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The best way to get the better of people was to let them assume you were either stupid or unobservant. Moira, while she was truly neither, did this job well, sitting at her lunch table packed shoulder-to-shoulder with a slew of other candidates. The overcrowding was so prevalent in her life from the moment she woke up on the warm stone floor to the moment she laid back down on it. She elbowed another candidate away from her, glancing over at the other boy with a stare that said, 'Nothing personal, you just smell like sweat and dragon crap.' The glare was followed by an overly pleasant smile as she resumed stabbing her food aimlessly, eyes wandering about the room for things of interest. The area was packed beyond its capacity, dragons and humans alike jostling for space and food. At times Moira had to wonder why they hadn't branched off into a secondary weyr.

It was something she would worry about if she ever rose to a position where she had the authority to make that sort of difference. Until then, she would continue keenly watching the same bronze dragon and his rider. While some women might call the man attractive, Moira's interests were far from such things. She was here to learn, to Impress, and to ride. These three basic goals spurred her forward, through overcrowded classes, blistering heat, and a place that was full of the downright craziest people she'd ever met.

A small grin crossed her features, usually so very serious, as she took note of the goings on surrounding the bronze. She was a forward person, bolder perhaps than was good for her, so it was of no surprise when she shoved her tray away from her and pushed herself up from the table. The candidates to either side shifted to fill the gap like water into a vacant space. Moira rapped her spoon against the back of her knuckles as she approached the man, giving a few practice bats of her lashes before she slipped between two candidates to come into view.

Stage set. Lighting perfect. Action.

“Oh my!” She exclaimed with an exaggerated gasp, flattening a hand against her chest as she shuffled hurriedly over to the bronze, “Oh you poor, dear thing. Are you alright? Why, the crowding in here is just horrendous. I can't believe you aren't getting the respect a dragon of your stature deserves. You!” She rapped one of the Weyrfolk on the shoulder with a spoon, drawing her shoulders back and chin up in the manner in which she almost always carried herself; proudly. The man, a simple kitchen scullion, only looked up at her, but did not halt his cleaning. “Can't you see this place is just full to bursting? I mean, my shards, haven't you any respect for such a magnificent creature?” The hand that had been pressed to her chest gestured elaborately in the dragons direction. “You simply must inform the management about these conditions! The poor thing could have been injured, maimed, rendered unable to fight. Do you want that?”

The man stared at her blankly, dumbfounded by her near-drunken ranting.

“Well, do you! Do you have a family, sir?”

“Well, I.. yes. Two daughters and a wife,” he responded.

“And do you want them to die?”

“Do I.. bwuh?”

Moira cut him off abruptly, “Die, good sir. Do you want them to dee eye eee, die. You know, eaten by Thread? Disintegrated alive? Devoured? Interned? Buried? Deceased? Do you want to hear your poor girls cry while Thread eats up their bones?”

“Well, no, of course n-”

“And no father would! So why would you even risk such a magnificent creature, one who risks his life, his riders life,” she flung her hand again in the pairs direction, “in these conditions. Are these any conditions for the men and women who save your-" She paused for a long moment in thought, "Dreadfully sorry. What are your daughters names?” Moira forced a polite smile.

“Maliah and Vera,” he managed with a small voice.

“Yes! Are these any conditions for the men and women who save Maliah and Vera's tiny, innocent little lives?”

“Well I, I-” the man floundered, apparently flustered by the thought, “I suppose they aren't.”

“Then we agree! You go to management straight away, sir! Straight away! And you tell them that you simply will not stand to have your little girls perish because their would-have-been defenders perished beneath such filth and squalor.”

The man stared at Moira as though she were half-insane and half made sense, before giving a tiny nod and turning about to scuttle off into the kitchens. Moira gave a tiny, self-satisfied nod.

“And that,” she said, “Is acting. I'm not sure what you were doing,” she prodded his chest with a finger, “But I'm more interested in why you were doing it.”

If only Moira could hear the pairs thoughts, she might have pointed out just how wrong they were. Not that she was likely to do so, of course. The more they assumed about her – particularly incorrectly – the less work she needed to do to have the upper hand. And Moira was always in search of the upper hand. Controlling a situation was the key to success in any field, academic or practical. Moira smiled sweetly, a bit too sweetly for it to be sincere, and listened as Oasis spoke. Brows rose in an expression that said 'Really? That is sooooo interesting.' She clasped her hands in front of her, both fists wrapped around her spoon, and listened.

“Ah, yes,” she responded, “The type of man who impresses a bronze fussing over a bit of spilled food. The fortunes of mealtime, indeed. So - and I beg of you out of only the utmost curiosity - what is a growing dragon doing attending to meals in the kitchens? I assume the crowding issue hasn't escaped your notice, so my guess is that he demanded attendance because he simply had to have a taste of the chef's special?”

She leaned in close, cupping a hand around her mouth. Her whispering, however, was far too loud to actually be concerned with secrecy, “Just a heads up, it's really not that great. Overcooked as can be and just horribly underseasoned. Can't stomach the stuff myself.” She winked at the bronze before straightening her posture. It was like a flash flood, the way her expression fell to one of serious contemplation as she regarded the pair. She shifted between sarcasm and sincerity with ease. Yet she couldn't decide if they thought she was simply attention-seeking or if they thought her daft.

“Perhaps,” she continued, once more focusing her attention on O'asis. Her voice lowered, the din of mealtime drowning out her words to those who might have otherwise overheads, “But is it not more suspicious to focus on the women? If you tell most women anything, the entire Weyr will hear of it. They will also hear of who told her. Let them overhear it on their own. Let the gossip reach them from the drudges cleaning the mess. Put the idea out and let them think it was their own. People will fight harder for their own ideas than they will for those of another, no matter how strongly they might believe in it.” She took the mans hand as it was offered, using the spoon to push a chunk of dark hair out of her eyes before introducing herself.

“Moira.” She responded in a clipped, almost businesslike tone. The candidate dipped her head politely, as a new candidate should in respect for a bronzerider, and went so far as to give Uktenath a slight bow upon noticing the change eye color. Etiquette was something of which she knew a great deal, studious as she was. It was also something which meant a great deal to her. And while dragons did not attack humans, it simply wasn't proper to treat any of them with a lack of proper respect. Certainly not a bronze. “I mean no disrespect, Uktenath. I truly do not. However, if I question the situation, surely someone more intelligent and in a position to reprimand it might. I believe punishment would fall harder on an educated rider and his dragon than it would on a new candidate,” Moira pressed the back of one hand to her forehead, adjusting her voice to a dramatic weepy tone, “Just.. oh so desperate to be noticed.”

Her smile seemed sincere this time as she withdrew a small handkerchief from her pocket. Fortunately she hadn't had time to venture outdoors and get mussed up enough to find use for it, so the bit of cloth was still clean. “Might I atone for my first impression? I believe you have a bit of stew just beneath your jaw.”

Moira seemed unoffended by Uktenath's behavior. He had, after all, done her no persnal disrespect. Well, at least not that she'd been able to hear. She smiled fondly in response to O'asis apologetic look, appreciating a moment of witnessing the bond between dragon and rider. “No need for apologies,” she noted, “He has every right to his dignity.” That small smile stayed in place until O'asis posed the baited question, at which point her expression fell to one of thoughtful sadness.

“One doesn't need to take notes,” Moira said, glancing about pointedly. The spoon was used to gesture to the crowded tables, the quickly vanishing meals. The Weyr was in chaos with overcrowding. Many candidates were lazy and irreverent, able to skip out on their chores and the occasional lesson due to a simple lack of staff being available to keep up with who should be where, when, and doing what. People fell ill due to sickness that spread in such confinement. The conditions were in no way conducive to being in the physical and mental shape required – or at least preferred – of dragonriders.

Weyr's had once been a place of nobility and custom, and Moira paid a great deal of heed to such traditions. Her mother had raised them with military discipline as they grew out of childhood, a difficult but meaningful thing to endure. Morality, strength, pride, and nobility. These were qualities of importance to be utilized for the world as a whole, not only their own selfish wants.

“In what previous Pass could a candidate touch an unhatched egg, or be uneducated enough to even think of doing so?” Moira sighed, her expression a mix of sympathy and disgust. “Where does the blame lie, then? In the candidate or in those who enabled her ignorance?” Moira was unsure of the specifics of the event, but could only hope that the act was one of stupidity rather than malice. “Did she have any idea what might happen, or was it simply assumed that she knew such things about dragon incubation? What if, in her ignorance, she had harmed the new queen?” Moira shook her head, shoulders rolling off a shrug of dismissal. There was nothing she could do for the situation now.

“It is of no consequence if I sleep on the floor or don't own a chest,” Moira noted, “It does me no harm. But ignorance, a lack of understanding and knowledge,” there was a fire in Moira's eyes that spoke of her dedication to such principles, “that can harm the lot of us worse than the illness bred by such confinement.”

Moira listened intently. Intelligent though she may be, she was far more ignorant of the goings-on of her new home than O'asis was. To not heed the words of the bronze rider would have been an act of unthinkable stupidity unbecoming of the young Candidate. Her strange, pale features showed no trace of her former sarcasm, nor did her brow lift from its low position above slightly narrowed green eyes. Her teeth worked over her bottom lip as she considered his words carefully. When she'd approached the man only moments ago, she'd had not the slightest inkling that his intentions were so serious. Nor had she suspected they were so noble.

Still, she couldn't just turn away from something that was so clearly... right. No, there was no question as to whether or not she would play an active role. The question that did cloud up her thoughts, however, is exactly what role she might play. And how she would go about playing it.

She was clearly impressed by his intellect, as well as his cause, and did not mask it from her features.

O'asis was suggesting something that took both more cunning than the average person had, and potentially more sacrifice than they would be willing to make. Would Moira be willing to give up a shot at Impression if she was discovered as a conspirator and sent back to her Hold? Would she be willing to risk the violence of a riot and the possibility of a wounding that would make her incapable of Impressing, even if she were allowed to stand? Everything you do, you do for the good of all. Not for the good of one. Sometimes, the few must suffer so that the whole may thrive. Her mother's lesson rang clearly in her thoughts, and Moira's mind was set. The answer, she knew, was yes.

Whatever they planned, and whoever they planned it with, would have to have a very clear ending point, a singular goal. Without that, it could easily spiral out of control and prove disastrous. Worse, the focus of their anger could fall onto innocent targets. That was one price Moira could not rationalize paying. Not when there were other options. They needed a final goal that would force the hand of those capable of consenting to a second Weyr. It seems, from O'asis description, that things might spiral out of control at any time. They didn't have the luxury of giving it a second go should they fail to make a significant impression.

“We will have to wait at least a few sevendays,” she murmured in a way that was more thinking out loud than proposing an idea, turning over a developing plan in her head. Her gaze was focused upon some indistinguishable point in the distance as she pondered, tapping the rounded end of the spoon against the palm of her hand, “If we incite something now the target is going to be that unfortunate Candidate. There's been talk already,” Moira shook her head, remembering threats that were mostly hollow. People were foolish when it came to such matters, particularly when it came to meting out justice. In the grand scheme of things, the definitions of right and wrong were not so black and white, as simpler minds might think. Often enough, they were only slightly varying shades of gray. Deciphering to which side they leaned was often a nearly impossible task. If they were to fuel the fire now, that girls head would end up on a pike. No, they needed a slower, more gradual approach.

“If we want to go about this without putting innocent people in danger, we need to hit the population where it hurts. If we can consistently diminish the food supply, we can start rumors of a famine. If people are starving, they will be forced to barter for their own food. They won't have excess to buy from the craftsmen. If the craftsmen must significantly reduce their prices just to push product, they will complain. The people will complain when they can no longer afford food. They might even riot, but at least then they won't have a human target. Their anger will be entirely directed at those with the power to solve this problem. The riders will complain when there is not enough food to cover the newest hatchlings. With the overcrowding already increasing our needs, they can't possibly demand increased tithes just to cover the losses of one Weyr. Even the Holds will demand a second Weyr if they are to increase their contributions.”

Moira might have been suspicious of any man inviting to lead her away from a crowd and into a more secluded place. However, given both the nature of their conversation and the strict regulations to which Weyrlings were held – more specifically, those to which bronzeriders where held – Moira had nothing to fear. She trusted the man as far as she trusted anyone she had met thus far, and showed as much by simply nodding her agreement. Lost in her thoughts as she'd been, Moira had all too easily forgotten just how many ears could easily overhear.

It took a few elbows strategically placed in the ribcages and sides of less-than-patient occupants of the crowded cavern for Moira to clear her way through. More than once she slipped through the newly opened space just as the unfortunate recipient of her bony nudge began their search for the pesky assailant. If their gaze happened to fall upon O'asis, they quickly decided it simply wasn't worth fighting over. If someone else happened to wander through their field of vision, well... a few lunchroom brawls couldn't her her newfound cause.

Emerging from the lunchroom was quite similar to coming up for air, as Moira felt able to really breathe for the first time. She craned her neck to either side and stretched her cramped limbs thoroughly, before gesturing for O'asis to lead the way.

Absentmindedly, S'van poured himself a mug of klah and set the pot down. Mine. ... Hmm? Miiiine! The Weyrling blinked. What exactly was he-- Oh. Oh that. Yeah, Gall? Galliath! the Brown dragon insisted, sounding a bit indignant at the butchering that S'van was giving his name. Fine. What is it, Galliath? Picky dragon. Then again, dragons in general didn't seem to really enjoy being given nicknames. Uktenath's wishes you and Ianquith's to meet him in your weyr, he conveyed with a sense of barely suppressed irritation.

Ah. Well, that summons would've drawn him out of a dead sleep, so he figured that a little alone time with the kitchen was no real sacrifice. After all, it wasn't one of his scheduled blocks of time with Ms. Mirelle. Those he would've been loathe to give up, and ... he really needed to get going. Grabbing the mug, he headed for his weyr where Galliath already waited.

Mine, you are dwadling, Galliath bespoke him disapprovingly, apparently still in a crotchety from the Hatching. He had been unusually protective with the younger dragonets since then, and S'van thought that perhaps he was sterner. Had the experience hardened him somehow, or was it simply putting up with him that had done it? No matter. He made his way to his weyr at a jog, deciding that for now going along with 'orders' wasn't going to hurt him.

Galliath's orders, that was, not O'asis'. He was already following those, just not as promptly as Gall could've wished. Galliath! the Brown snapped, venting his obvious frustration. All right, all right. Calm down. It'll be fine. Promise. What would be fine, and what he was promising was another thing entirely, but he didn't mind giving his dragon promises that he doubtless wouldn't remember anyway. Not would he likely recall what 'it' was that had him so irked. "J'ri," he said, noticing that J'riar had either beaten him to their weyr or had already been there to start with.

As they walked, Moira took only brief mental notes of how to get to O'asis' weyr, filing them away in the back of her head as she reviewed potential kinks and issues that might arise with her current plan. How often would they have to raid the food supply? Would they burn it or stash it for the new weyr? Was there any chance of losing control of the resulting riot? She remained a step behind the pair, as the proper tribute of respect called for. She did, however, forget herself when O'asis opened the door, and had to half-jump back to avoid being brushed aside by Uktenath. She murmured a slight apology, gave O'asis a “whoops!” glance, and slipped in through the doorway.

Moira recognized J'riar and Ianquith immediately, and her expression changed swiftly from one of contemplation to a wide grin. Moira dipped her head in respect to S'van and gave a bow to Galliath. The respects were short paid, however, as she half-walked, half-skipped over to the area where J'riar and Ianquith sat. She greeted the greenrider with a smile and a nod, before promptly settling herself on the floor. The candidate sprawled out upon the weyr floor, apparently careless of any dirt she might be laying in, and set her head down on the stone several inches away from Ianquith's. She laced her fingers behind her head and glanced up at the green.

“Looked like you could use come company down here,” she whispered, grinning widely before returning her attention to O'asis. “We've met.”