Logs:Aught, Naught
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| RL Date: 28 May, 2016 |
| Who: Leova, Quint |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Leova and Quint have a parent/teacher conference. That means the twins. |
| Where: Harper Classroom, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 12, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Anvori/Mentions, Jo/Mentions, Suireh/Mentions, Varian/Mentions, Veylin/Mentions, Veylin2/Mentions, Via/Mentions |
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| It's late afternoon, and the excited calls and yells of the young class that has just been released from the harper classroom can still be heard. The aftermath of their departure is apparent, too, within the classroom; chairs and desks pushed slightly askew in their haste to seek out the best snows of the day. At the front, Quint is seated, writing copious notes with the ease and precision of a practiced harper. It's soft, almost inaudible, the humming noise that comes from his direction, easily missed. Her only perfume is redwort and disinfectant, this mother who enters steadily after a moment beyond the door. Moments. Leova walks down the aisle without adjusting those chairs, those desks, despite her glance that passes over them. Her boots scrape, briefly, when she stops a few paces off. "Journeyman," she says. And with Via at the Hall, resignation inflecting her low voice, "What is it this time?" Blue eyes flicker upwards at the scrape of boots, the harper watching without comment, though the way Quint's mouth twitches briefly as he notes the woman's look at the desks and chairs says plenty enough. So too, perhaps, does the fact that he doesn't try to conceal the expression. Setting his writing instruments down, he rises, dusting chalk from his hands before he gestures in invitation for Leova to sit. In response to her resignation, the harper's tone is sympathetic: "It's difficult being a twin, I imagine." It's a small chair. She might sit on its edge regardless. She does tuck her boots in at first, then squares them up for better balance: balance, as long as it's not pulled out from under her. "I hear that," Leova says. And yet, might as well be. Quint, at first, moves as if to lean against the desk, but when he sees Leova sitting, he strides to the desk next to hers, pulling out a similarly small sized chair and attempting to emulate her grace -- harder, perhaps, with his height. He exhales, as if deliberately telegraphing a difficult topic of conversation, before his eyes lift to meet Leova's. "We don't, generally, run two classes of the same age group. There's enough in the group that we could, at need." He waits a beat, not for dramatics but as one trained to use timing to make a point: "Would you consider having them in separate classes, should it come to that?" There's a slight tug to her mouth that recognizes his movements, that appreciates them. Leova's initial nod is slow, but it's followed by a quick, "Yes. Some days they might like it better than others. But it's not about their liking it, is it." "No," the harper agrees, readily. "It's about what's best for them, even should they personally disagree. Many find it difficult to divorce that sentiment from the cry of their child, however." Quint says it with a tilt of head, as if seeking a response of some sort. "You have a lovely way of speaking," the dragonhealer observes. "Can see why Via... thought well of you." Enough stalling. "Nigh on thirteen, she'll have her next Turnday at the Hall." Enough. Her jaw firms. The distance disappears. "We'll manage. Not as they won't see each other at night, at lunch, after all." There's a quick smile, not so much habitual as acknowledging the compliment. "I'm afraid I can't take all the credit for that -- part of it belongs to the Hall," Quint says, with a quiet chuckle. He doesn't seem to mind the diverge, and in fact encourages it: "A few more Turns might see her posted out, even. She's a quick study. Has she given thought to where she'd like to be posted?" is asked with an interested tip of his head. For the latter, he nods, absorbing in silence a moment -- maybe giving her a moment -- before he continues, in a voice of authority and certainty both: "Each will benefit. Varian from standing on his own, and Veylin for finding a role other than that of protector." "Thought, aye. We'd known it wouldn't be likely to be here, given the givens. She has..." Leova's posture is infinitesimally more relaxed. "Ideas." Options. Wonderings. Sketched-out and otherwise. There's a wry tip to the apprentice's mother's mouth at the journeyman's change in tone, even as she goes with it. "Believe Anvori will find it so also. Wish he could be here, but we had someone fall ill, he had to fill in." Her thumb moves fractionally, the scarred thumb, but otherwise her hands stay still. "Think you'd swing it so those boys are in her class, not his?" Those boys. "Ideas are good," Quint says, in a half-laughing, yet appreciative way. "Mm. Well, I hope she gets what she's hoping for, when the time comes. Speaking of which -- Turn's end is coming up. I'm looking forward to having another apprentice underfoot." It's subtle, the way looking forward is said with a fleetingly brief grimace, there-and-gone in an instant, followed by a twist of lips. "Someone to keep my own apprentice on her toes. Competition is a great motivator, I've found." He nods for her mention of Anvori, murmuring sympathetically, "There seems to be something going around -- though given the weather, not surprising." His brows go upwards at her latter request, and rather than answering immediately, he leans back in his chair -- albeit, carefully given they're made for smaller bodies than his. "Some, perhaps," he concedes, after a moment. "The thing about groups is -- they are powerful because they are a group. Break up the group, and you break up the power -- and things reform. Sometimes for the better." One might well get the impression it's for more than one or two simple reasons he aims to split the classes this coming Turn. The harper gives a reassuring smile, "Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on things." Her chuckle is low, more resonance than much sound: looking forward, indeed. But with the other issues at hand, Leova doesn't speak more of her eldest girl. She listens, quiet, amber eyes intent. Recogition, there for the groups, the power. "Miniature wings you have there," she says, wry. "Reckon you'll be posted long enough to teach the, ah. Influx?" "You're not the first to suggest parallels. I've been drawing some notes from a wingsecond, actually," Quint confesses, wryly. The harper doesn't try and pretend he doesn't understanding her latter meaning. "Given I've been here just on two Turns now, and most of my postings are just shy of three, I think that particular challenge will fall to other hands." If anything, the timbre of his voice might well suggest that Quint is almost disappointed by that, and yet: "A Journeyman's role is to journey, after all," is said with ease. Leova's brows tilt for that wingsecond, interested, but accepting rather than questioning. "Given thought to where you'd like to be posted?" borrows his own words in a way that's Tillek-inflected even now. Quint's lips twitch, briefly, in recognition, but he answers readily enough: "Oh, I've no particular mind. I've been posted all over -- northern and southern. Might be nice to go somewhere warm after the winters here, though the southern continent can be as unbearable in its heat as the northern places in their winters. Or say, Igen -- I'd heard a lot about the trading clans in and around there that intrigues me. But no -- I am the servant of my craft," with a jaunty half-bow, ruined by the fact that this overbalances him enough that he pushes to his feet with a grin that is half embarrassed, half rueful. "Igen, and its traders, has become more talked about here of recent Turns," Leova says, deadpan. She gains her own smile, then, and cue or no, takes his movement to gain her feet: "Anything else about my offspring? Turning their work in? At least they're not off-tune when they sing." When she gains her feet, too, Quint appears more at ease, though he navigates around the desk to straighten the chair behind it. "They excel at reading and writing -- at math too, if they put their minds to it," which, judging by the brief, wry expression, doesn't always happen. "Have they -- you? -- any idea what they intend for their future?" Leova hovers: it's her children's teachers' territory, not proper caverns nor sky. His words don't meet with surprise, including the math, though there she has her own rueful glance up and away. Back to the harper, her reply not immediate. "It varies. Impression generally figures into it, but this is a Weyr. And Vari, if he'd stop getting sick... Harper, there's sister, aunt, grandmother already, hm? For better or worse. Would like to see them looking to a Crafthall. Do you..." here's a mother's hesitation before one kind of expert, "see anything in them?" Quint continues to straighten and adjust the various chairs and desks, almost as a distraction than anything. "I feel like Veylin could become quite a great teacher, if she's a mind to follow in her sibling's footsteps to the hall. Varian..." he pauses, to find the right words for her to hear: "I suspect the next Turn or so will make his path clearer. He does seem ill a lot, though -- more prone to what others shrug off. Does he have relatives down south that might be willing to oversee his care for a time? Perhaps he'd benefit from the warmer weather?" He's watching her, but sidelong, like he's trying to allow her a moment's privacy while simultaneously sharply interested in the answer. After a chair or two, Leova joins in. Brisk. Efficient. Her dark auburn hair's close-cropped, the sun-rust cut off, but she doesn't move to conceal her expression in any case: just to move, to do. The quick nod for Vey has not simple agreement but confirmation, a tugged half-smile implying other words. For Varian... her hands cup around one chair's back, leaning on it more than moving, and the torn quality's reflected in her voice well before she looks his way. "No relations. I know people. But. That's a lot farther than a classroom." Quickly, "When did you know? What you wanted to be?" There might well be a gleam of satisfaction in Quint's gaze as Leova joins him in straightening the classroom, though it isn't betrayed in the twist of his fingers as he pushes another chair under its desk. "Well. Fostering's not such a bad idea, especially if he aims to be a dragonrider. Exposure to other Weyrs could be good for him," the teacher suggests, easily. It's the latter question that makes him pause to consider. "I didn't -- or at least, I didn't know I wanted to be a harper until the day before I apprenticed, pretty much. You could say it was a spur of the moment decision, but -- sometimes you just do something because you know it's right." He glances at Leova, as if to see how she feels about that particular sentiment. Not so much torn as... conflicted, perhaps. "How did it come about? If you don't mind my asking," might buy the greenrider time, or understanding. The harper hesitates, but it's so brief as to be mistaken for consideration of the best way to straighten the desk in front of him, which he does as he answers, "I saw a harper sit in judgement of a man and his actions. It -- I suppose it spurred me to action," Quint says, lightly. HIgh Reaches hasn't been immune to judgement in Leova's lifetime. In Vrianth's. "Speaks well," Leova says now, with quiet respect. She's silent for a little while then, retrieving a forgotten slate, searching out the stack and then placing it atop. It's blank, after all. "What do you think of crafters, as who Impress?" His, "Mm," is a well-practiced, if non-committal response. Quint smiles a little, as he says, "Why do I feel like this parent-teacher interview turned into a teacher-teacher interview?" It doesn't stop him answering, however: "I feel like, in most cases, it's a waste of talent. One cannot split ones attention between the passions in one's life, and a dragon -- from what I've observed and been told -- doesn't care to be second best. I'd be disappointed if any of my apprentices chose to stand," he answers, with an honest gravity. "That said, I can understand the lure." Her gaze swings over to him, surprised, and then Leova admits to a one-shouldered shrug: she won't dispute it, and that leads to a chuckle. "Aye." Dragons. "Understand that too, to be sure." After a moment, "Find it right, in our infirmary, to have dragonhealers who aren't riders as well as those who are. For when the emotion's contagious." "Seems wise," is Quint's only comment on that, allowing silence to follow, as if waiting for whatever the dragonhealer might want to ask next. Her nod acknowledges his words without looking over, and then she's comfortable in the silence that's only quiet scrapes of furniture moved and even softer footsteps. When the last are in place, "Will speak with my weyrmate," Leova says then. "Might not trouble the healers again, just yet, see how your different classes take on. Might be it'll be better, then," though her wry half-smile doesn't hold much truck in escaping illness along with the gang of boys. "Aught else, Harper?" "Might," Quint acknowledges that, too. "Worth a try, if nothing else. Talk to Anvori. Let me know where you land." He straightens, from straightening, a quirk of lips given. "Naught else, rider." He gives a nod for her, possibly in mute thanks of her assistance getting the classroom back in order. He moves for his desk, throwing back over his shoulder: "They're good kids. They'll be fine." It's the mother who says, "Hope so." And, "Our thanks, for your time." The door's quiet as it closes behind her. |
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