“Abigaaaaiiiiiillll,” Moira half-whined, half-shouted down the hall, scrubbing a hand through her messy hair in an attempt to make herself look presentable. Of course, what Moira considered presentable was on par with what most would consider 'looking vaguely like a drowned rat.' Her attire was acceptable, a simple pair of breeches and a thick sweater that nearly drowned the upper half of her petite figure. Unaccustomed to the cold and rainy winters of Malvren, Moira had invested in several of the oversized garments. Serlaith had declined her offer to scour the Weyr in search of a tailor capable of creating a dragon-sized sweater.
Moira was still looking.
The speeches had found the young woman at the end of her patience, with practically all of Benden's delegation hopping up and down upon her last, frazzled nerves. Time with Abigail had successfully taught her the valuable skill of knowing when to hold her tongue, but the young rider had yet to achieve mastery when it came to actually doing so. She had left the hall where the speeches had been given without so much as a polite goodbye, furious that there were still those who would risk their entire planet just to cling to their outdated ways. With her sixteen whole turns of experience, Moira was convinced that she was right, and Serlaith was quick to remind her that of course she was right.
Her heavy boots thudded against the stone floor as she wound her way towards the dining hall where she had asked Abigail to meet her. Moira had spent most of her time eyeing the Weyrwoman, watching how she held herself and trying (unsuccessfully) to read her expressions. Moira envied Abigail's ability to swim with the sharks of Weyr politics with a grace and subtlety that she herself had never been able to muster. Moira was loud, abrasive, and usually quite good at getting what she wanted, but she was quickly learning that a sharp tongue and quick wit were not nearly enough to keep her afloat in these dangerous waters.
It was with a red face and clear exasperation that Moira sat down at the table across from Abigail, immediately propping her elbows on the table and burying her face in her hands. What followed was one long, muffled, frustrated scream delivered directly into her palms. It ended with an agitated grunt before the young woman straightened, combed her fingers through her hair and attempted to smooth her annoyed features, “When my head explodes,” she began, “You can have my bead collection.”
Moira pulled her arms into her own sweater and wrapped them around herself, pulling her legs in until she resembled nothing so much as a cotton ball with a shaggy black head, "Do you think there's any chance they'll use it?"
Salvage Operations
USEABLE - Icon #018
Posted: Fri Nov 12, 2010 6:52 pm
Abigail tilted her head as she sipped the bitter klah she'd brewed and smiled to herself. When Moira stormed in and promptly screamed in her hands, the Weyrwoman arched her brow, suppressing the quirk of amusement that tugged at her lips.
"Why thank-you. I'm flattered you'd think of me." She replied, shaking her head, "What's got your panties in a bunch? Some bronze try to cozy up to Serlaith? They can be incorrigible flirts..."
Moira's grump, however, was clearly settled in something else and it pleasantly surprised her. "Aah. Well. Remember where the power lies, my dear. The vote is important but only one facet of the greater whole, remember. As for the results... I am not sure. I hope they do. We abandoned the technology once, we can do so again. I personally have no love for it but if the Farmers have failed to grow the stupid plant by now... I am not sure they can do so as quickly as they claim." She shrugged, "Pride is a powerful thing."
Ah, this was why Moira had grown increasingly fond of the Weyrwoman. She had, in her earlier days under Abigail's tutelage, found Abigail to be frustrating in her insistence that Moira learn how to properly manage a Weyr. Lessons and meetings and plans, it had driven Moira to the same level of frustration that she currently seemed to be experiencing. Nowadays, she saw Abigail's ability to remain calm and levelheaded as an enviable asset. While Moira was red-faced and shouting at her own phalanges, Abigail was sipping klah and quirking brows.
“They've tried,” she snorted, having noticed quickly the way bronzes picked up their heads when a young queen walked by. It had been made that much worse when Galvanth had caught Malvren's junior queen, reminding the others that even though Benden's queens had failed, they were not the only golds on Pern. Serlaith drank in the attention with disregard as to what Weyr it came from. They were looking at her, after all, so they couldn't be that bad. “I'm sure she's sitting in a circle of them now, telling them all the story of how she heroically burst from her shell.”
Moira paused, as though she were checking on this guess, and then nodded, “Yep.”
“But...” She continued, glancing about as though unsure if the following words should be spoken aloud, “If they don't? The Old Weyrs let dragons die to preserve their pride. I fear I don't have faith to trust that they wouldn't allow the same to happen to the rest of Pern.”
It was obvious in the tone of her voice and the tilt of her brow that Moira had not yet forgiven Benden for their invasion and disrespect of her home. What had begun as a small grudge had turned to outright loathing with Alumanth's demise. As a sixteen year old, however smart of one she happened to be, it was difficult to imagine that such Weyrs would swallow their pride. No matter the cost.
“If the decision is to do nothing... will that be it?”
Posted: Fri Nov 12, 2010 7:35 pm
Abigail sighed, "Have you ever stopped to think why the New Weyrs do not force the Old Weyrs to our ways? We could, if we wanted to wage that sort of political war - they know it. The reason the way it is is that the Old Weyrs believe in the old old concept of survival of the fittest. There were centuries before the Atypicals were adopted, Moira, centuries of clutches without them. The Old Weyrs only hatch those who are strong enough to do so." She pursed her lips, the words clearly bitter on her tongue, "I do not agree with it, but there is reason to their methods. Those that can hatch, do hatch. Those that cannot, cannot. The Atypicals were born of desperation, another result of AIVAS' sharding mistake." She bit her lip and thumped the cup of klah on the table then shook her head, "The Atypicals are a greater drain on resources then you think, my dear. One Traditionally coloured dragon takes half the resources an Atypical does. These are figures you will understand eventually, Moira. Do not just fly to frustration without first understanding both sides."
Her tone was perhaps a more crisp then she had intended, proof she was not immune to the frustrations of an obviously old, deeply sewn chasm between the two schools of thoughts."
But that was a lesson for later. She inhaled deeply, "And if Pern chooses not to take this opportunity, that will be it. Trust me, my dear we will not be left to drift. There are answers, you cannot count all your flits before they hatch and you cannot give up when a single option does not come to fruition. Have faith. Pern has weathered more difficult times then this."
Moira sighed and scrubbed a hand through her hair. She didn't understand it, and no matter how many times she was told that she must see both sides, she just couldn't see the logic. Perhaps it was just her time in Trine, aging in a place where an Atypical dragon was not an uncommon sight. Where their riders were respected as dragonfolk and the dragons themselves appreciated for their devotion to Pern. She found it nearly impossible to wrap her mind around the thought that there was a reason that some Weyrs did not accept them. Resources were something she had always assumed had fallen from the sky in limitless quality, so it had never occurred to her that the Atypicals were a drain.
“I'm trying,” she said, weariness clear in her tone. While Moira had been born with wit and her own brand of charm, she had struggled to pick up on the intricacies of Weyr politics. Every day was a frustration, uphill battle to unlearn her very nature. Impulsiveness had no place in such an important matter, “But with what happened to Alumanth, to think that they would allow such a thing. I can't not think them awful for it. Poor Inaari,” Moira added the last as a muttered afterthought. She had once had the displeasure of meeting S'raid, and couldn't imagine a more terrible person to be forced into bed with. While Moira adored Galvanth and frequently wrote the large, lovable Bronze whenever possible, she would sooner choke S'raid than ever allow Serlaith to rise while the pair was preset.
That Moira thought she had any control whatsoever over Serlaith rising showed just how little she knew.
“Was it easy for you?” She asked, glancing up at Abigail. It was clear by the dark circles beneath her eyes that Moira was beginning to understand the weight of the responsibilities she might someday take on, “Learning all of this? Weren't you ever just... worried you might not be able to?”
Posted: Sat Nov 13, 2010 10:53 am
Abigail smiled and reached out to touch her future Junior's hands, "I know. I don't expect you to learn everything immediately but an open mind is really what you need the most. And Alumanth's death was... a tragedy. So many things went wrong, that could have gone right. Like Brakiath being able to stop them before anything happened..." She trailed off, bit her lip then sat back, drumming her fingers on the table, "Deaths do happen, Moira. And they happen more frequently then we'd care to say. The survival rate of Weyrlings once they hit the age to fly and go Between drops - we lose individuals there. And during mating flights. And when emotions run high, or misfortune strikes."
She was feeling like some sort of automated lecture thing so she stopped with a puff of her cheeks to blow away stray bangs. If one looked closely, her hair was frazzled, her eyes lacked the usual youthful sparkle, and she was nursing her klah rather devotedly. The Council, and the decision, was a bigger strain on the Weyrleaders then they let on, not when showing weakness or uncertainty would echo through the ranks and only worsen the situation. And here, too, she must ensure that Moira remained calm, capable... learned from this. She doubted that this would be the only tragedy to strike in her lifetime and hoped, that wherever the goldrider ended up, she would have the experience and wisdom to face those challenges head-on.
She doubted Moira could do anything else but fly in the face of danger. It was one of the girl's strengths.
Smiling to herself, she finally answered, "I should tell you yes. That every goldrider is born ready and willing and wise. That they are capable and commanding..." but she laughed, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of that, "But the truth is, no one's ever prepared. You grow up imagining what those great golden queens are like, wishing for the boys' attention and the prestige and honour that comes with the territory. Then it strikes, right out of the blue - how can it be you, of all people, you? - and everybody suddenly expects you to listen and do and be what they expect. And the sharks circle, watching, judging, gauging and you're thrown into a very nearly ritualized dance of power." She waved a hand, "I've never been very good at that game. I'm too blunt to really play the boys off one another - Eirlyn's got that covered. But you learn over time - sometimes some things are more easily understood then others."
She blinked then chuckled, "Worried? Of course. Never so much as when I took this position. I'd wondered if what I knew was enough, would I be able, all those things. I still worry sometimes." Abigail smiled, "But you find a way, and you have to stick to your path, head held high. It's so much more then that though... but it's something you'll come to understand for yourself. We all do."
Moira nodded, even if what was being said did not entirely make sense to her. Serlaith was nearly fully grown, and Moira had no disillusions as to what that meant. Their visit to Malvren had been a sobering experience for the young woman, and seeing Ianath rise had been nothing short of terrifying. She would have no choice over who would catch Serlaith when she did finally take her maiden flight, and Moira was spending more and more time wondering just what that was going to be like. She shook her head, messy hair falling across her features as she pushed the thoughts aside.
There were more important things to worry about now. She had spent those past few days under a calm and stoic facade, allowing her fear and worry to escape only in brief outbursts. It was among her duties to make sure that she represented her home well, and Trine was nothing if not a strong, capable Weyr.
“I suppose,” she said at last, releasing her lip from between her teeth. She listened as Abigail described exactly how Moira herself had felt those past few months. Elated at first, the center of attention as Serlaith had hatched in the middle of what seemed a tragic shortage of queens on Pern. Moira had been giddy with pride, bursting with joy, and then suddenly swept up in worry when she realized just what it all meant. She might someday have to lead a Weyr, decide fates, pass on knowledge to a younger queenrider the way Abigail was now passing it on to her. What had once been a buoyant feeling quickly became a heavy burden. One which Moira must learn to carry in time. When she finally lifted her eyes from the table and returned them to Abigail, it was with the slightest smile of relief.
At least she wasn't entirely alone.
“Maybe I should talk to Eirlyn while we're here,” Moira laughed, “Shards, but I could use the flirting lessons.” Her eyes rolled up at the thought, though she did not dismiss it entirely. There was not a dragonwoman on Pern who would have denied the power of playing coy. Moira was grinning now, and she reached out to gently grasp Abigail's hand. For a young woman who was usually as stubborn as a clutching dragon and as difficult as an angry wher, it was a sincere sign of gratitude.
“Thank you, Ab-” She stopped herself, remembering the proper title, “Weyrwoman.”
