Geneve

feministgen @ 2009-11-02T15:28:00

2009-11-02T04:49:32Z

Date: Day 5, Month 5, Turn 6
Synopsis: Geneve and Esseira discuss current events.

Look, look! I roleplayed!

Nighthearth
Partially removed from the kitchen, the nighthearth is a small niche with a long, narrow tunnel leading to the inner Weyr. This is one of the coziest locations in the Weyr, boasting a large stone table, long enough to seat a half-dozen people on either side, that sits immobile in the center of the area with wooden benches along it. Well-lit and well-stocked, the hearth usually contains at least a pot of klah and one of stew as well as baskets of day-old bread and whatever leftover treats there might be from the last meal.

Dinner is fully in swing, and yet the night hearth only has a few people. At one end, a few blue and greenriders sit, and at the other, Esseira sits. The goldrider has a couple of hides set to the side of her bowl of soup, which she glances at every now and again. It's quite a bit less than the hides she would've had a mere three or four sevendays ago, however, and whether the two are related, Ailuth's rider seems a touch more animated than normal.

It's unusual for Geneve to take her dinner out here rather than in the main caverns - no doubt something to do with being visible, and something more, perhaps, to do with keeping an eye on weyrlings - but for whatever reason, her steps take her to the hearth instead, this evening. Swinging her jacket over one arm, she takes a glance around the room as she enters, then heads directly for Esseira, dropping jacket over the back of a chair before she settles herself down into it, not waiting for a greeting. "Esseira. You look well."

Glancing up from the hide as she swallows a spoonful of soup, Esseira catches sight of Geneve's entrance, greeting the brownrider with a nod as she sits down. "Evening, Geneve." Smiling, faintly, "Thank you. I've been spending a great deal of time in the South. It's been helping, I think. How have you and Pendarith been faring?"

"Would that you have done that /before/ you stepped down," is Geneve's artlessly blunt remark in response to that, though she's smiling, however crookedly, so perhaps it shouldn't be taken too seriously. Crossing hands in front of her on the table, the Weyrlingmaster stretches her neck and shoulders out, answering the question put to her only belatedly. "We're fine. Enjoying the warmer weather while it's here."

Esseira sighs at this and nods. "You're tellin' me. I tried, but I just didn't have enough time. Not like now, at least." Surely it's a thought that's gone through the goldrider's head a number of times since. She takes another spoonful of soup as the brownrider speaks, nodding. "Good idea. It'll be chilly again before we know it." She pauses, considering her next words. "Though I may not be here when it does. I'm thinking about moving to the South."

Geneve makes a face, one that surely does a lot to note her position on all the recent changes: they kind of suck. Kind of. A lot. But there's sympathy there, too, and what she does say a moment later seems genuinely friendly, "As long as you get better, anyway. We'll manage the rest somehow." There's a beat of a pause to follow that, and then, "Moving South. /Really/." Interest flares in her tone. "And what does S'dric think of that?"

The face that Esseira pulls indicates that she doesn't feel much better about the situation herself. It's not /quite/ a mirror image of Geneve's, but it's pretty close. "Somehow." She doesn't sound awfully convinced, though. "Yes. To the South." Pausing, "I... think it'll help me. And I can help the settlement there." She says the latter part, voice lowered. As for S'dric: "He was the first to suggest it, actually."

"Anwyn's okay," says Geneve, calmly, quite as though there were no one else in the room, though at least she's speaking low enough that her words can't travel too far. "But Cr'pel... I hope he's smart enough to let S'dric help him, or we're all screwed." All of this, though, is something of a side issue in comparison to her interest in Esseira's plan. "/Did/ he. I wonder what the rest of his plans are, then." There's a flicker of outright anticipation in her gaze, and she adds, forthright, "It'll have to be more than just you, though. More riders."

"She is," Esseira agrees, voice still low. "I think he is. At least with 'Fall he has been, but who knows how much more. The more the better, but I don't know how stubborn Cr'pel will be about it." She shrugs, taking a bite of the breadroll sitting to the side of her soup. Slowly, "I'm not sure, to be honest. He's just suggested keeping an eye on the settlement...to make sure things keep running smoothly." The change in leadership goes unmentioned, but it's almost certainly the cause of concern. "More riders? Why do you say that..? I don't think, for now, that it'd be entirely necessary, really..."

Geneve sucks in her cheeks as though she's ready to say something more negative about Cr'pel, except that, in the end, all she says is, "He should never have become Weyrleader. Weyrlingmaster? No problem. But not Weyrleader." There's a note of disgust there, and... could it be envy? But. "Ailuth'll go up again, eventually. Particularly if you start getting better. Or would you come back here to deal with that? Anyway, just sending you makes it look as though you're being retired to the south, out of sight and out of mind. If a couple of riders go, then it's a strategic thing. An official outpost."

Esseira tilts her head to the side, shrugging. "No, he shouldn't have, but the damage is done. I just hope that Rosalith doesn't make the same choice again." She's not going to knock the new Weyrleader /too/ much more, it seems. "She will, yes. Definitely. As far as where.... I'm not quite sure. I haven't really thought about it, yet." Considering this, her face creases into a frown. "I hadn't thought of that at all. And I'm certainly not planning on retiring at all of 29 turns. I'd worry about taking too many riders, though, that would be better used here."

"/She/ seems to like him." Geneve is not impressed with this, oh no; then again, it's not news to Esseira that Geneve would've liked /Pendarith/ to be the first brown to catch a queen, based on previous conversations, so many turns ago. "Of course you aren't. Twenty-nine... not much more than a teenager, all said. /I/ plan to be fighting fit until the end of the pass, and I'm older than you are. No, probably you can't take too many, but I bet there'd be things worth achieving, down there, with more riders. Something to think about, though. S'dric might have ideas."

"It'd be nice if she could get over that, for the sake of the Weyr," Esseira adds, quietly. For a moment it looks like she's about to protest the remark about teenagers, and then passes. "I hope for the same. You're not terribly older than I am, though." Nodding slowly, "I imagine there is, yes. Nor are there a lot of... rules on how to go about it. It'll be... interesting. I'm sure he will, though." She dips the bread in her soup, but halfway before bringing it to her mouth, she stops. "Well, there's a thought. What about some of the weyrlings who just moved into weyrs? They aren't apart of any wings yet... Do any of those come to mind as promising for going South?"

"Yes," says Geneve, moodily, sounding outright bitter this time. "Yes, she should. It looks /bad/." Despite that, she laughs outright at the continued mention of age; "I was teasing, don't worry. No, I'm not that much older than you are, true." She looks honestly fascinated by the rest of what Esseira says, eyes lighting with concentrated interest as she nods enthusiastically. "I don't see why not. Some of them-- yes. It's a possibility." A pause follows, in which it looks as though she's about to come out with something more, and then her face falls. "Bah. And duty calls... we'll have to talk more on this, Esseira. I'll see you later?"

Esseira smiles, faintly, but nonetheless. "I figured, but I don't mind--you wouldn't be more than one yourself." She listens closely to the brownrider, nodding, though she's clearly disappointed when Geneve has to leave. "Awww, alrighty. Yeah, definitely, when you get the chance. Clear skies, then!"

feministgen @ 2009-01-25T22:59:00

2009-01-25T11:59:42Z

Date: Day 28, Month Twelve. Turn 3/Day 1, Month 1, Turn 4
Synopsis: Geneve's turnover.

Some liberties taken with iramyth. I'm working on the assumption that, while the character is no longer played, the characters have a similar relationship to what they always did.

Geneve spent much of turnover eve with Tarynn. She and the greenrider, her one-time lover (an arrangement that had lasted barely a few months) and best friend still all the same, took a tour of the celebrations across Pern. They wandered through festivities arm-in-arm, causing scandal in those who assumed they were a couple, and more in those who saw them arrive on Pendarith and Iramyth. Geneve didn't care. Though: when did she?

They saw in midnight at Ista, and though she knew she could have continued the night with the greenrider, perhaps even shared furs (platonically - or perhaps not) with her, Geneve took her leave, sighting tiredness.

It was a lie: she went south. At Mountain View, it was later still, desolately empty and quiet. She slept, for a time, in the bed that smelled like S'dric, like stale sex, her face buried in the pillow. She knew he wouldn't be there (tonight, of all nights, she knew he had places he needed to be, people he needed to be seen with), but in the end, it was where she wanted to be.

She got up well before sunset, rousing Pendarith with a mental flick, and they watched the sun rise over the mountains together, her gloved hand on his forelimb, his head leaning down to hover just above hers.

Turn four, huh.

<< Time flies. >>

No kidding. Just under three turns of 'fall. Forty-seven to go.

<>

Softly, I know.

<< Where'd we spend last turnover? >>

I don't even remember.

<< Liar. >>

No, seriously. Probably did something at Benden. I usually don't go out. Usually don't drink that much, either.

<< But you didn't stay with *Tarynn*. >>

Even now, after all these turns, she could hear - /feel/ - Pendarith's affection for Iramyth. She smiled. No. Could've, maybe. I don't know. Maybe it would've been healthier. But I wanted to be here. See the sunrise with you.

<< Sleep in that bed. >>

That, too.

<< Are you going to go back to sleep? >>

There are still weyrlings to deal with. Don't get a pass on that, just because of turnover. I'll sleep later. Tonight. Still need to do more of those interviews.

<< Of your assistants. To figure out if any can take your place. >>

Right. Not convinced on any of them yet. Maybe Cr'pel - got to call him in, soon, see how that goes. He does seem better now. Better than he was. Maybe?

<< But not Lyndee. >>

No way. And not just because of L'ten. She'll need training. I wish I could train her, but...

<< You want something else. >>

Mm. And it's not fair, if I have to give up my opportunity, for that. I know S'dric said he'd-- said that there'd be another chance, if not now. But. I want it now. We do, don't we?

<< We do. >>

She shut her eyes. The sun was above the horizon now; it was warming her, against the chill of the morning. S'dric. Had she forgiven him, entirely? Yes. She couldn't help but wonder if that had been the right thing to do. If-- he'd lied to her. Fooled her. She, she who was supposed to be so perceptive, so focused and confident, had let herself be dragged along by that. Could she believe him now? Could she ever?

Yes. And that was it. Of course she could. She'd probably believe him to the end of the world. Half of her wondered if that was dangerous; the other half didn't really care.

<< Ready to go home? >>

Mm. In a minute. I'm just going to go down to the river, see if the cold water'll wake me up a bit.

<< Between'd do that, too. >>

Yeah. But. There's just something about water. Anyway, need to make sure I have the visualisation right, don't I?

<< Take your time. >>

She was still wearing her gather gown, the old thing she'd had for turns, since long before her Impression. It no longer fit properly: turns as a dragonrider had, if not slimmed her down, changed the way her weight sat. One day, she'd need to get a new gown, but-- for once a turn? It hardly felt like a worthwhile expenditure.

She'd loosened the laces when she slept, and now she stripped off the corset top, unbuttoned the skirt, and walked into the cold, cold water of the river. As she draw up a handful, and splashed it over her face, she shivered. /Cold/. But it made her feel real, lessened, for a moment, the pounding of her head.

Eventually, she drew her skirt back up, pulled the corset top on, though she didn't bother to lace it properly, and covered it immediately with her jacket. She'd look, she knew, to anyone who saw her like she'd been up all night, or bedded down with some man (or woman), somewhere else. She didn't care.

No one saw her, anyway. A few minutes later, they landed on their ledge back at Benden, and she changed back into her normal clothes, ready to seek out a quick breakfast before duty with the weyrlings commenced once more.

Happy Turn 4, Geneve.

feministgen @ 2009-01-24T17:02:00

2009-01-24T06:02:18Z

Date: Late month 13, Turn 3
Synopsis: Geneve intends just a friendly catch-up with Katelin, but, despite appearances, loses her temper. Not very professional, Geneve!

Weyrlingmaster's Office Early Winter. Flurry. 27F / -3C.
The weyrlingmaster's office is more of an alcove, with room enough for a desk, two chairs, and a three-drawer cabinet all shoved up against the walls. Long ago a door was hung between this room and the middle of the weyrling caverns, providing both privacy and an immediate sense of peace from the hubbub outside.

With mere sevendays left before the weyrlings from Ailuth and Gedreth's clutch pass the one turn mark, things have been both busier and less busy - there's no more new lessons, just the repetition of old ones, and more and more practice with the wings, and /for/ the wings. But this afternoon has been more or less free, and while most of the weyrlings are off enjoying themselves, many in preparation for Turnover, Pendarith extends a tendril of sandy thought towards Pierzoth: << Gen would like to see yours. In the office. >>

Pierzoth sends a dutiful assent, and not long after, Katelin appears in the doorway of the office with ink-stained hands and a sober expression. "Hello, Weyrlingmaster," she says politely.

As she frequently is, when a summons is made, Geneve is seated behind the desk when Katelin arrives - though she's hard at work at something, taking a moment to finish jotting down some notes, with one hand lifted in a 'just a moment' kind of gesture. When she sets her pen down, her dark head raises, her expression both thoughtful and appraising. "Katelin," she greets, with an actual smile, and waves that hand towards the free chair. "I just wanted to touch base."

Katelin waits patiently until Geneve finishes writing. She glances at the offered chair briefly and then nods and seats herself. "...touch base?" she repeats, seeming puzzled. "Oh. All right then." She waits in silence to hear more about said base-touching.

"Well," explains Geneve, after a moment, apparently noting the puzzledness, "You'll be leaving my care, soon. I want to make sure that you feel you're ready, that you've be trained properly." Her brows raise - it's a question, even if she hasn't stated it as such.

One Katelin isn't sure how to answer. At least, she's not sure what's expected. "I believe so," she says slowly. "...of course I'll continue to study dragonhealing, after joining the queen's wing. The rest..." she shrugs a shoulder. "We did not find the training too difficult. So I expect we will be fine."

Whether that /was/ the expected answer or not, Geneve doesn't give much away with her expression. She drops her hands to rest upon the table, one idly rolling the pen, the other still. "Are you ready to represent Benden as a Junior Weyrwoman, do you think?"

Katelin pauses before she answers. "I'll certainly do my best. I imagine that we will make our share of mistakes, but with luck they'll be the sort that are not so disastrous one cannot learn from them." She frowns slightly. "In the end, it's not for me to say, though, is it?"

"Perhaps not. But if you were not, for example, to /feel/ ready, well, that would be something we'd want to look at now, wouldn't it?" Geneve leans back, now, considering the younger woman. "You don't feel it's your place to say many things, do you? Or make decisions."

Katelin is taken aback by the first, rhetorical, question; it gives her pause. After a lengthy one she answers the second. "Not while I am a weyrling, no. I was always taught to respect rank," she says seriously. "It prevents a great many problems, in my experience."

Geneve waits, silent and still, during Katelin's pause. The eventual answer, however, draws a raise of her brows. "And when you're no longer a Weyrling? Do you intend to take charge of your life, offer opinions, make decisions?"

"Certainly," Katelin answers calmly. "To the extent that it's appropriate. That, I think, will take some getting used to. It will be a change." She pauses, considering whether to elaborate, and then decides, what the heck. "Recently a rider tried to persuade me of the wisdom of a decision that is not mine to take, but the weyrleader's. I was confused at first but it turned out he was hoping that I would try to influence the weyrleader. It was... different." Than what she's used to.

"It can," remarks Geneve, in such an unassuming voice that she might as well be talking about the weather, "be quite confusing, knowing what you should and shouldn't do. Determining people's motives. Working out what /is/ appropriate."

"Yes," Katelin agrees, still with the unflappable calm. "That is why the weyrleader has been giving me lessons. I have found them very useful. Though there is much yet to learn."

"I'm glad to hear it," says Geneve, equally calm, except for the intensity in her gaze. Then, she leans forward, her eyes focused upon the weyrling, her lips just slightly parted. "How do you feel about the fact that your Weyrleaders support the Impression of girls to greens, Katelin? The fact that they let them stand, search them for clutches without a gold. How will you feel when there are girls standing for Pierzoth's clutches?"

Katelin presses her lips together in preparation to be stubborn, and her eyes narrow. "I suppose I'll have to talk to the Weyrleader about that," she says evenly. "Won't I?"

Is that mirth, in Geneve's gaze, at that reaction? But, evenly: "And if he ignores your wishes?"

"Do you expect him to?" Katelin asks, far too sweetly.

"I don't know." Prompt. Even. Geneve's face, once again, reveals nothing. "I just want you to open your mind to the possibility. I know that you disapprove of many things, in this weyr. /But/. The weyr comes first. Above your morals, above /everything/. Pierzoth may be flown by a different bronze each time. Her clutches may involve the Impressions of many girls to greens. Or blues. Or /browns/. The needs of the weyr come first."

Katelin narrows her eyes, at that, but all the says is, "Of course they do, Weyrlingmaster." That's it.

Geneve waits, clearly, at least for the first couple of seconds, expecting something else. When it doesn't come, she merely shrugs. "As long as you're aware of that."

Katelin has lots more opinions; that much is clear, but she's not voicing any of them. "I am," she says simply. "And, as little as you may think of my morals," ooooh, a barb, "any holder who's learned his harper lessons will tell you that the prosperity of the weyr is important to all of Pern."

"Your morals have no place in a weyr. They do not work here. You'll work that out in time, though, unless you're determined to be miserable." Like L'ten, but she doesn't say that. It's calm - the barb seems to have had no impact upon her, not even a flicker of her expression. "The theory is well and good. It can be different, however, when it involves a personal sacrifice."

"You," Katelin retorts, with venom in the word, "do not know what you think you know about my morals." She's lost her temper, and she rises to her feet, but she doesn't shout, only speaks in that same quiet voice, her words dripping with contempt. "My parents taught me and my brothers and sisters of duty: duty to family, to the hold, to the weyr. My duty is to the weyr now over and above my duty to my family or to my hold. You assume that because I prefer not to lift my skirt for everything with the appropriate appendage that passes my way, that I am too stupid to understand that. I assure you, I am not."

And still, Geneve is calm. "No," she says, "I don't think you're that stupid. Nor do I expect you to lift your skirt, as you put it. I don't care who you sleep with, or don't sleep with - man or woman, though I admit I find it disturbing that you would expect a rider to procure you a bedmate, as if procuring you a husband. And I believe you will find things harder than you might believe you will. That is all."

Katelin's fury shows in the red spots on her cheeks. "That really isn't any of your business," she says pointedly, "and I assure you I find things quite difficult enough without your attempts to make them harder still. But," and she grits her teeth, "I persevere. Because it is my /duty/. And," but she breaks off there, pauses, looks at the wall to one side, and then glares at Geneve. "You've upset Pierzoth," she accuses, and turns to leave, not waiting to be dismissed.

If anything, Geneve looks really quiet satisfied at this turn of events. "I'm not trying to make things difficult, Katelin. Believe me, you'd know it if I was. Go - tend to your dragon. Though if she's that upset, over this? You need to learn to control her better. Don't worry; I'll be out of your hair soon enough."

feministgen @ 2009-01-24T16:12:00

2009-01-24T05:12:19Z

Date: Day 21, Month 13, Turn 3
Synopsis: Geneve reads all kinds of things into L'ten's attempts to converse with her. Some of them probably aren't too far off the mark.

Living Cavern
Early Winter. Flurry. 27F / -3C.
Huge, still mostly the natural shape of the bubble cavern that formed it though embellished with intricate columns, the living cavern is large enough to seat over two thousand people at any given time. Gleamingly clean, the space is clearly well-kept by the hard work of the lower caverns staff. High in the eastern walls, narrow windows allow slants of light to dapple the room during the day, a plethora of glowbaskets in well-spaced niches around the cavern provide a warm, ambient glow after sunset. Many long tables are placed around the room, providing plentiful seating, some boasting chairs around them, others sturdy benches that seat ten at a time. The walls are decorated with a set of simple color-block tapestries and one that's more ornate, recently restored, depicting the settling of Benden during Torene's time. The cavern has a welcoming, homey feel to it in spite of its size.

The exits from here are pretty clear-cut: A set of handsomely carved stone steps lead up to the balcony-style kitchen that wraps around the cavern; a tunnel on the eastern wall slopes upward just slightly on its way out to the bowl; the southern tunnel slopes downward steadily as it dips into the Weyr's inner caverns.

-- Exits --
Kitchen..................[N] Bowl.....................[E]
Inner Caverns............[S]

The dinner hour is in full swing, with weyr residents, crafts and riders cycling in and out at semi-regular intervals, their winter jackets tucked over arms, over the backs of chairs, or put back on with haste before they head out into the chilled evening. Geneve stands at the very end of the queue to the serving table, foot tapping with impatience - someone is taking their time with filling their plate, somewhere.

People can be so inconsiderate, wanting to eat. A few steps ahead of her, still well back from the tables, L'ten stands with one of his wingmates, talking over the day's drills. Perhaps it's the foot-tapping that catches his attention, or perhaps just a sixth-sense for people he doesn't like, but the young brownrider turns from his conversation in time to lay eyes on the Weyrlingmaster. He pauses, looking at her with faint distaste, then exchanges a few low-voiced comments with his friend before dropping back to stand beside the woman. His arms folded in already-irritated defense, still his voice is calm, if cool. "Weyrlingmaster. I wanted a few words with you. Is now a good time?"

By the expression on Geneve's face - it's like it all crumples in on itself, from vague impatience to outright dislike - she hadn't noticed the other brownrider until his approach, and was, without question, happier for it. The queue doesn't magically clear, giving her reason to avoid the conversation, so, after taking a deep breath, she shrugs. "As good as any, Brownrider. What is it that you want?" Her tone is bored, unenthused, but not unkind.

If weyrlings ever wanted to see a reason why they should learn to control themselves as well as their dragons, this pair would be a fine example to follow. At least, sort of. "Lyndee," Len answers, keeping his arms folded and his eyes straight ahead so he hardly has to look over. "Thank you for taking her on your team."

Geneve takes a step forward, as someone, finally, finishes picking individual lettuce leaves from the salad, and, as she does so, tilts her head so that she can look at L'ten. "Lyndee proved herself a capable rider, and showed aptitude for looking after the young girls," she tells him, after a short period of silence. "It would have been a very poor decision on my part not to accept her request."

L'ten steps right along with her, though he doesn't have to take nearly as large of a stride. "Mmm," he replies. A moment later, when he still hasn't given up and returned to his companion's side, he adds, "And Cr'pel? Suppose he can't really go back to the wings, though." Which is an honest shame, given his regret.

"Have you spoken to Cr'pel, lately?" Geneve stays where she is, except to turn bodily around, hands on hips. "Or seen how he's doing with the weyrlings? Actually, he's a very valuable member of my team."

"Never said he wasn't," Len replies with only a sideways flick of his eyes to acknowledge her posturing. "I said he was probably going to stay with the weyrlings, since he and Sembruth couldn't go back to the wings." Up ahead, someone else - or perhaps the same finicky eater - is picking through the stew pot to find the bits with the least sauce on them.

Something in L'ten's answer draws Geneve's attention away again, followed by a huff of breath, like a long-suffering sigh, but less sigh-ful. She stares up towards the tables, glaring at the person at the stew pot. Her foot taps again. "Of course he is. I don't imagine that any of my assistants will be rejoining the wings any time soon."

L'ten says, "Mmm," again and keeps his arms well inside the ride. After another quarter-step forward - really, more of an optimistic weight shift from everyone still in line - he tries again. "Weyrleader said you. Might be rejoining the wings. Sir."

Geneve's hands slide down her hips, until they rest at her sides again. Without turning her head to look at the brownrider again, she agrees, in a carefully neutral tone: "That's correct. So long as I have someone I am happy with as a replacement, for the weyrlings."

The stew-eater continues to poke, causing the impatient man behind him to sigh loudly and step around to get to drinks. Everyone move forward, hooray! "So you'll have to train her first," L'ten says, once things have settled back into the status quo of queueing. "A... year, do you think?"

"Who said it was going to be Lyndee?" asks Geneve, abruptly, her words appearing without gap after L'ten's question. Not that she forgets to shift forward, as she pushes this out, sounding unamused.

L'ten only shrugs, one shoulder turning ever so slightly toward her as a makeshift wall. "Nobody. But it makes sense. You'd rather give it to her than any of the others." The others, who are male.

Slowly, but with a sharpness: "Would I? You presume a lot, Brownrider."

He glances back over and down at her, shifts that shoulder again. "Maybe. But if it is her, you'd want her trained first. So - a year?"

Another few steps forward. Geneve hesitates though, before she moves, arms crossing in front of her. Then, as she takes those steps: "If it were Lyndee, perhaps, yes. But I would prefer to make the move sooner rather than later."

Three steps for her is two for him, and yet he still keeps pace with her, even though his wingmate is only a step away from collecting a plate, and throws looks over his shoulder to see where Len's gone. "If you leave now, you'll have the winter to drill with... whatever wing you go to." He doesn't sound smug about it, but thoughtful, as if he were working out a particularly tricky math problem. "But if you leave now, you won't be able to train Lyndee, not like if you were Weyrlingmaster."

Geneve, coolly, filling in a gap, "S'dric's wing. And yes. I'm a good flier, but it's been some time since I drilled with a wing, or flew 'fall; I will need some time to get back into it." Now, she does look at him, her eyebrows arched into a question: "Do you think that my successor simply won't train Lyndee? I'm flattered that you're so sure it needs to be me." 'Sarcastic' is probably a better descriptor.

"P'vol wouldn't," he answers plainly, letting his eyes meet hers for half a second. "Train her like you would. Neither would J'fin. Ys'to might; Cr'pel would try. But I don't think any of them would recommend her as Weyrlingmaster, so if you want her to be Weyrlingmaster, you have to be the one to train her, and you have to recommend her to S'dric."

By now, Geneve's expression is verging on mystified. Except - maybe that is a glimmer of understanding. Very, very slight. "So, basically, you think I should drop everything, all my plans and career path, to help out your little girlfriend."

Len shakes his head, facing forward once more. "I didn't say that - and I'll thank you to not be insulting, Weyrlingmaster. Lyndee is my weyrmate."

Geneve ignores this altogether, as if she didn't even hear it. "If Lyndee wants to be Weyrlingmaster, she'll have to earn it, the same way I did." Sleeping with the Weyrleader? That may not be what she means, so it's probably a good thing it's not an obvious implication.

The taller man answers, "That's just what I meant, sir. Without your help, she won't be able to earn it. But she'll probably be able to stay as one of the assistant anyway, so long as the queens. Lay large clutches." There was a bobble there, certainly, but he plowed on regardless.

The forward shuffle resumes - they're now getting quite close to the front of the queue. Geneve's head turns, allowing her to consider L'ten through narrowed eyes. "Does Lyndee know that you're here, begging me for special treatment for her?"

L'ten sighs ever so faintly. "You misunderstand me again, sir." Still, sir, says his too-patient tone. "If Lyndee earns the Weyrlingmaster's knot, I want it to be on her own merits, not because you thought giving her special treatment was the only way she'd have a chance of getting it. Though like I said, she probably won't ever be considered, if P'vol is in charge of her training. But either way, it will keep her safely out of the wings for a while, and that's all I care about."

"I don't think she needs special treatment, no. I think she won't need me, or anyone else, to see to that," shrugs Geneve, unphased by this apparent misunderstanding that, by her tone and expression, she doesn't think is a misunderstanding at all. "Because you want to protect her. Doubt she needs that, either. I hope she keeps flying 'fall on occasion, if she can spare the time. I used to, when I was an Assistant. Keeps you sharp. Reminds you what it's all for."

"Because I want to keep her safe," Len corrects, giving his plate-wielding wingmate a nod: you go ahead. The bluerider looks patently dubious but turns away to start collecting supper. "Her, and any...." This thought he doesn't finish, but presses his lips together instead.

"Same difference," says Geneve, dismissing the correction. "Her, and any what, anyway?"

L'ten says, "None of your business," surprise, surprise! "Think you're going to wait for Rosalith's eggs before you leave the barracks?"

That's a smirk, on Geneve's face. For the question, she says, only, "That will depend on my efforts to determine my replacement. It may be soon, it may be in a few months time. We will see." Primly.

The line shuffles forward again, and Len steps ahead of her to claim a plate. Claim two, actually, for he offers one back to the Weyrlingmaster. "Well, I hope you find a good one. Whoever he is."

Geneve accepts the plate, if with another raised eyebrow - it's all together too pleasant of him, surely. But. "Thank you. So do I. I'd like to get this done as soon as possible, fit in with the Weyrleader's timetable." She steps around him, 'accidentally' nudging her plate into the person ahead, who is hogging the salad tongs.

L'ten clears his throat pointedly at her line-jumping. "Excuse me, sir, but I believe you were behind me."

"You gave up your position to join me," points out Geneve, shuffling forward as the salad-hogger finally gives up hunting for tomatoes. "So I think we're at the same place, and you're letting me go first, because I'm the woman."

"I never expected you, of all people, to demand special treatment because of your sex, Weyrlingmaster," Len replies, grimacing at the handyman behind him, who snickers loudly into his cuff. "But if you're too delicate to wait your turn, then please do go ahead."

"It's polite," scoffs Geneve, without turning around, though her shoulders stiffen just slightly, barely noticeable, at that audible snicker. "And, also, I outrank you." She scoops up some salad onto her plate, then glowers at the person in front of her, who is still working on the potatoes.

"Oh yes," the brownrider agrees, his too-bland tone earning another snicker, "the privileges of rank. Always a good excuse for rudeness. --You know," he adds to the snickerer, "I don't think I'm hungry anymore. Something's turned my stomach. By all means, Lowry, please do take my place."

Geneve says nothing. Not a single thing. Instead, she shuffles on, ladling some of the potatoes onto her plate. Someone behind Lowry calls out: "Are you people going to keep moving, or what?" Face hidden by the direction she's facing, Geneve smirks.

L'ten claps Lowry on the shoulder without a word of farewell to Geneve and swings out of line, passing his plate to someone not lucky enough to collect one yet. He laughs, "Nah, stew's better at the nighthearth. Line's shorter, and company's better too," to someone's query, jerking his head back at the plug bearing a Weyrlingmaster's knot, and several more people join the exodus for the nighthearth.

None of which seems to visibly bother the Weyrlingmaster, who simply continues to fill her plate. They? Don't matter. Clearly.

feministgen @ 2009-01-18T17:05:00

2009-01-18T06:05:20Z

Date: Day 12, Month 13, Turn 3
Synopsis: Getting what she always wanted accidentally results in an admission that very nearly destroys something very good between S'dric and Geneve. But it turns out she'll forgive him almost anything - oh well.

Some language, plus very vague implied sex.

Gedreth touched base with Pendarith early in the day, issuing the invitation by flashing a view of the Mountain View hold to the brown. << In an hour? >> he suggested softly and waited on an answer. S'dric is there already, waiting inside, arms leaning on the sill, the shutters cast open as he admires the view.

<< We'll be there, >> confirms Pendarith, within moments. They're a little late, though, Pendarith popping into view above the Hold perhaps an hour and fifteen minutes later, and circling quickly down to land just outside the ancient hold. Gen takes no time in dismounting and heading for the indoors, taking in none of the scenery as she strides purposefully in through the doors. "S'dric?"

"In here," S'dric calls out from that main room they cleared out. The bed is there, neatly set up and a table, a few other things they've brought over successive visits, making it homey almost. "Pendarith looked good, landing," he tells her and turns towards the entry expectantly.

Geneve never slows her steps, though with S'dric's location confirmed they shift their direction, filling in the distance between the entrance and that room. Of course he's there. "He's in good shape," she tells him, swinging around the corner and heading straight for him, arms lifting to wrap him into a hug. "And he's always eager to fly further than our ledge to the bowl, or yet another training flight."

S'dric smiles as she aims straight for him and his arms come up around her in turn. "He's quite the brown," the Weyrleader murmurs into her hair, tilts his head down a little to find her mouth, kiss her soundly. "And you're quite the woman." His hands wander up her back, longing perhaps detectable in the way he moves them. "Business or pleasure first, my love?" he does whisper though.

Geneve returns the kiss with enthusiasm, fingers wrapping themselves into his hair and holding tight, throughout the duration. "Of course he is, he's /my/ brown," she insists, as their lips draw apart again, words breathed close as she rubs her cheek against his. It's the question that has her hands withdrawing slightly, and her head pulling back to allow her to consider him. "Must be important business, if you're willing to wait." Beat. "Barely willing, admittedly." There's curiousity in her tone, but her hands touch down again, trailing over his shoulders, eager in their own, quiet way.

Her mouth, her cheek, her hands. S'dric's eyes close and he throws himself into all of that until she draws away. "It is, but ... shells, pleasure first," he gives in and reaches for her, walking backwards towards the bed, aiming to bring her with him. Passion unleashed and the immediate need for her satisfied, he lies in the covers after, tracing little patterns on her hip and looks down at her with open affection.

That response earns affectionate laughter, but Geneve's in no way reluctant to follow that decision, and moves with him, always touching, to the bed. Her feet twining with his, afterwards, she looks up to meet his gaze, eyes half lidded and expression content. One of her hands drapes over her stomach, the other reaches up to cup his cheek.

S'dric turns his head a little to press a cheek into her palm, smiles and shifts his arm around her more fully. "I love you, so very, very much," the bronzerider tells her, with complete sincerity. "And I hate to talk about practical things ... but Gen. We're re-working the wings. Are you ready? Can you be ready?"

"I love you, too," Geneve tells him, equally sincere, though quickly, because her eyes have already narrowed and her whole expression changed, under the weight of the rest of her words. "Would've been business from the start, if you hadn't been so--" She breaks off, drops that thought completely, though the way her hand continues to rest there, it's not exactly a complaint she's making. "But. Ready. Ready? Explain." She sounds cautious, uncertain.

"I can't resist you and you know it," S'dric manages to tease just a little then goes all serious, though his hand is rubbing gently at her back. "Ready to be my second."

Normally, Geneve might respond to that first comment, return the tease, but this time, she's too busy being struck dumb by his answer to her question. "I--" she says, followed by, "But--" She pauses for breath, a long one, her eyes wide.

"What?" S'dric asks next, in the face of her surprise and lifts his hand to her face, curls it to cup her cheek. "We're re-working all of the wings. J'ron is taking one of the new ones ... I've two second spots open."
Geneve's hand drops, flexing uncertainly as it rests beside her. "I'm just surprised," she says, finally. "And of course I'm ready. Of course." She sounds more like herself for those words, lips pulling in firmly, determined. "What about the weyrlings?"

"That's what I meant by ready," S'dric elaborates and a touch of confusion wrinkles his brow. "Surprised, love? Why are you surprised? I told you this would happen someday and now's the chance. There'll be others of course ... when the next weyrlings graduate we may need to shuffle again. We'll have six wings after this, but we need /ten/."

Geneve's head turns away slightly, and she stares off across the room as, in a low voice, she admits, "I believed you, but it always felt like 'someday' was never going to come. Or - not for a very long time. Because there'd always be a reason why the timing was wrong. And that would be okay," she adds in, hastily, looking back at him again. "Because it's all about what's best for the wings. For the weyr. And then I'd just redouble my efforts again, prove myself again, all of it." She takes a long breath, once again, and manages to smile. "Lots more young bronzeriders, getting their wings. J'ron will be a good Wingleader."

"If you feel that you have someone who can step up in your place, the knot is yours," S'dric says very very plainly. "Otherwise ... I'll put L'ten in one spot and V'rel in the other. And I'm pretty sure that one of them will not be able to hack it and when the next group comes around if you have your replacement ready, then it will be all yours." Which is two concrete offers, with a definite timespan attached. "And he will be, he definitely will be. He's been an excellent second, even if he's not as charismatic as some. He's steady and sets a good pace."

Mere mention of L'ten is enough to make Geneve's smile disappear completely - she positively makes a face. "L'ten? Must you consider him?" Despite this, she nods her head, clearly thinking the offers through, and adds, "I'll have to work it out. Won't leave the weyrlings without a solid Weyrlingmaster." For J'ron, she makes a quiet, thoughtful sound, then adds, "A solid, steady wing. Nothing fancy, just gets things done, I imagine."
"
It might be a way to shake him up and see things a little differently, but I don't actually expect him to succeed right away," S'dric explains, with a slight movement of one shoulder. "But you'll have to tell me why you object, I'm interested in your opinion. "I have other choices I could make, but they won't be as easy to replace if you have to wait a little longer." He nods though about J'ron. "Exactly and nothing wrong with that. We'll need that steadiness going forward."

Geneve gropes for words, while she nods along to S'dric's explanation. "He's-- I never really got the impression that he likes being a rider. He has no respect for women whatsoever, and I think that's a bad trait, when there are more of us in the wings all the time. I don't like him." From the way she talks, her dislike is more gut reaction than anything, emotional rather than well-thought-out. J'ron gets abandoned, as she works over her words. "I don't think anything would make him see any differently. Like he's determined to only ever see what he wants, nothing more."

"I've been ... working with him. And I know what you mean. He's even said he hates the weyr," S'dric says lightly. "I was thinking that maybe if he's actually responsible for other riders though, it might at least ... teach him something about taking care of others and putting them first over himself and his wants." His hand wanders up her back again, finds the edge of her cheek. "If you'll believe it, I didn't... I didn't have much respect for women ... as fighters either. Until you showed me differently."

Geneve positively scowls, her gaze as likely to burn holes through stone, though she turns her head away again as she works this over. Her voice, at least, is relatively well measured when she does respond. "Hate the weyr? How /could/-- I suppose I see what you're getting at. I just don't think it'll work. Can't imagine what Lyndee sees in him." She lets her gaze slide back towards him as his hands begin to wander once more. "Maybe so," she remarks, though it doesn't sound as though she really believes it, "But you were polite enough. Actually - you were outright friendly, when you first ran into me, when you came to Benden, as I recall."

"Shh, Gen ... if you'd had everything you loved most taken from you because you didn't realize what you were doing ... wouldn't you hate it too? He's not the only former holder struggling. Katelin ... shells. She asked /him/ to find her a man to take her virginity because she doesn't feel comfortable choosing for herself." There's the barest of pauses and S'dric's head shakes a few times. "He asked me for help selecting them. I gave him a list of likely names. The poor girl. When I talk to her about choice, she acts as if I'm asking her to stand on her head and do the waltz." Breath in, breath out. "I don't understand it either. Lyndee's such an independent spirit. And yet they seem to love each other very much. Inasmuch as L'ten can love anyone other than himself and his home hold." S'dric's hand stops and pale blue eyes lift to hers, something like guilt flashing in his eyes. "It's one thing to be friendly. It's another to really believe."

Geneve looks something like a fish, her mouth opening and closing over and over again as S'dric talks, though the words just don't come out. Finally, several moments after he finishes, her eyes fixed on his, that guilt probably so visible, she murmurs, "You are too damn good an actor. But I suppose that's the way you like it. Play people. Just like that." Her silence resumes after that, and it's in a very restrained voice that she adds, "I wish Katelin wouldn't hang around with him. It doesn't help. Either of them. They're riders, they need to learn how to accept that. How can he love someone he doesn't respect, anyway? It doesn't work like that."

"I --" S'dric starts, stops and his face starts to come apart, something rarely seen in his expression: fear. "I don't act with you, Gen. And I don't ... /like/ it. But sometimes, it has to be done. Hrotti. Almonden. And back then ... I was new in a strange Weyr, and --" he stops, reaches for her hand, something like desperation in his eyes, coloring his voice. "You showed me. You showed me how things could be." He nods about the pair of former holders though. "I hope she'll widen her acquaintance. And ... I don't know. I don't think I really loved, really, truly loved, until I did."

Geneve has already pulled herself into a seated position, wrapping both arms about her middle, beneath her breasts. She hesitates, before releasing one of them, to let him take it, but her eyes are uncertain, her expression unreadable. Dully, "And if you made nice with the resident freak, you'd win her support, quietly, make her agree to things, solve a problem. It sort of puts it all into perspective, doesn't it? All the pieces, fitting into place. She probably can't help loving him. Or maybe she's a masochist." The two topics of conversation sort of flow on into each other, not even so much as a breath separating them.

That dullness in her voice, the uncertainty in her eyes all seem to affect S'dric deeply and his fingers thread through hers, hold fast. "Gen ..." his voice breaks on her name and maybe it would be easier to lie. Maybe once upon a time he could have done it. But he can't now. "Please ... forgive me?" L'ten and Katelin are forgotten for now, his eyes are on her face that desperation still easy to read. "I have done ... many despicable things in my life. Out of ambition. Out of a need to prove myself. I sold my soul to it. But you ... you gave it back to me. And here I am, left with all of these ... skills, from being that person. So now, I only try to use them for good purposes. To make things better." He takes a breath, tightens his hand again, tries to meet her gaze. "Because of you."

But can she trust that? That's what comes through in her expression, loud and clear, with her uncertain, ragged exhalation, and the stiffness of her hand as his fingers thread between hers. She'll let her gaze meet his, letting him see the tear in her left eye, welling up and sliding, eventually, down the side of her nose. "I wish--" she begins. Then, more quietly: "I wish you hadn't told me. Now all I can see is what I fool I was, for not realising until now. How easily I believed. When was it, that you stopped pretending?"

When he speaks again, it's her name again, whispered, broken, aching. "Geneve ..." his other hand lifts to brush at that tear, to cradle her cheek. "I can't lie to you. I can't really ... hide anything from you. I am as you see me. Naked and open. I tell you almost everything, even things that perhaps I should not, because I trust you beyond any other." He swallows hard and his voice is rough when he continues. "You're nobody's fool. If anyone is a fool, it's me." His head bows then and he tries to bring her hand up to kiss. It takes him a moment or two to answer but when he does it's with his eyes right on hers. "It -- things started to change before we even jumped back to the past. But .. Chiyath's flight. While we were in the past."

Geneve's gaze doesn't waver, not as he wipes away that tear, nor as he lifts her hand - she lets him, her hand is a dull weight, but not unwilling - to kiss it. "Chiyath's flight," she repeats, and this time, her voice is heavy with recollection. "You admitted you weren't happy. And--" Breaking off, she nods very slowly. "I am a fool, though. Whatever you say. And yes, you are, too. This--" Another pause. "It's going to take some getting used to."

S'dric presses her hand to his cheek, face still showing naked emotion. "It started even before then. I could see how strong you were, how strong you are and how could I go on thinking of things the way I used to, with the evidence right in front of me. You are in every way, extraordinary, Geneve. And ... that you could love me, in spite of everything, I can't even express it properly, how much it has, and still means to me." He takes another breath, reaches towards her face again. "You brought me back from dark places, made it possible for me to be what perhaps what I ought to have been, instead of what bitterness and envy turned me into. For as much as you have struggled as a woman, to overcome that particular prejudice, as a young man, I did the same, as a youngest son with no prospect other than those I could make for myself." He stops, takes a few more breaths, tries to take her other hand in his. "I ... understand if it takes time. If -- you will not have me anymore after this." His head hangs with those words. "I can only say, that I regret what I did deeply and if I could undo it, and come to you more honestly from the beginning, I would. But I can't. And in the end, things had to happen the way that they did, in order for us to come together as we have. The world, as you have so often said, has to change. And I am committed to making that happen. For you. But not only for you, but because it's right."

Geneve's eyes flicker shut as he talks. To stop her from seeing his emotion? To hide any further tears that might be lurking about the edges? It's impossible to know: her expression doesn't change, that look of partial shell-shock, of complete and utter uncertainty. She must be listening, though, the way her eyes squeeze further shut, the way she lets him take her hand, and then, as he finishes, squeezes it - and the other - with her own. Slowly, very slowly, her eyes flicker again. "I didn't say I didn't want you anymore, S'dric. Maybe this would be easier if I /didn't/ love you. But I do. One part of me wants to throw things at you; the other knows that if I did, I'd be the first one to come back and cradle you. Because I love you too damn much."

S'dric makes a small sound in the back of his throat, relieved though there's still something stark and a little wild to be found in his eyes, even as joy to hear those words from her washes across his face. "Ah, Geneve, Geneve," he pulls her to him, wraps his arms around her. "If it would help, please, throw anything you want at me, punch me out. Only, don't leave me. I love you so much. I meant it when I said I would be yours only, or publicly too. I am ... tired of lies. But I want you to have that 'second's knot without anyone questioning it beyond those who will do so anyway and if they know about us, they will. The only other option, is to transfer to another wing with a 'leader who is amenable. Even J'ron, or one of the younger bronzeriders whom you've trained and who accepts things that others don't." His hand lifts to run over her hair, lips pressing into the crown of her head.

Geneve holds him close, clinging, even, her grip tighter than it needs to be, as if she's afraid to let go. Throughout his stream of words, she buries her head in his shoulder, and no doubt he'll be able to feel the wetness from her tears, dropping onto his skin. She pulls back in time for his kiss to her head, her lips parting slightly, almost rueful, as, in that moment, she makes her answer. "No. I want to be /your/ Wingsecond. Partly because it's you, and I miss working with you. But also because... you asked. Maybe the others wouldn't be adverse to it, but they'd never think to offer it to me, not unless you suggested it to them. And then, how would I know they wouldn't do it for you? I don't mind us being a secret. And..." She pauses, searching for words. "It's an omission, not a lie. It's not hurting anyone."

He soothes as best he can, with hands and arms and lips and when she says that, S'dric just smiles, so very brightly. Not the facile charming smile he so often has for so many, but the real, honest-to-goodness joyful smile that she has seen before and sees often as if it's a gift he has, only for her. "I miss having you in the wing too. Miss /knowing/ for sure that it's all covered and will line up perfectly like dominoes and just ...flow," he murmurs. "We just ... we work well together, in so many ways, Geneve." He sighs softly, leans in to kiss her properly, gently, kisses away tears from her cheeks. "It hurts me, to have to omit this. I don't want to. But I know we have to."

Geneve keeps her arms slung about his shoulders, through her hands are tight, holding on as if she's afraid letting go will be the end. Under that smile, she melts, sniffing in a terribly unrefined kind of way as her own smile shifts to match his. He kisses her before she has the chance to respond in words, but perhaps that's for the better: by the time she does have the chance to speak, her voice is more even, less like she's about to cry outright. "We do," she agrees. "It's been too long since we had that, in 'fall. I'll talk to my assistants." Slowly, then, she adds: "We do have to omit it. But maybe not forever. Though hopefully, we'll come out with it in our own time, not -- by accident."

S'dric isn't exactly letting go either. "It /has/ at that," he agrees and huffs out a breath. "Well. Hopefully, that long wait will be over sooner rather than later." As for their little lie of omission: "And accident would be bad. Which is why we have to continue to be careful," he says quietly. "They've been scouting for locations in the South to test the grubs out, to settle people. L'ten had picked out a spot on the other side of the lake. I had to steer them elsewhere. But we might want to mask this place better somehow. Grow trees on the patio or something," he says with a little chuckle. And then more regretfully: "Or find someplace else, though I've grown awfully fond of this spot."

"I hope so," says Geneve, sounding determined, her jaw squared at the prospect. "They got that close?" L'ten again - another wrinkle of her nose. "He'd freak," she says suddenly, but passes over the thought without further consideration of it. "Mm, I'd rather not go hunting for somewhere new. All of our work, lost. But: trees. We could do that, I think."
S'dric nods. "They didn't actually come down here, just pointed at the map. And I steered them away because there's already grubs here and it was about ... sowing them. Besides, the weather isn't as warm here all turn as it is near the coast," the weyrleader points out. "So I think best to stay that way. They're coming though, the holders and will be settled there." He considers for a moment, nods. "Vines and trees. Vines to mask the windows, especially the upper ones. Brush and fallen trees, the dragons can help. And we should look in the upper levels more, explore further. The winter will be a good time, when we're not drilling the wings."

After a moment, Geneve remarks, "It's a good thing we elected to move from the settlement when we did, then. Gave us the time to resettle, before-- " she grins, continuing, "Before /they/ resettled. It's sort of a shame, though, in some ways. If we weren't using this place, it'd be good to see it used as a proper hold again." Though she nods all the way through his suggestions for keeping the place hidden, it's his last sentence that really makes her beam again. "When we're not drilling the wings. Did I mention how good that sounds to me?"

"Mm, just in time," S'dric agrees and takes a big breath, rolls his shoulders. "It ... would. I -- almost wish sometimes, that it could really be ... our /hold/. But no matter. It has come to feel at least, like a home even in so short a time. Our place, yours and mine, where we are who we are, without hiding." Which is ironic, given that they're talking about hiding the place itself. His smile though answers hers. "Mm, doesn't it though?" and suddenly his expression turns playful once more and his brows waggle. "Good enough, that I think we ought to celebrate," he says teasingly and makes to bear her back to the bed, kissing her soundly, for a hoped-for round two.

"Give it forty-seven turns," she teases, though it's clear she very much likes the idea of it being their hold. "It is, though. A home. Ours. I like coming here. Sometimes," she looks mildly embarrassed, "I even come here on my own, just to sleep." Laughing, at his change of expression, she reaches forward to grab hold more tightly, to return the kiss as her free hand splays over his chest, and play the part of an eager participant.

"Mm, we'll have to see about staking our claim," S'dric says lowly into her ear while his hands are being far from innocent along her skin. "And ... so do I. We should cross paths sometimes," he quips further before he silences them both with another kiss that promises oh-so-very-much.

"Let's," she says, perhaps to one of his statements, perhaps to both, getting out the words just in time before the kiss puts an end to the conversation.

feministgen @ 2009-01-06T17:10:00

2009-01-06T06:10:11Z

Date: Backdated a few sevendays. Mid month 11, maybe?
Synopsis: Katelin gets her mating flights talk.

Weyrlingmaster's Office

The weyrlingmaster's office is more of an alcove, with room enough for a desk, two chairs, and a three-drawer cabinet all shoved up against the walls. Long ago a door was hung between this room and the middle of the weyrling caverns, providing both privacy and an immediate sense of peace from the hubbub outside.

It's that time. All seven, different weyrlings have been called in to see one or other of the weyrlingmasters, to talk about flights. And finally, towards the end of the seven, it's Katelin's turn. Pendarith's soft, wavering sand touch reaches for Pierzoth late in the afternoon, and politely requests that her rider come to the office. Polite, but also firm: this is not really a request. In the office, Geneve sits at the desk, arms folded in front of her, waiting, eyes on the door.

And Pierzoth duly informs her rider, who appears ten minutes later and taps the open door lightly as she enters, so as not to startle Geneve by her presence. Serious-looking, she greets her politely: "Good afternoon, Weyrlingmaster. I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. I was in the Records Room." All the way across the bowl.

Geneve doesn't seem too perturbed by the time it takes; she inclines her head, as Katelin arrives, and then shakes it, for the excuse. "Entirely understabable. Take a seat, Katelin. You'll know, I'm sure, what this is all about."

Katelin sinks into the offered seat, nodding her head. "Yes, we're to discuss... mating flights." There's a slight twitch of her lips as she speaks the words. She folds her hands in her lap and waits patiently to see what Geneve has to say.

Geneve's gaze is focused intently upon the weyrling as she answers, evidently measuring her response. Whatever her conclusion, it doesn't show on her face: she simply nods. "Of course, it will still be quite some time before Pierzoth is ready to rise, but it's better to be prepared." She pauses, just for a moment, then continues with a question, "You've picked up the basics, I'm sure?"

"The basics?" The question takes Katelin by surprise. "I suppose so. I've talked to S'dric. And Anwyn. Not Esseira, yet, but she's busy. I - can't let her eat, she has to blood, and then..." she flutters her hands a little bit, glossing over that bit. But she adds, "Anwyn says one is closest to one's dragon than at any other time. During a flight."

"Anwyn's right. It's similar, but not entirely the same when you ride a male dragon. The same closeness, but with a different purpose." Geneve's voice sounds vague, almost nostalgic, as she says this, but after a moment, she snaps back. She almost looks apologetic. "You'll probably know, a few days beforehand, that she's about to go. Subtle changes in her, perhaps in yourself. Others will definitely notice it, even if you don't. The bronzeriders will probably want to get close to you." She keeps her gaze on the younger woman, watching closely.

Katelin presses her lips together when Geneve mentions riding a male dragon. She nods her head, though, accepting the information. "Some of them," she says drily, "seem to want to get close to me already."

Geneve either doesn't notice, or doesn't care to comment. For the rest, she laughs. "Yes, they'll do that. Flying a queen is good for their careers, generally speaking. It's a priviledge." One, rumour might have it, Geneve wouldn't mind getting in on. But of this, she says nothing. "She'll actively glow, on the final day. And then, finally, she'll blood. At that point, you'll want to go back to your weyr, and the riders of the dragons who intend to chase will join you. It's good to go as quickly as possible, because it can be very disruptive, to the rest of the weyr."

"It's disruptive anyhow, isn't it?" Katelin asks, her forehead creasing as she frowns. "That - can't really be helped, can it?"

"Yes," agrees Geneve, without hesitation. "It is. And no, it really can't. But it's still better if you make it as undisruptive as possible. And safe for children." There's a pause, but only for a second or so. "So. You'll make her blood, you'll go to your weyr. The others will follow, in both actions. And, eventually, she will take flight. And they will follow."

"That should be simple enough," Katelin says calmly, holding herself still in the chair. "I don't expect we'll have any problems, then."

"I'm told it's not quite as simple as it seems, but once they actually get into the air - yes, it does become so." Geneve frowns as she says this, visibly thinking hard. "She'll try and get away. However she can. She might talk to a few of them, if they talk to her, but she won't want any of them, at that point. And nor will you. They'll look at you. They will /want/ you, Katelin. And you might find you want to tease them, or you might ignore them altogether."

"She won't - won't want them," Katelin repeats, tension evident in her voice. "She won't? But I thought. When the queens have flown when I've been here, it's been. She won't /want/ to? If she doesn't want to then if one of them catches her isn't that just the same as if - isn't it the same thing as... as..."

A beat. "Rape?" Geneve supplies, and shakes her head. "No. Because it's... a game. More than anything, I suppose. I suppose I should really say that she'll think she doesn't want them, but it's not unwilling, when the time comes. It's not like that. And don't even think, for a moment, that it will be, Katelin, for either of you. When she gets caught - and it may be that she'll decide on one of them, or it may be that one of them will outwit her - she will want it very, very much. And so will you."

"A game," Katelin repeats. "I see. So she - pretends not to want them and then - right." She folds her arms across her front loosely, and shifts in the chair, face heating.

Geneve opens her mouth, as if intending to correct something, but ends up nodding. "Right. When the lucky dragon catches her, they'll fall back towards the ground, only he'll hold her, wrapped around her, so that they don't get that low. Meanwhile, everyone else will leave your weyr - they're usually very good about that, no matter how disappointed - and you'll be left alone with the rider of the winning dragon. And you will have sex with him."

"...Usually?" Once again, Katelin plucks out a portion of Geneve's statement and repeats it, again with a frown.

Geneve drops her hands from the edge of the desk, and shrugs. "Almost always. Every so often, there's an incident - someone getting upset, wanting to punch-out someone else. But almost always, they go outside for that. It's bad etiquette, to be a bad loser, and cause problems for the rider of the female."

"What would I do if...?" Katelin isn't so big on finishing sentences, today.

"Nothing. You're unlikely even to notice," promises Geneve, actually smiling at this - a real smile.

Katelin accepts this with a nod. "The other riders would take care of it, I suppose," she says thoughtfully. "Well then." A pause, and she shifts in the chair. "So. That's - that's all, then?"

Geneve agrees, matching the nod with one of her own. "They would. Most of them-- it's disappointing, losing. Like someone has been teasing you, sexually, and then pushing you away. But most still think clearly enough." She watches, as the girl shifts, then adds. "Well. Have you had sex before, Katelin?"

Katelin straightens her shoulders, and her eyes flash with irritation; she's offended by the question. "Of course I haven't. Not that it's the sort of thing one /ordinarily/ discusses openly."

"Generally, Katelin, I promise I'm not at all interested in your sex life," says Geneve, calmly, despite the irritation she can no doubt see. "But you do need to know that it will be much easier on you - physically, but also mentally and emotionally - if you're not a virgin, by the time Pierzoth rises."

Katelin's ruffled feathers are not much soothed, but she does calm herself enough to ask, "Why - mentally and emotionally?" Physically being perhaps obvious to her.

For a moment, Geneve looks almost sympathetic - the corner of her mouth tipping up just slightly, her expression wry. "Wouldn't you rather remember your first sexual experience as being something of choice? Flight-fueled sex is... different. It can give a girl unrealistic ideas. It can make things very strange. Sometimes, it can be rough. Different from what you'd normally like. It's better to be mentally prepared." She's very frank, and keeps her gaze upon Katelin firmly.

"So you're saying it's better to... practice, beforehand," Katelin interprets, with a disapproving frown. "I see." She fixes her gaze on a spot on the wall behind Geneve.

"At least once," declares Geneve, lifting her hand with a single finger raised. "I don't think you'll find it hard to find someone. And no one will think the worse of you, I promise. It's not like that."

"No. I suppose not. But," Katelin points out, "if it's something that I /have/ to do in order to prevent her first flight being a disaster, then it's still not 'something of choice,' is it? But. There's nothing to be done about it, I suppose." Other than sucking it up and having sex. Poor Katelin.

Head tilted to the side, Geneve considers. "I suppose not," she allows. "But it's not-- overall? I can think of far worse homework assignments." That may be too much, but she doesn't blink over it. "Anyway. After the flight, she starts growing eggs, eventually, she clutches them, and eventually, they hatch, and then you're free to go back to your usual life. You're probably better off talking to the goldriders about that; not my area of expertise. I'd ask them, if you need help finding someone to - get it over with, too."

Katelin frowns again, at 'get it over with,' but she says stiffly, "I'll ask Esseira or Anwyn." About what, she doesn't say, specifically.

"Good," says Geneve, approvingly. "Well. Unless you've more questions, that's about it, Katelin. But, seriously. Don't worry too much about it all. Flights are amazing things. Even if they seem scary and uncomfortable, now. And, as always, if you need to talk about anything," she waves her arm. "I'm here."

Katelin says, with grudging politeness, "Thank you," and rises, preparing to go. "Oh," she remembers, and pauses. "Just one question. About how old will she be when she - does it?"

"You're welcome," returns Geneve, genuine, and smiling at the weyrling. For the question, she nods, approvingly, and answers: "She'll probably be close to two turns."

"Two turns," Katelin repeats, looking relieved. "That's a ways off then."

"And she could be quite a bit older than that. It really depends." Geneve smiles, for Katelin's relief, and nods. "So. Yes. Quite a ways. But the time will fly. So." The last word is said meaningfully.

"Time flies when you're a dragonrider, yes," Katelin says: she's heard that one before. "Well. Thank you," she says again, and turns to go.

And, again: "You're welcome. Afternoon, Katelin." Geneve watches her go, expression thoughtful.

Katelin walks out, stiffly, making her face expressionless for the weyrlings who see her emerge from the office.

feministgen @ 2009-01-04T15:53:00

2009-01-04T04:53:14Z

Date: Day 20, Month 11, Turn 3
Synopsis: Gen talks to weyrlings, and then commissions an item off Vesiale.

Living Cavern(#25RHIJM4)
Huge, still mostly the natural shape of the bubble cavern that formed it though embellished with intricate columns, the living cavern is large enough to seat over two thousand people at any given time. Gleamingly clean, the space is clearly well-kept by the hard work of the lower caverns staff. High in the eastern walls, narrow windows allow slants of light to dapple the room during the day, a plethora of glowbaskets in well-spaced niches around the cavern provide a warm, ambient glow after sunset. Many long tables are placed around the room, providing plentiful seating, some boasting chairs around them, others sturdy benches that seat ten at a time. The walls are decorated with a set of simple color-block tapestries and one that's more ornate, recently restored, depicting the settling of Benden during Torene's time. The cavern has a welcoming, homey feel to it in spite of its size.
The exits from here are pretty clear-cut: A set of handsomely carved stone steps lead up to the balcony-style kitchen that wraps around the cavern; a tunnel on the eastern wall slopes upward just slightly on its way out to the bowl; the southern tunnel slopes downward steadily as it dips into the Weyr's inner caverns.

Sitting at the tables nearest the fireplace, Tess has a sizeable dinner before her. Meat, potatoes, cider -- hearty eating for one her size. She isn't alone, though: a fellow weyrling joins her, the two of them in quiet conversation.

Unwrapping her (wet) scarf from around her head, and pulling off her (equally wet) coat, Geneve shivers as she dumps these near the entrance to the cavern. She has to squeeze behind tables and chairs to get to the fireplace, which she heads for instead of joining the queue at the serving tables, ignoring protests from other occupants as their stew sloshes in her wake. Once in front of the fireplace, she extends her hands, warming them in front of the flames. Of course, the position puts her in hearing distance of the two weyrlings, though, as yet, she makes no move to turn to consider them face-on.

"No, I don't think so," Tess says, using a hunk of bread to swipe at the gravy on her plate. "Not until they stop growin, I'd think." F'ylan, the second greenriding weyrling shrugs. "But we need the practice," is his return. His eyes flick up at the movement near the fireplace and then hold as it's the weyrlingmaster herself. He juts his chin, pointing her out to Tess, making the girl turn to look. Yep. That's Gen alright.

Her hands warmed, Geneve turns around, letting the fire heat her sodden wool sweater. Hey, weyrlings. Hey, looking at her. Her eyebrows raise, though her expression is - as these things go - pleasant enough. "F'ylan. Tess. Don't mind me."

"Ma'am," Tess says with a quick head-bob and tight, still-seated salute. F'ylan does much the same, a carrot shoved into his mouth hastely so as to pull off the salute. "We were talking about when we might start working on straps," he explains, making Tess roll her eyes gently. "They're only just a month old." The girl sighs in exacerbation.

Waving off the 'ma'am', with a waggle of fingers, Geneve's answer is concise: "Not until month six, I'm afraid. Of weyrlinghood, not of the turn, that is. There's no point making straps you won't be able to use - it's a waste of good leather. And time. Eager to fly, I take it, F'ylan?" Her hands drop, letting them resume their warming process, alongside her back.

F'ylan grins lopsidedly, shrugging his shoulder gently. "A bit." Tess reaches for another hunk of bread, adding, "I said about as much, it not being worth it. But hey," and she shrugs herself.

"I was, too," Geneve tells him, more relaxed in these off-duty hours than she is during the day. "Time'll pass quickly, no worries there." Her head inclines towards Tess, expression approving. "Anyway, you'll get more than enough practice, I promise. They do /grow/. How're you both doing, anyway? Problems, concerns?"

Tess's eyes flicker a bit, but otherwise the girl keeps herself still. "No, no problems. Not anymore anyway." Which makes F'ylan look over at her, a hint of curiosity in his expression. "I already talked to Cr'pel about it."

There's curiosity in Geneve's expression, too, her eyebrows raising sharply. "As long as Cr'pel dealt with it - good, good. You're always welcome to talk to us, any of us. Or Lyndee - sometimes it helps to talk to someone who was in a similar situation to you. I'm hoping she'll be joining the staff officially, soon. Which may help." Her gaze shifts, briefly, towards F'ylan, giving him the opportunity to speak if he likes - but it will return to Tess quickly. Everyone knows Geneve cares more about the girls, anyway.

F'ylan's expression is a touch droll, watching Geneve's attention hover over Tess. Of course. But he's good natured about it, shoving more carrots into his mouth. "Lyndee -- she's Dallianth's rider, isn't she?" asks Tess, turning in her seat to face the brownrider.

Geneve misses F'ylan's expression, her own intent, serious, as she considers Tess. "That's right," she agrees. "She's been helping me out, sort of a mentor, I suppose, for some of the girls."

F'ylan picks up his mostly empty plate and makes a slight bow from the waist towards the brownrider. "I'm being summoned," he explains, a wry grin cracking across his broad mouth. "Tess, Weyrlingmaster." He leaves the two women near the fireplace, heading out into the rain after depositing his plates where such things go. Left then alone with the weyrlingmaster, Tess fidgets just the slightest. "I hope Pendrith's doing well?"

"F'ylan," agrees the Weyrlingmaster, bobbing her head towards the weyrling as he goes, her attention then turning back to Tess. She grins at the girl, evidently trying not to look /too/ intimidating. Though. Really. "He is, thank you. Mooning after some green - the usual. And Silwynith?"

"We're doing well. Better, now that we're talking more." Tess's shoulder rolls into a shrug, both hands coming around her cider mug. "Cr'pel and I had a talk about that. Silwynith likes to be stubborn and I don't know how to push hard enough. Yet. But I'm learning."

Geneve's head inclines into a nod: "I've seen," she tells the younger girl. "You're working hard at it, though, I can tell. Is it like what you expected?" She shifts, the heat obviously getting too much, turning slightly so that her side is aimed towards the flame, instead of her back.

Tess thinks about that for a moment, drawing the moment out by taking a sip before answering. "It's nothing like what I expected, but then," she grins shyly. "I don't know what I expected. I do have to say, if "the man's the dragon", it makes me wonder about myself."

Tess looks into her cider, weighing something in her mind before just blurting it out. "What was weyrlinghood like for you, ma'am? Being... a brownrider. And a woman."

"They inspected Pendarith. To see if he was defective, somehow," recollects Geneve, though it's obviously not something far below the surface; there's a Look in her eyes, and her lips have gone tight. "Half the weyrlings wouldn't talk to me. Even some of the girls. /Most/ of the weyr wouldn't. Rielth, Pendarith's dam, frightened him half to death, just after the hatching. But," she grins, looking very pleased with herself. "I fought. And I won, more or less. Though I guess I'm still fighting."

Vesiale comes up from the lower caverns.

Tess sits near the fireplace, Geneve standing near it, the brownrider warming herself up with the greenrider finishes a supper. Tess says, "They've made you Weyrlingmaster, putting you in charge. Clearly someone thinks highly of you, ma'am. It'd seem as if you've won."

"Ah, but who says I want to be Weyrlingmaster for the rest of my days?" shrugs the brownrider, dropping her hands to rest by her sides. "It's true, I have the respect of the Weyrleader, and the Weyrwoman, too. But I became Weyrlingmaster because there was no one else, at the time. So." Her smile is rueful; she shrugs again. "I'll get there. What about you, Tess - ambitions to break down some more barriers, or just content to be in the wings forever?"

Vesiale sneaks in from the inner caverns, a small belt pouch in his hands. It's the one he was working on previously, when he and Geneve spoke at the Nighthearth. The teen hesitates and then with shuffling steps strikes out, wandering around the Cavern. "V'len? V'len?" he asks at every table, trying to find the rider who commissioned the pouch. As he nears the hearth he hears familiar voices and looks up, waving and smiling before bumping into someone's chair. Muttered apologies and he's on with his search.

Tess blinks, surprised at the question. "I don't... I don't know. Right now, I'm just trying to make it through Weyrlinghood." She presses her lips together, looking resolved, when she notices Vesiale's wave. She lifts her chin in aknowledgement and watches him bump into the chair, making her wince just the slightest. "I figure I'll take things as they come to me," she finishes.

Unsurprised by this, but perhaps a little disappointed all the same, Geneve just nods. Her head turns, as Tess waves - and she echoes the gesture, pressing her lips together as she watches Vesiale progress about the room. "I suppose we can't all be ambitious," she concludes, without looking back at the greenrider.

Vesiale doesn't find the missing V'len and with a sigh of frustration finally makes his way to the riders, "Hello! It's my favorite riders," he says with a wide smile. "How are you both? How are your dragons? Have you seen V'len? He said he would be here but he's not. I have this for him. He paid for it and I don't want to get in trouble for not delivering it."
Tess looks up between Geneve - maybe sensing the disapointment - and Vesiale. Between the two, she chooses the apprentice. He doesn't make her question herself as much. "Hello! And no, I haven't seen V'len. Not since breakfast, anyway."

Geneve looks pleased enough to be have included in the apprentice's 'favourite riders', and grins at him as he approaches. "Pen," she tells him, after a moment, "Says he's gotten stuck out on sweeps, later than he expected. Some kind of hold-up. He'll be in later tonight." She glances, side-long, at Tess, but doesn't push the weyrling any further.

Vesiale blushes at Geneve, "Oh! I didn't think - I didn't p-presume to ask you to ask your dragon to ask his dragon. T-thank you." He looks very embarrassed that he's received such an honor. He toys with the pouch and then holds it out proudly. "See how it turned out?"

Tess grins, watching the young man fidget under the attention. "It looks lovely. You do good work."

Geneve waves this off with her hand, head shaking. "Easy enough to do," she shrugs. "And makes more sense, than you hunting around for him. You're welcome." She leans across to get a better look at the pouch, and adds in, echoing Tess' comment: "It does look good. Might have to commission you myself, at some point."

Vesiale flushes with pride, gently putting the pouch into his ever present satchel. "Really? I would love to make something for you! What do you need? I would love to help. Thank you," he says to them both. He sits heavily in a chair and puts his satchel in his lap protectively.

Geneve stays where she is, still standing rather than sitting, and digs her hands into her pockets. She's beginning to look less damp; this is good. "What kind of things do you do - I mean, aside from that?" She indicates the pouch with her head, looking thoughtful.

Vesiale shrugs, "I do everything. Not everything as good as tooling, but I can cut leather and put pieces together and stitch it and put in grommets and take fresh hides and tan them into leather. I can dye the hides too, but I'm not very good at that. The color always comes out splotchy."

Geneve, at least mildly impressed by this list of achievements, considers her options before she responds. "What I'd really like is a big, something full of pockets, which I could attach to my straps, or swing over my shoulder. But decorated - something /interesting/. Reckon you could make me that? How much would it cost?"

Vesiale closes his eyes for a long moment, his mouth moving. "Bag, bag, pockets. Buckles. Grommets there and there and there." He opens his eyes, "You want me to make it all myself? It'll be cheaper but not as perfect. My stitches are a little uneven, but they're /strong/. I make strong stuff."

Geneve looks amused at this visible thought process, hanging back where she is, her eyebrows raised hopefully. "I would," she confirms, firmly. "I don't care about even stitches, so long as it's strong. Anyway, bet your stitches aren't /that/ uneven."

Vesiale winces, "I'll do my best," he says. "I'd have to check with Journeyman Merkan. But I think it would cost one and a half marks or so. That's what he charged the last rider. Assuming he doesn't want to charge you more." Because, you know, she's a girl. He smiles, "I'd love to make you a bag! Do you want it to be able to close all the way around? Or be open at the top? Do you want pockets inside or outside? How big? What kinds of designs? Do you want me to try to dye it? Do you want it soft?"

Geneve's nose wrinkles for the idea of being charged more, her jaw setting, as if to suggest that she would fight that. All she says, however, is: "A mark and a half. I think I can afford that." For the barrage of questions, she takes her time in responding, sounding thoughtful. "I'd like to be able to close it all the way around - need to make sure nothing can get out, if we're flying, or whatever. Pockets... both? One or two outside, so it's easy to get to, and some inside, to help keep things organised." She indicates a width with her hands, about a foot and a half by a foot - "But that's not precise. Around that. Mountains, and a river, if you can do it? Or the idea of them, anyway. Maybe two dragons, flying. Undyed is fine. And... soft. Yes. Soft would be good." She stops, breathes, finally.

Vesiale nods, listening while digging in his satchel. He finds a tiny scrap of hide and a stylus and pulls both out, writing in minute handwriting all her requests. "I'll try with the dragons," he says, uncertain if that's in his skill level. "I think I can do that. It might take me a while though." He looks up at her, worried she'll be mad.

The worry seems to surprise, and even concern, the brownrider, who shakes her head madly. "As long as it takes. And-- if you /can't/, it's not a problem. Really. It was just an idea."

Vesiale looks slightly affronted, "I can do it," he says firmly. "I can make the bag I'm just not sure. I've never tried to do dragons before. But I'll practice until I get it perfect. I want your bag to be perfect," he says with a wide smile.

This, clearly, satisfied Geneve no end: her grin is enormous. "Excellent," she enthuses. "I can't wait. Well. I can, of course. But it'll be beautiful, I'm sure of it." Beat. "Do you need, like... a deposit or something?"

Vesiale ohs, "Yeah. Half up front, so I can buy the supplies. Otherwise I can't get the leather and then you'd get no bag. And needles. And grommets, buckles, and strong thread. Really strong thread. The stuff you use on your straps."

Geneve salutes, and though she's grinning, she's obviously taking all of this quite seriously. "Noted. Don't have the marks on me, at the moment, but... shall I come and find you, tomorrow, and we can formally seal the deal, then?"

Vesiale blushes at the salute, scrambling to try and return it. The scrap of hide flutters to the floor and he dives after it, narrowly missing hitting his head on the table. "Tomorrow. Okay. Yes, I'll tell him about the deal. A mark and a half. I won't let him raise the price." As if he has any authority.

Wincing, for the blush, and then the dive, her lips twitching just slightly, Gen nods. "We'll see how we go. Anyway. I should get back - I have some reports to write, and I haven't even eaten yet. So. Tomorrow, then."

Vesiale nods, "Yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow," he repeats. "I'll be here!"

Geneve smiles, inclining her head forward into a semi-formal nod. "Look forward to it," she tells him. Then, gathering herself away from the fire, she heads off into the rain again, gathering up outer clothing on her way past. Brr.

Geneve heads down the tunnel to the bowl.

feministgen @ 2009-01-04T15:41:00

2009-01-04T04:41:09Z

Date: ?Day 17, Month 11, Turn 3
Synopsis: Geneve meets the new Tanner Apprentice, Vesiale.

Nighthearth
Partially removed from the kitchen, the nighthearth is a small niche with a long, narrow tunnel leading to the inner Weyr. This is one of the coziest locations in the Weyr, boasting a large stone table, long enough to seat a half-dozen people on either side, that sits immobile in the center of the area with wooden benches along it. Well-lit and well-stocked, the hearth usually contains at least a pot of klah and one of stew as well as baskets of day-old bread and whatever leftover treats there might be from the last meal.

As the rain pours down outside, distant echoes of thunder occasionally strike close enough to the weyr that even in the caverns you can hear and feel its rumbling sound. Vesiale sits at the stone table, working on a small project. A small belt pouch, he's patiently hammering a stamp into the leather, leaving behind short, even lines. Line after line he adds, in an odd criss-cross patter that when viewed from afar, resembles celtic knots.

Geneve is unwinding her scarf, shaking water from her clothes, as she emerges from the tunnel leading in from the lower caverns. Given the weather, it's no wonder that the nighthearth is on the full side of moderately busy; pressing her lips together, the Weyrlingmaster squeezes around the table, heading directly for the hearth, where she warms her hands between forays into the baskets of bread, evidently hunting down something specific amid the random leftovers.

Vesiale looks up every time someone new enters. He shifts his weight on the bench, slightly skittish around all the people. But he can't deny that it's warm here, and he has a ready supply of food. He taps his mallet on the stamp again and lifts it, running his finger over the marks he's made. He stares at Geneve for a long moment, especially at the knot that he thinks denotes a brownrider. Blink. Brown?

Despite her bread-hunting, and hand-warming, Geneve does not seem to be oblivious to the staring; if anything, she seems to react to it instantly, her shoulders pulling back, her posture straightening. She turns, a piece of bread finally in hand, and lifts her brows: "Something the matter... Apprentice?" She can stare back, too, sharp eyed and imperious.

Vesiale sits back a bit in alarm, "N-no," he stammers quickly. "You're that girl brownrider." He's heard about her. His brain scrambles for something to fill the void, "I like bread. Do you like bread?" And he winces.

"I'm Geneve, the Weyrlingmaster. My lifemate is Pendarith. That's correct." Geneve doesn't seem surprised to be recognised, and though her gaze doesn't lighten, she doesn't push too hard with her words. The bread in her hand is considered, then she looks back at Vesiale. Then, the bread again. "Bread's fine. Didn't your Masters ever teach you not to stare?"

Vesiale jerks his eyes away, looking down at the leather on the table in front of him, "Sorry," he mutters. "I stare at everyone. Not just you. Masters didn't teach me not to stare. Parents taught me /to/ stare. Always watching." Now he blinks, seeming to make up for all the time he lost blinking while staring. "I'm Vesiale. Tanner. I don't mind girls on fighting dragons. Long as they're good riders. If you're the Weyrlingmaster you must be good." All this is delivered while staring at the leather on the table. Blink blink.

"Why would they do that?" Gen wants to know, turning about to fill her mug with stew, and taking this, and her bread, to the table, where she perches on the other side from Vesiale. He is, evidently, at least temporarily forgiven. "I am good. I'm the best. And I," she lowers her voice, though more for effect than to avoid anyone else hearing - after all, anyone could, really - "Don't mind anyone on a fighting dragon, so long as they're a good rider. So. You must be new to Benden."

Vesiale nods, looking up and at her briefly before his eyes dart away, now unable to focus on anything for more than a few seconds. "Suspicious of strangers," he says of his parents. "Always watching. Waiting for someone to do something. From Bitra, originally. Then the Tanner Hall. Then here. Because I got bullied." He shrugs. "Got here a sevenday ago. I like it here."

Geneve dunks her bread, which is full of grains, and very dark brown, into her stew, soaking up the gravy as she listens. "Guess everyone'd be a stranger, here. You suspicious of all of us, too? Or are you not like your parents." Her head bobs for his explanation, except for the reference to bullying, at which point she makes a face. "Plenty of bullies here, too," she notes. "I'd not attract attention by talking about that, if I were you."

Vesiale shakes his head slowly, then gives it a final jerk, "No. I'm not suspicious first. If someone gives me a reason to be, then I am. But I don't start out that way." He tilts his head, looking at her curiously, "Why should I keep it to myself? So far I haven't been bullied. Just seen people bullying female riders."

"Good. Cautious is good, but suspicion is a waste of time," declares Geneve, as though she had not instantly jumped to conclusions the moment Vesiale started staring at her, minutes earlier. "Sure, plenty of people bully the girls. But not /just/ the girls. One of the last weyrling classes had a guy who set out to make life difficult for pretty much everyone, girl or not. Admitting that you were bullied is just asking for it to happen again."

Vesiale looks confused, "Really? Why? People wouldn't bully me just because I said I'd been bullied. Would they? They'd bully me because I'm weird. Or something. It's not like...like if I said I'd been kissed before. You wouldn't want to kiss me. Because you don't know me. Right? That's how I see it anyway." The teen shrugs and resumes work on the leather. The stamp is placed just so, and then with a few taps of the mallet he's left another mark.

Geneve dismisses this counter example with a wave of her hand, then rescues her bread, taking a bite out of it. It's not until she's swallowed this that she explains, in an even tone, "Bullies aren't like the rest of us. They don't think that way. They see a sign of weakness, and if they want to, they'll pounce on it. You can't show weakness."

Vesiale ohs. He looks down at the leather and is quiet for a long time. "Then. I guess I have to look tougher. Then. Did you know that before you Impressed?" he asks her curiously, glancing up, "or did you have to learn that...how would my dad say. The hard way."

"Oh, I don't ever show weakness. I never have," says Geneve, quite airily. "Almost no one dared to try and bully /me/. And they were never really successful, even when they did try. So."

Vesiale looks at her with something akin to awe in his expression. "Never? Never ever ever?" the teen whispers. "Not even if you get hurt or something?"

"Never," insists Geneve. "How could I, if I want people to take me seriously? Any sign of weakness, any indication that I'm faltering, or not good enough - they'd pounce. Use it to prove that I was a mistake. But my Impression was /not/ a mistake. So I will make sure that nothing I do gives anyone any reason to believe that." She sops up more gravy, sucking at it thoughtfully, her gaze intense.

Vesiale shakes his head, unable to meet her intense gaze for very long, "Impressions are never mistakes," he says firmly. "Everyone should know that. But my dad thinks that dragons who impress to girls who aren't golds have something wrong with them." He leans back then, lifting both hands as he hastens to clarify, "I don't think that! I...I'm learning that my dad is i-ig-ignorant about lots of things." He looks at her again, "Is it hard? Showing no weakness ever?"

Geneve's lip curls for Vesiale's father, though she seems satisfied with the son, and his opinion of things. "No, they're never mistakes," she agrees. "People just prefer to think that maybe they are, because otherwise, their world view gets destroyed." /She/, obviously, from her tone, has no patience with this. "Your father is wrong. But. At least you've accepted this." It's something, her tone says. "You get used to it. It's important, that makes it worthwhile."

Vesiale nods his head a few times, "I have accepted it. The ones I've met have been nice. And /not/ all the boy riders I've met have been nice." So that was an easy decision for the teen to make, since in his world nice people are good, and mean people are bad. Ahh, the bliss of seeing everything in black and white. He glances at her again, "I feel bad for you that you can't relax, though."

Geneve's expression seems to suggest that she finds this at least a little bit simplistic, but she manages to smile, wanly, nonetheless. "Don't," she says, of his last. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I've got too much to do with my life, to bother with that."

Vesiale ohs, "Okay," he says with a hesitant smile that quickly fades. "I won't then. What's it like being a Weyrlingmaster?" he asks curiously. "Does everyone listen to you?"

Geneve takes another bite of her bread, chewing it through thoughtfully before attempting a response to the apprentice. "No," she says, shaking her head. "If only it were that easy. But some people do. There are... a lot of weyrlings. Over a hundred, for the moment. So it's a lot of work. What's it like being a tanner?"

Vesiale looks impressed, "Wow. Over a hundred? I didn't know there were that many! When do you sleep? Do you not sleep? Do the Healers give the Weyrlingmasters special drinks that let them stay up all the time?" He taps his finger on the hide and smiles fondly at it. A more genuine expression than he's shown Geneve thus far, perhaps. "I like it. It's tangible. I do something and can see it right away."

"Three clutches, at the moment," reports Geneve, nodding. "Though one of them will graduate soon enough, which will help. I sleep..." she laughs. "When I can. I /do/ have assistants. And the weyrlings /do/ sleep at night. Some of them, anyway." She stills, looks thoughtful, as he talks about his work. "I can see the appeal of that. /I/ liked fighting thread - because you could see the result of that, too. Being weyrlingmaster is less tangible. How long have you been an apprentice?"

Vesiale flips the cover of the pouch up once, and then down again before smoothing it with his hand. "Three turns. Longer than three turns. I can do lots of stuff, but tooling is what I'm best at." Indeed, the pattern he's making on the pouch is quite skilled, with every line painstakingly placed an equal distance from its neighbors. Over and over again. He giggles when she laughs; a nervous sound. "Is it scary fighting Thread?"

"And you're... fifteen, sixteen?" guesses the Weyrlingmaster. "So you've still quite a few turns left in your apprenticeship." She glances down at the pouch, her expression appraising. "Good work," is her praise, quiet, but honest. "Of course it is. But - it's your job. And if you don't do it, people might die. So... you get past the fear, and you just concentrate, and make it happen."

Vesiale blushes, the color gently touching his cheeks, "Thank you," he says at her praise. "I am fifteen. Three more turns, around there, before I'm Journeyman. I'm nervous about it." He glances at her again before hammering in another line on the pouch. "You're amazing," he says honestly. "No weakness. Strong. No fear. Wow. No wonder he chose you." He being Pendarith, of course.

Geneve's lips curl into an amused smile at his blush, her head inclining into a nod. "Three turns is a long time," she tells him. "I imagine you'll be ready, when the time comes. Even if you don't feel it." She doesn't blush under his praise, though her expression turns instantly pleased, and well satisfied. "I am what I have to be," she says. "But thank you."

Vesiale glances at her and gives her a brief but sincere smile, "Thank you. I hope I will be ready. I will," his smile grows, "be what I have to be."

Again - or is it still? - Geneve is pleased, head inclining towards the young man. She glances down at her mug, her bread now gone, and then sighs. "And now, I'll have to excuse myself. Weyrlings, weyrlings, weyrlings. It was nice to meet you, Apprentice Vesiale."

Vesiale nods, staring at her for a moment before his smile returns, "It was nice meeting you too, Brownrider Weyrlingmaster Geneve. Clear skies to you."

Still amused, Gen just grins at Vesiale as she rises to her feet, putting away her mug, and heads for the door. "Same to you, Apprentice," she says, before she disappears.

feministgen @ 2009-01-04T15:35:00

2009-01-04T04:35:31Z

Date: Day 19, Month 10, Turn 3
Synopsis: The morning after Dallianth's flight, H'lam comes to see Geneve, as ordered.

Backdated. Also, as-yet unfinished.

Weyrlingmaster's Office
The weyrlingmaster's office is more of an alcove, with room enough for a desk, two chairs, and a three-drawer cabinet all shoved up against the walls. Long ago a door was hung between this room and the middle of the weyrling caverns, providing both privacy and an immediate sense of peace from the hubbub outside.

It's the morning after Dallianth's flight, early. Inside the barracks, the latest younger weyrling classes are on their way out of bed, some of the more industrious already busy chopping up meat for their lifemates. Within her office, Geneve is waiting, sitting behind the desk with her hands spread atop it, watching the door.

There's not a single doubt that he contemplated not coming, but in the end there's really not much he can do except obey orders. That he'd hoped to be out of the barracks for the rest of his life is clear enough; the bronzerider grimaces with distaste as he treks through, keeping his head down and eyes averted from so many unfamiliar, new weyrling pairs. And then he's shouldering open the door after a few quick raps, barely waiting for a proper invitation.

A few of the younger weyrlings look up, as H'lam comes through. Some of them look solemn. One or two smirk. News, evidently, travels fast. Geneve is already talking, as the door opens, probably before she can even confirm that it is, in fact, H'lam, and not one of her assistants, or someone else needing assistance. "Come in and sit down, weyrling." The night has not, apparently, softened her mood.

Rhenzeth, at least, has enough pride to know how much his rider can take. He mentally lashes down on the younger dragons with a swift, high-pitched sound of warning - and then is gone before he can meet repercussions; he'll leave those for H'lam, as per usual. "Yes, ma'am," H'lam murmurs with a grimace of pain, though whether it's for her uncanny ability to start before he's even adequately present or for Rhenzeth's brief blaze of fury is undeterminable. He slides into the chair, can't seem to figure whether or not he should be meeting Geneve's eyes or not, and not for the first time settles on being indirect, watching the front of her desk with more interest than it really deserves.

The resulting pandemonium - some of these dragons are, after all, /very/ young - has Geneve's assistants running to attention, and Pendarith's very unhappy silent nudge at Rhenzeth: I saw that, it implies, and also, stop it. It's audible, even in the office, and Geneve's expression just gets sharper for it. "You will /control/ your dragon, H'lam." She seeks out his eyes, never mind that they don't meet hers for the moment, and continues, "Yesterday? He could have hurt himself. Perhaps lost his ability to fly /for good/. And right now-- don't think we didn't see /that/."

H'lam looses a low hiss of breath, dismay maybe or frustration, more likely both. "I know," he mutters eventually, surprising even himself when he speaks - he even flinches slightly. Maybe he was thinking about saying it, and it came out before he realized it. "He's just - he's so..." H'lam fishes for words that he's never used, and in the end he risks a glance at Geneve's eyes - sort of desperate even though he doesn't it want it to be, in the fleeting moments he makes contact. "Not me," he finishes lamely.

Stony silence meets H'lam's word-fishing, and lasts for quite a few seconds after he's finally come up with something, though Gen meets his gaze squarely, and there is something that almost might be considered sympathy there. "Of course he's not you," is what she says, however, less sympathetically, more forcefully. "He's himself, and he is going to have to learn that there are rules for a reason, and he is /not/ above them. Can you get him to listen to anything you say?"

"He's-" starts H'lam, frowning expressly at the weyrlingmaster, as close to exasperation as he's ever been. His mouth snaps closed and his jaw works at something. When he starts again it's clear he's changed what he was going to say, but it's not much better. "He's right too much," the weyrling says quietly. "He does things to make a point, and he's always right." Smug satisfaction to Pendarith as Rhenzeth's consciousness comes back to seep in waves of sound and bitter scent back to check on his rider. "I can, sometimes - but it's his mood. Usually I end up with a headache and he's still won."

"Was he right to chase Dallianth?" Geneve wants to know, her hands sliding from the desk onto her lap. "Was he right to go in and scare those little dragons... you remember what they're like, at that age. It's cruel. For them, and for their riders, who won't forget. I don't think any of those things is /right/." Pendarith has only disdain for the younger bronze, his golden-brown sands flicking nastily at the bronze. << Stay out, Rhenzeth. They're talking, and they don't need your interference. >>

Rhenzeth's more than a little annoyed; he shrinks back slightly, especially when he finds he's not welcome to ride the coat-tails of H'lam's mind. The rider of the pair doesn't really seem like he's going to answer, fussing as he is with his shirt-sleeves; he unrolls and rerolls them carefully, until there's no way they can be more perfect. "Right isn't the word," H'lam retracts. "He's...accurate. Whatever he's proving he does every time. He's not as close to me as everyone else is to thier dragons, ma'am." That last comes out all in a rush of breath. "Rhenzeth isn't /my/ dragon, I'm /his/ rider." He stresses the words, trying to make sure she sees the difference.

Pendarith stands firm, and there's a warning note to his touch, though it doesn't push, not now that Rhenzeth is shrinking back, even only slightly. Geneve is patient, waiting while H'lam fusses with his shirt, and throughout his spiel. "You're telling me that he's been leading you, since you Impressed." It's not a question. "He's the dominant one. Well. I suppose that's not, ultimately, that surprising, given..." Everything. "But you need to be able to exercise some control. For now, at least. I don't care what you do, after you leave my care, but I can't afford him deciding to pull that kind of stunt again. We're going to have to ground you."

H'lam opens his mouth, closes it again, opens it and then settles with a thoughtful frown. Perhaps he'd never thought of it in such blunt terms, but now that it's been presented it sounds completely asinine. And then he's resigned if expectant of the punishment, the only sign of his dismay being a small sigh. Rhenzeth reacts more actively. He lashes, another shriek of metal being torn through, like nails on a board only louder and more severe, to Pendarith. << That is not fair, >> he informs the brown, and he does it in a manner that's diplomatic and polite; were it not for the slight tang of copper over his words he might be trying to reasonably negotiate, not simply hold his temper.

Geneve watches that reaction with clinical interest, lifting her hands to rest upon the edge of the desk again. Coolly, after that sigh, she notes, "It's for the best. Until we can trust you - both of you - I don't want you up there. Not without supervision. I'll have Ailuth enforce it, or one of the other queens. For now." She stresses the last. The brown disregards Rhenzeth's reaction, dissipating it within his own mind with a flick. << Ah, but it is, >> Pendarith tells the bronze, his touch salty and dry, almost whisper-thin, but louder. << If you can't control yourself, we must do it for you. >>

feministgen @ 2008-12-30T13:23:00

2008-12-30T02:24:03Z

Date: Day 8, Month 11, Turn 3
Synopsis: Weyrlings practice flying, under the supervision of Geneve and an assistant. Lyndee joins, and she and Geneve have requests for each other.

Southern Bowl(#10RHJM4) Autumn. Breezy. 40F / 4C.
The primary feature of this end of the mile-long bowl is the Weyr's lake, which takes up nearly a quarter of the bowl's capacity by itself. About two dragonlengths deep at the deepest part - which is safely nestled along the wall of the bowl, far from the shore - the water is fairly clear for all that it's warm. Even in the winter, the water never really dips below "chilly," heated as it is by the Weyr's internal thermals. Occupying the southwestern corner, the southeastern finger of the lake puddles around the fence to the feeding grounds.
The tunnel to the weyrling barracks opens on the eastern side of the bowl, just north of the patio-like overhang that serves as the Weyr's stables. Almost directly across from this on the western wall is the tunnel leading in to the lower caverns, meeting up with the road out of the Weyr.

It's a breezy, autumn afternoon, clear, but still chilly, and the middle group of weyrlings - Ashayath and Vizorth's class - are out in the bowl, practicing their unmanned flying skills. Most have only recently graduated into actual wingbeats while aloft, and the results are, at times, quite comical. Geneve and one of her assistants are supervising the group, the assistant taking the spearhead, while the brownrider stands, arms crossed, a short distance away, keeping an eye on landings.

Dallianth has the sense to land quite a way out of the path of the class, even if she watches them intently and disregards Lyndee almost completely as the greenrider dismounts. "It's lovely to know I have your full attention," the young woman is heard to declare, coupled with a well-aimed swat at her lifemate. Still, Lyndee seems rather amused as she leaves the green to her staring and sidles round the class herself to appear beside Geneve. "Afternoon," she greets. There's a pause as she observes a little tumble of a landing before she asks, "How're they doing?"

Pendarith, also positioned a ways back, but on standby for any real disaster, rumbles a warm greeting to Dallianth as she and hers land, though his attention, too is fairly squarely positioned upon the weyrlings. Just in case. Gen, her arms wrapping about her middle to ward off the cool wind, is concentrating enough that it's with surprise that she glances up, after Lyndee's greeting. "Afternoon," she returns, surprise fading to a warm nod. "They're-- better than they were yesterday, not as good as they will be tomorrow, I hope." The next landing, this one by a young blue, goes better. His rider, from the ground, looks insufferably proud.

The stocky green offers over a bright trill to Pendarith as she settles down and tucks limbs in, looking like she intends to stay where she is for the duration. Dallianth glances between the brown and a little green - who defies what might be thought of her tiny size and manages a few wingbeats and a neat landing - as if to say 'look at her go!'. Lyndee smiles and twitches her head a little towards the blue's rider. "I remember that look. I was sporting it like an idiot about now," she jokes. "It's all going okay, though? With all the classes."

Pendarith is clearly pleased with Dallianth's response, his tail twitching neatly against the ground, though his stance doesn't change: he's all alert, waiting, intent. "So was I," grins Geneve, following Lyndee's head twitch with her eyes. "Though mine was maybe a little more defiant: see, we're not freaks after all, so there, I think. Oh, it goes. We're getting into a bit of a rhythm, I think, between the classes. I'm still eyeing Ashayath in the hope that it'll be a while before she rises again."

Lyndee's smile turns a little predatory and she aims it towards the ground before it can be shot at any of the weyrlings by accident. "Nothing wrong with that," she answers. "Wish I'd seen it." The mention of Ashayath has the greenrider peering across the bowl to the junior queen's ledges as though she might fear that the mere mention of Ashayath and rising in the same sentence might provoke just that. "With so many weyrlings about, maybe it'll throw her off a bit," she thinks aloud. Lyndee rocks back on her heels and surveys the assembled. "Everything alright with the girls? The elder ones don't mind me so much, but Sian's still a bit of an enigma. Bit shy."

For that, Geneve's grin turns very well satisfied. "The guys really hated it," she reminisces, almost fond. "The way we just kept proving how good we were." Another green comes to a landing, a little wobbly, but generally quite acceptable. Geneve sends the green's rider, a young girl, the thumbs up; the girl beams and beams and beams. "We can hope. Though, of course, we still need all the riders we can get." She shoves her hands into her pockets, adding, "No, they seem to be doing well enough, on the whole. Sian - well, if she'll talk to you at all, then you're doing better than I am. Speaking of them: do you want to have a chat to them about flights? It's that time."

Lyndee tries to keep delighted laughter under wraps for the sight of the thrilled young greenrider and succeeds only so far as keeping it faint and only a little off just a high squeak of glee. "True," she agrees. "Though time to breathe would be a bonus." Across the way, Dallianth rumbles happily as a gangly blue manages to keep his limbs in the proper arrangement for a decent landing this time. Her rider is silent a moment or two instead of just rushing into a response. "I'd... like to do that if it's okay." Lyndee frowns. "I just wonder... What with Dallianth's last flight and Rhenzeth whether it'd be entirely appropriate."

The girl, whose grins and receipt of Geneve's thumb's up have her facing in the right direction at the right time, turns pink at Lyndee's glee, though her attention returns quickly to her green, all kinds of adoration and endearments presented, after a truly enormous hug. "I think it'd be a help to all of us," agrees Geneve, of the idea of having time to breathe. She doesn't press the other greenrider for a response to her question: she keeps her gaze focused on that blue, whose rider also gets an approving nod, and winces appropriately as a young brown tangles himself, to his rider's dismay. "What happened with Rhenzeth is not your fault," she says, finally. "I don't think it makes you any less capable, let alone less /suitable/, to take this on."

Lyndee's gaze falls just shy of the brown - so as not to stare and make the situation worse - as he untangles himself with a disappointed croon and lopes off towards his rider to receive conciliatory smoothing. "...Is he okay?" she asks carefully, of Rhenzeth. "I haven't spoken to H'lam, I thought it'd just make things worse." The blonde throws her shoulders back and exhales slowly. "Well, if it's not inappropriate or anything like that, then I'll do it if they'll listen," she agrees. She quirks one eyebrow upwards, declares, "And probably even if they won't," with a little more of her usual humour.

"Physically? Yes. They're grounded, of course, though." Geneve doesn't seem to have much sympathy for the bronze pair; she lets out a huffed breath after speaking of them, and her expression is distinctly cool. "It's not, and we'd very much appreciate it," she continues, more warmly, now, her head turning so that she can grin at Lyndee again. "There's more for them to think about. The girls, I mean. Look at Wendra, for example - pregnant, because of a flight. But generally... Most of them need more understanding than we can provide, not riding greens. So. Very much appreciated."

There's a sharp nod for the information about the weyrlings and another slow breath out: maybe Lyndee's decided that it's time to stop kicking herself over the whole thing. "In that case, I'd very much like to help," she confirms, returning the grin, though she goes a little thoughtful at the mention of Wendra. "She thought it was stomach flu," she murmurs, still a little confused by that if the shake of her head is anything to go by. "I didn't think at the time, when she said she was over it..." The greenrider rubs the bridge of her nose and lets her hand drop heavily back to her side. "I wanted to ask you," she begins. "When the next clutch hatches... I'd like to assist, if you'll have me. I know I've still got to learn, but I'd like do it, well, proper like."

"Excellent," enthuses the brownrider, as her gaze slides away again - this time, it's another blue, executing a landing that might have been perfect, if he hadn't over-extended at the last minute. "Next time!" she calls to blue and rider, who both nod, evidently determined to make it so. "I'm told it can happen," agrees Gen, voice lowering. "Seems... surprising, though. That she managed not to miscarry. That she had no idea, until so late. But. L'dor and Andoran are happy, I think." She goes silent again, for Lyndee's request, and again, her gaze shifts towards the greenrider. "I'll have to talk to your Wingleader, but... I'd like to have you, Lyndee. So let's call it a tentative yes, until we confirm it with E'sere."

She's tracking a dark-toned green from her brief trip into the air as she speaks, as though trying to pretend she's saying nothing at all. "Tough kid," Lyndee says, voice kept quiet. "But Daelana is quite the charmer and L'dor's thrilled to pieces, so..." She shrugs one shoulder. The greenrider blinks back at Geneve for a few seconds, then nods once. Her, "Thank you," is earnest, with a hint of a smile, as she looks back towards Dallianth who still avidly watches the weyrlings take flight. "At the very least, she might have a legitimate reason to 'observe' them so much," she remarks. The green is far from mentally deaf and aims a snort in her rider's direction for that.

The green wobbles, as she hits the ground, but the landing is otherwise sound; her young rider, a tall boy, just nods his head - very calm in his pleasure at her more or less success. "Is she? I haven't, yet, had the opportunity to say hello." But Geneve doesn't sound all that interested, all told, except to nod fervently for L'dor's pleasure. "I'm glad he's happy, anyway. You're welcome, of course. I'll let you know, or E'sere will, as soon as we've worked out the details, but I'm sure it won't be a problem. She likes it, does she? Watching them?" Her gaze flicks up towards Dallianth, thoughtful, though it doesn't linger.

"Thank you," Lyndee utters again, her gaze wandering between her lifemate and the weyrling class. Dallianth has forgiven her rider already and eyes the progress of a heavy-set brown intently. "I find her watching them more often than not, if she's out here and has a free minute or two. She likes to try and make them think, as odd as that sounds. Dalli's better with Llinith than I am with Shian at the moment. Which is something, I guess. Progress with one half, at least." Speaking of, Lyndee's eyes narrow and she leans forward a touch as she spots the young greenrider across the bowl. "I think I might try an ambush..."

Geneve's head inclines forward, a silent indication of 'you're welcome', though she doesn't utter the words again. "Interesting," she muses, her own eyes upon the heavy-set brown. "/Is/ she? That's good. Progress, of any kind, is..." Her gaze slides up again, as Lyndee makes her ambush comment, her head tilting slightly, and then, a grin. "Good plan. And good luck with it. Let me know, if you get anywhere, mmm?"

Lyndee returns the grin in a sort of full-on mischievous beam before she sobers appropriately and watches Shian's path to figure out just where to stop her. "I will," she assures the Weyrlingmaster, with another second of a now almost feral gleam. Whilst Dallianth pretends not to notice the girl, her rider does the same and makes to slink off ever so casually. "Hope the rest of the class goes well, Geneve," she says in parting, then she's slinking, sneaking off.

feministgen @ 2008-12-07T19:18:00

2008-12-07T08:18:58Z

Date: Day 21, Month 8, Turn 3
Synopsis: The day after Rosalith's flight, Geneve meets Anwyn.

Workrooms
In the deeper parts of the Weyr, a warren of tunnels and caverns provide work space for crafters and weyrfolk. This is where much of the day-to-day effort of keeping Benden running goes on. The area is lit by glows, as no natural light penetrates, though cunning ventilation shafts keep the air clean. A couple of larger caverns simply provide solid workbenches for anyone who needs to use one. Here, too, are the Smiths' workshop and forge; the pottery; the Weavers' area with its looms, spinning wheels cutting tables and rare full-length mirror; and the large, steamy laundry caverns, with hot pools and a drying area.

The workrooms are probably not high on the list of places to be on a summer afternoon, which is perhaps why Anwyn has headed here instead of the busier caverns. With most people going about their duties or attending drills, the space is reasonably quiet, save for several residents and laundresses going about their work. The goldrider is seated towards the back of the room, where she's less likely to find herself in the path of those already present, working on straps that have clearly seen better days.

The jingling of buckles marks Geneve's entrance into the caverns, her straps slung over her shoulder, giving her something of a lopsided gait. The Weyrlingmaster considers the space, as she emerges, coming to a halt; the relative emptiness makes it easy for her to categorise those about - laundress, potter, seamstress, goldri-- Ah. It's only a subtle shift in expression, but it's followed by a resumption of her movement, carrying her over to the table at which Anwyn sits, where she takes her own seat, on the opposite side. "Fine afternoon, Weyrwoman," she greets, as her straps hit the table with a clunk.

If Anwyn jumps at the sound of both voice and clunk, it's only betrayed by a blink and a sharp look up, words only delayed by as long as it takes her eyes to switch focus from straps to Geneve to knot. "Anwyn," she immediately insists, in a rather cold voice before her tone alters to something altogether more conversational as she continues with, "A fine afternoon indeed, Weyrlingmaster." She looks around the glow-lit area and remarks, "Not that you would know from in here."

Geneve is not surprised by the coldness of Anwyn's correction, accepting it with a shallow inclination of her head: "Geneve, then. Pleasure to meet you, at last." She's already digging out her needle, then shuffling the straps along to find the place that needs work, though she continues, conversational enough. "No, you wouldn't. But the light is too bright for good sewing, so... Here I am. And you."

Anwyn dips her head once and drops her eyes back to her straps, tracking back along them to find the last placed she stashed her own needle for safe keeping. "Yourself as well. I've seen many of your students around the bowl, recently. They do you proud, from what I can tell." She smiles wryly as she pulls the needle from the leather without looking up. "I regret to say that the summer and I do not get along well. Unlike that queen of mine, who will likely be out there until dark."

"Glad to hear it," says Geneve of her students, pleased for the compliment. "They're good kids. Bit overwhelming at times, though. I guess we're not used to having so many at once, just yet, though we'll get there." Her own needle gets put into service, slowly working at the leather. "No? I'm still an Istan at heart, I'm afraid. Even this is... not really warm enough. How is Rosalith?"

Anwyn grimaces at 'overwhelming' and offers, "If I could convince her to clutch at a more convenient time, I would," only half-joking. "She..." There are words, obviously. Somewhere. Some truthful, some not. It takes a little while for her to drag a mixture of the two into play. "...Is well enough, considering." One eyebrow lifts and she murmurs, "Though I've no doubt the entire weyr heard how she was faring yesterday," in the same sort of maybe playing, maybe not voice.

Geneve looks amused, rather than annoyed or frustrated, at Anwyn's comment. "Sweet of you. No, I can't /really/ complain. We need every dragon we can get, after all." She goes still, and quiet, while the goldrider hunts for words, her head inclining forward slightly as she listens. "I'm glad to hear that. Hard not to know, in a weyr. It's not /good/, but don't beat yourself up over it."

"I suppose so. Hard work, but knowing it's for a decent cause; reason." Anwyn looks up then, startled, like those words came out wrong. "Not that it isn't in any other situation but..." She gives up on trying to explain and stabs the needle in her grip rather viciously into the leather as if she doesn't care about the straps at all. "...Maybe next time," is all she can summon in response to the latter comment, her jaw set.

"But particularly at the moment, quite right," agrees Geneve, picking up the basic point Anwyn is trying to make, and waving away the rest. She's watching the goldrider very carefully, clearly curious, her sewing suffering as a result. "Next time. Yes, of course," she agrees, her tone not quite /soothing/, but sofer, anyway. "Still. A shame. Poor Rosalith." Beat. "And how are you, Anwyn? Settling in? Making friends?"

'Poor Rosalith' makes the goldrider freeze and her left hand curls about the nearest length of leather, slowly forming a white-knuckled fist. She speaks, though, her voice is at odds with whatever traces of her reaction are noticeable. "It was odd, being here, the first couple of sevens," Anwyn admits. "But then, it was odd being at Telgar after so long at High Reaches." The subject of friends isn't broached. "I remember a couple of Reachian riders you... we-" still having trouble with that, apparently, "seem to have acquired." The goldrider tries for a small smile when she looks up and meets Geneve's gaze properly. "But settled to a certain extent, thank you."

Geneve is considering Anwyn too closely to miss that, and her expression shows it: eyes narrowing slightly, lips pulling together. "It's hard, to move to a new place like that," she agrees, in an even enough tone. "I remember coming from Ista, and then, half the weyr were people I knew. You were from High Reaches, first, that's right. That will be good - people you know, already." Anwyn's smile draws one from the brownrider; she nods. "Glad to hear it."

"This place being settled as it is makes for a rather eclectic assortment of people from various places," Anwyn says quietly, as if thinking aloud. Dark eyes narrow a little when she declares, out of nowhere, "I hear the Reachians are not the most attentive of riders. I've heard mutterings from the wings. /They/ do not seem to be making friends." She pauses and tilts her head, then concentrates back on battered straps. "Though Rosalith having hatched there, I suppose any comments I make could be seen as something involving kettles, pots and black."

"It does, doesn't it," agrees Geneve, and if she'd intended to say something more than that, she doesn't - Anwyn gets there first. "I've heard the same," she agrees. "I get the impression the Reaches sent us the ones they didn't want, couldn't deal with. Which is not, of course, the first time that's happened here." She sounds wry, as she says this. "I won't hold it against you, if that helps." Her needle darts into the leather again, and she pulls it taught, examining the straps thoughtfully, then gathering the needle up again.

"Much appreciated," Anwyn replies first, close to teasing. "People-" Reachians? "are... opportunists. I've no doubt that if they thought they could get away with doing such a thing, then they did." She sighs softly as she begins to sew back along the line she's already been along once. "For all we fight a common enemy, it seems it is every weyr for themselves. Practical on some occasions... Unfortunate on others." Glaring down at her work, she mutters, "One of their fools had better not get any Benden riders killed."

Geneve evidently takes it as teasing: she's grinning, pleased. More serious, however, is her response to the rest of Anwyn's words, her head inclining shortly. "No, I think you're quite right. And, unfortunately, Benden's had to do a lot of things that make it easy for other people to get away with-- whatever they like. Hopefully, that will begin to change." She adds a few more stitches to her repair work, nodding. "That's for sure."

Anwyn looks up in time to catch that grin and manages to mirror it slightly with one of her own, though hers is more tentative, still wary. "Turn it round. Turn the tables on the others," is almost predatory when she utters the words. "It would not do to let them get overconfident." The weyrwoman catches the intensity to her voice and quickly shrugs one shoulder in an attempt to dismiss that quality. "The goal being not being in a position to be taken advantage of, I presume."

Geneve lets her needle still, her head tilting to the side and her eyebrows raised. Interested. Then: grinning. Pleased. "You're on to something there," she tells the other woman, her expression suddenly thoughtful, as she mulls this over. "Right. We want to be in a position where we're not the underdog, having to take anything they can give us. We've got four queens, now. That's a start."

"Four queens," Anwyn repeats, inclining her head. "So, barring disaster, the population should increase steadily." Her eyes go a little distant as she continues. "And as long as nobody goes shouting better prosperity from the Star Stones, the next time someone like the Reaches tries to unload their troubles on Benden, they'll get a sharp shock." A sly smiles vanishes with the shake of her head and she laughs softly under her breath. "Apologies. I tend to get a little caught up in politics."

"Don't apologise," insists Geneve, tilting her head up so that she can grin at Anwyn. "Politics are important. Now, admittedly, I tend to ignore what I /should/ do to play, and just push my way in and do things my way, but I can see the importance. I think you're right, anyway. We're now in a position to say no, or to turn it back on them. It's a good place to be."

"Different ways of doing things," Anwyn answers, a half-smile still visible even as she looks back down to her work. "One isn't necessarily better than the other. As long as the desired result is achieved, I admit I'm not much bothered about how or why and why not." Or knocking people down, goes unsaid but perhaps settles between the lines. "Hopefully, if those riders do not shape up, there will come a time when they will not be needed either way."

"Not everyone believes that, unfortunately," says Geneve, still watching Anwyn. "Too many people want to do things the 'proper' way. Keep telling me to be patient. Shut my mouth. You know the drill." Her head inclines again. "I hope so. It'd be easier, if we didn't have to worry so much." She looks, for a moment, like she's going to say something more - but then, her jaw sets. "Damn. Needed in the barracks. It was nice meeting you, Anwyn. Look after yourself." She's already pulling herself back up to her feet, gathering up her straps.

"Unfortunately," Anwyn echoes. "But things will change," she says, determinedly. "Even if it's eventually." She looks up, eyes back on Geneve as she stands. A dip of her head and she sticks the needle back into straps and laces her hands before her on the tabletop to focus back on the Weyrlingmaster instead of work. "You too, Geneve," she answers, dropping out of her more formal tones a little. "Clear skies."

"Eventually," says Gen, as she turns to leave. "Why must everything be /eventually/." But she's grinning, bobbing her head towards the goldrider, and then she's on her way.

feministgen @ 2008-12-07T18:37:00

2008-12-07T07:37:51Z

Date: Day 20, Month 8, Turn 3
Synopsis: Andy and Gen have both been busy and show up late for lunch. They talk about the difficulties of being Weyrlingmaster, how Andy can help and why some weyrlings have a really hard time dealing with flights. Bonus side serving about sexuality. Then Rosalith goes up.

Log stolen from andoran

It's a lovely, if partly-cloudy, afternoon in late summer, and most of the lunch crowds have recent dispersed from the caverns and nighthearth - though there are, as always a few people about, doing this and that. One of these is Geneve, who has stolen a quiet corner of the nighthearth for her presumably belated lunch, and is eating absently while staring off into space, eyes half closed, her shoulders sunk in quiet relaxation. Or is that exhaustion?

Andoran comes in on quiet feet, looking a little worn around the edges himself. His hair is neatly braided back and the harper's eyes light on the brownrider almost immediately. He takes a moment to catch up a few meatrolls and a mug of klah, then pauses by the Weyrlingmaster. He hesitates a moment before speaking. "Geneve?" he queries softly, not using her title.

Geneve is far too entranced - or is it vacant? - to notice the approach of the Harper, but as he says her name, her eyes return abruptly to focus, and her head turns. She looks - rueful, for a moment, but still pleased, a smile becoming visible as she greets him: "Hey, Andy. Sorry - miles away, I guess. Lunch?"

"Miles away," he echoes, Andoran's face creasing with sympathy and he drops his hand to her shoulder for a moment, then sits down, nods to his meagre meal. "Mm. I've been doing a lot of copying for the Weyrleader," he says carefully. "And you, my friend? What has you so far away today?"

Geneve smiles, as his hand comes to rest on her shoulder, though her gaze is still distant. But she repositions herself, picks up her fork again, considers her lunch, then turns her attention back to Andoran without eating any more of it. "He must keep you pretty busy," she says, nodding as she listens. "I'm tired, that's all. Tired, and that makes me daydream of places far away. At least class number one is beginning to leave the barracks."

Listening to Geneve, Andoran munches on a meatroll, takes a sip from his mug. "It must be very wearing, caring for all of them," he says quietly, eyes scanning the brownrider's face. "And no sign of it letting up either, with clutches coming back to back now. Perhaps you could get more help from the Weyrleader to spread out the responsibility?"

Geneve responds to most of Andoran's with short nods - yes, very wearing, no, no sign of it setting back up. For the last, she shrugs. "Ever bit of help I get is another rider with less time to drill in the wings, and fly 'fall. Can't afford to lose people. I thought about maybe recruiting some of the people off on injury, but most of them'd be useless." Her expression is wry, as she adds, "It's just not what I expected to be doing. Wingsecond by thirty, I said. And there's just no let-up, anymore."

"True, but with the golds clutching nicely now, maybe after a tough spot, there'll finally be enough that you can get a break," Andoran says earnestly, looking across the table at his friend with some concern. "Perhaps some of the new riders from the Reaches might be able? Some of them are older, though I uh -- hear talk that isn't particularly complimentary."

Geneve's expression turns amused at Andoran's earnestness, though by her manner, she doesn't really believe what he's saying. "Maybe," she says, nonetheless. "We'll see. Mmm, no, seems that way, doesn't it? Benden ends up with another set of rejects, of course. Hear our new goldrider's a bit strange, too. Anyway, I'm fine, really. Just need to make sure I actually get a restday soon. And you - how are you?"

"Yes, I suppose beggars can't be choosers," the harper says wryly, bends his head a little as he takes another drink from his mug. "Anwyn? I've not been formally introduced yet nor seen her about all that much come to think of it. She's certainly .... striking," Andoran says politely. The last question earns a grin. "I'm well, other than quite busy at the moment."

"And I shouldn't complain, given I was one of those rejects, too, even if I did /elect/ to come. We're doing okay, for all that, and the fact that we're finally breeding our own better..." Gen breaks off, to nod, and pokes at the remains of her lunch again, swirling the mashed potatoes into the slightly congealed gravy. "Mm, Anwyn. Haven't met her, myself, either. But. You hear things. Just the copying keeping you busy, or other things?"

Andoran's hands fold together and he chuckles softly. "I wanted to come here. I'm not sure if I was considered a reject, though of course, I am one now." His mouth pulls to the side a little, wryness there. "Right. I do hear things. Lots of living caverns gossip. She keeps much to herself, seems either stand-offish, sad or sweet but quiet, depending on whom you're speaking with. I'm hoping to speak with her soon. If only to ask her what sort of music she likes." A little nod follows. "Mostly copying. Some other things related to the copying."

Geneve matches that wryness, a moment of silence following before she puts in, "Well, you're in good company, at least. Bet you wouldn't want it any other way. /Know/ I wouldn't." Except, of course, for the Weyrlingmaster bit. "Mmm, exactly. Supposedly, Rosalith'll be rising soon," she breaks off, to make a face, if at least partially in jest, "And maybe that'll help. It has to be hard, moving like that, on your own. If you're that kind of person, anyway." Beat. "Copying. Sounds... boring?"

"No. I would never want to leave here willingly now," Andoran replies, eyes crinkling up at the corners. "The Weyr, L'dor, my friends here, my family nearby, those are my life now. And I'll never leave L'dor." Certainty there. He nods faintly about rising. "Hopefully better, not worse," he murmurs softly. "Can't be easy to -- you know, wind up in bed with a stranger so soon after moving either." He chuckles, lifts his shoulders about the copying. "I've always liked copying, actually."

Geneve looks pleased for Andoran's reaction, and a little satisfied, too; she nods. "Good. Glad you're happy." Her shoulders shrug, at the discussion of the rising, and she admits, "I can't really see it as being so awful. It's only a flight; you get used to them. She, surely, is, by now." She looks - not surprised, by genuinely mystified by his admission about the copying. "Why? Surely it's just repetitive."

"Mm. And you, Gen, other than this frustration and fatigue. Are you happy?" Andoran asks, voice still soft and gentle. He pops another meatroll into his mouth and looks sheepish again. Chewing thoroughly he responds after a moment. "I suppose it's the holder in me yet. I don't quite know how L'dor does it when Banyth catches. I can't imagine being forced to accept whomever my dragon chose. Repeatedly." His head ducks and Andy's shoulders lift at the same time. "I enjoy making each one exactly the same as the last."

"Yes." The response comes out rather quicker, and more fervently than the Brownrider may have intended, though she doesn't look abashed at it, despite this. "Aside from that - yes. There's still more I want, but not enough to make me /unhappy/." Gen offers, after a moment more, "Part of it, I think is that it makes your dragon so very happy. I mean, I never had a problem with it, but-- Pendarith /likes/ sex. I'd feel awful, feeling awkward and uncomfortable about him getting what he wants." For his last, she just shakes her head: "You are a-- complete /dork/."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it, Gen," Andoran says with a sincere smile for the brownrider. He colors faintly as she speaks so plainly about the subject of flights and fidgets with the handle of his mug. "For all I love him, it was very difficult for me to -- get physical with him at all. So maybe that might explain my perspective a little," the harper continues mildly and looks up and across at the brownrider. "I -- well, y-es."

Geneve finally sets her fork down: there really is no way she's going to eat any more of this, and there's only so much playing a person can do while pretending to consider eating. She looks amused for Andoran's blush, though fondly so, and nods. "Can be hard, for some people," she says. "I wouldn't really expect you to /get/ it. And I know some riders don't, either. But. /They/ do need to learn." Her grin just broadens for his last. "And we like you for it, don't worry. It's kind of cute, actually."

"I get glimpses of real understanding now and then," Andoran says with a little lift of his shoulders. "I know it's cheating and I don't begrudge L'dor any flights Banyth wins. But it also seems like it can be draining and startling sometimes still. Some of the holdbred have a very tough time it seems. I heard that L'ten avoided M'keal for weeks after Sevuuth won Tovith's flight for instance." He blows out a puff of air and then flushes scarlet at her last. "I ah -- cute." And his mouth pulls into a little grin. Wicked humor surfaces briefly. "Are you saying you think I'm cute, Geneve?" Innocent eyes are lifted her way. So very innocent. Only not.

"L'ten will get used to it," returns Geneve, easily, but for the rest: she nods. "It can be. Katelin, for example, is rather dreading the whole thing, from what I can tell - silly girl won't talk to /me/ of course. I /get/ it. But. It's those who can't get used to it that frustrate me, I suppose. For me... it was always a way to get close to someone, even if only for a little while." Was. She looks utterly delighted by his blush, laughing outright at his response. "You're very cute, Andoran. In that /completely/ non-sexual way. Not my type, you know."

"Yes, but Geneve, what if a person can't get over it. It might be that way for you, but for many, it's a source of deep disgust," Andoran says, mild-voiced still, but clearly quite serious about this. His palms flatten on the table and he sighs. "I ignored what I felt for L'dor for a very long time because of it," he confesses, low-voiced. "I just couldn't face it. It took every ounce of love in my heart for me to even ..." he sighs again and looks up at the brownrider with a troubled expression. "It's not something that you can just power through." There's some fish-mouthing next at her response to his mischief. "I think I'm just going to cover my face now," he tells her quite seriously and does just that, peeking out from between his fingers. The scarlet ears might be a dead giveaway about the state of his face though.

Geneve's face becomes a mess of expressions as she listens to Andoran: one part frustration, one part sympathy, one part thoughtfulness. When she does speak, she does so more quietly than usual, after a long, deep breath. "I get that it's hard," she says. "I get /why/ it's hard, too. I just can't quite get my head around not just /dealing/. I'm not trying to be-- anything, you know? I just don't quite get it." That this seriousness is present does not diminish her hoot of laughter at his blush and face-covering. "Andy, Andy, Andy. I'm sorry."

"If something turns your stomach and makes you want to retch, how do you deal with it Geneve? If your mind is full of utter horror and fear. What do you do? What do you do about Thread, for instance," Andoran says as his hands drop again, scarlet fading to simple pink. "It's all right, I'm not clueless. I just -- well anyway."

"I do /something/," says Geneve, quick as anything. "Thread-- it's there to be fought, vanquished. There's not much that does fill my mind like that, but... I push it away, if it is. Because it's not productive." Her amusement fades down to a rueful smile as she talks, particularly as she concludes, "Still: didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Not fair of me."

"Right, but see, you /can/ fight Thread, you can do something very real about it. With flights or ... other things, what can a person actually /do/." Andoran's hands flip over atop the table. "Nothing. Either hope the dragon doesn't win or ... what? How do you push something like that out of your mind?" One of his hands slides across the table though. "It happens. I'm not as bad as I used to be. I can make jokes about myself more now at least."

"I don't know," says Geneve, honestly, and quite calm. "I've never had to do it. Not sure there is an easy answer to it. But I do think that, over time, you learn to deal, somehow. I don't know that many older riders who have a problem." As his hand slides across the table, she reaches out with one of hers, resting it atop his. "I've noticed. It's good to see. I'm glad you're happy."

Andoran closes his hand around Geneve's, squeezes lightly and smiles. "I -- well yes, I'm very happy. He's just ---" the harper trails off, sheepish and ducks his head. "L'dor." And there's enough emotion in the bluerider's name to pretty much explain it all right there. "And I suppose I'm telling you this in hopes that it might help with those weyrlings who have a hard time dealing." He takes a breath, lets it out. "If for some terrible reason, I were single again, I wouldn't seek out another man. L'dor is just ... L'dor. Regardless of what ... physical form he has." Andy struggles with words trying to explain that part.

Geneve squeezes back, her fingers lacing lightly about Andoran's, her expression positively smug, as if the Harper's happiness is all her doing, instead of not at all. "Sweet," she laughs, teasing, but only very lightly. Then, more seriously: "I appreciate it. It's-- good to be reminded of." She nods, inclining her head slowly as he concludes. "I get that. Him, not his gender."

Andoran musters a smile to answer hers, nods once. "Yes. I'm not really -- gay." The harper says mildly insistent on that point. "Or ... oh I don't know how to even describe this. But most holders wouldn't understand at all." His gaze drops back to the table, his free hand tracing the grain of the table. "Anyway, I hope it gets sorted and that you get the help you need too. If there's anything I can do to help, let me know. I may not be the best with people, but I /am/ holdbred and not a rider, so, strangely, if some of them could use a holder's perspective for understanding, send them my way?"

"No, they wouldn't. I suspect many wouldn't even try" Her expression is rueful for this, her fingers still tightening around Andoran's. "Thanks, Andy. I may take you up on that, if it comes to that. I'm probably not the best person to deal with them."

Andoran nods just once and he doesn't draw his hand away, seeming comfortable enough with Geneve herself to leave it where it is. "Right. And you're welcome. We're all in this together after all, so really, anything I can do, even if I can't teach them flaming and Between."

So Gen leaves her hand, too, while the other twists free-flying curls around fingers, and pushes them away from her face. "Thanks," she says, again, clearly pleased. "I suppose we are-- well, it helps everyone, to have well-trained, well-adjusted weyrlings, right? Better for Benden. I really am going to have to ask S'dric for more help, though. If Rosalith goes soon... that's too many. Ashayath's, Ailuth's next, Rosalith's." She looks tired for the very thought of it.

"Absolutely. It's what we're here for isn't it? To support," Andoran says quietly. He nods seriously at mention of the number of dragons. "And if there's thirty or more each time ..." he trails off, doing the mental arithmetic. "You could have almost one hundred at a time, that's far too many for one weyrlingmaster alone, I should think," the harper continues. "Even for someone as formidable as you."

"That's the theory," Gen laughs, head nodding, clearly well-pleased, though a grimace returns at mention of the numbers. "A hundred. Shells. No, sadly /scaring/ them into being trained is not considered an appropriate, or effective, tactic. And Cr'pel is doing better, which is a help, and the others, but-- we can't train them properly, if we don't have time for them all."
"And lack of proper training means more accidents, more losses and even more stretched resources, creating a vicious cycle," Andoran says slowly and thoughtfully. He gives her hand a little squeeze and nods a few times. "All the more reason for everyone who can pitch in, to do so."
"Precisely," agrees Gen, wanly smiling, in response to the Harper. "On both counts. All of which gives me an excellent set of arguments to explain why I need the help." Beat. "Though I suspect S'dric is smart enough to work it out, anyway. Then it's just down to finding suitable people." There's a pause, and her gaze goes glassy, distant.

Deep breath in and a nod. "Right. I certainly hope that he gives you the support you need," Geneve," Andoran says sincerely and gives her hand another little squeeze as her gaze goes glassy like so. "Gen?"

Geneve doesn't manage to respond to Andoran's first comment, but after a couple of moment during which her expression turns stubborn, then intense, her gaze returns, and she looks, instead, apologetic. "Rosalith," she explains, all in one word. "But it's fine. Pendarith doesn't want to chase."

Waiting patiently, Andoran's eyes scan Geneve's face repeatedly. While she's still silent his hand lifts to the back of his neck and he takes a deep breath, starts to say something, then just nods as she confirms what he'd started to suspect from the way his skin just starte to prickle. "Ah. Well then, I hope it goes well for her." His head inclines a little at her claim. "Probably just as well this time, Gen," he says gently. "Might want to get her measure first. Anwyn, I mean."

"Mmm," says Geneve, non-committally, though after another moment more, she allows herself a brief smile, meeting Andoran's gaze. "Probably right. Wouldn't want to cause a scene. That'd be-- awkward for her." Not, however, for Geneve, apparently. She shifts, the flight causing reactions even from here, and sighs. "Well, this'd have to be the last one for a little bit, anyway. Ashayath won't be due for a while, and Pierzoth's far too young."

"Also probably not a bad thing with how busy you are," Andoran reminds gently though his hand is rubbing all the more at the back of his neck. A moment later he's drawing his hand away with an apologetic smile and curling both hands around his klah mug to take a long steadying sip. "Would you do me a favor, Gen and have Pendarith inquire after Banyth?" His fingers are drumming an uneven staccato against the side of the mug.

"/True/," adds in the brownrider in response, withdrawing her own hand after the Harper does, letting it drop to her lap uselessly. She watches Andoran, not intently, but carefully, nodding again at his question. "Just where he and L'dor are?" she wants to know, though her eyes are already going distant as she enquires.

Andoran's hands tighten a little on the mug and he draws in a sharp breath. "Yes, please, if you would be so kind," he says steadily enough though there's a hint of a flush rising in his cheeks. Apparently even after several turns at the Weyr, Andoran is one of those who is still easily affected by goldflights.

Geneve's expression, for this, is nothing but sympathetic. "They were drilling out in the bowl," she reports, a moment later. "But that's dispersed, so Banyth says L'dor was heading in to the caverns. Go find him, Andy." She looks quite calm, though there's a set to her lips: a frustration that becomes increasingly apparent as the dragons out in the bowl blood their kills. Stupid Pendarith.

"Ah. Good, good," Andoran says with a brief embarrassed look and he swallows hard. His hand peels off the side of his mug and he reaches for her hand again, squeezes again. "Maybe next time," he says encouragingly, then lifts his mug, finishes off the klah and gets to his feet, clearing his dishes as he goes. His steps though are hurried as he heads out towards where he thinks L'dor is likeliest to be.

"Sure," says Geneve, sounding unbothered, even if she continues to look disappointed. "Later, Andoran." She watches after him, her head shaking slightly, amused. Then, she, too, begins to pack up her dishes. No doubt there are weyrlings to worry about.

feministgen @ 2008-12-07T18:35:00

2008-12-07T07:35:38Z

Date: Day 6, Month 7, Turn 3
Synopsis: H'lam is smug, and Geneve and Lyndee discuss the state of being female riders.

Log stolen from riderlyndee

Afternoon is fading into evening, and weyrling classes (strap inspections, very tedious, for the older group) have been dismissed for the day, leaving all involved to disperse. The light rain falling throughout the weyr and surrounds has driven plenty of people inside, despite the warmth of the day, so the nighthearth is crowded for once, an eager thrum destroying any chance of quiet. On of those enjoying this is Geneve, the dumpy Weyrlingmaster bootless, and reading near the hearth, a half-eaten bread roll sitting on the table beside her.

Having dashed inside as if the rain is pelting down instead of only falling a little, by the time she reaches the hearth Lyndee has at least slowed down, if not wiped a rather idiotic grin off her face. She pours herself a drink and ambles to sit down opposite Geneve, shrugging off her jacket to park it beside her. The greenrider seems to have escaped most of the rain, only a few droplets clinging to her hair. "Just frightened the life out of one of my wingmates. He thought there was something actually worth running from out in the bowl. Not just... you know, rain," she says, as if it's a greeting without actually containing one.

Satisfactory simply is not good enough for H'lam, and his retirement from the barracks and to the nighthearth is meant to be something peaceful. He halts at the door when he realizes he's been thwarted by weather. But he's here now, with his straps (why did he have to get such a large dragon?) slung carefully over his shoulder and a leatherworking kit in the hand not stablizing them. Lyndee doesn't quite run into the young weyrling when she comes bolting in, but his progress after her is a slower one, and his seat of choice is not with them but a table away, where he spills his gear on the table. "Dragonriders melt in the rain," he says very seriously to Lyndee - or to himself, perhaps. Most likely to himself.

Geneve glances up, as Lyndee becomes visible in her periphery vision, and grins bodily at the greenrider's remark. "Never underestimate the terror of a summer downpour," she says, even as her eyes are sweeping about the room, as if to examine the changes since she last looked up. H'lam is one of them; she eyes him, not warily, but cautiously, perhaps, though she has a half-bob of her head in satisfaction for his straps and kit. Good boy.

"Lucky none of us lingered too long out there, then," Lyndee shoots cheerfully across to H'lam, a serious answer for a serious statement, coupled with an oblivious beam of a smile. She laces her fingers before her on the table as she turns back to Geneve. "Oh, I know," she agrees drolly. "They do sneak up on you. Quite terrifying." Her shoulders slump and she begins to relax from her sudden dash, breathing slowly in and out. "Anything good?" she asks, of the Weyrlingmaster's reading material. "Or something you need quiet for?" There's maybe an offer to shut up in there somewhere.

"Lucky," Rhenzeth's repeats with a furrowing of brows, acknowledging Geneve the same way she's acknowledged him: not very much at all. "It'd be just /devastating/ to lose life over a drizzle." As for summer showers being terrifying, H'lam's brows will only go up slightly just before he turns back to the table, letting his natural frown take over once more while he sorts tools and lays the straps out flat. "Wrong place to come for quiet," he observes, gesturing mildly towards the other inhabitants of the cavern.

"Particularly dragonrider life," puts in Geneve, catching the thread of his conversation with an archly pointed expression. "Though Ailuth is doing her best to help with that." With, presumably, repopulating. Or? "Good?" Pause. Oh, her reading material; she gives Lyndee a shrug, and a smile. "Weyrling reports. Who needs help where, anything of interest happening. Keep everyone up to date. H'lam," her head bobs in the weyrling's direction, "is quite right. If I wanted quiet, I'd be in my weyr." She rolls up the hide, shoving it to the side of her chair, and adds, "How are you, anyway, Lyndee?"

"'Least you didn't get caught out there and get your straps wet," Lyndee offers over to H'lam, one shoulder rising in a half-hearted shrug. "Considering they're meant to /save/ lives. Even if it's not that set." The greenrider unlaces her fingers and curls them round the mug of klah she's claimed instead, tapping fingertips against the sides absently. "I'm... okay, thank you," she responds to Geneve, an odd expression in place for a few moments. "Dallianth's perky. Summer suits her." Peering between the table and the brownrider a couple more times, "Yourself and Pendarith? Do you think you'll have three classes at once?"

H'lam gives his straps a dubious look, one that plainly states: If these are to save my life, I've got a lot of work to do. He prods at a particularly stubborn looking section that is the complete antithesis of supple. "Good thing," he murmurs, shifting one leg beneath him on the chair and beginning to work at it, with his head tilted down in concentration. It's clear to anyone who knows anything he's listening to the women's conversation, but his input is once again minimal.

"Okay?" repeats Geneve, prodding at Lyndee's reluctance with her tone, and the expression on her face. "Good for Dallianth. Suits me, too. Never did get used to Benden winters, even after all these turns." Six turns. Close enough. "Busy," she reports, of herself and Pendarith. "Without question, yeah. That lot," again, she indicates H'lam, using the opportunity to watch his progress for a moment, "Still have another four, five months. Three classes, then, but only for a little while. Going to kill me, I swear."

"You could always hope for a class of perfectly behaved little darlings," Lyndee quietly jokes. "But I guess there'd be no fun in that." Blue eyes slide across to peer at straps in progress, followed by a sympathetic twitch of her lips to one side. Straps having never been her strong point. "...Would you like any help?" is directed obviously towards Geneve and in the same tone of voice as her claim to be okay, though she doesn't make eye-contact until the last moment. The greenrider quickly adds, "Not that... I mean, I don't really know what to do and everything, but..." all in a rush and with a couple of words out of order.

H'lam's progress is that of a perfectionist; that is to say, it's very slow, and H'lam seems to have not the slightest problem with his snail's pace. He works at the leather, sweeps the area clean with his fingers, works it again, all the time appearing unwitting of Geneve's glance his way or even the subtle change in Lyndee. He betrays himself, though. He grimaces lightly when the brownrider mentions how much time they've got left but doesn't pull away. His glance up - sharp with curiousity - is almost before Lyndee's finished her question, and then he seems reasonably content to watch her stutter over herself, straps for the moment ignored in favor of that smug smirk he acquires when people around him are even remotely uncomfortable.

"Haha, right," laughs Geneve. "'Fun' is maybe not the right word, though. Peace. That'd be nice." The greenrider's question draws a blink from the brownrider, though more from surprise than anything else - she hesitates, then smiles again, nodding. "You'll learn. I didn't, either, when I got asked to help out." Got asked. Not just asked. This seems to be as much answer as she's going to give, for a time, because her head turns to watch H'lam, eyeing with narrowed expression that smug smirk. Without looking back, she adds, "I'll talk to your Wingleader, Lyndee."

Saved from that next conversation she would have had to brave, Lyndee is content just to nod and murmur, "Thank you," under her breath. A glance towards H'lam gets her a view of that smirk and the blonde makes as if she might bare her teeth and utter something scathing. A second to reconsider and she just looks sharply away and takes several slow gulps of her drink to keep her attention fixed elsewhere. "'Spose there's lots to learn," she finally continues. "For Dallianth, too."

Spotted. And what does the young bronzerider do? He simply holds his hands out, palms up. What'd I do? He moves that hand just enough to retrieve the knife he'd set down and return to his work, the smirk not quite dissolving entirely. "Now you'll not work yourself to death," H'lam intones quietly to Geneve. "Everyone can rejoice." It would be sarcasm...if only he knew how to be sarcastic.

"No," says Geneve, shaking her head in Lyndee's direction. "Thank /you/. I can use all the help I can get." She shifts in her seat, lifting one leg to cross over the other in an almost square shape - loose, perhaps as relaxed as the notoriously focused woman gets. "Be grateful for it, young man," she adds to H'lam, lifting her voice when she addresses him. "You wouldn't like the alternative. Anyway. Oh, plenty to learn, Lyndee, but you get the hang of it quickly. Actually, I'd been meaning to ask you for some assistance for a while. Not quite like this, but... I think the young greenriders," female greenriders, presumably, "could use a mentor. Someone to show them that they're okay. Not bad or wrong, or anything. I think I scare them too much."

The longer she doesn't look over at H'lam, the easier it appears to become for Lyndee to relax once more. Perhaps that's why she keeps her head tilted and angled away so there's no chance of seeing him. She nods as she listens to Geneve, almost immediately dragging herself free of whatever foul mood was about to claim her. "I could do that," she chirps, realizing quite how over-enthusiastic she sounds in the same moment. A rueful smile and she elaborates, "I've been watching some of them, sometimes. If I can help, then..." Her brows dip. "But I don't see how you could scare them. Cr'pel, maybe, but..."

"I'm not even aware there was an alternative, ma'am, but I'll take your word for it." H'lam responds, slanting a glance at Geneve. It's brief, so as to limit the chances of him slicing his own finger off. At least he mostly keeps his distasteful snort - either for Geneve being terrifying, or for the fact that the greenriders seem to need special guidance - to himself. It could be mistaken for a barely averted sneeze, all things considered.

"Be thankful for that, that's all I'm saying, H'lam," says Geneve, more lighthearted than she probably is, given the way her expression seems intent on being a glower in his direction. Lyndee's chirping draws more of her attention; she looks amused. "I'm too intense, maybe. Also, brownrider, not green. I think someone like you might be more... effective. You're like Adria: more composed." A very high compliment, coming from Geneve.

Not well-versed in the realm of discerning snorting from sneezing, not when looking away from a person and certainly not from H'lam, Lyndee's only reaction to the sound is a quick flick of her gaze toward the ceiling. The mention of Adria has a faint smile touch the greenrider's lips. "You taught us well, the both of you," she says quietly. A more quirky smile follows. "Cr'pel had his moments, but don't /ever/ tell him that." Breathing out slowly, she studies her fingertips for a while. "I'd want to get them to think. About what really matters," Lyndee murmurs. "That it's not the slander people throw about that they should be concerned with."

"Stopped raining." That's not H'lam, but it's got his head coming up once more to regard the speaker and gauge the level of truth to the words. But he's not the only one who's heard, and he's far quicker to wrap up the straps than he was to lay them out. "I'll take your word for it," says the weyrling, winding them around his arm and then slinging them neatly over his shoulder before dipping his head in farewell and stepping out - presumably to beat the rain so they can't ruin his straps.

"I think so," says Geneve, coolly confident, though she spares a smile for Lyndee, and it's not an arrogant one. She eyes after H'lam's retreating back, shifting in her seat, but says nothing either at, or after, the weyrling. "Oh, never. Ah, Cr'pel. Wasn't always the way he is. But..." She huffs out a long breath, looking back at Lyndee. "Precisely," she agrees. "No one is just going to change their minds, not unless we all prove ourselves. It's hard work, but it's worth it."

Lyndee waits for footsteps to fade before sparing a glance to where H'lam was sitting. Finding the spot empty, she sumps back a little into a more natural pose, now that she can actually turn her head. "It's always worth it," she declares. The greenrider hangs her head for a few seconds, only then looking up to shoot a smile across at Geneve. "...Sometimes I think they'll just always try and find fault, that it won't ever be enough. But then I think, as long as I know I'm doing everything I can, then the only fault they can insist on is our being in the first place. And /that/ isn't even valid. So it can't matter."

Geneve picks up her long-abandoned bread roll, shredding off a piece to put into her mouth, then chewing it absently. "Exactly," she agrees, as she swallows, wiping crumbs off her lip. "You learn to ignore a lot of it. At least, so people tell me. Me, not so much. But I don't know how to back down from a fight, so." She grins ruefully as she says this, clearly aware of her own faults, but not really fussed with them. "Eventually, though, people'll just accept us, and it'll seem weird that they ever didn't. Just wish that was /now/, and not later."

"I think in some way having A'ren," and the name is all but spat, to make up for lack of oath or insults, "in our class helped. Faranth forbid anyone else heard that. But I managed not to floor him. Just. And people have gotta go a long way to get to that level of..." Lyndee merely grimaces and leaves the thought hang still without adding a derogatory label. "Maybe we'll look back in the future and say all this was 'character building' or something," she proposes in a droll voice. "And that we wouldn't be the women we are today without it." Her tone falls somewhere between joke and serious. "Still... I do wish it was now too," she admits.

Geneve's expression at mention of A'ren matches the tone Lyndee uses to say it, though her head inclines - yes, she gets where the other woman is coming from. She probably has any number of words she'd gleefully use, but as the greenrider moves, she keeps her mouth shut, just nodding. "I have a word for that," she notes, "And it's not one I'd use around children, or polite company. Hate the whole 'adversity breeds strength', thing. I do things that are hard because they need to be done, not because I want the challenge." Her expression is wry, almost dreamy, to Lyndee's last. Yes.

"Sometimes I think it's easier to pretend I don't know that certain people would have Dallianth and I grounded in a second, if ever they could," Lyndee mutters. "So far as ignoring it goes. But it makes me sick-" she begins, with a sudden harsh, furious edge to her voice, "it makes me sick when they say we're all wrong." The mug is set aside, lest she shatter it with hands curling into fists. "Because it's like saying Dallianth should be dead - that she'd be better off dead and /between/. And that it's riders saying it half the time..." One hand is flung out, gestures randomly and towards nowhere before settling back on the table. Punctuating words that can't be found.

"I never managed that - the ignoring it," Geneve says, repeating herself, as she shakes her head. "Sure, our abilities should speak for us, but sometimes, they need a bit of help." She sounds less angry than Lyndee, but utterly in control, intense and alert, and incredibly focused. "Yes," she adds. "How can they not think this through? They keep saying that they would have found someone else, if we hadn't been there. But they chose /us/. And the dragons are never wrong." Sighing, she adds, "I wish they'd keep picking women like us, though. Some of the girls... I think they're actively ashamed, and it makes me want to shake them."

Lyndee drops her gaze once more to try and regain her composure, fingers stretching out and settling back flat on the table. When she looks up again, she shakes her head a little to brush stray blonde curls from her eyes. "The shame. I really don't understand," she utters, as if completely confused. "How can you be ashamed of someone you love like that? Of what they made you? I mean... They do love them, don't they?" Another shake of her head; this time in disbelief. "I just wish they knew that they're just as worthy as everyone else. I wish there was a way to prove it to them. But one stupid comment from someone like A'ren and they're quite ready to agree that they shouldn't even exist."

Geneve flicks another stray crumb from her knee, keeping her steely-eyed gaze away from the greenrider. "I don't either," she admits, voice sharper than usual. "I know they love them. Else their dragons would've cried the weyr down. But... I can't understand it, either. I can't imagine my life without Pendarith. And, true, I wanted him, I sought him out - but even so. How could you wish that away?" With no more answers than her companion, she sinks into silence for a few moments. Then: "Precisely. That's what makes it such a hard job. And why your help is so much appreciated."

"Anything I can do, I'm there," Lyndee declares, a sharp nod accompanying her words. "Though I have a feeling that some encounters may not be pretty. At least, not to start with." Hands retreat and elbows rest on the table instead as she leans more heavily, hunched over. "Sadly, it wouldn't surprise me if some of those who may have been content to start with get beaten down to protesting it was all some mistake," the greenrider remarks, a bitter quality to her voice. "I guess we should be glad that we don't understand it all, as twisted as that sounds. I'd not change for anything." Now she smiles, even if it's a small effort. "Not for anything."

"Much appreciated, pretty or no. Perhaps even particularly the not pretty. Someone has to do it, after all." Geneve stretches, her expression dark, her voice a match for Lyndee's own bitterness. "Sadly, you're quite right. That's one of the frustrating parts. Really frustrating parts, that is. No," she agrees, continuing, a bittersweet expression taking its place upon her face. "Nor I." She rises, however, grabbing up her hide again. "I should get this all done, if I'm to have time for anything else tonight. I'll talk to E'sere, though, Lyndee. It'll be good to have you."

Lyndee nods, looking up at Geneve as she stands. "Thank you," she says, in a voice still quieter than normal. "Again." She settles back in her seat and stretches her arms high over her head, then lets her hands fall heavily. The greenrider goes for a proper smile this time, one hand flicking back up in a wave. "Have a good evening. Well, beyond the hide, that is."

"My pleasure--" Gen pauses, then grins. "Again. And you, too, Lyndee." She gives the hide a wrinkled nose glance, but nods, carrying it with her as she heads from the hearth, leaving behind the neglected remains of her bread roll, to languish on the table beside where she was sitting.

feministgen @ 2008-12-07T18:32:00

2008-12-07T07:32:46Z

Date: Late in Month 6?, Turn 3 (I forgot to check)
Synopsis: Sid and Gen explore the South further, for a new meeting place, and discover something quite unexpected.

The tall cliffs of the South's Western Barrier Range march in a long line off into the blue distance and the land falls away in gentle slopes down towards the far off ocean and the Southern Settlement. In between is the vaste swathe of desolation, the cut where Thread has rendered the land barren. But right here trees stud the slopes and green grass lines the valleys against the foot of the mountains. Caves pock the cliffs here and there and along one wall the even cuts of windows and a long patio mark some long-ago abandoned hold.

It's been more than a month since the Weyrleader and the Weyrlingmaster escaped South together again, though there's been those meetings in between and some sneaking around late night between weyrs. Today though, S'dric took off early heading far, far south with Gedreth and it's here that the pair hover near a tall cliff-face, sending back a vivid image for Pendarith to use for the jump Between.

It's been a busy month, too, one containing little daylight-time free for the escaping, even alone, even anywhere. It's no wonder then that, when Pendarith finally emerges from between some minutes after the image has been sent, his rumble is a joyous one - and Gen's smile is so broad as to be visible from a very long ways off. The brown sweeps his wings down, as both crane their necks around to inspect the new location. << We nearly couldn't get away, >> he reports. << That's why we took longer than expected. Last minute /issues/. >> Silly weyrlings.

There's an answering smile from the Weyrleader and his hand lifted to wave. The gentle wash of warm waves reaches out for Pendarith's mind. << Is it not always the way with the young ones? >> Wry humor in the sending and then: << It is all right, it gave us time to find a likely place to look for caves. >> A slight pause follows and there's sly laughter rippling the lake. << S'dric is as excited as a youngling about this. >> Cupping his hands around his mouth, S'dric calls over. "It's not as warm down here like near the ocean, but this cliff is full of caves!"

Geneve returns the wave, her hand lifting as her fingers wiggle lightly, her head tilting towards him as she listens to what he has to say. "/Full/ of caves?" She responds, sounding surprised, as, immediately, she begins to turn about again to get a better look. Huh. So there are. << It is, >> responds Pendarith, who wings closer to the cliff to allow Geneve a better look. << Doing the hard yards for us. Good! >> He sounds amused, sand-washed and windy, and notes, very quietly, as if telling a secret he really shouldn't: << Gen nearly sliced her finger off showing one of the weyrlings how to best cut meat. Distracted. All day. >>

"Riddled," S'dric calls back and he gestures onward. Many of the apertures aren't big enough for a dragon and would have to be climbed down to from above or up from below. A few have ledges, but it's hard to say if any of these are actually habitable. Gedreth starts to wing forward, letting S'dric keep an eye on the dark openings, the high columns of stone that march along the foothills of the mountains. << It was a good flight. Long but not straining, >> Gedreth replies, lake placid once more. That shared image draws out renewed ripples and a returned image, ink on hides splattering all over. << So has he been. >>

Geneve nods, though it's a short gesture, one easily lost amid the movement of Pendarith beneath her, and the distance between them. "I'm going to take a look," she calls, as Pendarith positions himself to let her swing onto one of the ledges, though it's not really big enough for him to sit comfortably. She ducks her head in, but that's as far as it goes: definitely, if her expression is anything to go by, not habitable. << Good, >> says Pendarith, as he waits for Geneve to finish, hovering nearby. << The air is good for flying, today. It is /nice/ to be out. >> He shares a ripple of amusement at those splattered hides, and a smugness: ah, riders. What can you do?

Further along, S'dric and Gedreth are skimming as close to the cliff-face as possible but as of yet, no luck either. << Some of these are large enough for me, but I would have to fly right in. There are no ledges, >> the bronze huffs a little disappointedly. S'dric twists to look over his shoulder, grinning as Geneve vanishes into that cave and comes back out. << It is a very nice day, yes. Though it is so strange that the leaves change here already and at home things are going the other way. >> Riders. What can you do indeed.

<< We are lucky, with our ledges at home, >> agrees Pendarith, as he repositions himself to let Geneve climb back on - a bit of a juggling act, given the smallness of the ledge, and the way it is shaped. Gen shrugs at S'dric, once she's seated comfortably, calling: "There's got to be one that's a better size. I couldn't squeeze through that last one." << Yes, it is strange. It does not feel so far away, so very different, when we come from Between. But it's a world away, too. I wonder how cold it will get, here. >>

"Maybe further down, there's some outcroppings, see? And there's that long low ledge a ways away, maybe there's a cave in that wall of the cliff," S'dric calls back. << We are lucky indeed. S'dric says he's not sure, though the mountains are close, so it could make for snow and a cold winter. Perhaps not quite as cold as Benden though. >>

"You might be right," Gen agrees, craning her neck forward to get a better look at the low ledge, a task made easier by Pendarith, who helpfully wings in that direction. Still, she doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry. << They'll need a sheltered cave, then, >> muses the brown. << Out of the wind and the snow. /We/ won't mind so much. >>

Flying along Gedreth finally sets down on a very very narrow outcropping, clinging with forelimbs to the wall which makes for a precarious descent for S'dric as he hops more into the cave they've picked, than actually onto the tiny bit of stone. "This one is /big/!" he calls out, standing just inside and examining the long mouth of the place. << But it would be very hard to land much here, >> is Gedreth's audible reply. << And yes, it will need to be more weather-proof than the little places near the ocean. >>

Geneve and Pendarith turn their heads in unison, and then the brown banks so that he can carry them back in that direction, though he hovers a good distance away. << No good for bringing anything big, >> agrees Pendarith, between wingbeats. << Or for leaving in the dark. >> Gen's lips purse, as she cranes her neck to see better. "Big enough to outweigh the disadvantages?" she wants to know. << Yes. We will miss that place. >> The /warm/. But. Still.

It's very very big," S'dric says, turning towards Gen with a grin. "But I'd need the glows I brought to see how big and whether or not it'd be safe enough for either of them to just fly right in. Tough landing spot," he notes then retreats back to Gedreth to pull down a glow basket. Inside the cave really is quite big, but it's probably not enough to compensate for the lack of ledge. <> There's fondness in his sending for the beach at the headland. << Yes. Always so warm there. >>

Geneve is still too far away to get a really good look at the cave, even with the glows, but with her neck craned she can see enough: she lets out a huff of air. "Too tough, probably," she says, disappointed, though only a little - there are, after all, plenty more places to explore. And she's in no rush. "Shame." << Fun, but not... As you say, practical, I think, >> Pendarith agrees, keeping his wingbeats steady to allow him to continue to hover in place. << Mmm, yes. With the sand and the water and the green. But. This will be better. No one else will know to come. >>

S'dric retreats again, climbs back up onto Gedreth's back and clips in, glowbasket tucked back into place. << Mm. Let's see what else we can find. >> The bronze drops off the wall and the glide onward. There's a big ledge there, but maybe the cavern is too small. << It will be our place alone, yes. >> Beat. << Theirs. >> And fondness for his rider warms the water, spreads outward. << A place to be happy. >>

Pendarith's thoughts, just briefly, turn to Benden, and there's a sad note in his touch, that 'being happy' and 'being home' and 'where we actually live' aren't all the same thing - but there's understanding in that, too. He knows why. He dips, gliding lower to examine another cave, this one with a smallish, but not impossible ledge - big enough to land on, anyway - and what appears to be a decent-sized cave beyond. "Maybe this one," calls Gen, unstrapping herself again while Pendarith lands.

That's echoed from Gedreth who has other reasons why he of course, is very happy at Benden. The gleam of golden hide being prime among those reasons and the whisper of Ailuth's windswept thoughts. Down they go to join Geneve and S'dric slips off Gedreth's back again, passes her the basket of glows, nodding. "This ... might just do, there's that bend there to tuck away into."

Pendarith is amused by this, his thoughts teasing, wordlessly, the bronze for his thoughts of golden hide, but good naturedly: he respects his Weyrleader. He shifts out of the way to allow Gedreth to land, while Gen peers down the cave mouth thoughtfully. Accepting the basket of glows, she returns S'dric's nod - with a smile, too, now that she can see him properly for the first time - before she turns back, holding up the glows to inspect as she takes her first steps forward. "Good protection from the outside, too, the way it curves."

For that there is only amusement and yet continued adoration and affection for /his/ queen. Ailuth. His. The hint of possessiveness is light though. S'dric smiles down at Gen, slides his arm around her waist as she takes the glows and ambles inward with her, looking up towards the roof. "This one could definitely work, though it'd be nice if it had more than one chamber. Still, it's a possibility." He tilts his head down towards the brownrider. "Or are you satisfied?"

More amusement from Pendarith, for that. Oh, he can keep her. /Pendarith/ has his eye on that perky little green, all apple-coloured and positively delicious. Gen leans in to S'dric's shoulder as he slides his arm about her, though her eyes keep darting about the cavern, not content to stay on anything for long. "We can keep looking, if you like. We might as well see what else is out there. It's not like someone will try and steal this one from us, if we don't claim it now."

Passing interest for 'perky' and 'apple' from Gedreth, but it's passing indeed. He can still appreciate a lovely green but Ailuth is now his all. S'dric leans down to press a kiss to Geneve's temple. "Mm - let's get to that shelf at least and then if there's nothing else, come back here," he decides and gives her a squeeze before turning to leave.

All the more for Pendarith, then. Mmm-mmm. Gen leans her head up to receive the kiss, nodding in confirmation once he pulls back. "Sounds good," she agrees, reluctantly pulling away to head back to Pendarith. For the moment, she'll keep the glow lamp with her, tucking it into Pendarith's carry bags.

Doesn't take long to get underway again and that long gliding flight is what Gedreth adopts again. There's several small cave mouths in the cliff and then for a while just solid rock. Suddenly S'dric sits up in the straps staring fixedly ahead. "Gen ... what do you make of that?" he calls over. Gedreth's sending sharpens, water gathering tight into a coiled center like the start of a whirlpool. << That ledge, the long shelf. It is /cut/, is it not? >>

Geneve is looking in the other direction when S'dric calls out, and turns about abruptly at his words, first in confusion, and then, with narrowing gaze, in surprise. She leans forward, arching her back to shift her posture into a better position for it, and blinks. Several times. "That's..." she begins. "Shells." <> registers Pendarith, sounding out each word as if he can't quite believe he's saying them. <>

There's a couple of sharp nods from S'dric. << Yes. >> Simple agreement and Gedreth's pace suddenly increases. Flying out away from the wall a little so that they have more of an angle on that promontory. There's no words from either S'dric or Gedreth at first as what comes into view is very clearly something built by the hand of humankind. The patio is overgrown with creepers and some of the stone is crumbling at the edges, but it's still a very impressive sweep looking out over the dramatic landscape. High above dug into the cliff wall, the regular shapes of windows, some shuttered still, one gaping open darkly. << S'dric would like to land. >> Finally a comment and there's action already, with bronze wings folding a little to head for a clear space on the patio.

Geneve doesn't actually make her next comment out loud, though her lips move: /Creepy/. Then, out loud: "How did they /do/ all of this? And when? And why?" Her brow furrows in on itself as Pendarith folds his own wings to follow Gedreth to the ground; Gen has never liked a mystery. Once safely landed, she pulls at her straps, unbuckling them not with reluctance, but with apprehension, her eyes in constant motion again, as if she expects people to rush out at them at any moment. Finally, her feet touch ground.

S'dric is down off of Gedreth with more alacrity eyes keen, bright even on this marvel of Ancient construction. "Shells, Gen ... /look/ it's a whole /hold/. Who ... who built this, it's /amazing/." He holds a hand out to her, every line in his body showing eagerness, curiosity, excitement. Gedreth makes a low sound in his throat and keeps a watchful eye on the surroundings. << How strange that there should be a hold here. >>

Geneve is curious, excited, too, but perhaps not eager, though she accepts S'dric's hand, stepping towards him, as her head turns yet again to stare up at those windows, at the patio itself, at all of it. "Well, it is," she agrees, though her tone is quieter. "Why'd they leave it, though? Just abandon it, after all of this work?" Pendarith is more comfortable than Geneve, settling himself down into a pose of not complete relaxation, but certainly calm presence. << Very strange. So far from everything. >>

"I don't know, could possibly find out though," S'dric murmurs under his breath then nods back towards the dragons. "Let's grab the glows and have a look, hmm?" Gedreth's tail swishes a little then settles and looks up and up at the windowed wall. << Very far indeed, >> the bronze agrees, turning this all over in his mind.

"Records? Here, or elsewhere?" Gen wants to know, her voice louder than his as she responds, her gaze briefly settling on him as she speaks. She nods, however, turning her attention back towards the dragons, then striding back towards them to retrieve those glows. Pendarith curls his tail about his torso, leaning his head upon his forelimbs to watch as the riders return, with a soft huff for Geneve, who looks, briefly, encouraged by the gesture. "The south... full of surprises, huh?"

"Maybe," S'dric murmurs. "Could be something about it at Harper or Fort perhaps. Fort was first, after all," he muses further and stands hands propped on hips looking up at the hold's silent facade. "Surprise after surprise," S'dric agrees and waits for Geneve to return before taking her hand again and moving forward across the green-spanned patio, mindful of creepers and roots to reach the door which is just ever so slightly ajar.

Geneve's lip quirks into an amused smile. "Maybe this came /before/ Fort," she suggests, digging into Pendarith's bags to get the glows out again. "Then we'd have less of the whole 'Fort is first' mentality. Not that we'd actually /tell/ them, I suppose." /Their/ discovery. She stands where she is for a moment, glow in hand, watching S'dric, that smile still curving about her lips - but then she starts moving again, making her way back towards him, accepting that hand, and heading for the door. "Ajar, because they left in a hurry, or because something got in in the meantime?"

"Most likely," S'dric says, pointing up to the neat cuts of the windows. "Those are like other places the Ancients built, so smoothly done by whatever tools they had that we don't any longer." And he tips a look over at the brownrider, grins. "First after the crossing? Though so much of that tale is just ... legend. Sort of makes a person wonder, doesn't it?" His fingers thread through hers and he eyes that crack in the door. "Too slender for anything but snakes," he notes and reaches for it, pulls. There's a slight creaking and light spills onto a litter of debris on the floor, mostly leaves and branches scattering inward where they were blown by the wind. Dust swirls in the afternoon light and the Weyrleader stays put letting the fresh air reach inside.

"Never paid much attention to all of those stories. The history," admits Geneve, but she's nodding: now that he's mentioned it, she remembers. "Does though, yeah. So much we don't know anymore, about any of it. Why they did things. How they did things." She lifts the glow to add to the natural light shed upon the room behind the door, examining with her eyes while staying right where she is.

"Two turns at harper, with history classes," S'dric notes with a grin and takes that first step inward into the dust and gloom, looking this way and that. "Good-sized place," he says, perusing the area, noting the staircase and the doors down the hallway. "Shall we try down here first, push open a shutter or two for light?"

Geneve laughs, amused. "You and your swanky schooling," she teases, she who did well at her Harper classes, but had no time for things that weren't here and now. "It's impressive," she remarks, keeping the glow lamp high to break through the gloom. "Sure. See whether they fall apart when we touch them or not. Though it all looks pretty... solid." She kicks at a pile of old leaves with her foot, eyeing the floor beneath, then the doors, the staircase, everything in turn.

"Best of the best," S'dric teases back with a wink. "The one thing my father shelled out for that I really got something out of," he murmurs softly and then turns to lead the way down a corridor to the left, pushes open the first door. More dust. More gloom. Shuttered windows. And it's these the Weyrleader heads towards to bring light into the place. "Unless there's something wrong here, it'd really be a shame not to use it," S'dric says carefully, sneaks a look over at Geneve to gauge her reaction.

"I can't imagine being stuck with Harpers for that long," laughs Geneve, head shaking. "But I'm glad you liked it. Better you than me, not that my parents would ever have dreamed of doing such a thing, even if they had had the money for it." As he heads for the windows, she lowers the glow lamp, standing not far into the room, her back not quite up against the wall. "Mm," she say, finally, taking a pause before she responds, though her gaze lifts immediately to meet S'dric's - no sneaking looks! "Maybe it won't feel so... creepy, once it's cleaned up a bit."

"I learned so much, Gen. So much in just two turns," the Weyrleader says from the window where he's pulling the shutters open. Light floods the room, bringing out the color in the walls, bright murals brought to life again beneath a covering of dust. "It'll be quite the project to get it clean, but come see this view," S'dric says wonderingly, not spotting the wall decorations yet. "Cleaned up, with furniture inside, this ... this could be an amazing place to share together," he continues and turns a very warm look on the brownrider.

"And no doubt being smooth and diplomatic was no small part of it," says Geneve, obviously intending this as a serious comment, though it's not said with a serious expression - she's smiling at him. As the light floods into the room, she lifts her hand to shade her eyes, which allows her a better view of the room, and the murals. "It's beautiful," she says, sounding surprised, barely registering S'dric's words, though she does, after a moment, blink back at him. "I... Yes. I think so." But she's also turning towards the wall beside her, brushing her hand over the dirt.

"A small part," S'dric agrees, eyes crinkling at the corners with his good humor. He steps away from the window then and blinks at the murals, steps closer to sweep a hand across a swathe of dusty wall too. "Shells ... I wonder what these are," he murmurs lowly. "Someone really loved this place ... went to a lot of trouble." There's a little pause then followed by a quiet sigh. "I don't suppose we'll every know who." He reaches for her then to slip his arm around Geneve again, draw her near. "I suppose we ought to check the whole place out. Make sure there's nothing more bothersome than bugs and snakes kicking around."

"And then just abandoned it," remarks Geneve, apparently unable to completely leave this thought behind, though where it leads her she doesn't make clear. She wipes her hand, now covered in dirt, on her trousers, then letting herself be swept in against S'dric, leaning in companionably. "Please. I'd rather not discover too late that there's something unpleasant about, though I'm not sure what. Down the corridor some more?"

"Thread, Gen. Thread came... I guess it was safer at Fort," S'dric says quietly and then he's smiling again, leaning down to kiss her very improperly. "Shells it's good to be able to do that, without ... worrying." And he laughs then, hugs her and nods, heading for the door and the corridor to explore more.

Geneve only half accepts this explanation, though she abandons it momentarily to engage in that kiss, laughing at his words after it ends. "I don't know about it being thread," she complains, as they make for the corridor. "I mean... this area is safe. We've seen that much..." No doubt that conversation continues, as they wander through the ground floor, finding various rooms, including the kitchens. Then, upstairs, through all of the rooms. By the end of it, Gen looks more comfortable: there really isn't anyone or anything about. It's just a ghost town. "Should we start with one of the downstairs rooms?" she wants to know, eventually, "Or somewhere else?"

"Hard to know for sure," he agrees, shoulders rolling once that kiss has broken. "And maybe the land wasn't always safe? So many unanswered questions." And off they go. After they've seen every room and all the shutters have been opened, that one broken one by contrast, drawn in closed and propped securely, S'dric leans in one of the sills with his arm around Geneve, looking out at the view. "Start small I guess. Bring the cots over from the headland, the furs and blankets, the supplies we've kept there, maybe in that big downstairs room with the view?"

Geneve, in an unconsciously maternal gesture, pats dust out of S'dric's hair - though her hands are filthy, as is the rest of her, so it's a relatively futile thing to do. "Mm, that one'll do it, yes. We'll have to look into the water supply, see how we can manage that. But at least bringing all the supplies over will be pretty easy."

S'dric only smiles for the gesture, reaches up to brush some dust off of her cheek tenderly. "Mm, we can poke around the other side of the place, see how things are. Looked like there were pipes enough in the kitchen." And with those statements he has a purely boyish smile for her, the dimple in his cheek deep. "Ah Gen, it's just a little start, but I'm looking forward to this," he says feelingly and gives her a happy squeeze, looks out at that stunning view again.

"We can worry about that later," says Geneve, though she nods with enthusiasm for the idea of piped water. Her arms wrap about him, and she looks up to meet his gaze, smiling warmly. "So am I," she says. "'Playing house'. As it were. Only it'll be completely ours. And it /is/ beautiful." Her own gaze shifts back to the view, her head shaking slightly. "All these things, forgotten for so long, unused. It's sad."

"Playing house," S'dric echoes and laughs, tilts his head to rest atop hers. "I'd never have thought if of you. Next thing you know, you'll be in the kitchen cooking my meals and bringing me my slippers at the end of the day," he teases merrily, clearly not meaning any such thing. "I know, it's a shame. And yet, it'll be interesting maybe to try to unravel some of these mysteries. Maybe even find out the name of the place." There's a little pause and his voice lowers. "If we don't though, Gen, what shall we call it?"

"I mostly played Headwoman, when I was a kid. Ordering everyone else around, rather than actually doing any of that crap," laughs Geneve, though she sticks her tongue out for the very idea of cooking meals and bringing slippers: ugh, no thank you. "Mm," she agrees, in a more level tone, thoughtful. "I'd like it, if we could. If there were some way to commemorate the builders." Her head shakes, however, at his question. "I've no idea. Naming things - not my forte. How do you come up with a name for a place? It seems random."

"I can see it, little Geneve pointing here and there and making everyone do her bidding." One of his hands closes on hers and draws it to his lips. "If you weren't such a good wingrider, I'd almost say we lost out when Pendarith chose you rather than a gold," he remarks lightly then nods. "We'll see if we can find out then. And generally people choose things that either mean something to them or that describes a place. So some might call this place 'Mountain View', for instance."

"Too right," Geneve grins, watching S'dric as he lifts her hand, twining her fingers about his again. "No, thank you. I'd hate riding gold. Not being able to fly 'fall properly, getting stuck on the sands with eggs. Ugh. No, I was a good Headwoman, but I'm best where I am. Or," she laughs, wry, "/As/ I am, with room to advance." She glances out the window again, nodding. "So we could use that. Mountain View."

S'dric grinning again, S'dric's fingers sink willingly between hers and his lips find the join of wrist and hand next before he speaks again. "You're perfect just as you are," he says lowly and then chuckles softly, looks up at her with that open expression that is for her and her alone. "You've changed me so much, you know. The way I see things. Sometimes I hardly recognize myself." His lips press against soft skin again and he nods. "A moniker for now until we find out what the name of the place /really/ is."

"Have I?" Geneve doesn't sound so much surprised as a little bit curious, admitting, "You seem much the same to me, most of the time. Maybe a little-- more open. But you're still the same person I fell in love with. Or did I change you before then?" She's watching him, though her eyelashes flicker just slightly for the sensation of lips against her hand. "Good. Places need a name. Makes them - more solid an idea."

"Yes," S'dric says still in that low, earnest voice, fingers drawing back her sleeve to drop another kiss to her wrist. "I thought only of myself at Ista, Geneve. My ambitions, my plans. I had almost no heart left. Jedja ... she started the change but -- " he breaks off, shakes his head. "She was different." His head lifts and pale eyes find hers. "There's a truth in you that I can't avoid facing. Sincerity. You inspire me. Inspire me to be better, to do better, not just for myself, but for everyone." A smile follows, gentle and he nods. "Mountain View it is then," he agrees.

Geneve nods, though she looks uncertain under this barrage of things she does, almost certainly without realising it. "Well," she says, after a pause, voice business like again, even if she is smiling. "I'm glad. From the sounds of it, you're a better Weyrleader now than you would have been, then. And you're good for me, too." Again, she nods, this time to confirm the name of the Hold. "Done. That was easy. But-- the hard parts are still to come, I suppose. The cleaning. All of that."

"I'm a better person, or so I'd like to think," S'dric says in a similar vein and draws her hand up to his cheek, presses it there. Laughter is next about all the work. "Oh yes, we're going to get very sweaty, very dirty and we're going to need to take lots of baths together to clean up after." Mischief in his eyes now.

"That, too," amends Geneve, as her other hand slides up to drape about his shoulder and neck. Her whole face twitches in badly suppressed laughter at his next comment, though she manages to say only, "Precisely that. And there's so much to do... Perhaps we should get started immediately?"

There's only a smile for the first and then more devilish twinkling in his eyes. "Oh, definitely. THere's so much work that an early start is definitely recommended," the Weyrleader says with every appearance of seriousness. Except for those /eyes/.

Geneve bites her lip to avoid /actually/ breaking into laughter. The whole thing isn't /that/ funny, but it is, too, at the same time. "Mmm, yes. We wouldn't want to waste time. After all, how often do we manage to get away? Especially with all these weyrlings, now. Shall we?" She's schooled her voice into something more sedate, but only barely.

"Wasting time is never something, that I, as your Weyrleader, can condone," S'dric answers, still mostly deadpan though he's pulling her closer, bending his head down to press a kiss to the side of her neck. "Yes, yes we shall," he murmurs into her skin.

"No, of course not," agrees Geneve, no longer deadpan, not with her neck arching to receive that kiss, and her eyes fluttering slowly closed. "That would be quite-- unacceptable."

"Then we'll need to do our best to be /acceptable/," S'dric continues and then goes silent because he has far better uses for his mouth than bantering into her neck.

"Do I--" begins Geneve, but, realistically, her heart isn't in the banter, and she, too, has much better things to occupy herself with, like getting her hands up beneath his shirt to press into skin, and put her own mouth into service. Much better things to do.

Old walls echo with the emptiness of rooms, empty but for that one room where two come together and share and make those echoes. S'dric finds a relatively un-dusty stretch of wall to press Gen up against when it comes down to it and afterward, though his arms tremble, he holds her fast. "Mm. Definitely need to find the baths," he murmurs into her hair, teasing and tender at once.

Geneve has to take a minute, first, but eventually, she blows a strand of lank hair out of her face, and laughs, arms wrapped tight about his neck. "Mmmhmm," she agrees, running her fingers through his hair. "That's because you smell. I'm as fresh as a daisy, still" Yes. Aside from the sweat, and the dust, and the dirt, perfectly fresh.

"Mmmhm," S'dric agrees and buries his nose in her hair, breathes in. "You smell like you and that is never a bad thing." In spite of sweat and dust and dirt. "I suppose we ought to go for a swim this time, unless you feel up to exploring more?"

"You're sweet," says Geneve, amused and pleased at the same time. "Swim," she concludes, after a moment more. "We can tackle working out proper bathing later, or another time, or something. Bet it'll be a bit cold, though."

"Down this way, likely. There's the river near here, otherwise, a hop Between to the beach," he offers, leaning to help drop her feet to the floor again, steadying as he draws away from her and hunkers down to pick up the trail of clothing they left behind.

Geneve, once her feet are firmly on the floor again, "We're never short of options. What did we do before we had dragons to take us places?" Order other people to take us places - at least in Geneve's case. She, too, crosses to gather up clothes, noting: "The laundry people are going to wonder what we've been doing, to make such a mess of our clothes."

"Mostly, didn't go as many places," S'dric answers as he hops back into his pants, does up his belt, then stretches first left then right, before slinging his shirt back on without buttoning it yet. "We could go flame something and that would about take care of it. A little dust won't get noticed much under all the 'stone stench," the Weyrleader says with a wily grin.

"Well. That." says Geneve, as she steps into her own pants. It takes her a little longer to be ready to move, though she buttons only the first couple of buttons on her shirt, and distractedly at that, though they all seem to end up in the right button-holes. "Well practiced at the art of obfuscation, I see," she teases, laughing. "Good idea."

It's her shirt that S'dric aims to button up as he steps near, carefully matching them up and smiling down at her. "Very well-practiced. Another thing I learned at the Hall," the Weyrleader says seriously. "Poker face," he notes further then chuckles. "Except in front of you. I can't hide from you, Gen."

Geneve drops her hands to let S'dric finish the buttoning - after all, he /was/ the one who unbuttoned them in the first place. "That's where the stereotype of Harpers being good gamblers comes from, I suppose. Me, I never bothered. What's the point of hiding?" Pause. "Most things, anyway. No, and you'd better not try, S'dric." Her expression is meaningful, as she tilts her head up to meet his gaze squarely. "There's nothing you need to hide from me."

There. All buttoned back up and S'dric smooths a hand over the fabric, straightens her collar. "Not all harpers are," the Weyrleader says with a shake of his head. "But I learned from one who was." He smiles as she mentions not needing to hide. "Sometimes, it's a matter of timing. Revealing things when they can be more effective," the bronzerider answers softly, looks up at her, cradles her face in her hands, brushes his thumbs lightly over her cheeks. "I have nothing to hide from you anymore. I am as I am and you know all my plans and schemes."

Geneve has an amused smile for the collar straightening, her head shifting just slightly as if to say 'weird, but sweet'. Or perhaps not. "Useful skill," she remarks, just quietly, breaking off from further remark on this as he takes her face into his hands. "I know," she tells him. "I trust you. Now - shall we?" And so the afternoon continues.

S'dric's eyes stay on hers for a moment or two longer, then he bends to kiss her one more time. "Let's," he says simply and winds his arm around her again after he's dealt with his buttons and leads the way back out into warmth and light to find a place to wash up.

feministgen @ 2008-11-08T20:36:00

2008-11-08T09:36:32Z

Date: Afternoon on Day 6, Month 4, Turn 3
Synopsis: After class, Geneve attempts to have a productive conversation with Katelin.

Southern Bowl(#10RHJM4) Spring. Cloudy. 48F / 9C.
The primary feature of this end of the mile-long bowl is the Weyr's lake, which takes up nearly a quarter of the bowl's capacity by itself. About two dragonlengths deep at the deepest part - which is safely nestled along the wall of the bowl, far from the shore - the water is fairly clear for all that it's warm. Even in the winter, the water never really dips below "chilly," heated as it is by the Weyr's internal thermals. Occupying the southwestern corner, the southeastern finger of the lake puddles around the fence to the feeding grounds.
The tunnel to the weyrling barracks opens on the eastern side of the bowl, just north of the patio-like overhang that serves as the Weyr's stables. Almost directly across from this on the western wall is the tunnel leading in to the lower caverns, meeting up with the road out of the Weyr.

A wet, cold afternoon, the kind of spring day best spent indoors, but the weyrlings are out and about all the same, and this afternoon, Geneve is front and center. This afternoon's lesson has been on basic dragon first aid, a mock-practical lesson; now, as dinner time steadily approaches, it's beginning to disperse. "If any of you have a particular interest, at the end of this set of lessons, let us know. There may be space for you to do further study, at a later date," she concludes.

Katelin is half-listening to Geneve's final remarks and half not: the remainder of her attention is focused on stroking Pierzoth's outstretched head, a look of distant affection on her face. Brown weyrling I'vrel saunters up to her and startles her out of her reverie by asking, "You gonna do extra dragonhealing lessons, Kat?" She blinks and looks around, and belatedly offers a polite smile. "Probably," she answers. "Generally we're expected to, goldriders, I mean. That's what I've heard, at least." She flicks a brief glance toward Geneve, while I'vrel answers, "Cool, cool," and stuffs his hands in his pockets, smiling that lopsided smile of his.

Geneve, her gaze sweeping through the group of weyrlings as she speaks, is not unaware of the half-listening being done by Katelin - and a number of others among the group, as well. "You can go in, now," she tells them, pushing some damp hair behind her ear, her usual stern hairstyle unravelled by the rain. The exchange between I'vrel and Katelin catches her attention; as she waves the weyrlings away, she approaches, agreeing, "That's correct. Gold dragons are exceptionally good at controlling other dragons, and that makes them useful to have. What about you, I'vrel, are you interested?" She's been trying, these past months, to be friendly with the weyrlings - though she has a habit of liking too much the female greenriders, and snapping at those who disagree with her world view. So. Partially effective.

Katelin is exactly as polite as politeness calls for, most of the time, but in general she avoids Geneve as much as possible, preferring to take her lessons with Cr'pel, and to interact as sparingly as she can otherwise. Today, she greets Geneve with a polite tilt of her head and a murmured "Weyrlingmaster," but leaves I'vrel to answer the question: "Hey, sure!" He grins at Katelin, and she gives him a small smile in return.

And Geneve is well aware of this, struggles with it a little, tries to be friends - but she's not very good at that. "Give it some thought," she tells I'vrel, smiling. "See how you feel after we've been doing this a few sevens." To Katelin, she adds, "You'll do more formal training with the Weyrwoman, and others, later on, of course. How did you find today's lesson?"

Katelin pauses, carefully weighing her words before answering. "There was not anything I had trouble understanding, today," she tells Geneve calmly and politely. "And I have the anatomy lessons we were set by heart. I can recite them, if you like," she offers. "I do not know how well I will do at things like stitching up an injured dragon, but the initial lessons seem to be easy enough to master if one studies diligently."

"That's not what I asked, and you know it," returns Geneve, not harshly, but probingly, her eyebrows raised just slightly as she considers the younger woman. "You're allowed to talk to me. I'm not going to bite. I'm glad you're finding the lessons easy, but I'm much more interested in knowing whether you're enjoying them or not."

Katelin presses her lips together, as if biting back a retort. I'vrel, who's still hovering, takes a couple of steps back, uncertain. Katelin lets out a breath that's not quite a sigh, and answers, "I do not find memorizing lists of bones and so on very interesting. It is more interesting when we do the sort of thing we did today, studying real dragons. But," she concludes, "dragonhealing is very important and I understand that I am expected to learn it. So I will study it whether it is interesting or not." She holds herself stiffly, as if expecting Geneve to shout at her or hit her for what she's said, and I'vrel laughs weakly and tries to defuse things by saying unconvincingly, "Well, /I/ think it's fun."

Geneve lets out a laugh - see, she's friendly! - and honestly and openly grins at the weyrlings. "I can't blame you; found it pretty boring, myself. Useful, but not very interesting to learn. I'm glad you found today better, though." To I'vrel, she says, "If it were me? I'd run while I still can. But that's yet another reason why I'm glad I didn't Impress a gold dragon - no offense to Katelin and Pierzoth here, of course! We all fill our various roles."

I'vrel laughs again. "Yes ma'am," he says cheerfully. "Yeah, speaking of roles, I gotta roll! I'm starved. You wanna sit with us at dinner, Katelin? When you're done, I mean?" He glances deferentially at Geneve. Katelin gives him a nod. "Yes, certainly. Thank you," she says, in that same even, polite tone. Then she looks back to Geneve with a slight smile. "I'm glad to hear I am not the only one, Weyrlingmaster."

"Good night, I'vrel," says Geneve, head bobbing towards the boy, as her arms come up to hug about her waist. "Far from it, Katelin. How are you going, in general? With Pierzoth, with your lessons, with other people in the weyr? It can be quite an adjustment." Despite her friendliness, she seems quite intent upon keeping the goldrider here at least a little longer, never mind that the bowl is otherwise emptying fast.

I'vrel grins again and takes off, and Katelin squares her shoulders, resigning herself to an actual conversation with Geneve. Again, she takes a moment to think about the question before answering. "It is going well, I think. I get a lot more attention than I am used to, and that is rather strange, but it is not so bad. When I want people to leave me alone.. they usually get the hint. The lessons are getting more interesting in general. Cr'pel showed us how to disarm people who have knives, the other day: I didn't think I'd be any good at self defense at all, but it was actually fun. And the Weyrleader gave me a lesson in politics this morning, which was very interesting. There is a great deal I don't know and will have to learn, but he says I'm to be instructed by him and the Weyrwoman as well."

Geneve's not blind to that shoulder-squaring, either. She shifts, just slightly, as if to solidify her presence, which is solid enough to begin with despite her short stature. "You would, at that. So did I - but I imagine yours is more positive than mine." Her expression is rueful, self-depricating in a way that is clearly not /actually/ so. "Glad you enjoyed that. It's a skill worth having. Keep practicing it, even with lessons on that finished. You'll find that most of us knew little about politics, once upon a time. But you learn. And the Weyrleaders are very good people to learn from." She has obvious affection for the pair, despite the stiffness of her stance.

"It is not always positive," Katelin says with a small shake of her head. "Sometimes it can be difficult to tell whether people associate with me because they want to, or because they think they'll gain some advantage by it. But, it's to be expected." She gives a little shrug. She agrees with the last bit: "The Weyrleader is very good at explaining things, and very patient."

"And you think you're getting a better grip on which is which?" Geneve wants to know, her head cocking to one side with apparent interest as she listens to the younger girl. "If not, that's another thing I'd suggest you talk to the Weyrwoman about. Or the Junior Weyrwoman. He is, at that," she adds. "We're very lucky to have him."

"He is quite clever," Katelin agrees. "I will as the Weyrwoman about the other thing. That is a good suggestion. Thank you, Weyrlingmaster."

"Faranth, Katelin. When we're not in class, call me Geneve. Please. You're welcome, though. That's what I'm here for." Geneve doesn't sound annoyed, just - frustrated? Hopeful? Forthright. "And you've had no problems with Cr'pel? He can be - well, stubborn and useless, sometimes. I won't have him causing problems."

Katelin hesitates. "At first, he..." she begins to say, but then shrugs. "He's been much better lately. You can tell he's trying hard. And the disarming lesson was very good."

"Mmm," says Geneve, pursing her lips in obvious concentration, deep thought. "That's what people've been saying. Still hates me, but go figure. But. Anyway, if that lesson was good, that's excellent. He's a good man, despite himself."

"Pierzoth likes Sembruth very much," Katelin says. "He's always been kind to her, ever since the beginning." She leaves out the 'even when Cr'pel was being a raging jerk' part.

Geneve laughs, as she shifts her arms again, letting her hands dig into her pockets for warmth. "Sembruth's much friendlier than his rider, that's for sure. Funny how different we can be from our dragons. Which-- how do you and Pierzoth get along? Aside from the obvious, of course. You mesh well?"

Katelin nods her head. "Very well," she says. "I'm lucky, I think. The first few weeks, /everyone/ kept asking me about that, and I didn't understand why, but then some people told me about the problems they were having and... we haven't had any problems like that." She looks at Pierzoth with a warm, fond smile, and the gold rustles her wings and touches her muzzle lightly to Katelin's shoulder.

"Good. It's especially important for you two. You'll need that, when she rises." Geneve seems genuinely pleased with the answer, though she otherwise seems awkward again, as if she's struggling mightily for something conversation to say, and failing at it. She falls silent.

Katelin's face colors slightly at the mention of mating flights. "Yes, I suppose I will," she mumbles, and looks away.

"That," suggests Geneve, after another moment's pause, "Is another thing you may wish to talk to the Weyrwoman about. Not immediately, necessarily, but in due course. Though any of the greenriders would also work. The girls from the last clutch would be ideal, having only just, in many cases, experienced their first."

Katelin's mouth twitches. "Right," she says, and leaves it at that.

"Don't dread it," warms Geneve, immediately, eyes narrowing towards the girl. "That'll just make it worse. Seriously, though... use the resources you have. There are so many women around who can help you out, if you need it, and they'll be happy to. If you're not sure about anything, ask."

Katelin drops her eyes to the ground and nods her head again. "Thank you," she says. "I'll speak with the Weyrwoman about it. May I... go to dinner now?" she asks.

Geneve bites back a sigh, giving the impression of being incredibly long-suffering. "Fine. Whatever. But my door is always open, Katelin. Use it." She glances across at Pendarith, then back at the girl, pressing her lips tightly together.

"Thank you," Katelin says evenly, and turns to head for the living cavern.

feministgen @ 2008-08-19T19:07:00

2008-08-19T09:07:56Z

Date: Early Evening on Day 1, Month 10, Turn 2
Synopsis: L'ten and Sevuuth had an accident. Gen is sympathetic, but only until L'ten makes mention of her new position to be. Bastard.

Southern Bowl(#10RHJM4) Autumn. Rain. 56F / 13C.
The primary feature of this end of the mile-long bowl is the Weyr's lake, which takes up nearly a quarter of the bowl's capacity by itself. About two dragonlengths deep at the deepest part - which is safely nestled along the wall of the bowl, far from the shore - the water is fairly clear for all that it's warm. Even in the winter, the water never really dips below "chilly," heated as it is by the Weyr's internal thermals. Occupying the southwestern corner, the southeastern finger of the lake puddles around the fence to the feeding grounds.
The tunnel to the weyrling barracks opens on the eastern side of the bowl, just north of the patio-like overhang that serves as the Weyr's stables. Almost directly across from this on the western wall is the tunnel leading in to the lower caverns, meeting up with the road out of the Weyr.
-- Players --
Geneve.........Short, round & focused, but cute, with dark hair and grey eyes.
-- Dragons --
Pendarith......Brown dragon.
-- Exits --
Out......................[O] Guest Weyr...............[GW]
Northern Bowl............[N] Weyrling Barracks........[E]
Feeding Grounds..........[S] Patio and Garden.........[SW]
Lower Caverns............[W]

Sevuuth wings his way from the southwestern sky.
Sevuuth has arrived.
L'ten hops down from Sevuuth's neckridges.
L'ten has arrived.

As afternoon turns to evening on a gloomy, drippy autumn day, one by one the weyrlings who had leave to fly freely straggle over the lip of the bowl. Some head straight to their ledges, others to the northern end of the bowl. Only one turns to the lake, a largish brown with distinctive tea-stained wings. Despite the weather he splashes down in the water and picks up first one foot, then another as Len wrestles with the straps and tumbles ungracefully down. "I'm fine," he says and prods gingerly at his jaw despite Sevuuth's anxious look.

Given Geneve's known distaste for the cold and damp, it is a little surprising to find the brownrider and her dragon out on such an evening - yet there they are, the brown gliding over the lake, his wingtips nearly skimming the rough surface, and Geneve wandering along the shoreline. As Sevuuth and L'ten arrive, they're a distance off, around the other side, but steady progress is made in that direction, particularly once the pair are discernable for who they are. "L'ten," calls Geneve. "Sevuuth."

[DTU] To nearby dragons, Sevuuth broadcasts a low-level discomfort, like having a seed caught between one's teeth.

[DTU] To nearby dragons, Pendarith's wingtips falter, as though that sound has him on instant alert, his glide rising into a more active motion as he sweeps closer. << Sevuuth, are you not well? >>

Len says, "I'm fine," again and attempts to wave Sevuuth deeper, straps and all. He bends to cup water then, undoubtedly cued by the brown who is attempting to simultaneously curl around him and greet Pendarith with flared wings, straightens to salute. Closer, Len looks like he had a scuffle with a cliff and lost - the right side of his face is scraped and is beginning to swell, and his jacket is all banged up on the shoulder and all down the arm. The salute's managed, even if it's stiff and causes him to wince. "Afternoon, sir."

[DTU] To Pendarith, Sevuuth focuses down gladly, the scent of eucalyptus tickling the back of the throat. << My feet, >> he explains, but worse than that: << L'ten! >> The scent of overcooked broccoli adds to the eucalyptus all up and down Len's right side.

Geneve saw that. Or does now, at any rate, her appraising glance turning sharper as she gets close enough to make a proper inspection. "You do know that you need Sevuuth to fly down cliffs, I hope, L'ten?" she asks, words lighter than her actual tone suggests they should be - she actually sounds concerned. "Are you all right? Is Sevuuth? >> Closer, closer still. Not running, nor even jogging, but - a fast walk. Pendarith comes down to a landing nearby, neck stretched out to look at Sevuuth.

[DTU] To Sevuuth, Pendarith soothes, matching eucalyptus with tea-tree - sharp, maybe, but helpful, and most of all, /clean/. << What have you done to your feet, Sevuuth? Tell me. Geneve will care for L'ten. You're both safe, now. >>

Perhaps only L'ten is surprised when Sevuuth refuses to leave him - and perhaps he isn't, either. "It wasn't a cliff, sir," the young man calls without a flicker of return humor. There's a glance sideways at the brown then, perhaps realizing Sevuuth will tell even if he doesn't, he wades reluctantly to meet her with his right elbow cradled in left arm. "I'm fine, I think. 'Vuuth's got a couple ripped talons." Why else make a water landing in autumn and rain? "It's nothing."

[DTU] To Pendarith, Sevuuth sulks a bit more, scrubbing away the tea-tree so his own scents predominate. << L'ten says I shouldn't tell. He says he wants to. He says it was dumb. But I could have! >> What the smaller brown 'could have' done is offered in images and scent: a copse of trees. Sevuuth uprooting saplings in a wash of berries. Then a larger tree - harder now, but triumphant ginger eventually. Finally, a tree larger around than Len could span with his hands. Sevuuth grabbing the uppermost branches with Len safe on the ground. Pulling, pulling, pulling... and then the branch broke, catching L'ten on the side with a flare of sulfur and sparks. His own talons, bleeding. A short rest, then flight home.

Geneve's expression goes vague for a moment - Pendarith, evidently, filling her in via Sevuuth - and she pauses, head shaking. "It doesn't sound, or look, like nothing," she-- not chides, but it could be close. "Get a healer to look at," she indicates L'ten's side, "And Karra or Esseira for Sevuuth. Not taking any chances. You're right, though: it was a pretty dumb thing to do." She's come to a halt, finally, watching the pair from the shore.

[DTU] To Sevuuth, Pendarith soothes, still, numbweed mixing in with the astringent scents already present. << It was a very big tree, Sevuuth. It should have been left to grow. But as long as you are safe, mmm? >>

His pants clinging wetly to his thighs, Len exits the lake with a gingerly-moving Sevuuth hard on his heels. "It's just some bumps, sir. I was going to give his feet a wash, then take a look at them in a couple of hours. If they weren't any better, we were going straight to the healers." Sevuuth flops onto the beach with a sigh, rolls off his hip and onto his side before twisting his head to study Pendarith upside down. "And nothing's broken on me, sir. First thing I checked. I can move everything, and so can he. Got back here all right, didn't we? Anyway, we'll take worse in Fall. Cr'pel says so."

[DTU] To Pendarith, Sevuuth exhales in a gust. << It was a *very* big tree. >> Ginger tiptoes back into his sending, even as the tree mysteriously grows in size. << L'ten said I would be very good at pulling trees, and he was right. Until the last one. >>

Geneve looks L'ten up and down, finally nodding, though she doesn't look pleased about doing so. "Fine. But any sign of anything, and it's straight to the healers, you hear?" Her head turns to look at Sevuuth, too, as does Pendarith's, though the brown is the one who huffs with some amusement at the upside-down brown. Gen doesn't even crack a smile. "And Cr'pel's right, to a point. But that doesn't make any injury worth dismissing out of hand."

[DTU] To Sevuuth, Pendarith seems relieved that the crisis, such as it was, is over, his own tone fading back into his more customary dry gusts of sanded wind, all golden brown and faintly salty. << He was right, yes. But perhaps it's best to leave the tree pulling to when it's absolutely necessary. Dragons are for fighting thread, not trees. >>

[DTU] To Pendarith, Sevuuth projects, << L'ten says...! >> but subsides before he can explain how L'ten is right again. Instead there's a pause, another whiff of eucalyptus, and the younger brown says meekly, << Yes, Pendarith. >>

L'ten says, "Yes, sir," and doesn't salute. He nods instead, which lets him keep his elbow supported. "Once ah, Sevuuth's taken care of, I'm going to go wash, get cleaned up. I expect tonight I'm going to spend with his straps and oil, trying to keep them from being ruined." He pauses again, dark eyes studying her while she's looking away, then tentatively asks, "--Is it true, sir? About you taking over the weyrlings?"

[DTU] To Sevuuth, Pendarith stands strong, though there's a note of sympathy in his tone as he adds, almost cheekily, <>

Geneve bobs her head towards that elbow, "You should probably not toss any firestone sacks tomorrow, I suggest. See how it goes, anyway." She gives another, sharper nod, to indicate that she's happy with his plans for the evening, adding, "They should be all right, if you get to them quickly." Her expression turns surprised at his last question. "I should have known that that would spread fast," is all she says at first, though, after a moment's pause, she nods again. "That's right, L'ten. I am." Mild expression. Impassive.

Len nods again: no firestone, got it. As for his straps, "That's what I thought, but I'll have someone else look them over before we drill with them again." Saints be praised, he's exhibiting common sense! "I heard a couple of riders," he adds to his cuffs, and presumably about her (lateral?) promotion. "So you're... not flying with S'd - with the Weyrleader any more." He can do impassive almost as well as she, though he's hampered by a mincemeat face.

"Good," says Geneve, suddenly much cooler. And even moreso, at mention of S'dric's wing, her gaze darkening - sharp enough to bore holes in the ground. "We'll see how that goes," is all she says, finally, on that particular subject. Sore spot?

L'ten continues to examine his cuffs, wet, muddy, and scuffed as they are. "I'm sorry," he offers finally, after Sevuuth's gotten bored looking at upside down Pendarith and is examining his own feet instead. "I know you liked flying with him." If he's gleeful on the inside, he's not letting one iota of it slip.

Geneve makes a face. "Well, we can't really spare riders, so I suspect I'll continue flying 'fall at least in part," she declares, rightly or wrongly. Determinately. While staring off into the distance rather than directly at L'ten. "You must be cold."

The younger brownrider glances up at that, surprised, but doesn't say anything. Instead he too turns to this other topic with something akin to relief. Antagonism is easy. Sympathy is hard. "I'm all right," he declares back, ignoring his sodden trousers and the water dripping off his nose. "I've got to look at his feet, first. But they feel better already."

"If you catch a cold, or get pneumonia, you might be delayed in getting to travel further distances, or go Between," warns Geneve, distinctly on the end of 'downright unfriendly' in tone, now, her hands digging defensively into her pockets, her shoulders pushed back to try (and fail) to make her look taller, and thus, more authoritative. "Look at his feet, and then get in. Quickly."

As she turns cooler so does he - and he's taller than her no matter how far back her shoulders. He doesn't have to lift his chin to look down on her but does anyway, gives her a deliberately slow, wince-free salute. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Clear skies, sir." Perhaps he's cognizant of the irony and perhaps not; either way he waits a moment longer before crossing over to Sevuuth and his ripped talons.

Height is so unfair. Really. Scowling, Geneve returns the salute and stalks away, Pendarith following behind her at a low glide once more, though his head turns back quizzically, to watch Sevuuth and L'ten as they become smaller and smaller. Women!

feministgen @ 2008-08-16T21:31:00

2008-08-16T11:31:04Z

Being locked out of the game made me industrious. I have just gone through and (I think) added a link to every single log that Gen was involved in that I never posted. Go me! (Also: man, there were a lot. And some important ones. Why did I not post those? Weird). Hopefully, nothing funky will suddenly show up, but just in case... that's why.

Gen's come a long way in the past year and a half. It was kinda cool, to go back and see where she came from. Neat.

feministgen @ 2008-08-16T18:53:00

2008-08-16T08:53:35Z

Date: Day 21(?), Month 8, Turn 2 (I think)
Synopsis: In the morning, Gen does some thinking.

In the morning, they parted quietly, back to the weyr, their duties - their public lives. Geneve carefully stayed Between longer than usual, not sure whether it was the right time of the month for an accident, but taking no chances. That was one risk she had no intention of taking, not now, not ever.

They emerged over Benden in bright skies, one of those brilliantly clear autumn days, and after a moment's hesitation, she suggested, "Let's just fly for a bit, mmm?" Pendarith's agreement came without words, an exhilarated brush of his mind against hers, as they hurtled over the weyr walls, and out into the sky above the valley, and then beyond.

Looking down, Geneve could see trees turned red gold, and, eventually, farmers in their fields, bringing in the harvest. Once again, she found herself missing sweeps: all that time alone, just you and your dragon, keeping an eye on things, but, mostly, free to think and dream and be.

But she didn't have to be with the weyrlings for a little while yet, and she'd managed to get a bite to eat out of the provisions S'dric brought the night before, and she didn't really smell too much... "We can fly a bit further," she told Pendarith. "We'll just Between back, when it's time."

The glow brought about by that stolen night was beginning to fade as reality began to seep back into her mind. She'd put S'dric's question right out of her mind, last night; now, it swam straight back, taunting her. Weyrlingmaster. Not Wingsecond, the one thing she'd truly wanted, worked towards for these past couple turns, but Weyrlingmaster - the one thing she definitely hadn't wanted.

She didn't blame S'dric. She'd known then, even in her frustration, and she knew now: he hadn't wanted to do it to her. They both knew there was no one else, and that her sense of duty was too strong for her to refuse to see that. Once again, she thought, with a bitter twist to her lips, the good of the weyr comes first. It doesn't matter what I want.

Wingsecond by thirty, she remembered, thinking back to her turnday just months earlier. Screw that. Good bye, plans, things you swore by. Wingleader by thirty-five? What were the chances she'd be able to pass the knot on by then? None of the people she'd thought of as possible assistants seemed likely. But maybe her standards were too high, and they'd prove her wrong. She held that hope close.

Why do you have to go, Adria? Why now?

She could feel the bitter memory of her feelings for the greenrider, faded now, after the turns, after the failed relationship with Tarryn, and now S'dric, but still knotted into her psyche. She still respected Adria, admired her calm and poise, but at this moment... Yet she found she couldn't quite be angry with her, either. Would she transfer, if S'dric did?

That was an impossible question. It wasn't a question. S'dric wouldn't transfer. And neither would Geneve. As much as she missed Ista's weather, and dreamed about southern's beaches, Benden was, she was sure, where her future lay. And so did S'dric's.

Though she would neither allow herself to be led by any man, regardless. Not like that.

But she could understand Adria. And that made it harder.

None of this helped. They flew onwards, Pendarith leaving her to her thoughts, but there, his sandy breeze tickling the back of her mind if she even thought for a moment of him. Maybe that helped a little.

The weyrlings weren't ready to be tapped, yet, she reminded herself. They'd only just started having their talks on flights. Another month or two, and then she'd have to worry about this - and even then, there wouldn't be weyrlings yet. Maybe things would change. Something would happen.

She couldn't think what it might be - but this hope, too, she held close.

<< Chiyath and Sembruth are looking for us, my Gen, >> Pendarith told her, reluctantly. << We're supposed to be with the weyrlings for drills. >>

Geneve sighed, glancing once more over the landscape stretched out below them, then shutting her eyes, squeezing out the thoughts. "Tell them we'll be there in one minute. Let's go."

They ducked Between a moment later, and moments after that, they were backswinging to a landing on the bowl floor. Gen was wearing yesterday's clothes, windswept, and smelling very faintly musky. But she snapped to attention as she, as awkwardly as ever, dismounted from Pendarith, and joined the weyrlings. "This morning, we're off towards Benden Hold again. Are we all ready?"

feministgen @ 2008-08-16T18:44:00

2008-08-16T08:44:51Z

Date: Evening on Day 20(?), month 9, turn 2 (I am guessing: my connection is broken for connecting to MU*s, so I can't log in and check)
Synopsis: Geneve drops in on S'dric at work in the records room. They make plans, and a question is (unhappily) asked and answered.

Records Room Early Autumn. Partly Cloudy. 70F / 21C.
A spiraling staircase joins the Records Room with the Weyrwoman's Antechamber above. The cavern is carved with shelves from floor to ceiling, most still empty, but a few bearing bound volums, neat baskets full of sorted scrolls and several large tubes of maps standing in a bin. Two tables stand in the middle of the room, well-supplied with baskets of scrap hide and writing utensils. Four chairs are pulled up to these tables, providing ample enough seating space for those needing to use the room. Glowbaskets stand in niches at regular intervals around the room to provide adequate lighting for reading and writing.

-- Players --
S'dric.........Tall, confident, dark-haired, light-eyed, handsome. Weyrleader's knot.
Geneve.........Short, round & focused, but cute, with dark hair and grey eyes.
-- Exits --
Weyrwoman's Antechamber..[U] Bowl.....................[W]

It's a pleasant autumn evening, a little breeze stirs the foliage down by the lake. Gedreth is curled up not on his own ledge but the one he often shares now with Ailuth as the pair overlook the Bowl. Up above, the light in the Weyrleader's weyr is unlit, but the reflection of glows is strong in Records and a shadow dances across the walls now and then. Within, S'dric might be found, methodically working his way through E'sere's records of the last few months.

Geneve walks the bowl, holding her shawl tight to her shoulders but sans coat. It's probably an aimless walk - a ramble, perhaps - but she slows as she passes near the Records Room, her gaze shifting up to seek out the Weyrleader's Weyr, and then down again. She hesitates, and then, her expression sets, and she marches straight in, not pausing to knock, or confirm her apparent suspicion. "S'dric," she says, her voice even. "Hi."

Pale eyes lift from a hide and the Weyrleader nods once. His sleeves are rolled up, top button of his shirt undone and he generally has the look of one plowing through a lot of work in one sitting. "Geneve," he says with a warm smile nonetheless and sets down the hide in his hand. "That color still suits you the best of all, I think," he notes of the shawl and comes around the table to greet her.

Geneve looks pleased for the complement, noting, "I always think of the giver, when I wear it, but-- the colour is perfect. So I keep it." She seems to have no concern about the interruption to his work she's making, stepping further into the room to meet him halfway, then looking up to watch him. Her hand reaches out to run down his face, and she smiles.

S'dric's mouth shifts to the side in a wry grin. "Do you? I think I will say that that is a good thing to be so memorable." His eyes close briefly as her hand touches his cheek and he smiles too, fully this time, reaches out with both arms to slide around her and bends a little to drop a kiss lightly to her forehead. "I've missed you," he says softly. Even though he sees her nearly daily in drills.

"Breide was trying to buy my loyalty with it," says Geneve, expression thoughtful with the memory. "And the Headwomanship. But--" This is a side thought, at this moment, with his arms sliding around her, and his kiss upon her forehead. "I've missed you, too. A lot." A lot. It makes her sound all the more earnest in this - no petulance, just honest admission. Her own arms sneak up about his neck, slinging over shoulders.

"Ahh, well, I think I'll have to admire the attempt at savvy manipulation while shaking my head a little at the lack of subtlety. Very much Breide, hm?" S'dric's arms tighten a little around Geneve and his head turns to rest atop her head. "Forgive me for being less attentive than I should be?" Hands massage at her shoulders gently. "I've a lot of different plans to set in motion, the Weyr to pull back together."

Geneve looks amused, even while making a face. "Very much so," she agrees. "It was flattering, though. I can see how it would work for some people." Selective memory is a wonderful thing. She snuggles up towards him, and while she doesn't shake her head as such, there's a shift in it. "Nothing to forgive," she promises, fervent and determined. "This work - it's important. It's bigger than just you and me. So it has to come first."

"Mmm. On the unaware, mostly," S'dric murmurs softly and turns his face a little into dark curls. "It is, but not so important that I can't make a little time for you." Lower still and more fervent in a different way: "Come with me to the South tonight?" And there's the subtle ache in his voice that she of all people might know well by now. It fades though on his next words. "And there's something I need to ask you."

Geneve's mm is as much as she seems inclined to say further to the Breide-subject, her hand lifting to run through S'dric's hair. "A little time is all I ask," she tells him, and then, lower, "Yes. Of course." Of /course/. There's a catch to her voice - but an eager one, no reluctance. /Yes/. "Oh?"

In turn, S'dric's hands lift to sink into Geneve's dark hair. "I've thought of you and going South all seven," the bronzerider confesses into her ear and there is in fact a certain tension to him that she might sense. "Mm." Deep breath and he leans back. "This is business Geneve, but I promise it'll be the only business of the evening and I won't bring any with me to Southern." Beat. Pale eyes search her face and then he goes on. "Adria is seeking a transfer with E'drai after this batch of Weyrlings have been tapped. For reasons that are perhaps obvious, I do not want Cr'pel for Weyrlingmaster." Pause. "It's not what we talked of or planned, but will you accept the knot, love?"

Geneve, voice barely above a whisper, "If you hadn't suggested it, I might've had to push you back onto the table and be done with it, caution be damned." There's a gleam to her eyes, amusement, yes, but more than that. She stills, tensing, as he speaks, eyes narrowing at first mention of Adria, and her whole body pulling away as he comes to his question. "No," she whispers, though it doesn't sound like it's actually a refusal. "That's not fair." Her voice is carefully controlled, but frustration bursts to free itself from that restraint.

"Tempting ..." S'dric whispers back right before she pushes away. There's little in the way of reaction from him at her words. He just waits while Geneve works through it. "It's you or Cr'pel or someone who's not done it before, Geneve," he finally says gently. "You know what that means."

Geneve turns away, her eyes shut, her arms wrapping about her shoulders. She stays that way for a few silent moments, then another few, though her shoulders shift slightly. "I know," she says, sounding miserable. "Damn it, S'dric. I didn't want to do it again - this was going to be my last clutch." Even more now, those shoulders shift - squaring, her posture straightening, a sure sign of her approaching acceptance.

"I'm sorry," S'dric says quietly and leans against the table a little, arms folding across his chest. "Find another assistant to train up, one who isn't half mad from bitterness and drink. Better yet find two. Oh - and I've heard rumblings about his teaching methods from various Weyrlings and some observing riders. I'm going to recommend to Adria that she shift him off of ... anything sensitive. Faranth knows he's good at formations when he has his brains on right and the basic facts, but he's going to traumatize some of them badly the rate he's going."

[Pose missing because of my crappy connection. Will fix!]

S'dric nods once. "Thank you Geneve. I'll let Adria know you've accepted and she'll take care of any business that needs to transfer to you. The next clutch will be yours and after that we'll see, all right?" He ducks a little, peeking right into her face. "Cr'pel is damaged. Both in body and mind. If I could get him to go see Sofika voluntarily I would, but he won't. I'm thinking of a way to get him to go without ordering him. He'll be intractable if I go about it that way. But he needs help and she's the best qualified to give it to him, if I understand her background well enough." He nods again about what Geneve says about searching out a new assistant. "I've a few hides to finish up but then I'll be ready to go. Meet you within the hour?" he queries next, voice changing once more to something softer, more intimate.

"I do my duty. For the weyr's sake." Geneve sounds resigned as she says this, neither pleased nor excited, but at least accepting of it. She looks back at him, expression narrowed, though she nods as he speaks of Cr'pel. "She probably would be, too. I hope... Well. For his sake." She nods again, eyes sliding back towards the table, and the hides upon it. "Within the hour," she agrees, though she does not manage the same intense pleasure of earlier. She's more wooden. "I'll see you there."

S'dric pushes away from the table, arms loosening and his eyes search her face briefly. One hand lifts towards her shoulder and the Weyrleader's lips seek to brush her forehead again. "In an hour," he echoes again, his own tone still laden with that telltale ache, the richness of affection.

Geneve's forehead reaches forward to meet that kiss, but the smile she offers is only half-hearted, a wry, what-can-you-do kind of expression. "I'll leave you to those hides. Don't get too lost in them, mmm?" She turns away, heading for the dark bowl once more, striding fast.

"I'll do my best, but you might have to send Gedreth in to dig me out if I'm late," he quips with a wink, then turns back to it with a resigned look. Just a little over an hour later, he is in fact late, but when he turns up in the cave in the South, the reason why might be apparent. He took the time to bathe, to change and to pick up some wine for them to share and silly maybe as it is, picked a single wild jungle blossom for the brownrider.

[Log continues here, friends locked for non-graphic, but still potentially 18+ content].

feministgen @ 2008-08-13T19:32:00

2008-08-13T09:32:16Z

Date: Afternoon on Day 5, Month 9, Turn 2
Synopsis: While Ailuth rises, Geneve takes Pendarith to the south.

<< The bronzes blood, >> Pendarith reported, a warm whisper at the back of Geneve's conscousness.

She stopped in her tracks, turning her head to stare over the bowl. She could see the feeding grounds in the distance, the amassing bronzes, and Ailuth. Her post-lunch walk was abandoned; immediately, she began to hurry back towards the bowl. "You can't chase, Pen. Don't. Just stay where you are. Please."

<< I'm not going to ch-- >>

"I mean it. It's important. You can't, not this time. Next time."

<>

"I'm serious, Pendarith. No way."

<< Fine. It's really fine, Gen. >>

"Maybe we should just leave... Yes. Come on, we're going. Meet me in the bowl."

She missed the quizzical note to his tone, missed his reassuring nudge. He couldn't chase. It might ruin anything. "We don't want to win this one, anyway. Weyrleader - they'd never let it happen."

They met in the bowl, Pen still strapped up from morning drills. She vaguely registered that she'd be missing the afternoon session with the weyrlings, but - she couldn't stay. Too dangerous. The others would manage without her.

They appeared in the sky over Southern moments later, and even as deep in her thoughts as she was, Gen still marvelled at how green it was, how discomforting she still found the lack of thread damage. But it was little more than a vague thought, cast out before she directed Pendarith to the beach. She pulled his straps off without really thinking about it, telling him, "You should go swim for a while. cool off. Colder water would be better, but - this'll have to do."

He soothed her with a mental touch, nudging her companionably, then glided off into the waves, submerging himself obediently. Gen lugged his straps with her as she climbed up the path towards the cave. It was dank and cool, and she shivered, but she didn't bother with a fire, dropping the straps on the ground, and pulling herself out a cot to sit on.

She drew her knees up towards her chin, wrapping her arms about them, then rested her chin atop. She shut her eyes.

It felt as though it took hours, but of course, it didn't. She wasn't sure if maybe she'd blanked out for a time, and then there was Pen, nudging at her mind again. << It's over. It's Gedreth. >>

Gedreth. She sunk down in relief. Gedreth. He'd done it.

She wandered the Southern beach alone, that evening, sinking her feet into the cool water and warm sand, letting her hair loose to be ruffled by the breeze. It was strange to be here alone. It wasn't something she normally did. But it was refreshing, too. For once, she felt as though nothing could go wrong.

"We did it," she whispered, to the moons and the stars and the empty beach. "We did it."

feministgen @ 2008-08-02T10:14:00

2008-08-02T00:14:49Z

So, a bunch of people on NC are posting the playlist for their character, and I thought about it, and decided I'd try it out for Gen. There's a few gaps, but, otherwise, I thought it came out quite well.

I am Woman - Helen Reddy and Ray Burton
No surprises here - this sums up Gen's resolve and core belief completely. I'd quote lyrics, but, frankly, they're pretty much all perfect, so I'll just link here.

I want to Conquer The World, Bad Religion
While women are her primary target in life, Gen cares (often too much) about everyone - she wants equality, she wants people to get treated fairly according to their abilities and not their birth, etc, etc. And I like this song for representing that, because it does imply a certain superiority ("Give all the idiots a brand new religion"), which Gen has in bounds. Lyrics here.

(In the same vein: Bad Religion's Punk Rock Song (Lyrics), and Raise Your Voice:

a fa fafa fa fa fafa Raise Your Voice!
Don't be played like someone else's board game
Don't be classed out like some desolate redoubt
Don't be misled you've got alot on your head
And nobody's gonna pay attention when you are dead
So: fa fa fafa fa fa fafa Raise Your Voice!
It's the primary rule, you gotta wanna be fooled
It's our daunted restraint that keeps us silent in shame
It's our nature to be adversarial and free
Our evolution didn't hinge on passivity
fa fa fafa fa fa fafa Raise Your Voice!)

Don't Cry Out Loud, Peter Allen and Carol Bayer Sage
With few exceptions, Geneve has a lot of trouble talking about personal feelings. She'd rather hide it all, and continue to look strong, no feelings of her own, because she thinks it suits her purpose better. Lyrics: here.

Laugh in their Faces, The Whitlams
And you can stop them dragging you down They've got nothing better to do Sometimes you've got to laugh in their faces

This is partially Pen's influence on Geneve: she's spent most of her life trying to fight people's understanding of the world, but he reminds her that in the end, if her family disapproves? So what! Laugh. Doesn't matter. This is important for her. Lyrics.

As Long as the Moon Can Shine, from the musical version of The Hunting of the Snark, lyrics by Art Garfunkel (I think)
I used to think of love as just a dream that disappears, But you've taught me more tonight than I have learned in all those years. As long as the moon can keep on shining, And the sun keeps hanging in the sky, No one can take what flows between us, No one alive. As long as the moon can keep on shining, And the years keep rolling slowly by, You'll be a friend of mine, As Long As The Moon Can Shine.

Gen, on finding Pendarith. She never really comprehended what Impression was all about - she never got that far. She just wanted to 'win'. But Pendarith was the first time she felt unconditionally loved, and while she masked it in her triumph, it touched her (of course). Lyrics.

Good Enough, Evanescence
Gen's feelings for S'dric. Sometimes. She's always been really insecure about the concept of ever being loved by someone (other than Pendarith); S'dric has always somehow been able to worm under her skin and made her feel wanted (even when it was less innocent than it currently is). And this has dropped her guard - when did she last say no to him? Not often. In her head, he is almost perfect in every way, even if she logically knows better. Lyrics.

I Will Not Go Quietly (Duffy's Song), by The Whitlams)
I will not go quietly
I will not accept your rules
gonna live with myself
before I live with any of you

Not 100% appropriate, but close. Gen's ego. Her less altruistic purpose. Lyrics.

Defying Gravity, from the musical of 'Wicked'
And if I'm flying solo
At least I'm flying free
To those who'd ground me
Take a message back from me
Tell them how I am
Defying gravity
I'm flying high
Defying gravity

Not all of it is appropriate - but that quote above, definitely. Sometimes, Gen does feel like she's flying solo, but that isn't going to stop her: she'll prove everyone wrong. Lyrics.

feministgen @ 2008-07-27T21:37:00

2008-07-27T11:38:05Z

Mostly for my reference (though I very much doubt I will be playing Gen at this age): Gen at forty-ish.

feministgen @ 2008-07-26T13:26:00

2008-07-26T03:26:28Z

Date: Day 13, Month 7, Turn 2
Synopsis: Cr'pel and Geneve supervise flying weyrlings. The intricacies of their fine (cough) working relationship are revealed.

Geneve hops down from Pendarith's neckridges.

There's Weyrlings out in the Bowl exercising under Cr'pel's watchful eye. Taking off and landing and he barks out the odd comment in between. "Tighter on the turn next time! No, not so much of an angle!" ANd the like. The tic in his jaw hasn't started to dance yet though, so the group's safe enough from his temper for a little.

Geneve is late to the party, as it were, winging down atop Pendarith - both giving the weyrlings an appraising glance before they make their own landing a short distance away. Pen stays where he is, well out of the way of the young dragons, but Gen weaves her way towards Cr'pel, greeting him with a short, sharp bob of the head. "How're they doing, Cr'pel?" she wants to know, once close enough to chat comfortably.

[DTU] To Pendarith, Sembruth is his usual stoic self as he greets the sandy brown. << Lookin' good, ain't they? >>

"Off you go again!" Cr'pel orders to the latest and his head swivels around, eyes boring into Geneve with sudden brief intensity before this is masked behind gruff politeness and a salute. "Geneve," he says a trifle curtly, likely manfully curbing the curl of his lip. "They're not so bad today. Might yet make it the lot of them." Scoffing a little.

[DTU] To Sembruth, Pendarith's agreement arises quickly, a warm note of pleasure tucked in amid the desert sands. << They are, yes. Quite the accomplished young dragons. We'll have them ready for the wings, yet. >>

[DTU] To Pendarith, Sembruth chuckles dryly and squints out at the group. << Still need some practice yet. But they're comin' right along, they sure are. >>

Geneve is too used to Cr'pel to take umbrage at his curtness, instead smiling winningly at the other brownrider as she comes to a halt a few paces from him, and turns about to give the weyrlings more of her attention. "I think they will," she tells him. "There's still a few I'm not so sure about, but..." A bob of the head. "May they all prove me wrong, I suppose. We need every last one of them."

[DTU] To Sembruth, Pendarith disengages for a moment, though his sending is loud enough for Sembruth to hear, as well as the target - << Gailoth, don't flap so much. Use the momentum. >> - then, back to Sembruth, the smaller brown noting, << They'll get there. They always do. With our assistance, of course. >>

"Takes hard work," Cr'pel says still gruffly and slants a look her way. "Otherwise you wind up like me." He makes a grunting growly noise deep in his throat. "More than every one."

[DTU] To Pendarith, Sembruth turns to observe the weyrling dragon Pendarith is correcting and there's more mental laughter from the older brown. << Looks kinda like a wherry don't he? >> But there's placid agreement. << Yeah. Suppose so. After all, we did. >>

"They're young, they'll learn," returns Geneve, not looking at her fellow weyrlingmaster as she speaks, her stance one of casual concentration, eyes flicking between one weyrling and the next. "No denying that. At this rate, we're probably barely going to replace our losses, let alone get ahead. And even if Ailuth went up tomorrow..." She breaks off, sighs. "Anyway, point is that we just have to make sure we keep every one of this lot, right?"
Now, she glances at the other brownrider, even smiles at him. She's trying.

[DTU] To Sembruth, Pendarith lets out a light bubble of laughter, replacing the young dragon's wings with feathered ones, agreeing. << He does, too! Good trick. Yeah, we did. >> Now, he projects an image of the two of them, flaming great bursts of flame and incinerating heavy tangles of thread. << And so will they-- as long as they don't break their wings now, if you'll be a little bit more careful when turning like that, Mandjenth? >> He settles back on his heels, huffing.

Grunt. Cr'pel's so expressive. "No way out," he remarks sourly. "Don't think we'll ever catch up on numbers at this rate unless the clutches suddenly start being huge." His eyes narrow and he hollers to a pair. "SLOW DOWN! Pull up! Go back around and slow down!" Sembruth touches minds with the dragonet at the same time, both focused, though Cr'pel glares.

Lyndee comes out of the barracks.
Lyndee has arrived.

"Come on, Cr'pel. No need to be /quite/ so defeatest." Which isn't to say that Geneve doesn't look, or sound, concerned: she does. "I have visions of clutches of forty or fifty, and maybe even more than one at a time, and that makes me want to quit this job right now - though I won't - but the point is, I think we'll get there eventually. We just have to survive that long." She goes silent, as the other brownrider yells at the weyrling, watching, and saying nothing.

Cr'pel just grunts again. "Realistic," he grumps back at Geneve and folds his arms across his chest stubbornly. "Here's hoping. Though the weyrlingmster'll need more help for groups that large." Another weyrling pair takes off, circling testing out wings and this time, Cr'pel has no nasty remarks to make.

[DTU] To Pendarith, Sembruth smirks some more at the imagery of dragonet-as-wherry then settles back comfortably. << They will get there eventually. >>

Geneve and Cr'pel are watching over weyrlings practicing flight, and talking between them. "Negative," she tells him, though not unkindly. "And unnecessarily so. She will," she agrees, quietly, casting an appraising eye over the weyrlings. "More extra duties for riders who're still needed to keep our numbers up in the wings. But we'll manage."

As per usual, it's Dallianth ambling ahead and Lyndee keeping a careful eye on her from a few paces behind. The greenrider notes the presence of those she approaches with a salute somehow aimed at both and a quick, "Ma'am, Sir," eyes almost immediately back on Dallianth in case she gets any ideas she shouldn't.

Tic. The tic's started in Cr'pel's cheek at that response. He shoots Geneve a /look/. And then grunts again. "It's what we do." Mumbled down low about managing and he rubs at his left hand absently while watching the next pair take off. Lyndee's approach shifts his eyes to the blonde and his jaw sets. "Weyrling. Ready to get into the rotation?" He nods towards the ongoing manned flights.

Geneve caught that tic. And while it doesn't look as though it was something she was trying to provoke, there's a faint sense of satisfaction to her smile, which she abruptly turns about so that she can give Lyndee a more encouraging grin. "Lyndee," she greets, head bobbing, though she lets Cr'pel take charge - his lesson, not hers.

"Yes, sir." Lyndee nods a confirmation and though she tries to return a smile to Geneve, she looks sharply back to Dallianth as the green takes an over-eager step forward. "Dalli," she murmurs, under her breath. "Where would you like us, sir?" she asks Cr'pel. Perhaps not a question she wants an honest answer to, but polite at least.

Jaw still tight, Cr'pel jerks his head towards the line of weyrlings. "Right there, with the rest. In the line." Cranky, cranky. "Strap check before you take off. Buckle in. Helmet on. Up, one time around the Bowl, down. We'll be watchin'. Land and get back in line." He rattles the instructions off and folds his arms across his chest again. Geneve? Geneve who?

"You won't need too many wingbeats," puts in Geneve, at that point, helpful, and probably reasserting her presence to Cr'pel. "Just take it easy, and you'll be fine."

Another quick, "Yes, sir," and an appreciative nod in Geneve's direction and Lyndee's following Dallianth to join the back of the line. Maybe not quite the right instructed order, but her helmet is grabbed from under her arm and dealt with first to get it out of the way. Dallianth shivers, though seems to calm as words from her rider process. The blonde is already eyeing and tugging at straps to ensure they're sorted correctly before they reach the front of the line.

Tic. Tic. Tic. Cr'pel's mouth just twists sourly and he nods as Lyndee musters into the group. A blue and his rider gather some speed and launch into the air. Their take-off is pretty smooth and they only bobble a little as they come around. The landing tosses the rider around a little and Cr'pel just lifts a hand and scrubs his face with the palm.

"Getting there!" calls out Gen, for the benefit of the bluerider. "Just need to smooth that landing out a bit. Good work, though." The fact that she seems so unusually sunny today is probably just a magnification effect; the comparison between herself and Cr'pel is certainly, as ever, striking.

Front of the line. Straps, buckles, deep breath. Dallianth doesn't appear to have lost the excessive spring in her take-off, but it seems she has learned to balance the force out sooner rather than later. Still, Lyndee lurches in the straps and if her unnaturally stern expression is anything to go by, she's exerting force to dampen Dallianth's enthusiasm and keep her to only the required wingbeats, as instructed. Their trip around the bowl isn't exactly smooth, but the green's landing is better and almost delicate for her build. Then they're still for a long, long moment and, a rare occurrence indeed, Lyndee isn't looking directly into Dallianth's eyes as she speaks to her. A smile of relief and then quickly to the back of the line.

[DTU] To Dallianth and Pendarith, Sembruth watches lazily from the ground. << Slower up next time. Or at least try not to throw yourself at the air, Dallianth. Don't need to. >> His tone is non-chalant. << Nice landing. >>

Cr'pel's nostrils pinch at that wobbly take off and then he's just watching squint-eyed and grumbling under his breath. "Not bad!" is his called out faint praise. "Keep at it. It'll get better."

Geneve, for a fellow woman, has nothing but praise: "Excellent, Lyndee. You two are going to be good fliers, I can see it already."

[DTU] To Pendarith and Sembruth, Dallianth agrees with quite a stunned, << Slower is better. Don't want to hurt Lyndee. >> Her tone brightens significantly when she adds a quick, almost chirped, << Thank you. >>

[DTU] To Dallianth and Sembruth, Pendarith joins in to agree with Sembruth's assessment. << Good work, >> he notes, praising the green. << Though we all know you'd never hurt *Lyndee* - but yes, slower is better. Excellent! >>

A small smile grows and then Lyndee outright beams before toning it down to an appropriate level, exhaling slowly. A short burst of laughter follows, tinged with obvious relief. Dallianth is straight back to business, clearly considering how to go about things when she gets to the front of the line again, still and taking careful steps forward instead of rushed.

[DTU] To Dallianth and Pendarith, Sembruth gives a mental impression of doling out a gentle shoulder nudge. << You betcha. And they do seem to like it smooth, yeah. >> Laid-back and stoic where Cr'pel is so grouchy, the elder brown flashes an image of further flight. << Be up with the wings in no time. >>

While Lyndee is laughing, Cr'pel turns slightly towards Geneve. "Why do you have to layer it on so thick? It sets them up to make more mistakes," he mutters lowly and darkly to her.

"It encourages them," says Geneve, responding to Cr'pel without looking at him, her eyes focused on Lyndee, apparently approving of the girl's happiness. "I'm not telling them they haven't made mistakes, just letting them know that they're doing good." Though she is known for having something of a soft spot for those girls. "We want confidence. Not over-confidence. But confidence, definitely."

Back to the front of the line once more and Dallianth actually looks between the ground and the sky, as if telling her limbs not to catapult her quite so much. She's somewhat successful; her assent is slower, but used to over-compensating, she dips a little and glides before getting back into the stride of flight again. Lyndee glances about the bowl, but her focus doesn't tend to leave her green, even as they land relatively neatly again.

"Doesn't sound that way to me. You gloss over too much," Cr'pel grouses at Geneve. "And I don't see confidence. I see stupid." He's frowning tightly and his jaw is jumping again. "You're going to get them sharding killed."

[DTU] To Pendarith and Sembruth, Dallianth gets a little caught up with the idea of further flight, some of her usual light seeping into her tone, though carefully held back as she concentrates. << You think so? >> she asks, tentatively. <>

Rather than respond immediately to Cr'pel, Geneve concentrates on the weyrlings, and, at this point, Lyndee in particular. "Better," she tells the girl. Eyes rolling, and voice made louder, as if deliberately to annoy Cr'pel, she adds, "Just need to smooth it out. Cr'pel," she continues, all in the same breath, "I am not a sharding idiot. I want them alive. I know what I'm doing. I haven't lost it." Unspoken, but perhaps implied: unlike you.

[DTU] To Dallianth and Sembruth, Pendarith extends the image, Dallianth amid the wings, flaming beautifully, nothing but ash dropping down towards the ground. << She is right, but yes, it is good to prove that to her. As often as necessary. You will be a fine addition to the wings, young Dallianth. >>

[DTU] To Dallianth and Pendarith, Sembruth is almost jovial. << Getting better all the time, sweet stuff. Ashamed? Nah. >> The brown at least just brushes that all aside readily.

Dallianth steps out of the line for a few seconds, flexing a wing almost thoughtfully. When she goes to reclaim her place, Lyndee leans forward a little, questioning - though still not speaking aloud - to make sure everything's right. When they reach the front of the line, Dallianth corrects her previous errors by springing and not pushing excessive force back in the same moment. This time around the bowl seems less complicated with no balance error to correct, maybe a little smoother. Back to the ground and perhaps they're getting the hang of it. Maybe.

"No. You don't." Cr'pel states baldly, still speaking in that tense undertone. "You're too sharding young. You haven't lived enough. You're too gung-ho out there yourself. They need to be more /careful/." Yeah that jaw hasn't stopped tic-ing and jumping at all in the last little while. "Go around twice this time!" he shouts out to the Weyrlings at large.

[DTU] To Pendarith and Sembruth, Dallianth hastily clamps down on a burst of warm amber light from her direction and settles for a careful, yet reasonably perky, <>

"Careful," says Geneve, at an undertone, "creates indecision. They need to be able to make split-second decisions. They need to trust their instincts. I'm a good rider, Cr'pel. Maybe you don't want to see it, but I'm one of the best. These weyrlings? Either they want to be like me, or they want to be better, because I'm just a girl. That's what they need, to get it right. -- Lyndee, that was much better. Keep it up."

A tilt of the head and 'twice' is checked with Lyndee, then happily accepted by Dallianth. The young green has to think about her launch again and it's physically obvious that she does so, but once in the air she appears to understand that she has to pace herself this time for longer flight. Lyndee pays more attention to the world beyond her lifemate and seems to peer intently and make note of where she would expect others in a wing to be before they land.

Gritting his teeth, Cr'pel glares at Geneve. "They need to make the /right/ sharding split-second decisions, and not toss themselves at things crazy-like. Which you do. You only think you're one of the best. Everyone covered for you in the wing, you know. S'dric is a blind idiot." Narrowed eyes fix on the plump assistant and then dance back to the Weyrlings. "Come on! Hop to it, two circles this time, smooth landings all of you and then over to the lake or the baths to clean up after. Barracks cleanup after that!" His voice rings out sharp and tense. Sembruth's eyes are whirling a little more and he's looking towards his rider now, the scarred brown shifting from foot to foot uncertainly.

Geneve does turn her head towards Cr'pel this time - and she laughs. "The delusions you people come up with, to satisfy your world view! Faranth, Cr'pel. Look, I think it's good that you're cautious. I think it's important that they learn from different kinds of people, and get the important parts from all of them. But I'm trying to teach these weyrlings to trust each other, and you're destroying that. Faranth. I'm going in." This said, and with one last bob of her head for the weyrlings, she departs for the barracks, with a jaunty step.

Deciding not to push their luck as far as Dallianth's stamina is concerned, Lyndee and her green quite agreeably break from the group and head towards the lake after their final trip round the bowl. The blonde doesn't look up from Dallianth - almost as if she's afraid of what she'll find - and concentrates on removing straps, her helmet following. Dallianth all but slinks her way into the water, slowly, her rider's gaze still trained intently on her.

As the lesson breaks up, Cr'pel's eyes get all the more electrified and angry. "You're the deluded one," is his less than snappy comeback to Geneve as the gloves come off somewhat. "They can't trust each other if they can't trust their abilities. Those have to be there first. Until then --" he breaks off clears his throat. "Yes! Dismissed!" to clarify to one of the weyrlings asking and his nostrils pinch again as Geneve states her intention to leave. He speaks not another word, just stalk-limps off in the opposite direction to meet Sembruth, pulls himself painfully aboard. A moment later they're taking off for their weyr. He's not at any chore sections or class work later on or in drills the next morning either.

Geneve, listening to Cr'pel as she walks away, but not looking at him, rolls her eyes. "Bigot," she mutters, under her breath, as she disappears within.

feministgen @ 2008-07-23T15:58:00

2008-07-23T06:11:32Z

Date: Evening of Day 9, Month 7, Turn 2
Synopsis: Just hours before turning twenty-nine, Geneve reflects on what she's done, and where she wants to be, and argues with herself on why she isn't. Goals are made. Possibly unachievable, though, then again, this is Geneve.

Geneve put pen to hide reluctantly, leaning uncomfortably over the page as she spelled out the words: Seven Month Report (Day 9, Month 7, Turn 2). Her pen hesitated over the date, as if it were one she ought to remember, as if it meant something.

It took her a good couple of minutes before she realised why: tomorrow was her turnday.

Thir-- no, not thirty-yet. Twenty-something. Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine. Must be twenty-nine. Funny, though, that neither the date nor the age really seemed to mean anything. She didn't feel like she was in her twenties, still, which wasn't to say that she felt old, bothered by getting close to thirty, any of that. Just distanced.

Not that she'd ever felt like the age she supposedly was. And maybe that had been hubris, as a teenager, full of the idea that she knew better than anyone else, had plans she was going to succeed in, so much focus and promise! But hadn't seen been Headwoman at, what, twenty-three, twenty-four? And a good Headwoman, too. Better than Maddy. Better than any of them! And she'd still be a good one, but there had been bigger fish to fry.

She'd been the oldest weyrling, too, four turns ago, but it hadn't been that that had made her feel so disconnected from them. She'd been different, and, damn it, proud of it, accentuating it, revelling in it.

Twenty-nine felt too young, though, she realised, pushing hide away, setting pen down, she was proud of the amount she'd achieved.

Unbidden, a voice in the back of her head, not Pendarith, but her own, questioned her: And what is it you've achieved. Headwoman, yes, Pendarith, yes - but what else? Nothing.

Not true, she told the voice, straightening her spine, her brow furrowing. We've fought in threadfall, when girls weren't supposed to (Because they didn't have the numbers). And we're teaching the weyrlings! Proving that we've capable. (Which you don't even want to do in the first place. Anyway, look at the scorn you get. L'ten. The others.). I was 'second for S'dric, that first fall! (And what happened to being his proper Wingsecond? You stopped fighting that.).

Not stopped. Just...

She broke off the thought. But that other voice inside did not. Once upon a time, Geneve would never have shut up about it. She wouldn't have curled up like a lapdog and agreed to wait, for month after month, turns even. She would have pushed, and fought.

She wouldn't have let herself get caught. She knew better than to get too close.

She was wrong, Gen told herself, sharply. I need people. I love S'dric. And he was right: the timing was wrong.

Breide's gone. Esseira wouldn't hold it against him.

"Esseira's not Weyrwoman. Not... yet." She barely realised that she was speaking out loud, arguing with herself. "And maybe she won't be. And maybe S'dric will be Weyrleader, but maybe he won't. I hope he will. But it's too uncertain."

You've just gone soft. You don't want to be told you're not good enough. You don't want to push him, because you don't want to see him as less than perfect. You...

"I know he's not perfect. And neither am I."

Coward. Loser. Waste of space. Turned out like any other girl: fell in love, and just gave up.

Geneve bit her lip, and then took a deep breath. "I haven't. And I won't, either. I know what I want."

The Gen I know would already have it.

"Maybe she shouldn't have it, then."

She got up from the desk, pacing across the room, ignoring the thoughts that kept creeping in from her subconscious mind. Eventually, she grabbed her jacket and walked out onto the ledge, where it was freezing, despite the warmth the day had held.

Pendarith rumbled at her, and she crossed towards him, lifting her arms to wrap them about his neck and head, feeling the weight of him against her shoulder.

<< You shouldn't argue with yourself, my Gen, >> he told her, soothingly, warming her mind with streaks of red-and-gold hued sand, the rays of the sun. << You'll always lose. >>

"I'm still me, Pen," she told him. "I'm still fighting. I argued with that girl, with Andy, just the other seven. I'm not soft."

<< You're Gen. That's all I care about. And you're happy. >>

"I'm the fighter, Pen. That's who I am. The one who argues and pushes and makes people listen. So why aren't I making any progress?"

He blinked at her, eyes whirling brilliantly blue-green. << It was always going to be a long process, >> he told her, contentedly. << You'll get there. >>

"What if I lose the way?"

<< You won't. >>

She buried her face into his warm, soft hide, breathing in the musky dragon smell, and swore, silently: Wingsecond by thirty. Wingleader, by thirty-five. We'll show them.

OOC aside: According to the hatching log, Pen hatched in, like, month 8 or 9 or something. But according to his age on the game, it was the day before Gen's turnday. I think the moral of this is that I pay too much attention, but anyway, the point of mentioning this is that I don't know which I would be inclined to say it 'really' is, so I just avoided mentioning it. Gen probably forgot her own turnday that turn, anyway.

feministgen @ 2008-07-21T13:30:00

2008-07-21T03:33:18Z

Date: Evening on Day 26, Month 6, Turn 2
Synopsis: Geneve, Andoran and Baina talk about progress in the court case, and then Geneve gets on her high horse.

Geneve heads up the narrow tunnel to the nighthearth.

After dinner, but not terribly late yet, Andoran's perched at a table in the nighthearth going over some hides and sipping now and then from a glass that seems to hold nothing more serious than water.

"Andy," greets Gen, wading past people to seek the Harper out, carrying with her a glass that, unlike Andoran's, clearly does contain something alcoholic. The brownrider sinks herself into a nearby chair, shifting the glass to her other hand, and adds, "L'dor was telling me about the case. Bastard."

Slipping in amongst the shadows in this 'cozy niche', Baina settles herself at the table, taking the quiet moment to grab herself a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread. She glances up as Geneve speaks, but offers nothing of her own in return. Better to keep out of sight when strange adults are present.

"Geneve, good evening," Andoran says politely, looking up at the brownrider with a warm smile. He last brings a grimace to his face. "Yes. Well. It certainly figures that he'd have pulled something that low." He leans back, looks down the table a little and notes one of his newer students there, gives Baina a little wave, before turning back to Geneve. "I won't ask you what you think. Bastard seems to cover it pretty clearly."

Geneve's head turns to consider Baina, the recipient of Andoran's wave, but her attention otherwise remains upon the Harper, as she settles in to make herself comfortable, legs folded up beneath her. Swallowing a sip from her glass, she nods. "Not at all surprising. But. Frustrating. But the case is good: it's going to work out." There is no doubt in her voice, nor the set of her expression.

Baina, for her part, returns that friendly wave with a small smile and a nod. Waving ones hands about would be unladylike, of course. Taking small pieces of her bread, she dips each one on a corner into the stew and pops it daintily into her mouth, chewing a precise number of times before moving on to the next piece and so on. Every so often she pauses to dab softly at the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief she must have pulled from a pocket in her dress.

"It's as good a case as it can be," Andoran answers thoughtfully and looks down at the hides on the table, taps the pile. "Have to get some of these things sorted for the Harper representing his Lordship. It's a little galling to have to quasi help the man."
Geneve's expression seems to suggest that she thinks Andoran is being modest, but she doesn't comment on this, instead, with a glance at those hides, nodding. "I'll bet." There's venom to her tone. "Only place I want to help him is do--" She breaks off, takes a breath, then a sip from her glass. "Any idea when it's going to resume?"

And so Baina continues, keeping to herself and eating her late dinner peacefully. And it's quite likely she would have continued so, had not an alarming piece of news reached her ears. Choking on her broth, she presses the handkerchief to her mouth until she can calm her breathing and forcibly smooth out her expression. Only when those tasks are done will she turn to Andoran. "I'm sorry sir," she ventures in her prim, proper, 14 turns old voice. "But did you say you were /helping/ Lord Hrotti's defense?"

"I understand," Andoran says with a deep sigh and flips a hide over. "In two sevens," the harper replies and looks over at Baina. "I'm obligated to assist the Harper representing the Lord in the trial to understand our evidence," he explains. "It's how trials such as this work."

"Two sevens," sighs Geneve, making it sound as if 'two sevens' equalled an eternity. "This whole doing-it-by-the-book thing is too slow. Quiet assassination, that's the real thing." Again, her head turns to let her consider Baina, chiming in, as Andoran finishes, with the comment, "Legal bullshit."

Baina seems confused and intrigued, teetering between her desire to know more and the knowledge of her own limitations. "Sir," she begins. "I know I'm just a girl, but if you don't mind sir... How /do/ trials such as this work?" Ah! A compromise. She leans towards him, shifting her whole body to pay attention...only to nearly fall out of her seat at Geneve's addition to the initial explanation. Pale face now ghastly white, she swallows several times and turns forcibly to Andoran, knuckles white as she grips the tables edge hard.

"That wouldn't be right Geneve and we'd be sinking to his level," Andoran says softly and winces a little at Gen's cussing, but he smiles over at Baina. "Let's see - well the complaining parties have to put forth a formal complaint, request the trial. Both sides have to prepare evidence. Then there's a hearing to open things and both sides get an opportunity to review each other's evidence. In this case, there's a lot of evidence on our side, so the other side has asked for more time to work through everything."

Geneve doesn't seem to think much of Andoran's 'sinking to his level' comment, huffing out a deep breath, but Baina distracts her from further comment on that subject. Gaze narrowing, glass set down, shoulders pulled in, she positively /glowers/ at the girl. "'Just a girl'? 'Just a GIRL'? Faranth save me. There's no such thing! You've as mind as good as any man's, /and/ the right to use it. Have we taught people nothing, after all these turns?" For a small woman, she's a little intimidating, riled up.

Nodding along and listening avidly, Baina seems to soak this up like a sponge. "I've something that may help, sir. Gran, she kept a diary-log of each and every tithe we made and what stuffs went for which tithe and--" And then she gasps, jerking back and falling off the bench in the process. One hand steadying her against the ground and the other pressed against her mouth, the poor young seamstress now appears as a sun-bleached sheet. "I--I--I," she stutters, dumbfounded at Geneve's outburst.

"Oh? I don't think we have that in our --" Andoran breaks off as Baina goes flying. "Goodness me," he murmurs and gets to his feet, moving to offer a hand up for the girl and looks between her and Geneve.

"Faranth," mutters Geneve, as Baina falls, her eyes rolling. She reaches for her glass again, rather than joining Andoran in rescuing the girl, adding grumpily, "Every time I think we've made some progress..."

Reaching one shaky hand to accept Andoran's offer of help, Baina manages to get to her feet and offer him a weak sort of smile before retracting her gloved hand to brush her skirts off. Seating herself again, she keeps her eyes on her food, face lowered. Though she does have some courage left, after all. "What sort of progress would you have us make, lady rider?"

Andoran smiles at Baina, manner mild as Baina regains her seat and he retreats back to his and his hides. "Gen ..." murmurs Andy gently, fondly and briefly rests a hand on her shoulder just befoe sitting.

"Throwing off the mantle of oppression, recognising your own skills, talents, abilities. Ignoring all the bu--" Geneve manages to avoid cursing again, but only because that's the point at which Andoran interrupts her, with his murmur and his hand. She sighs. "You can lead them to water, Andy, that's all I'm saying. It's frustrating."

Those words seem to strike something in Baina, for she does then look up at Geneve, warring emotions evident in her young face and bright eyes. "It's all well and good for you, ma'am. You're different than the rest of us. Strong, smart, enough to impress a brown." She lowers her eyes and her head then. "We can't all be like you and it isn't fair of you to demand it," she adds quietly. "Besides. If this change means running about in trous and swearing like a sailor, I think we're better off without it." She turns to Andoran then. "If you'd like my grandmother's logs I can get them for you later tonight or in the morning sir." Such old words from such a young mouth.

There's a sympathetic look from Andoran for Geneve and his mouth opens as if he'd say something, then Baina's providing that response and he regards the girl thoughtfully. In the end all he says is: "Thank you kindly, Baina. I would appreciate being able to add copies to the evidence. It will take me a day or so to copy what is relevant and then I'll return the originals to you."

"I'm no different than any of you, just more determined," says Geneve, sharply, probably more loudly than she might have intended. "But you don't all have to be /me/. Just not doorstops. Don't deny yourself things you can do, because you think you're 'just' a girl. You don't all have to go out and Impress brown, for Faranth's sake!" The brownrider - who still does wear a skirt when not on active duty - takes another sip from her glass, adding, "I can't help it, Andy. It's maddening."

Shrinking back from the sharpness of the tone, Baina stiffens, straightening her back and pulling back her shoulders. "I don't deny myself anything, ma'am. It's the natural order of things." Quietly spoken before she rises to clear her place. "Anything I can do to help, sir. I'll bring it to you later tonight, if that's agreeable?"

The harper's eyes flick back and forth between the two. "I understand, Gen," Andoran says softly. "But really, jumping on people isn't really helping, hmm?" his voice remains gentle as he stacks his hides together and drinks down the rest of his water. "I need to go catch up with L'dor for the afternoon," he states with a smile for both ladies. With his things stacked and tucked under his arm he rises and bows to both. "I'm afraid I've no words of wisdom about the place of women in the world. Suffice it to say perhaps, that there's more than one point of view on the 'natural order of things'." The harper nods again and steps away with another light touch to Geneve's shoulder as he goes and a wave of his hand for Baina.

"But it isn't, that's where you're wrong," grumbles Geneve, but as Baina seems to be clearing up, she doesn't push further, instead glaring moodily into her glass. She nods, glumly, at Andoran, though it doesn't look as though she really believes him, but says - "Night, Andy. Say hi to L'dor for me."

Almost echoing Andoran, Baina sighs. "Does one of us have to be wrong?" she asks quietly, stakcing her bowl and spoon near the others before bobbing a curtsey to Geneve. "Goodnight, ma'am."

Geneve tilts her head up, giving Baina a long look. "Yes," she says, simply, firmly, no trace of doubt in her voice. "Good night."