Logs:Clay Dragons
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| RL Date: 5 November, 2015 |
| Who: Quinlys, T'gar |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: T'gar models Asaroth; he and Quinlys talk dragons and jobs. |
| Where: Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 12, Month 3, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ellerey/Mentions, Jocelyn/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Lys/Mentions |
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| It's only been over a month. T'gar is here at one of the tables with Asaroth watching, a bunch of misshapen clay right in front of him with his hands currently busy in molding it up. He eyes the bronze occasionally as he does so while there's a few other weyrlings occupying other tables, engaged in the same sort of assignment. His, at the moment though, looks nothing like a dragon. "I'm pretty sure Asaroth has wings," is Quinlys' remark from just behind T'gar's shoulder. She's leaning in, glancing over to get a better look, but at least her tone is cheerful and not barbed or too sarcastic. "And a tail, too. Last time I checked." Asaroth must have seen the Weyrlingmaster first, for his attention lingers on her more than what T'gar is doing with the clay. As for T'gar himself, "A master does not rush his work," he tells her without looking behind yet, the self-satisfied smile could be heard in his voice as he smoothes down what looks to be the bronze's torso. "Patience, Weyrlingmaster." Now he does look at her, appearing amused. "Unless you wanted to help? Quality time and all." "As I recall," and now Quinlys' tone is rather more dry, "the assignment was for each weyrling to replicate their own dragon. As I'm not a weyrling, and Asaroth's not my dragon..." She lets that hang; no more needs to be said, right? Those blue eyes turn towards Asaroth, assessing him in a neutral kind of way (neutral, that is, except for the side of ever-present smug). Straightening up as he turns his sculpture this way and that (if you can call it that), Rat remarks back, "We could always take dinner together instead, but I'm sure you would say that's against the rules, too." Callused fingers move to start modeling out Asaroth's head with a look towards the silent bronze before he seeks a look towards Quinlys. With Asaroth, the silence seems to be a heavy one as he stares down Quinlys as he sits upright and stiffly. Idly given now, "Done torturing the others by chopping their hair off?" He runs a hand through his own hair, it already having been naturally short since the Hatching. Quinlys is undaunted by Asaroth; by T'gar, too, especially since she's inclined to ignore that first remark altogether. "Not yet," she says, instead, quite cheerfully. "There are a few who keep slipping my grasp, but we'll have them all done soon. Is that supposed to be his head?" It doesn't really matter how good (or bad) a representation that 'head' is; Quinlys' tone is full of judgement. "Something tells me you enjoy the hunt far too much," Rat comments while he continues to shape out the bronze's head. It's looking a bit lopsided and bigger than the rest of the body. "I'm curious, though. Why the haircut? If there's no Thread in the sky in any of our lifetimes, is there another reason for it?" Beat. "This model will be far better than anything you've ever seen when it's done," he states with a look to Quinlys for her question. "You'll see. In all the turns you've been Weyrlingmaster. How long have you been Weyrlingmaster?" "Why not the haircut? It's easier to keep clean and out of the way, won't get caught on anything, won't freeze in winter." There's plainly more to it than that, but the bluerider bypasses continuation on that topic in order to add, "I'll believe it when I see it. How long do you think I've been Weyrlingmaster? Guess." Her mouth curves into something even more smug; she's pleased by this game, somehow. "That's assuming some riders keep their hair cut short passed weyrlinghood," Rat states, something in the Weyrlingmaster's answer amusing him. He eyes his clay model and pops the large head right off before rolling it back into a non-shaped ball. In light of the last, though, he and Asaroth seems to exchange glances before he studies Quinlys - taking the whole of her in with open interest. Well, oogling, rather. "Hmmm," he takes his time in answering her, trying to shape the smile from his mouth into something serious. Blue eyes flick to her own as his head tilts a bit before he answers, "This must be a trick question. Five turns. No more than seven? No," he corrects himself, shaking his head. "Ten's too long. Less than that. You seem young for the knot." "Past weyrlinghood," Quinlys points out, "they're not my problem." One eyebrow raises in answer to the oogling, not to mention the removal of clay-Asaroth's head, but these things are evidently not worth comment. One hand goes to her hip, lingering there as she studies Rat, and his answer. "Less than ten. I'm glad of that, at least, though you're right: I was young for the knot. Am young for it." It wouldn't do to claim to be too old. "I became co-Weyrlingmaster in turn 31." It's bold, the challenging look T'gar returns to that eyebrow raise, but his answer touch on something else as the ball of clay it stuck right back on top of the dragon body and he begins again in shaping the head. Listening to the latter, "Eight turns," he whistles to that. "I was close. Why this particular knot, then? Your parents were it before you? You like to teach?" At least the head looks better this time around, but the weyrling is drawing up his nose with a sudden glare towards Asaroth. The challenge in his glance is met with a smirk, Quinlys otherwise seeming unbothered by it. The rest, however, makes her laugh. "My parents are wingriders, both of them. Not enough ambition between the two of them to fill a thimble. No-- Olly and I decided teaching was for us when we were newly paired, and that was that." She glances, side-long, between weyrling and bronze, and then: "See something wrong with your dragon, then?" "Weyrbred," T'gar observes, his challenging look matching her smirk with a a bit of one from him. "Ambitious, too. I like a bit of ambition in a woman. You must find it rewarding somehow. This," he gestures about them, indicating all that comes with her knot. "Me personally, I'm looking to be wingleader one day," he tells her as he works on Asaroth's headknobs. "Got enough ambition in me from my father." But then, Asaroth. There's hesitation this time, as if he's reluctant to answer her on the bronze, but he lets off the glare from him as he says, "No, it's....he doesn't really talk much, but he's amused by something we're saying. The smell...he seems to want to talk in weird smells." He eyes Quinlys then, as if waiting for her mockery. Weyrbred, confirms Quinlys' nod, though she rolls her eyes at the rest. "Wingleader, not Weyrleader?" There, at least, there's that curve of her smile, even if it lingers only seconds: she's silent, studying T'gar, if without censure. "Smells," she repeats. "Well, that's a new one-- new-ish, anyway. Most of them, it's images or words, but smells. You can't decipher the smells, yet? You should keep notes, see if you can correlate them." No mockery; truthfully, her interest seems genuine. "There's time to be Weyrleader," T'gar answers, his own smile lingering to something hard to read. "If Asaroth ends up catching a queen, I'll accept it humbly, but I do like to feel my way to running a wing first." Leaning back a bit, "I hear K'del's bronze is unshakeable, though, when it comes to catching. Another one that ranked young." Someone's been doing his homework, it seems. As for Asaroth, he nods with some reluctance as he answers her with, "He has his images, but for some reason, he seems to enjoy keeping me on my toes. I can figure some of his scents, but there's still some.....well, I know his amusement, at least," and he sends the bronze another look while he molds the clay. "I keep notes in my head. It never makes sense when I write it down. He also seems to think he's a master at clay, too. You both doubt my skills. I should be offended by this." "Pretty sure he holds the record," says Quinlys, of K'del. "Wise man. There's no need to rush it; if you make Weyrleader before you're twenty-five, where is there to go from there?" Quinlys, who must surely have made Weyrlingmaster before twenty-five, may well be speaking from experience. Her gaze, then, slides towards Asaroth, studying him with interest as she supposes, "Be offended if you like... though if he's a master at clay, I'll eat my good winter hat. How are you going, words aside?" "And all because his dragon is fast?" T'gar muses on the Weyrleader, sounding somewhat serious despite the teasing quality of his words. "That's what interests me. It's the only knot decided by his own dragon here. Reaching Weyrleader though, I'm sure there's plenty to do from there. Keeping the peace. Making changes. Building a strong Weyr." Asaroth shifts despite his 'posing' for the clay model, Quinlys's words earning a 'huff' sound from the weyrling. "You heard it," he sends to the bronze. To Quinlys, there's a shrug as he returns to his sculpting. "Adapting. It's what I'm good at. This Weyr. Asaroth. You. This isn't anything I'm used to, where I'm from." "Or because people want him to win," says Quinlys, though it's only a quiet comment, not intended to draw that part of the conversation out much further. Her hand slides back to her waist as she meanders around the table-- still listening, still engaging, but now standing opposite T'gar, rather than behind him. "Mmm," she confirms. "It's an adjustment for everyone. Some have an easier time than others, of course; Olly and I fit together immediately. A lot don't. He's not taken off any fingers, though, at least?" T'gar sends a curious look towards the Weyrlingmaster for her answer, it garnering enough of a thoughtful silence from him. He doesn't continue that topic at least, though it's clear that her answer is lingering at the back of his mind. He finishes shaping the head enough before he's on towards making Asaroth's tail, another small ball of clay picking up and shaped in his hands. "You seem well suited to him," he comments on her blue, watching her now in front of him as his hands work at the clay. "I see the same with some of the others here. Jocelyn and hers. Lys and hers. Meanwhile, there's Ellerey and me trying to get through a feeding without our hands getting nipped." Fingers lift in one hand for her to see, wiggling. There's some light scars, but otherwise in good condition as he adds, "Ellerey suggested gloves. I didn't think dragons actually bit anyone. You're saying this is normal?" "Every dragon is different," is Quinlys' answer, which is perhaps too breezy to be truly helpful. She does, after a moment, continue: "They don't intentionally hurt anyone. Sometimes they test limits, but... it'll go away. Not so much longer before they're able to hunt for themselves, too, which will help that." She pauses, lips pressed together, and then adds, "You're doing fine." Attaching the made tail to the clay body, "So he's not, you know.." and Rat does some unintelligible hand gestures, "defective. I mean, if he is , he is, but I just want to know. For reasons." Beat. "He's testing my limits," he takes that from her with a slight frown and a glance going towards the bronze. "Yeah. That would make sense. I think hunting is something he will do well in." He removes his fingers from the clay dragon missing wings, examining his work as her last draws one of his charming smiles and a, "You sound surprised." 'Defective' makes Quinlys twitch, very visibly; the rapid shake of her head is probably answer enough, but she reiterates, verbally: "No. No. He's-- yes. Testing your limits. Playing with you, maybe. With the world. You've already indicated that he communicates differently; this is part of it." It's with a sunny smile that she adds, then, "Surprised? No. I'd rather not spend my time beating you down, thank you very much." That's arguably not an actual answer. But it will have to serve: "No, he can't eat the clay. Oh for fu--" And she's off: there's an unhappy brownrider and a dragon in need of rescue. Catching that twitch with a slight frown, it looks like T'gar wants to question Quinlys but something holds him back. Rather, her reassurances get a nod from him and her answers on him earns more laughter from him. "I'd rather you don't, either," he says in return before one of the other weyrlings draw Quinlys away and leaves him and Asaroth to finish their clay model. |
Comments
Alida (16:44, 6 November 2015 (PST)) said...
Not 'defective' at all. >.> ;)
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