Logs:Aches and Pains
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| RL Date: 5 April, 2013 |
| Who: Leova, Meara |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After tending to (and scolding) a weyrling, Leova and Meara catch up (and reminisce). |
| Where: Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 8, Month 6, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: I'daur/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
| "Yes, you did right to come right off," Leova's assuring the weyrling for the nth time, the tiny rip in his brown's wingsail secured with a grand total of three whole stitches. "What did I say what would happen if you'd left it?" She mouths it right in time with him: 'Rip more.' Her eyes raise to Meara's over the brown's shoulder, something by this point they wouldn't be able to do if he weren't crouched, and hold. Her eyes don't roll. They both have had practice. Back to the taller weyrling, "And what else do you have to do, which will be especially tough since he can't go /between/?" ...not to hint or anything. Vrianth's been nowhere in visible existence, only an zap of an acknowledgment that the pair would be coming in, and instructions for the brown to hold still that bled sparks every time he dared to move. Isath has not physically accompanied the brown, his rider, and her own, but she's here: the elderly green has power of her own over these young ones, and her thoughts lurk nearby, shrouded in midnight, just in case. Still, this is Vrianth's show, not hers. There's amusement in Meara's expression, barely concealed - and is that a tiny, fractional shake of her head, as their gaze meets? "And," she says, breaking in to the conversation for the first time in a while, as she adjusts her casual lean on the walking stick she's been using of late, "Have we learned our lesson from this, young man?" Poor weyrling. While his recently-freed brown enjoys the relaxation lent by numbweed, curiously turning his head this way and that, the weyrling's still on the spot. He stands straight, tries to stand really straight. "Keep it clean," he says unhappily, and glances at his weyrlingmaster out of the corner of his eye. This time it's verging towards sulky. "Yes... but I told you, it would have been fine if that wing hadn't spooked them. And when he's bigger, he can just roar at them and they'll get out of his way. And since he'll be bigger, his wings will be up higher," and Leova takes a sharp step forward only then, after another look at Meara, she doesn't add words to her interjection. Meara's still his boss. "I'd like you to think about that statement," says Meara, whose tone brooks no argument. "And come and see me after dinner, this evening, and explain why you might have misspoken on that front. Haven't we talked about this before? Or shall we return you both to dead meat - no more hunting? Now: thank Leova for her efforts, and take yourselves back to the barracks." Beat. She glances at Leova. "Unless there's anything else you would like to tell them?" From anxiety to bravado to a slow wilting, the weyrling speedily continues the gamut until, at last, he ducks his chin in acknowledgment. At least he has enough skill, or enough separation, to not pass it along to his dragon... or maybe Vrianth's sufficiently distracted him in lieu of earlier's forcible restraints. Leova waits until the young man's followed Meara's glance back to her, at which point she says tersely, "Waiting your turn's not just for the human lunch line. Don't care if the other dragons are smaller: you deal." He opens his mouth, closes it. Leova shakes her head briefly to the weyrlingmaster, she's done with him, and turns away to wash her hands. As for Vrianth? She's ready to light a fire under his beast. Meara's steely gaze is on the young man, as Leova speaks, supporting the other greenrider's words without offering any relief. The gesture with her hand, the one not presently holding on tight to that stick, is clearly one of dismissal: go, be gone, shoo. Only: "Or do you mean to imply that, as a brown, your dragon is better than a... 'mere' green, perhaps? Because he's larger? I wouldn't like to misinterpret you, of course." Those words are so airy, so light: she lets them hang for a moment, then turns her gaze away - to his brown, first, and then to follow Leova's turned back. No-o. The weyrling would not. Left behind as his brown scampers off, he reiterates that at length, enough times and in enough ways that there gets to be a twitch to Leova's shoulders that doesn't just have to do with drying her hands. When he's finally done and gone, and the cavern is otherwise finally silent, the dragonhealer walks back to join the weyrlingmaster. "Now, if he'll just remember that, 'stead of forgetting it when he goes to sleep..." She glances after him. "Think he's just impulsive? Didn't seem like he was kissing up just to escape." It's only after the young weyrling is gone that Meara releases the sigh she's been holding in, turning a long-suffering glance on towards Leova. "Impulsive, yes," she confirms, stretching out her aching shoulders, and using her stick to move her legs into a slightly different position: more comfortable, somehow. "I don't think he thinks through what he's saying, not even a little bit. Not someone for the diplomatic wings, shall we say. But-- we'll either knock some sense in to him, or he'll make himself half a weyr full of enemies, eh? And so it goes." It's using her stick to move that way that has Leova herself moving off, only far enough and long enough to haul back a pair of stools with the ease of someone who does this all the time. Nothing special. Not like she noticed. And she's had her ear cocked to Meara the whole time. "Only half a Weyr? Well. He'll be ahead of the game compared to some." Straddling her own stool, hooking the heels of her boots on its rungs, she gives the other woman a smile that lifts one corner of her mouth higher than the other. "Half a Turn until Isath's fifty, hm?" Not that Meara misses anything, of course - her smile is a grateful one, though she makes no remark on it, just pulls herself up onto the stool, and leans the stick up against her arthritic knee. "I don't like to say he's the worst I've ever seen," laughs the older greenrider, head shaking. "Though he could get there. We'll see. I'm just hoping to avoid it." She lets out a low breath, smiling. "Half a turn. Feels like just yesterday-- and also, a lifetime ago. Isn't that what we always say? She's enjoying the sun, the warmth. I think we both are." The wet, wet spring was hard on both of them. "Don't worry, I won't give him tips," Leova teases the other woman. Her eyes linger on Meara, the pert asymmetrical hair, the smile, and yes, the increasing paperiness of her dusky cheeks. "It's glorious to have summer. My trees have set fruit, I'll save you some again this Turn.... We're lucky, I think, that most times we get creaky before they do." She takes a deep breath, straightening her back with a hint of an empathetic stretch before resettling. Meara is not too old to stick her tongue out at Leova, or to look gloriously unrepentant in doing so. "I always look forward to your fruit," she says, after that tongue is been put away again, her wrinkled hands set down to rest upon her leather-covered thighs. "We are, aren't we? But my Isath is feeling it, more and more. There's less we can do. No doubt I could go South, somewhere, and it would be easier, but... High Reaches is home, isn't it? More than Telgar was. What's the point?" With such an example, how can Leova do other than grin? "Not unless you start ingesting gallons of fish oil," she agrees, "and then you would slosh." In addition to the other problems. "Seems like it's good to know a place. Its crags, its crannies. Friends. The way things work. From all people say, every place has its own problems," or maybe they just don't want foreigners moving in and making them share their perfection. She hesitates. "Heard much from your people out Telgar way, recent-like?" "There's other things I'd rather slosh with. Fish oil is nasty." Meara stretches, as best she can, grinning as she does so. "There's that. If Telgar were the right kind of climate, perhaps, but even then... it's been too many Turns. Not that there are many folk here who remember my early days, either." The ones before she went to Telgar - the ones that really were a lifetime ago. "Less and less, these days. Clutchmates, on occasion, though half of them... it's a strange feeling, Leova, seeing the numbers dwindle. I'm not even that old! But I Impressed young, of course." To that, Leova slaps her right side, where a flask would sit if she were wearing a flight jacket instead of just the old shirt with her even older trous. But that humor slips away: "Young, and you had Fall. And Fall doesn't take them all out clean, neither." She's not looking at Meara, now, there's just that tightness to her mouth before she shrugs, one-shouldered, and glances back: what can you do. Meara's chin lifts, just slightly-- her nod is careful, but there's a meaningful twist to her mouth that suggests her thoughts have followed Leova's to someplace in particular. "They don't grasp it, today. Even your class-- at least you had it for a little while, before. Fifty turns, Leova. The real Pass, and then the one that followed. Left scars on all of us, visible or no." She stops, closing her eyes for a moment, and then opens them again. "There's weyrlings out there who've never lived through it, even. Kids. Fifteen turns old. Plenty with no recollections at all." "And it affects... how they think, what they do. What they don't do." Leova runs a hand, the one with its fine tracery of scars, through her summer-short hair that's so much less stylish than Meara's. "Half the time when I was putting the trees in, I was thinking back to my ma, how she didn't want greenery too close to the cothold. But I kept telling myself, 'least the rest's stone, it couldn't go far. Even if." Her half-smile is rueful. "Getting about time for giving out those silver threads? If you're still doing it. Can't help but still keep tabs, a little." Quietly: "Even if." Meara, weyrbred Meara, smiles a rueful, nearly sad, little smile. "They have it so easy. But how can you properly explain that? They can never understand. None of our leaders can." Her hand plays with the handle of her stick, the curved, smoothed wood run beneath her fingers. "Oh, we're still doing it. We've half of them trying to impress us, a few trying to imply that they're too good for such things, and others... Well. And Quinlys." Her shrug speaks volumes. "I still miss you in there. Even if I understand. It's likely to be my last class, too." "No." The younger, not so young greenrider watches her elder's fingers on the stick, how it's not only craft-smoothed but hand-smoothed. "Reckon most don't even try. Half-wish we could take them back in time to see. Safely." Her half-laugh recognizes how that might ruin the point. But finally she can't evade it any longer, and Leova looks at Meara, and she says, "I'll always come to help you out. In this capacity. I'm sorry. Just... she's still not one I'd care to work under, even now. Since I can choose. Not like it'll be the death of them, if I don't." "I know." It's even quieter than that earlier statement - that 'Even if' - and now, far more than before, Meara looks tired. "She's... not a woman I would have wanted to work beneath, either. She has potential, but she's so... young, and so..." 'Young' is not the word she's looking for, and her hand tightens around that stick as if in irritation, frustration. "She's not the leader I'd imagined she'd be, once upon a time. Even given... how everything happened, perhaps it's for the best that she got her blue." And not, presumably, the gold that had once been mooted. "I could suggest some words," Leova murmurs, but under her breath, so as to avoid interrupting Meara's train of thought. "Her Impression, it's not something I've bothered taking time to doubt, I'll admit. But if she could at least make as though she respects the people who work under and around her, respects what they know and what maybe she might not... that would be a help." She doesn't exactly smile, but she does say after a moment, "Lucky for her she isn't working with any truly hard cases, to test her. Could make for an interesting experiment. Only if she broke, if you don't have another," might as well postpone the breaking. Something about Meara's expression suggests that she's got a few words of her own, but is being... polite about her colleague. Ish. "That would help," she agrees, with a sigh. "I'm sure she'll learn her lesson, eventually, and it will all work out, but until then... If there had been someone else, well." Things would have been different. But her nose wrinkles, instead, and then she shakes her head. "I'd rather not break her. Our goldriders might be less than pleased with that, and I would like to be able to retire. I'll just have to keep trying. Perhaps something will get through." More tired still. Leova, still not volunteering. Never, ever, through the Turns. "Could happen," she says of that last, at least, and tries not to sigh. With more, purposeful cheer, "And in the meantime... doing things for yourself, are you? Enough rest? Getting someone to work on your muscles? And how long's it been since Isath rose, anyhow?" She looks meaningfully at the empty cavern around them, then back at the older rider, brows raised: she's a dragonhealer, surely she gets to ask. Meara's smile is crooked. "Yes, Mother. Of course, Mother." She's teasing. "Madilla and her staff have me well under control, I promise." That cane gets brought up into her lap, now: all the more perfect a position to roll gnarled fingers over it. "She went up just after Turnover. Each time, I think it'll be the last, you know? She's never sure, but suddenly-- there's the urge again, and up she goes. Not so many more times, though, I suspect." "That's 'Auntie' to you," Leova teases right back. But, "Do you look forward to it? Being the last. Reckon a body might." She doesn't look at her hand, that had gotten the worst of it, though other marks show beneath her rolled-up cuffs. "Maybe. At least if she doesn't feel... clogged: hate that." It's the barest pause. "Vrianth's about due." "Her last one was?" It's a pregnant pause, followed quickly by a nod. Meara remembers. Knows. It's not really a question - just a confirmation. "We're past the clogged stage, I think. It's a release, when it happens, but it's - not like we knew there was a build up, either. I don't think either of us will miss it, in the end. We've had our day. It will be nice, knowing there's no more... it's always a stress, even when it's not. Exhilarating, and yet... Besides," she grins, abruptly smug. "I think it terrifies the younger ones, finding themselves with me, wrinkles and all." Surely Leova must have heard similar and dissimilar stories before, but this is Meara's, and after her initial nod, she listens as though to fit them into place with all the others. And then her answering grin is as sudden as the other greenrider's. "May it always be so, as long as it lasts." After several seconds she adds, "You know. If you want a greenrider for the flights lecture and don't want to bother yourself. Let me know. Or I'll take questions that they don't want to ask official-like, whichever. Know when the riders of the males give it, mostly they do try to give a fair shot to us," yet the one-shouldered shrug says: but. "Or whatever else that's more one-offs, not sitting around and hand-holding. And it's a ways down the road too, but you'll be recruiting broadly for the 'search and rescue' simulation again? Most folks like that." Meara's laugh is low and melodious. "As long as it lasts," she agrees. "I'll keep that in mind - thank you, Leova. There are always those who would rather not deal with a weyrlingmaster." And Quinlys... well, that's another story, even ignoring the colour of dragon. "We will. That one's fun. I almost regret that we don't really have the ability to do it anymore... but I wouldn't risk my Isath's comfort." Or her own. She shifts, now, sliding down off of the stool with a reluctant sigh. "I suppose I ought to be getting back to them." "And rightly so." Leova stands as the other greenrider does, adding far more diffidently, "Want you to know... because we never know what's coming as much as we'd like," and for all that Meara's the elder one, Leova's not as invulnerable as Vrianth likes to think they are. "Got a lot of respect for you, Meara. Even when you did things different than him, knew it was for a reason. And like to think you know that, but wanted to say it even so." Meara hesitates, turning to meet the other greenrider's eyes, their heads in line with each other. She smiles, the corners of her mouth twisting upwards. "I know," she says. "Thank you. He was-- a difficult act to follow. And I hope you know that I have an awful lot of time for you, too. Even if you aren't still my Assistant." If not Quinlys'. It's a joke, bright eyes proving the point. Leova's own smile takes longer to emerge, but then it's pleased past that old reminiscence, gratified even. "Yes. Now you better get out of here before I," and here she mimes grabbing the other greenrider's stick and whacking her with it. "Clear skies, Meara. Enjoy the sun while we've got it." "Oh no you don't!" Meara can't move fast, not when she's using that stick to to move, but she mimes it, at least. "Clear skies, Leova. I hope her flight goes well." And then she's off. |
Comments
Comments on "Logs:Aches and Pains"Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Sat, 06 Apr 2013 22:02:44 GMT.
This was fantastic. Old characters who've known each other for a long time always makes for a great read. It's nice to see that Meara isn't oblivious to Quinlys'... quirks. It's always great to see Leova making jokes. ^^ Loved it.
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