Logs:A Running Battle
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| RL Date: 24 April, 2015 |
| Who: Quinlys, Yesia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quinlys has the weyrlings running laps. Yesia is not impressed. |
| Where: Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 15, Month 8, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
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| The first few sevens of weyrlinghood may have mostly been lost to the whims of newly-hatched dragons, and the dramatic adjustment Impression requires. As time moves on, however, there's more structure to the days... and more requirements placed upon the weyrlings. Today, Quinlys has had her charges engaged in (honestly, really very mild) calisthenics: some running, some jumping, some hopping on one leg. She's in fine form; more than one weyrling has scowled in her direction as she smirks at their misfortune. At least the weather is nice? Among those glaring? Yesia, who could burn a whole in the side of the weyr with the intensity of her gaze the first two, extremely slow laps. By the third, the green weyrling has stopped running her laps all together, and is in fact walking very slowly. She's not even panting anymore; she's just over it, and her challenge is there in her crossed arms and slouched posture. "That's five," she lies, as she passes Quinlys. "Can I be done?" "No." Quinlys isn't smug or smirky, this time, though she's got both hands on her hips as she turns that blue-eyed gaze upon Yesia. "You're not even trying, Yesia, and that's one thing I won't tolerate. Come here." One-armed J'vain will no doubt keep an eye on the other weyrlings-- not to mention Olveraeth, who is watching on with slowly-whirling eyes-- while the weyrlingmaster focuses her attention on Yesia. "Dragonriding's not all about flying pretty with your dragon. You need to be fit." Yesia comes, yes, because she's not that bold, but she is not quick about that, either. She stands a good distance from Quinlys, good enough that neither of them have to yell, far enough to be just out of reach, just in case that becomes a relevant factor. "I know it's not," she says, at least of the first part. She gives a glance to Aeaeth, if only to look away. "It's not like there's Thread, anyways. Who cares if I can run a mile?" "I care," begins Quinlys, though she seems well aware that that probably isn't a good enough answer for the weyrling-- even if she lets it hang there, long and meaningful and intent, to emphasise the point. She cares, and therefore, Yesia should care. "Dragonriders need to be prepared for any situation. There will be times, when you are a full rider, when you will be called into action. To react now. My weyrlings are prepared for that." Yesia's voice is drawn with something that almost sounds sarcastic. "Well, that's great. But I plan on flying pretty with Aeaeth. Ma'am. You're a weyrlingmaster, and there are weyrleaders and wingleaders, and then there are the dragonriders who do whatever they want, now that it's an Interval. We plan on being one of those." The consideration for Quinlys' reasoning? Acknowledged, with, "Like what times, exactly?" Quinlys can't help herself: she chokes out a laugh, eyes rolling dramatically. "Shells, Yesia. Life doesn't work like that. No one gets to do whatever they want; especially not dragonriders. Whichever wing you end up in, you'll have duties, and I can't think of any active duty wings that don't require physical fitness. You--" She pauses, as if to consider, then uses one hand for emphasis. "Might need to run after someone, when riding sweeps. Or help rebuild a structure. And even beyond that: spending six hours in the air? That requires physical fitness, too." Color rises in Yesia's cheeks, at that laugh, and her face contorts into something very unpleasant. "You -" she starts, incensed, and then bites her tongue hard to keep whatever she was going to say in her mouth, probably for the best. Her gaze flicks to her dragon again - the green happily distracted by a young blue - and then back to the weyrlingmaster. When she finds the control to speak again, it's to say, "I'm sorry, if it seems like the dragonriders these days don't do much," is what she manages, her best non-apology to date. Quinlys waits, silent, both seemingly unbothered by the reaction she has drawn, and apparently content to wait for as long as it takes. "If that's the impression you have," she says, simply, "you've a lot to learn. But that's what weyrlinghood is all about, isn't it? Learning." Yesia could be biting her tongue off, behind her lips, and nobody would know. She's still glaring, looking directly into Quinlys' eyes, as if trying to see which of them will look away first. If speaking first constitutes a loss, Yesia takes it with, "Whatever," defeat in itself, then, "That's still five. I'm done with laps. You said five." Quinlys can stand here all day; honestly, she doesn't seem to mind! When Yesia does finally speak, she shakes her head. "That was three. At best. Give me two more, Yesia, and then you can go." Yesia scoffs, rolling her eyes at the pair of weyrlings she started with, who are finishing their fourth - or fifth - lap. Their athletic honesty is her downfall, it seems, because she watches them for a moment, gives Quinlys a 'you've won this battle, but the war rages on' look, and heads off after them. Not running, it can be noted. Maybe a power walk? It's kind of brisk. Not running? Okay. Quinlys seems to be able to deal with that. This time. But given her expression? It's pretty sure she's got Yesia in her sights, now: be warned. |
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