered with notes, along with a book tucked beside her and a few more on the low table in front of the couch. She's only a little bit ink-smudged, and pauses in writing to look up over to back of the couch as T'ral enters. "He all done, or have you just turned into an icicle?"
"Both," T'ral replies, pulling off his coat, and dumping it on the back of her couch as he passes it, then reaching down to press cold fingers to the back of her neck. They're reclaimed quickly, and he crosses over to the hearth, crouching down to inspect debris of the fire of the night before. "Have to ask D'ven, he's yammering on about a couple of the weyrlings trying to hunt the other day." The prospect of the nearly silent Darageth yammering about anything is glossed over, but T'ral falls silent. Weyrlings have been yammered about on other grounds than that recently, and that hangs in the air as he looks across at the hearth.
Ginella squeaks and squirms away from his fingers, but he moves away too quickly for her to swat him properly, and she falls back to the couch, rolling onto her side to watch him at the hearth. "Yammering? I doubt that," she remarks, chewing on the end of the pen absently. There's a pause, as she just watches to see if he'll make tea or something else she can drink, then asks, "He said anything about the others?"
"Mmm," T'ral replies for the correction, twisting around to face the fire so he can scrape out the hearth a little, and make room to lay a new fire. This he does haphazardly, then reaches up and gropes around on the mantlepiece for flint, without looking. "Haven't asked him," the brownrider replies, striking, and getting sparks. "He's got his hands full, he doesn't need me fussing at him too."
"I meant Dara," Ginella clarifies, "Not D'ven. Wondered if he might have heard anything. Guess he doesn't talk enough to've heard much, probably." She continues to watch T'ral with a the fire, wiggling the pen between her teeth thoughtfully. "What do you make of it?"
"Oh," T'ral replies, pausing to blow on the fire until sparks become tiny flames, that lick up around the kindling. "Dara hears plenty. Like you say, he doesn't talk much, so he's got plenty of time to listen." The fire begins to take hold, and he he tends it carefully. "Damned if I know. They've got a queen there, that narrows the number of ways to send them back."
"Are you going to make tea?" Ginny asks, bending an elbow into the couch and propping her head on her hand, "Because I'll have some, if you do." A winning smile accompanies this request, and then she sets the pen down, 'hmmm'ing. "I don't doubt that sending them back will be difficult. Why do you think they came to begin with?"
"Getting there, getting there," T'ral replies with a laugh, looking back to see the smile he knows will be waiting. "Damned if I know why they came back. Why now? I suppose they've got his Lordship now who'll take them, but he's got a two-bit holding in the back of nowhere, that's hardly appealing."
"Okay," Ginny replies, still smiling as he turns back towards her, "I was just checking." She shifts her head on her hand, flicking at her hair with a hand and shaking her head, "I'm not sure either. I mean, I guess the support of an ousted holder in a backwater nowhere is better than no support, but why now? Why not wait until he's built up power? I guess probably he wants them to retake Nabol, but I can't see how they'd think the rest of Pern would just let them do it."
"Who says he's building up power?" T'ral asks, poking at the fire as it begins to crackle. Coal is added, and he settles back on his haunches to watch the fire take hold. "That's what gets me. They can't imagine anybody will let them do it. They'll get sent back somehow, and what was the point?"
"I'm sure he's at least -trying- to build up power," Ginella points out, "What else would his purpose be?" She eyes the fire, and shrugs. "I don't know, I don't get it. They've got one gold, but that's it. What else can make them think they won't get sent back or even killed, this time? What could they possibly have or be planning that would make anyone willing to bargain with them? Occupying Five Mines can't be enough, it's just a bunch of criminals. That can't be their whole plan, unless every last one of them is an idiot."
"They must think it because they've got the gold," T'ral replies. "Plenty of men wouldn't mind flying one. Perhaps they think another'll show up, and they've got riders who can catch her. If they start building up their own weyr, perhaps they think we'll have to deal with them. It'll take a long time to get that far, though. Nenuith's not that young, these days."
"And she didn't clutch that long ago, either," Ginella points out, "If they're hoping to build up a weyr, it'll take turns, unless they can recruit another gold, and I can't see how they'd manage that. There's no reason to let them stay there for turns that I can see, no way for them to have that sort of time they'd need to get that foothold. It doesn't make any sense."
"What's that, Sunshine?" T'ral teases, poking the fire once more, so that it blazes up, and rising to his feet. "Living in a hole in the ground doesn't appeal to you? I guess they can cross you off the list of potential recruits, then." He pulls the lid off the kettle, looks inside to check the water level, then replaces the lid, and swings it out over the fire. "I suppose they're better off on the mainland than on the island. It's a step forward, and we're all sitting here wondering how to get them back where they belong, aren't we?"
Ginella snorts. "It sounds lovely, actually," she jokes, "I'd go in a second if I thought you'd come with me. I know how -you- feel about mud, though." She sticks her tongue out at him and flops back down, eyeing the kettle as he finally sets it up. "I guess. Never having been to the island, I couldn't say. Personally, I'd find an isolated tropical island a lot more fun than living with crazy Odern at his stupid fake hold and having all the rest of Pern breathing down my neck." A hand through her hair, and she shakes her head again. "It should be possible. Just get a big enough group of golds together and have them compel them to leave."
"And, hole in the ground," T'ral replies, watching the fire. "I'd hit my head on the roof all the time in the weyrs they'd have there." He looks over as she continues, and laughs, eyes on her face for a moment, softening with affection. "What do you reckon the minimum we could do would be, to get ourselves our own island? Does sound kind of appealing when you put it that way." He looks back to check on the kettle. "I guess that's what they'll arrive at, sooner or later."
Ginella laughs, "You would, that's true," she agrees, grinning warmly at him. Tea is glance at, then he gets another smile, shaking her head. "Oh, I don't know. We could just go spend a few days with the exiles. Maybe that'd do it? Steal a bunch of food? Or we could just go, leave some note about feeling awful about our crimes... let them try to figure it out." She shifts hides out from under her arm and tosses them onto the table, resettling. "I hope they do it sooner. No reason to wait. Every day they're here it will get harder to make them go."
"There's kids with them," T'ral replies, as the kettle begins to spit steam. "The ones that got taken by their parents. They can't all have impressed. Do any of them get to stay behind, do you say?"
"Get to stay behind here when we send the parents back?" Ginella asks, shrugging. "I don't see why their parents would want that. And we let them go to begin with, why keep them now? I suppose it would be safer. Keep them here, don't let their population grow, don't give them a pool to Impress from, keep their numbers down as much as possible."
"Then there's that," T'ral replies, turning away to rescue the kettle from the stove, and begin making tea. "What will we do about their next weyrlings? Nenuith'll get there again eventually, and they'll run out of kids." He shakes his head, water sloshing carefully into each mug. "Maybe she'll stay."
"Maybe we keep her," Ginella agrees, "I'm not sure how exactly, but I bet there are ways. That would be the most effective way to cut them off. It depends how drastically they're willing to act, really. I'm sure there are ways to sterilize golds, it's just a question of whether anyone's really willing to take that step, or if some alternative can be found."
"We can't keep her if she won't stay," T'ral replies, turning finally with a mug in each hand. "It'd take a wing of queens, and you all have other things to be doing with your day." He shakes his head, handing a mug down, carefully turning it so she can take the handle.
"There are things that could be done, I'm sure," Ginella replies, leaning forward to carefully take the mug, blowing lightly across the top before taking a sip, "It is, like I said, just a question of how far people are willing to go, and I have no idea how far that is. I suppose I ought to talk to M'arik sometime soon, see what he's thinking." She takes another sip of tea, and grumbles, "I have so much writing to do."
"You ought to talk to him and tell him what everyone else is thinking," T'ral replies, wrapping a large hand around his own mug, and taking a sip. Then he leans down slowly, and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Get back to your writing. I'm going to get Dara to roll off the ledge and take me down so I can wash, defrost."
"So I'll have to find out what everyone else is thinking, first," Ginella points out, making a bit of a face around the edge of her mug. Another sip, and then she tilts her head up and smiles for the kiss, nodding as he moves away. "Alright. If I get done soon enough I'll come meet you down," she says, mug lifted as soon as there's space, then set on the floor, so she can roll back over to her work.
"Better start asking them, then," T'ral replies, blowing on his mug in an ineffectual effort to cool it. "You know, in a subtle way. That's what you've been spending all your time learning, right?" He ambles around the weyr in silence, locating a towel, a fresh shirt, gulping tea intermittently. "See you down there, Sunshine," he calls over his shoulder, flashing her a grin before he disappears out and onto the ledge.
Darageth's been hunting, and he brings with him the smell of the hunting grounds when he lands. T'ral was seated on the edge of his ledge, legs hanging over, watching his lifemate across the bowl. He's forced to jump up and trot backwards to make way for his dragon, wheeling about and turning to walk into the weyr, pulling off the jacket that's kept him warm, and cupping his hands to blow on them. It's dusk outside, and the air is cooling.
Inside, Ginella is lying on her stomach on the couch, feet up in the air, pen between her teeth. There's a pile of hide in front of her covered with notes, along with a book tucked beside her and a few more on the low table in front of the couch. She's only a little bit ink-smudged, and pauses in writing to look up over to back of the couch as T'ral enters. "He all done, or have you just turned into an icicle?"
"Both," T'ral replies, pulling off his coat, and dumping it on the back of her couch as he passes it, then reaching down to press cold fingers to the back of her neck. They're reclaimed quickly, and he crosses over to the hearth, crouching down to inspect debris of the fire of the night before. "Have to ask D'ven, he's yammering on about a couple of the weyrlings trying to hunt the other day." The prospect of the nearly silent Darageth yammering about anything is glossed over, but T'ral falls silent. Weyrlings have been yammered about on other grounds than that recently, and that hangs in the air as he looks across at the hearth.
Ginella squeaks and squirms away from his fingers, but he moves away too quickly for her to swat him properly, and she falls back to the couch, rolling onto her side to watch him at the hearth. "Yammering? I doubt that," she remarks, chewing on the end of the pen absently. There's a pause, as she just watches to see if he'll make tea or something else she can drink, then asks, "He said anything about the others?"
"Mmm," T'ral replies for the correction, twisting around to face the fire so he can scrape out the hearth a little, and make room to lay a new fire. This he does haphazardly, then reaches up and gropes around on the mantlepiece for flint, without looking. "Haven't asked him," the brownrider replies, striking, and getting sparks. "He's got his hands full, he doesn't need me fussing at him too."
"I meant Dara," Ginella clarifies, "Not D'ven. Wondered if he might have heard anything. Guess he doesn't talk enough to've heard much, probably." She continues to watch T'ral with a the fire, wiggling the pen between her teeth thoughtfully. "What do you make of it?"
"Oh," T'ral replies, pausing to blow on the fire until sparks become tiny flames, that lick up around the kindling. "Dara hears plenty. Like you say, he doesn't talk much, so he's got plenty of time to listen." The fire begins to take hold, and he he tends it carefully. "Damned if I know. They've got a queen there, that narrows the number of ways to send them back."
"Are you going to make tea?" Ginny asks, bending an elbow into the couch and propping her head on her hand, "Because I'll have some, if you do." A winning smile accompanies this request, and then she sets the pen down, 'hmmm'ing. "I don't doubt that sending them back will be difficult. Why do you think they came to begin with?"
"Getting there, getting there," T'ral replies with a laugh, looking back to see the smile he knows will be waiting. "Damned if I know why they came back. Why now? I suppose they've got his Lordship now who'll take them, but he's got a two-bit holding in the back of nowhere, that's hardly appealing."
"Okay," Ginny replies, still smiling as he turns back towards her, "I was just checking." She shifts her head on her hand, flicking at her hair with a hand and shaking her head, "I'm not sure either. I mean, I guess the support of an ousted holder in a backwater nowhere is better than no support, but why now? Why not wait until he's built up power? I guess probably he wants them to retake Nabol, but I can't see how they'd think the rest of Pern would just let them do it."
"Who says he's building up power?" T'ral asks, poking at the fire as it begins to crackle. Coal is added, and he settles back on his haunches to watch the fire take hold. "That's what gets me. They can't imagine anybody will let them do it. They'll get sent back somehow, and what was the point?"
"I'm sure he's at least -trying- to build up power," Ginella points out, "What else would his purpose be?" She eyes the fire, and shrugs. "I don't know, I don't get it. They've got one gold, but that's it. What else can make them think they won't get sent back or even killed, this time? What could they possibly have or be planning that would make anyone willing to bargain with them? Occupying Five Mines can't be enough, it's just a bunch of criminals. That can't be their whole plan, unless every last one of them is an idiot."
"They must think it because they've got the gold," T'ral replies. "Plenty of men wouldn't mind flying one. Perhaps they think another'll show up, and they've got riders who can catch her. If they start building up their own weyr, perhaps they think we'll have to deal with them. It'll take a long time to get that far, though. Nenuith's not that young, these days."
"And she didn't clutch that long ago, either," Ginella points out, "If they're hoping to build up a weyr, it'll take turns, unless they can recruit another gold, and I can't see how they'd manage that. There's no reason to let them stay there for turns that I can see, no way for them to have that sort of time they'd need to get that foothold. It doesn't make any sense."
"What's that, Sunshine?" T'ral teases, poking the fire once more, so that it blazes up, and rising to his feet. "Living in a hole in the ground doesn't appeal to you? I guess they can cross you off the list of potential recruits, then." He pulls the lid off the kettle, looks inside to check the water level, then replaces the lid, and swings it out over the fire. "I suppose they're better off on the mainland than on the island. It's a step forward, and we're all sitting here wondering how to get them back where they belong, aren't we?"
Ginella snorts. "It sounds lovely, actually," she jokes, "I'd go in a second if I thought you'd come with me. I know how -you- feel about mud, though." She sticks her tongue out at him and flops back down, eyeing the kettle as he finally sets it up. "I guess. Never having been to the island, I couldn't say. Personally, I'd find an isolated tropical island a lot more fun than living with crazy Odern at his stupid fake hold and having all the rest of Pern breathing down my neck." A hand through her hair, and she shakes her head again. "It should be possible. Just get a big enough group of golds together and have them compel them to leave."
"And, hole in the ground," T'ral replies, watching the fire. "I'd hit my head on the roof all the time in the weyrs they'd have there." He looks over as she continues, and laughs, eyes on her face for a moment, softening with affection. "What do you reckon the minimum we could do would be, to get ourselves our own island? Does sound kind of appealing when you put it that way." He looks back to check on the kettle. "I guess that's what they'll arrive at, sooner or later."
Ginella laughs, "You would, that's true," she agrees, grinning warmly at him. Tea is glance at, then he gets another smile, shaking her head. "Oh, I don't know. We could just go spend a few days with the exiles. Maybe that'd do it? Steal a bunch of food? Or we could just go, leave some note about feeling awful about our crimes... let them try to figure it out." She shifts hides out from under her arm and tosses them onto the table, resettling. "I hope they do it sooner. No reason to wait. Every day they're here it will get harder to make them go."
"There's kids with them," T'ral replies, as the kettle begins to spit steam. "The ones that got taken by their parents. They can't all have impressed. Do any of them get to stay behind, do you say?"
"Get to stay behind here when we send the parents back?" Ginella asks, shrugging. "I don't see why their parents would want that. And we let them go to begin with, why keep them now? I suppose it would be safer. Keep them here, don't let their population grow, don't give them a pool to Impress from, keep their numbers down as much as possible."
"Then there's that," T'ral replies, turning away to rescue the kettle from the stove, and begin making tea. "What will we do about their next weyrlings? Nenuith'll get there again eventually, and they'll run out of kids." He shakes his head, water sloshing carefully into each mug. "Maybe she'll stay."
"Maybe we keep her," Ginella agrees, "I'm not sure how exactly, but I bet there are ways. That would be the most effective way to cut them off. It depends how drastically they're willing to act, really. I'm sure there are ways to sterilize golds, it's just a question of whether anyone's really willing to take that step, or if some alternative can be found."
"We can't keep her if she won't stay," T'ral replies, turning finally with a mug in each hand. "It'd take a wing of queens, and you all have other things to be doing with your day." He shakes his head, handing a mug down, carefully turning it so she can take the handle.
"There are things that could be done, I'm sure," Ginella replies, leaning forward to carefully take the mug, blowing lightly across the top before taking a sip, "It is, like I said, just a question of how far people are willing to go, and I have no idea how far that is. I suppose I ought to talk to M'arik sometime soon, see what he's thinking." She takes another sip of tea, and grumbles, "I have so much writing to do."
"You ought to talk to him and tell him what everyone else is thinking," T'ral replies, wrapping a large hand around his own mug, and taking a sip. Then he leans down slowly, and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Get back to your writing. I'm going to get Dara to roll off the ledge and take me down so I can wash, defrost."
"So I'll have to find out what everyone else is thinking, first," Ginella points out, making a bit of a face around the edge of her mug. Another sip, and then she tilts her head up and smiles for the kiss, nodding as he moves away. "Alright. If I get done soon enough I'll come meet you down," she says, mug lifted as soon as there's space, then set on the floor, so she can roll back over to her work.
"Better start asking them, then," T'ral replies, blowing on his mug in an ineffectual effort to cool it. "You know, in a subtle way. That's what you've been spending all your time learning, right?" He ambles around the weyr in silence, locating a towel, a fresh shirt, gulping tea intermittently. "See you down there, Sunshine," he calls over his shoulder, flashing her a grin before he disappears out and onto the ledge.