The Dragonriders of PernŽ is a trademark, Registered U.S. Patent & Trademark Office, of Anne McCaffrey. This is a recorded session, generated by Harper's Tale MOO on Saturday 27 December 2003 for the benefit of members unable to attend. Logged by Lylia.
The Return of the Weyrsecond
Living Caverns
The rough-hewn majesty of this cavern far outpaces any delight in the multitudes
of curves that form its enclosure. The glabrous grey granite is shot through
with translucent obsidian, lending subtly-veined sparkle to the walls and the
foot-trodden smoothness of the floor that shows centuries-old placements of the
scarred trestle tables; carven hollows give homes for the glow baskets and the
coat-pegs that line the walls. No mosaics, no painting, no tiles: just a few
well-done tapestries mark the pathway that lead to the kitchen to the north and
the inner caverns to the west, and frame the nighthearth's stew and snacks,
while a heavier strip of oiled canvas shields the unwary from the wind.
Lylia is quite content to be curled up like a feral feline, her gaze occasionally searching the room as it gets distracted from the stack of hides in front of her and the cup of wine. It's a cozy way to spend time at least, if infinitely boring. The morose brownrider glances back down at her hides, her face screwing back into a further expression of annoyance. Silly /work/.
Wyn is anything but bored as the petite weyrsecond makes a quietly dignified, if equally quietly stubborn return to her home away from home, crossing the living caverns with her head high and a look of vaguely amused serenity on her features. She makes her way directly to the klah pots from the entrance form the bowl, untangling a scarf that, while not D'renn-length, is certainly a lengthy work of art in gray, blue and black wool. Returning with a cup and a pitcher for refils, she helps herself to a seat at Lylia's table with nothing more than a grave "Good afternoon, Lylia." and a nod. But wait... shouldn't she be stuck in Igen on the other side of the quarantine?
"Afternoon, Wyn," Lylia responds automatically, her gaze not shifting up from her hides. And then... there is the double take. Thankfully not a spit take, given the wineglass next to her hand. She glances up sharply. "What, by Faranth's fat tail, are you /doing/ here? We're quarantined!" Though the more suffering being trapped, the better, to her mind.
No, spit-takes are just gross. Not to mention possibly contagious. In reply to Lylia, Wyn merely glances over at the brownrider, and blinks once, as if the idea is utterly new to her. "Huh. Well, so we are, aren't we?" she muses rhetorically, before patting about in her leather satchel, and retrieving a little cloth packet wrapped in Healerly violet cloth and bearing an embossed caduceus. Opening it, she removes a little gauze face mask, and an atomizer of something. A couple spritzes to the surface of the mask reveal the Something to be a redwort solution and, still smiling absently, Wyn dons it with nary a change in expression beyond a gentle lift of an eyebrow over one faintly twinklinh gray eye. "Better? A weyrsecond's place is with her Weyr, after all."
Lylia may be contagious... of the terrible disease of sexiness. She shakes her head slightly, a look of unbelieving wonder coming into her eyes. "Uh. /Yeah/. Very quarantined. Weyrsecond or not, Pyrene's going to /ream/ you. You shouldn't be here, Wyn, you should be soaking up some sun somewhere. Shards, why'd you come back here? Weyrsecond or not!" And once Pyrene's done with her, maybe Ike will get a few whacks in. They could sell tickets.
Wyn is already a victim. Or would be, if either Vor or Dru were green. Mrowr. She also continues looking unconcerned, or at least the half of her face visible above the SARS-mask-gone-Pernian does. "Pyrene is always reaming someone. I believe she has a deep-rooted psychological need to do so... and I'm here because I'm going to be needed. Don't tell -me- that having anywhere from a wing to a weyr's worth of riders, depending on gossip, suddenly appearing from the past and out of synch with modern times isn't going to require the best diplomats amongst the Weyr leadership on hand." Wyn is, perhaps, rehearsing what she's planning to say to Pyrene? Is possible.
"Maybe, but you're a bluerider breaking quarantine, you'll be lucky to have all your fingernails and more than half your hair after seeing her," Lylia points out with a slight smirk, eyebrows raised. At least it's not /her/ getting in trouble. For once. But the rider just snorts, shaking her head. "Diplomats are the last thing we need, Pyrene's approach is probably the best way to deal with it all. It's been quite a mess up here, Wyn. Just wish we could ship 'em all down to Southern or something and be done with it." Wine is suddenly very, very needed. The brownrider reaches for the goblet, taking a light sip. "It's a full wing, not a Weyr, but it's got the Weyrleaders from back them. Adel and R'meld. Lovely little twist to it all, really." She's definitely not amused with the jokes that life likes to play.
"No doubt it will keep my life interesting." is Wyn's comment, the look in her eyes suggesting that the bland bluerider is half looking forward to the battle. "And in any case, I am here now, so all the reaming in the world can't change that fact. It is," she notes. "Easier to ask forgiveness than permission, after all. But while I can understand some tensions would be forthcoming, why consign them all to the mercies of Pyrene?" she wonders, cocking her head to one side and sipping at her klah with a curious air.
Lylia snorts, casting her green gaze towards the bluerider as her lips curve into an amused smirk. "Interesting? A bit more than /that/, I think," she responds, almost a taunt. "And you are here, but /why/ you would enter into this cage of stone... Beyond me. Hopefully they're lettin' us out soon," she mutters, taking another sip of wine. "Pyrene and Sii'kyn are doing a good job, but there's not much that can really be done about it all aside from hurry up and wait. Not even sure what all the waiting is /about/, though the rumors are quite colorful on the subject."
Wyn might've answered with a smile, but with the screening effect of her protective mask, it's hard to tell. "Understatement is the difference between humour and wit, they say. Interesting." she reiterates. "And I might be able to offer a fresh opinion on that viewpoint, actually, since I'm the one with Healer's training and a penchant for medical research. I did a little delving into the case history of the plague while I was lounging in the Igen sun drinking those drinks that have fruit on little sticks in them." And 'hunting' a few of the better-looking Igenites, but that's neither here 'nor there. "A fortnight's quarantine ought to be enough time to determine if new illness will arise, but with the plague a good two decades or more behind us, it's quite likely that Pern as a whole has developed something called 'antibodies'."
Lylia just glowers, her lower lip barely sticking out. "I hate you." She's going a little stir crazy, and the idea of sunshine and tasty drinks is more than the poor girl can stand. "You didn't even bring back a few fruity drinks for those of us stuck here?" That's not Weyrsecondly of her, nope. "And then of course," Lylia adds, giving a pointed look. "One of the aunties told me that she heard that one of the kids heard that the case of the plague /we/ recently had may have infected some of the invading dragons." As far as she's concerned, they're invaders. "So it's just fun all around."
"Of course you do," agrees Wyn, now irritatingly beatific behind her mask, although she pauses to spritz the atomizer of redwort in Lylia's general direction a couple times before fishing her flask out of her satchel next. "But perhaps this will soothe you a little? Rivergrain saki, my dear brownrider. Responsible for a few pleasant memory lapses and a few surprises on the neighbouring pillow the mornings after. Use it wisely."
"You are a /wonder/. If you ever need anything, anything at all..." Lylia is absolutely mesmerized, her hand slowly reaching out for it, even as she shies away for a moment at the spritz of redwort. "Ungh," she mutters, even if she's quite ready to swoon at the saki. "Oh, you have won my heart, dear Weyrsecond. Though I suppose if we imported enough of that, we could solve all our problems and us and the old riders would just be living in happy little drunken paradise." She does cast a quick look at Wyn, eyes widening slightly as a more wicked grin crosses her expression. "What /did/ you get up to over your time? Between that and breaking the quarantine, you're certainly one naughty Weyrsecond lately."
Wyn beams brightly, if unseen, and merely notes that "See? The diplomacy of drunkenness. You already have found me useful. And in any case, inebriation is a useful state to obeserve others in. One judges a man by his aspect when alchohol has loosened all of his masks... and my dear brownrider, I assure you you don't want to know." is her reply about Igenite escapades, tapping the side of her masked nose. "Suffice it to say that I was simply doing my duty and, ah, seeing that relations between our two weyrs remained high, and very, very positive?"
"I find you useful, but what the Weyrleaders will find of you is a different story," Lylia responds lightly, but her mood has /certainly/ improved for the better with precious booze. And Druseth's mood has likely turned morose once more in a similar result. A wicked smile follows as the brownrider only shakes her head, downing the rest of her wine. "Aye, very positive indeed. I do hope that you've left them a good impression of our Weyr, and how some of us repay... hospitality. I wonder if those tricks of yours might work on getting these other riders to submit fully to the Weyr's will." After all, who knows what powers Wyn's sexiness has?
Wyn merely shrugs, bestirring herself to slightly more body language than usual with half her face obscured. "If they don't like it, they can always get themselves another Weyrsecond. My dragonhealing studies have been langushing under wing-status reports this past turn or two." She spritzes redwort in the direction of a sneezing drudge, eyes Lylia's wine thoughtfully, and then replies with innocent mien that "One mustn't underestimate other sorts of power that rely on things other than a show of force or intimidation. Not to mention they're rather more fun... but I believe I shall have to meet some of these wingfolk from the past before I offer any thoughts of how to proceed with them."
"You're gonna send someone choking with that," Lylia remarks, watching the drudge idly. Though as long as no more is spritzed at her... "But if they got rid of you, they'd just have to promote another bluerider for Pyrene to lash out at. She'd hate that." She shakes her head, taking a quick look down at her bides -- busywork, certainly, and not something that she has a pressing need for. There's always late at night to finish them, after all. "You'll meet them soon enough, I wager, they're around quite a bit. Many seem to like to keep to themselves a bit, and I can't blame 'em. Better that way, probably."
"Undoubtedly. But redwort is a known antiseptic agent. If we are serious about the quarantine, there really ought to be preventative measures in place -within- the Weyr." is Wyn's pronouncement, looking a trifle disapproving as she surveys the non-masked populace of the place. "It seems rather silly, if the situation is grave enough to warrant a full quarantine, that masks have yet to be issued, or if they have, that an order hasn't been given regarding their use. But in any case, have you met any of the oldtime riders yet?"
"Hard to get stone to be clean and tidy." But Lylia's fine with anything that keeps her or her Druseth from falling over ill, in the end. She gives a distasteful look towards the redwort, nose wrinkling slightly. "But still, do you have to /spray/ it like that?" She does give a puzzled stare towards Wyn, brow furrowed. "How could we afford masks for the whole of the Weyr? We're heading into winter soon and all... I don't even know what the Holders would think of extra tithe due to this kind of situation." Laughter, probably. "And I've met a couple, yes."
Wyn shrugs again, having run through most of her store of expressions, and therefore returning to the top of the list once more. "We managed it in the infirmary when I was an apprentice. And spraying it allows the particles to hang in the air, thereby removing any harmful agents likewise inhabiting it thanks to the lungs of the ill." She spritzes the atomizer again to prove her point. "And obviously a few thousand masks would be impractical, but they could at least be made for the fighting wings, and those in close contact with them. A few layers of gauze and some binding strips to tie them with. Far easier than sewing straps... and what are they like? What do they look like?"
Lylia shudders, leaning back slightly. She doesn't trust inhaling it, disinfecting or not. "Well, even still. It's creepy." She's never understood healing, and doesn't intend to start as she gets older. A shrug is all she can offer in return. "Well, that's the Weyrleaders business, I suggest takin' it up with them. No one's fallen over dead yet, at least." Though the brownrider does go out of her way to steer clear of the trays of cookies that she sees oldtime riders eating from. "What do they look like? There's a full bloody wing of 'em, they look like any other rider. They seem okay, their leader R'meld seems a bit flaky, between you and I," she says, leaning n a bit closer. "Not happy at all about this, it seems, we're both inconvenienced in this foolish situation. Just like another wing, 'cept they seem to remember a Weyr with more discipline than we have now." Ly's scornful look makes it clear she /never/ believed HRW had discipline.
Wyn shakes her head, eyes reading a clear amount of amused bemusement at non-healers. Even if she, technically, isn't a Healer anymore herself. "A traditional wing ranges between twelve and thirty fighting dragons, that's not -too- many, my dear Lylia." She eyes her cooling klah and, with a noise of mild irritation, undoes her mas and lifts it away enough to let herself drink as she nods now and again at Ly's little intelligence report. "Mmm, yes. After all, if I recall my history scrolls correctly, it was the influence of Nuff that's made High Reaches what it is today. And I suppose Sii'kyn and my new formational tactics are somewhat less than conservative. Still... if they intend to fight Thread with us while they're here, they'll have to learn them, and our other unorthodoxies, just like everyone else." Sympathetic, it appears Wyn is not.
"It's too many when we're approaching winter, and too many when we've got to find spaces for 'em, including a /queen/," Lylia shoots back, a hand absently reaching out to snatch a cookie off a tray. She needs it to soothe her spirit and lift her heart on a rush of sugar. "A lot can happen in more than twenty-five turns, and this place is apparently quite a bit different... And if they're fightin' Thread with us, hopefully formations won't be a problem if they fight in their own wing." She can just happily ignore them and hope to avoid the plague.
Wyn tries another shrug on for size, although the fact that she's pulled a small notebook from somewhere and is busily writing things down hints that she's not nearly as blase as she's appearing to be. "While the housing might prove a challenge, an added twenty dragons or so shouldn't tax the Weyr's food supplies too direly. Also remember that the quarantine is keeping us from hosting visiting freeloaders from other weyrs. And formations might not seem a problem, but the duty of the Weyrleader in Fall is to see that the wings best work together as a unit, and if one part of the unit isn't in synch..."
"But it's also making a few of our members freeloaders in other Weyrs...," Lylia answers. Of which Wyn was supposed to be one. "So there may be a debt or two later on to pay. But still, if we have to host them over the winter? Ain't going to be pleasant. I do hope /something/ gets figured out before then." Otherwise, being cramped in the Weyr for the winter will cause some discontent rumblings. She snorts, rolling her eyes slightly in Wyn's direction. "I wish you well getting their wing to work well with us and us to work well with them. Might as well find a needle in an avalanche."
Wyn has always gone her own way when all is said and done. It's just that usually her own way is mediated by altruism and a peculiar honour, so generally she doesn't get in too much trouble for it. Generally. "Well, then we shall simply pay it when the time comes. And likewise deal with every other consequence when its time comes. In the meantime, this is the time to be attempting to establish ties with our unexpected guests, since I fear a winter of acrimony and infection would quite ruin my digestion...speaking of which..." A glance at the food. "I believe I shall take my meal in my weyr. Do let Pyrene know I've returned?" "Aye, I'll let her know. I should be seeing her soon enough anyway." A fond little smile plays upon her sunchapped lips. Lylia does adore those who stood with her, even as the Turns go on. "Welcome back, even if you came back at a stupid time." She'll just wait for her chance to see the Wyn vs. Weyrleaders confrontation. "Have a good evening, Weyrsecond." And she's back to reading.
