Logs:A Helping Hand
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| RL Date: 18 June, 2016 |
| Who: Silva, Quint |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Silva is doing a walk of shame, and Quint tries to help. |
| Where: Weyr Entrance/Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 1, Turn 41 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Jocelyn/Mentions |
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Cutting through the Weyr's massive outer flank, the tunnel from the
outside spills out into a smooth-cut space where wagons often pull in to
unload supplies or take shelter during bad weather. Crates and dollies
line one wall, ready to be pressed into service for carting stuff around.
Five other passageways, dimly lit by well-spaced glows, lead deeper into
the Weyr; a draft from the centermost hints at the bowl beyond. It is probably too early (or is it too late) for Silva to smell like she does as she makes her way down the hallway into the weyr proper. It's a heavy tang of alcohol like someone has spilled it on her. Her heavy make-up from whatever her activities the night before is smeared, and her dress is rumpled as if it spent the night NOT on a hanger. The sun rises behind her, having just barely gotten over the horizon. "Whatever, I got us home alright, okay?" And she's doing that craycray dragonrider thing that she does. There's not a great deal of traffic coming in from outside the Weyr in the dead of winter, but that doesn't mean the tunnel is empty -- there's plenty of people using it as a short cut to the Weyr's inner rooms, particularly the Snowasis -- although at this time of day it's mostly weyrfolk hurrying towards their jobs and to start their day. A handful take note of the rider, giving her a mix of pitying and judgemental looks before hurrying off on their own tasks. One in particular, though, holds a deliberately more neutral expression, though there's a tugging of a frown in Quint's expression as he steps over to intercept Silva, waiting for her to notice him now that he's right in her path. Silva's hangover includes a particular nearsightedness - or perhaps it's just that she's not focusing on anything but the argument she's got going on with the blue that is out ~there~ somewhere talking at her. (It does save her from the judgmental looks?) "Yeah, well... Quint!" Blinking Silva stumbles her way to a stop, her hand going to the strap of her dress that had just managed to slip over her shoulder and pulling it back up. Her eyes are bloodshot, which isn't something she can really do anything about. "Uh, hi." The harper shoots out an arm as if to help steady her, though Quint lowers it when she stops of her own volition. "Hi," he replies, by no coincidence echoing her. His eyes are fine -- a full night's sleep or close enough to -- and steady as he watches Silva. For once, amazingly, the normally wordy harper is otherwise silent. Like he's waiting or something. "Um." Silva isn't quite sure what to say, other then to reach down and tug at the bottom of her much-too-high-cut dress, trying to arrange it in some way that is a little more modest, but then she stills, catching herself in the action. Letting her hands fall from her sides she tries to square her shoulder, and squints at him. "Journeyman, I apologize for almost knocking into you." Whatever said Journeyman was looking for, that isn't it; Quint's expression shifts marginally, as does his body as he steps to one side. "Come with me," he says, in a tone that is well-practiced; that of teacher to student, elder to younger, full of authority. Already he walks, like he expects her to fall into line, setting a slow pace to meet hers. Whatever else it is, this THING of Silva's has her being a tiny bit more polite. Sometimes. She's trying? Kinda? Confusion stretches itself across her features when he turns and beckons her to come along with him, and she'll utter a, "Uh?" before stepping forward to catch up with him. "Did something happen?" Quint shakes his head, but remains uncharacteristically non-verbal. The walk isn't a long one; the entrance to the nighthearth not overly far. It's empty at this time of day, but as always there's warmed stew on the hearth, and perhaps more applicably, klah. He pours out two cups, while he gestures for her to take a seat near the hearth, a slight humming audible under his breath as he does so. "Sugar?" he inquires politely, with a glance over his shoulder. A Silva who isn't hung over would probably more confused by Quint's lack of talkativeness, but it's too early, her head is hurting (plus she's probably still talking to Zaisyreth on the side, just not, like, crazy person outloud now). "Oh, uh, sure, but I was going," and she points over her shoulder towards the way to the baths. "You know." THERE. "I won't hold you up long," Quint says, indicating that he intends to hold her up some, which is likely the reason he proffers the mug of hot liquid -- a tacit peace offering for a hungover mind. "Please," he says, nodding towards a chair. Another um hums behind her lips, though it never comes out completely formed. Instead she reaches out and takes the cup, before settling herself on the chair with it in her hands. That dress strap of hers has dropped again, but this time Silva doesn't reach to tweak it back up. A curl of hair has snuck its way out of the mussed up control and falls across her face. She has to twitch it away before she can lift the cup to her lips. He waits -- waits until she's taken that first sip, that first swallow -- before he finally talks. "When I was little I did a lot of things that, as a man, I regret." It's an odd start, and Quint keeps his voice low as he talks, leaning forward on his seat towards Silva to make the conversation private, intimate. "At the time, I didn't see it as anything -- I was surviving, in the only way I knew how. If someone had stepped in, then, and told me I was doing harm, to myself, to others -- I wouldn't have listened, wouldn't have believed. But I think if someone had -- mm, -- made it known that, should I ever look for a way out of the situation I'd gotten myself into... offered a helping hand, if you will, that that... would've been something that, when I was ready, I might've accepted." It's a lot. A lot of words, maybe too much, in her current state. And so, the harper, Quint -- takes a breath, seeks her gaze, and murmurs: "If you get lost, and want to find your way back, I will help you." Silva frowns at the beginning, because it is an odd way to start, but as he continues speaking her expression closes, and despite the headache and the impossibility of erasing all emotion of her face, she does an admirable job of pulling herself inwards. Composure drapes over her like a cloak she's trying to draw on to hide her shabby and ill kept presence. "I'm not lost Quint. Just... trying another path. No one's getting hurt. I mean, it's just... I don't know. I'm not hurting." It's a lie, but she says it because she should. "And other then you... and Jocelyn because it's her job, it's not like any one really cares. So it's fine, it's fine." It's a lie, yes, and he knows that she knows it, too. "There's an old saying that comes to mind," Quint says, slowly. "The best lies are the ones you tell yourself." The harper leans forward, stretches a hand for his fingers to brush hers. "Zaisyreth cares," is all he says, of that last. "Well, then, I'll just have to work till it's not a lie then. Or whatever." It's tacit admission that she knows that he knows about her knowing. (Take THAT ONE logic!) The cup settles down onto her lap and Silva pokes a finger into the liquid, stirring it slightly with her fingertip. "Zaisyreth... loves me for me. Whoever I choose to be." Blue eyes continue to regard her evenly, and Quint nods at that first, acknowledging wordlessly. "Dragons... they understand when their riders hurt. But I wonder if they understand why their riders hurt?" The small bit of foam at the surface of the cup gets pushed around by Silva's finger, and she seems almost entranced by it. Her other hand opens slightly, showing the pull of still-healing cut on the palm. She doesn't have words to reply to him on that particular comment. The lack of response is no deterrent; he is a harper, after all. Instead, Quint pushes to his feet, and -- by no coincidence, given his earlier words -- stretches out a hand towards her as if to help her up. Silva's eyes are caught by his movement, and they follow him as he stands. There's hesitation before she reaches out and takes his offer of help with her healing hand. "You don't need to... or whatever. I know what I'm doing. I just have a headache or whatever right now." "Okay," the harper says, accepting her lie for what it is, as he helps her to her feet. "I was glad to see you this morning, but I shan't delay you from your... bath," Quint adds, with a rueful smile, as he releases her hand. "All I ask is, as a friend, think about what I said, mm?" "Wingleader probably won't be super happy about, like, me being late and I might manage it if I'm quick." Though there's nothing she can do about the REST of her hangover. Work, super fun the morning after~ "Thanks for the klah." And then the lies will just have to linger between them as Silva tries to put on a fresh veneer of cheerfulness. She's too quick though, to turn away, the walk of shame more shameful today for actually having run into someone who catches more than the surface of that shame. There's a slight thinning of lips, but Quint lets the lies lie, as it were. The harper watches her departure, with only an inaudible sigh accompanying the contemplation, before he turns to tidy up the mugs. That done, he resumes his path to his original destination. |
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