Logs:Assistant Weyrlingmastership 101
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| RL Date: 8 September, 2015 |
| Who: Quinlys, T'mic |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quinlys and T'mic have another in a series of meetings designed to prep T'mic for assistant weyrlingmastership. |
| Where: Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 6, Month 10, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, J'vain/Mentions, Lilah/Mentions, Mielline/Mentions, Telavi/Mentions |
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| This afternoon, Jorrth is already outside, flopped out in the bowl (there are signs of wallowing from when first his straps were removed), basking in the sun. Surely, he's watching. Those eyes are open, so he must be watching the comings and goings, making note of things, but it's more by natural inclination than a focused effort. Because the weather is nice. And there is space, today. T'mic has already made his way into the weyrling area, into Quinlys' office. He's not yet taken a chair; he's right next to that table, leaning against it, peering at the bookcase, but not reading. Well, not reading a book. His head is tilted, and he's probably checking those titles he can make out, and his lips are moving. And so he sort-of waits. With no weyrlings in evidence, the barracks are quiet; cavernous, even eerie if one is that way inclined. There's no sign that Quinlys has been in residence recently even within the office: no abandoned mugs, no cookies. T'mic's not yet been initiated into the 'the whiskey bottle is in the third drawer' tradition yet, and that drawer remains locked... but if it weren't, it'd be notable that the bottle is full and unopened. It's a good ten, fifteen minutes after T'mic arrives that the red-headed bluerider breezes in, leather-dressed, and with hair tangled enough to suggest she's been out and about. "Sorry," she breezes. "I was held up." Doing something that has turned her expression from the recently-common disgruntled to something more... satiated. Of course. "Hm?" says T'mic first, pushing off the table so he's standing properly. And then, "Oh." And then, "Oh." The blush is there, even around eyes that are looking a bit drawn, a bit tired. But he's not been a sad cloud mostly, just quieter, and there's no sad cloud to him now, either. "It's okay," comes finally as acknowledgement, acceptance even, of her apology. "Don't mind waiting." Facing her fully, he loops his thumbs in his belt, and nods a little. "So we've been looking them over. The hides and stuff. From Mielline. Like, sweep schedules and stuff." "And?" Quinlys breezes past the rest, that blush included, working her way around the table to the little hearth so that she can put on the kettle for boiling water. This done, she retreats to her usual chair, drawing one foot up onto the table, lazily, as the other hand unbuckles her jacket. "And, she's..." T'mic just grabs the nearest chair, which puts him more or less at a right angle to Quinlys. If the table were a clock and the angle were described by the arms. It's not so bad when you can just turn a chair and lean an elbow on the edge of the table the way he does now, of course. "Kind of weird? Like. I didn't notice it so much before, but we weren't paying so close attention to just one wing before. But she like... like, she'll mix up the riders so things don't get too much the same, but I think she's looking at... what they're supposed to be doing. Sure you want to mix the right riders with the right holders if there's going to be that sort of thing, but I think she does terrain and stuff, too. Like me and Jorrth would get stuff with all sorts of nooks and crannies and trees 'cause he sees so much. Even if it's longer, and he's just a blue. But then she'll give the bronze the shorter one. And some of us fly more remote than others, and more often... it's not balanced. In..." hands wave. "That way." Quinlys' reaction is a pleased one, her smile turning smug; clearly, this is at least partially the answer she was looking for. "Good," she says. "I was hoping you'd notice that. You're right-- Mielline's interested in looking at individual strengths, at what you all do, and how, and how she can make use of it. It's what makes her a good wingleader. A good Weyrleader, too, even if she's being careful, now." Caretaker is a concept that matters to Mielline, it seems. "How does that translate to being a weyrlingmaster, do you think? Do we train to focus on strengths and weaknesses like that?" T'mic can't help but grin for Quinlys' smile - smug or otherwise. He sits a little straighter, and nods. Even if the grin fades at the mention of Mielline as Weyrleader, because of course, that brings up thoughts of poor K'del, bed-bound, albeit with cookies more recently. "Well... not train so much. I mean, 'cause you want to work on what's not good, right? But then, when you pick your wingleaders and silvers and stuff, then you have to, don't you?" He wrinkles his nose. "To some degree," allows Quinlys. "Yes. We pick out people we think can do with extra training, to one day lead. And we pick people to be wingleaders or wingseconds. But... for the most part, everyone needs the same training, because what we do is lay the groundwork. See the difference?" "But you have to think about like... not-strengths then." Maybe he just can't bring himself to say 'weaknesses' or maybe the word just isn't presenting itself, with Jorrth all sun-tranced out. "Like with Edyis and the fire, that was extra work still, because of... well, I guess it maybe wasn't just what she was or wasn't good at, but it still... mattered." The wrinkle in his nose has not gone away, not even a little. Quinlys' nod is sharp. "Right," she agrees. "Exactly. So our job is to get everyone to a certain level; if they get beyond that, that's great, but what we must do is get a baseline competence across the board. So yes, we tailor our approach, but it's not a matter of specialisation; it's consistency." T'mic nods again, and sits back in his chair, chewing at the inside of his cheek for a while. "So have you ever had it, where one of the weyrlings doesn't get all the way there? Not just at the end, but what about in the middle? Our clutch didn't, really. Like we could all go along together, but you ever had it where it didn't happen?" Quinlys hesitates over her answer, teeth resting upon her lower lip as she considers. "To varying degrees," she says. "And when I was a weyrling, there was a green with a crooked wing, and that kept her behind. There was a brown, too, a few turns ago... sometimes it's hard. Sometimes people struggle a lot. In part, that's what senior weyrlinghood is for; you have extra time to work on things with people, where required." "Isn't that hard though? Like... with the weyrbrats, I mean, the kids had to share, we could tell them to be nice to each other, we could try make them feel better if they were being excluded. But it wasn't... it's not like you'd lose one of them between." Unsettling, and touched on before, over previous sessions like this one, the losing of someone. But it's not anything he's obsessed over so far, not unhealthily. T'mic leans a bit into the arm that he's got on the edge of the table. Quinlys, so proud of her record of not losing anyone (yet), makes a face a the reference, though her nod is sure. "Yes," she says. "Of course it is. It's... it's an enormous responsibility, T'mic. It's true that we're not training people to go out and fight thread, the way a previous generation would have, but it matters. That we get it right, I mean. Even without thread, there's a lot of things that can go wrong." "So you just figure it out, if it happens? How to work with that weyrling best? And try make it not hurtful? I mean, I know the feelings don't matter, except... if they feel bad, then maybe the dragon gets upset, and then that's not good either." A moment more for reflection, and then a strange little quirk of a smile, that usually signifies Jorrth somewhere. "We do know it's a big thing, you know. It's not like we're just thinking that now." Slowly, Quinlys gives another nod, and this time, the merest twitch of an approving smile. "I know you do. We wouldn't be doing this, if I didn't, but there's always time for a reminder. It-- you do it by feel. And if you're ever unsure, you talk to me, or to Telavi, or J'vain. To begin with, you can leave the hard things to us; you'll get more of a feel for it over time, and more confidence in dealing with things. It takes... time. I'm not always perfect; dealing with teenagers can be hard." T'mic nods obediently to the reminder. Nods, and takes it in, and looks terribly serious suddenly for it. "We will." Promised. "Yeah." A nod. And then, softer, "Yeah. Faranth. Two golds," a twitch in his face, and the arm not resting on the table goes to wrap around his middle, "so close. It's going to be kind of crazy, isn't it." Oh look: it's return of the scowl-face, the one Quinlys has been wearing a lot of late. "Yes," she says. "I mean, it's pretty likely Niahvth's clutch will be small, which is a blessing. But depending on how long they take to clutch, and how long the eggs incubate... there could be a couple of sevendays between them, and that's just enough to be a pain." One of her hands makes an unconscious fist. "Especially when neither of them was supposed to rise for ages." T'mic nods, not so much solemnly as seriously. "You don't think it means anything bad, does it? For Ros? Like, she'll be okay with the clutch and everything, you think?" He's sat forward again, and his other hand has found the edge of the table, gripping it lightly, but nonetheless gripping. "When Eliyaveith," and there's a thin line for Quinlys' mouth as she names the now-departed Fortian queen, "rose first, she was still a weyrling, and she didn't have a clutch. Roszadyth is older than that; she should be fine. I have to assume that Niahvth set her off... bitchy thing to do, really." "Girls are strange," is far too reflective and honest to have been anything more than an out-loud thought. T'mic looks up after it, and reddens a bit. The table is released, and he sits back, and turns toward the bookcase once again. "So what are we supposed to do next? Keep doing the sweep schedules thing, or do you have something else for us?" Quinlys can't help herself; her smile turns just a little more smug, a little more self-satisfied. Clearly, 'strange' is a good thing. Perhaps it just keeps people on their toes. She watches T'mic, and says, finally, "No, next I'd like you to start thinking about the lesson that was most difficult for you, when you were a weyrling. And how you would address it as a teacher-- or even a trainee teacher." There is very little time past before T'mic's face has gone redder than its norm. "Oh. Okay." Big fingers drum on the table. "Okay," is a bit more settled, once he's moved beyond the, uh, first blush. "When do you want us to come by again? Don't know if we're going to need a whole seven for this... Maybe. But I don't think so." No sympathy for the blushy; Quinlys' gaze remains steady. "How about," she suggests, "you get Jorrth to check in with Olveraeth once you think you're ready. And we'll arrange something then. I'd rather you take your time and really think it through... it's not a race. If it takes two days, fine. If it takes ten, also fine." A reminder that makes T'mic take a deep breath, and close his eyes for a moment while sighing it out. "Right," is said afterwards, when he comes back to the world. "I really want us to be ready for this, Quinlys." It's earnest and almost innocent, but strong, too. He even follows it up with a little nod. It softens Quinlys' smile. "I know," she says. "And we'll do everything we can to make sure you are. This first clutch... clutches... you'll be still half in training, and that's fine. You'll learn as you go, from all of us. There's still time; still months before the barracks are full again." "Yeah," agrees T'mic. "Still." Another deep breath, and then that smile that comes so easily. "So anything else you wanted to talk about, now?" The briefest of pauses. "One other thing I want you to think about," Quinlys says. "And that is... how it might feel if people you Stood with end up under your care. How you'd deal with that. I don't need you to tell me, mind; this is just for you. Otherwise, we're done for today." The klah pot hasn't even finished boiling. T'mic nods to that, an opened mouth closing once he grasps that this is for later. And maybe also only for him. "I will," he says, then. And he will. "Thanks. For all these things." A vague gesture to the room, as the younger rider stands. Then, the grin, and, "We'll talk to you when we're ready," to herald his departure. "Good," says Quinlys... right as the kettle begins to boil. Klah for one, then! |
Comments
Squishy (16:24, 13 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
Hehe! T'mic and Jorrth, Assistants extrodinaire.
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