Logs:Compulsion
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| RL Date: 25 October, 2011 |
| Who: Iolene, Quinlys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Ysavaeth gets Olveraeth's assistance with an experiment. Iolene looks after Quinlys. |
| Where: Bowl, High Reaches Weyr / Living Caverns, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 20, Month 1, Turn 27 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Rilka/Mentions |
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| It's just before dinner when Ysavaeth's simple summons extend to Olveraeth. « Come. » With just the faintest hint that Quinlys must come to the bowl as well. While Rhazekth's rider might be wingleader, the months since the weyrlings took to the skies, first on their own and then with their riders, has found the young Reachian queen flexing more than those wing muscles. She expects Olveraeth to show up. There will be no further words spared, no explanation. Down in the bowl, Iolene waits, her ungloved hands running rampant through her the tangled locks of her blonde hair as she stands by the pale, overly regal queen she's bonded to. « As you will, » says Olveraeth, polite but not obsequious. He's long forgotten his own unremarkable tenure as wingleader, and has no qualms in recognising the authority of others - by birth or by appointment. It's not so long since class was dismissed, and Quinlys is continuing to suffer from the cold whose symptoms have been so evidence this past seven, but still: it doesn't take much time for the blue and his rider to become visible in the gloaming sky, sweeping downwards until they circle to a landing. Quinlys' nose is red, and she's bundled up against the cold, but her smile is still tentatively visible as she swings down to land on the hard, cold ground. "Iolene?" Iolene's brow is knit, troubled, while Ysavaeth looks on beautifically. « Thank you. » At least she's gracious enough to allow for the /possibility/ that Olveraeth didn't have to come. Right. "Hi," says the younger girl, a little awkward from her uncertain expression to the way her hand lifts and those fingers move in a wiggle. "Are you doing ok? Cold? Maybe we should do this another time." A look casts upward at the dragon who has long since outpaced Iolene's height. The rider's, "I mean, it's not all that important," is rebuffed by a tiny snort that releases steam into the winter air. Quinlys's nose drips, unattractively. Hastily, the bluerider fumbles in her pocket for a hankie, which she uses to wipe at the offending moisture before it freezes on her face or something. "No, no," she says, reassuringly, waving her free hand around expansively. "I'm here, now. What is it, Iolene?" Besides, she's clearly noted Ysavaeth's reaction, and if it shifts her expression, it's only a subtle thing, really. « She ought to be keeping warm, you know, » says the blue, his peculiar voice tinged with concern for his rider. « Inside. /Is/ it so very important, Ysavaeth? Help me shield her from the wind. » « They can go, » Ysavaeth says, dismissing both her rider and his, and forgetting that Quinlys can't hear her dragon, Iolene extends a hand, "Let's go get some tea and you can tell me about your weyr." But the blue, Ysavaeth clearly would like him to remain as she turns a fixed rainbowy gaze upon him. « I wanted to see if there was any way you would stop listening to a queen. » Her for now, but the sense of a queen seems to imply others. « If you could /think/ hard enough and refuse. I'm curious. The weyrlingmasters teach that all dragons obey golds, and I thought you would be more curious of all the rest. » If Olveraeth has taken offense at such a casual dismissal of his so-much beloved rider, it's overwhelmed by keen, scientific interest in Ysavaeth's proposal. His head rises, his eyes whirling more rapidly as he considers the queen. « I am willing to try, » he concedes, but not, it seems, before he can turn his attention back to his Quinlys, who, after a moment's pause, accepts Iolene's hand. "You'll have to come up and see sometime, » she says, in the muffled tone of one whose nose is still more or less stuffed up. "It's really cool." She casts one final glance back at her blue, but doesn't seem concerned. The invitation draws a smile to Iolene's cold-trembling lips. "I would love to. Mine is... big," is all Iolene can say of her weyr, but then recalls with rounding eyes, "It has its own bath. I share it right now. The weyr I mean, and I guess the bath, but Rilka and I don't bathe together," and as the last is added quickly, another note creeps into her voice, one that implies that the current situation of 'right now' might not extend for too much longer. The two enter the living caverns and Iolene is quick to move to grab a tea pot from the buffet and two cups. « Ok. Think very very hard, ok? » There's a sudden landscape of inkiest black as Ysavaeth puts 'think very hard' together with slamming her triple lids shut, blanking out her mind. Then, out of the darkness, floats a nonverbal request that just hints on command, that sends smoky ripples after ripples of: sit. "A /bath/," says Quinlys, dreamily. "There's none in mine, though really, it's not as though I'm all that modest, not after sharing baths my entire life, right?" She seems in good spirits as she accompanies the other weyrling inside, though there's definite curiousity as she adds, "Why-- right now? I think it's sweet, that you're letting her live with you like that." Olveraeth draws back from Ysavaeth, mentally, letting his mental skyscape take over the bulk of his thoughts: billions upon billions of stars, distant galaxies, entrancing thoughts, and-- and-- he sits. « I didn't mean to do that. Let me try again. » Ysavaeth's own, « Again, » chimes in conjunction with his desire to have another go. She's pretty complacent with this situation as her mind blanks again into that inky starless sky that contrasts with the stars scattered throughout his. She'll allow him a longer moment to gather himself up and gives a forewarning of her intentions with a twinkle here, a twinkle there as slowly his stars are stolen and placed one by one into her sky. « Stop me. » This time, it's verbalized. Inside the living cavern, Iolene hooks herself a chair and curls into it, her feet finding the edge of her chair to balance against and tucks her arms about her legs, leaving the tea on to the table for cold-ridden Quinlys to partake of. "Right now... because- because, I can't decide and I think she might just run away cause Ysavaeth is refusing to keep away until Rilka's comfortable." Dragon or friend: who can a rider really side with? There's a jagged edge of protest as Ysavaeth begins taking away his stars: /his/ stars, /his/ skyscape. Olveraeth grinds his feet into the old snow on the ground, squatting awkwardly as he leans forward - bracing himself. « /Stop/, » he says, sharply, pushing back with all of his might. « /No/. » It's not as easy as it looks. If she's aware of the mental gymnastics her lifemate is at work on, Quinlys shows no sign of it to Iolene: she huddles into her chair, shivering uncontrollably, as both hands are wrapped around a mug of the tea. "Oh no, » she says, sympathetically. "I think-- that's awful. It doesn't seem as though Rilka will ever settle, does it? She's not-- that is-- I don't know. She doesn't really fit here." Iolene's self-centeredness in regards to her problem between her dragon and a friend in need is paused for a long moment, the blonde girl turning suddenly quiet as she watches Quinlys shiver. "Hey," she starts, but then puts actions over words by dropping her legs and leaning forward to cradle Quinlys with arms wrapped immediately about the girl. Murmured, "Are you ok? Do you need to see a healer?" As Ysavaeth tries to put Olveraeth through the golden wringer, it almost appears his determination is working as the young queen relents? The stars quiver, but then immediately resume their disappearances, until the blue is ultimately left with nothing. There's a tremor of smoky disappointment instead that settles into that once vividly sparkling space in the blue's mind. « Oh, » is a breathed out vocalization of that sentiment. "Just--" Quinlys has to pause to shudder, to take a deep breath, and lean into Iolene's (relative) warmth. "Cold. It's okay. I'll warm up, soon." Clearly, Quinlys shouldn't be spending long amounts of time outside at drills; clearly, she has been. No sick days for /this/ weyrling. Olveraeth shudders physically against the ground, as though he's been put through the wringer, as the last of those stars disappears and he's left with nothing. The darkness is oppressive; it's not that he sulks, but there's disappointment and an undercurrent of fear, too, in the blue's mind. « You took them all, and I couldn't stop them, » he says. « Perhaps I'm not strong enough. » It's hard for a dragon as young as Ysavaeth, despite all her delusions of grandeur (aka aspirations toward adulthood), to mask her absolute disappointment. But she's also a dutiful sister, and somehow Imprssed to a girl like Iolene, and from that smoke-filled disappointment rises a reassurance, « Maybe we just need to practice. Maybe it's just cause we're siblings. We know each other too well. Maybe it would work better with Rielsath or Iovniath. » The names of the other queens is tossed out with a carelessness that belies the undercurrent of feeling that only sets those star sparkling a little harder in their return to Olveraeth's mind. "Quin?" Iolene doesn't let go, thin arms not providing as much warmth as a blanket might but there's genuine sentiment behind it. "Maybe you should just spend the night with me and Rilka tonight. You'd be closer to the infirmary, just in case, and won't have to go back outside." « I'm sorry, » says Olveraeth, with earnest disappointment of his own, the apology writ large across his still-being-re-lit-sky. « I really did try, Ysavaeth. Should I try and resist Iovniath? Or Rielsath? I don't know that they've ever tried to make me do anything. Why is it so important? » The little blue (admittedly, not quite so little anymore) scrambles back up onto both legs, shifting in a so very earnest way; he aims to please, this philosopher. It takes Quinlys a few moments to properly regain enough equilibrium to be able to speak; she's clearly not well. "No--" She breaks off. Her smile is wry. "You're not worried I'll infect you both?" Clearly. Oh so clearly in those sudden clear blue eyes, this thought never occurred to Iolene and the arms about Quinlys tense in that about-to-dart-away moment, then relax. "Naw. It's fine. I'm used to cold weather like this." Even after a year of more comfortable living. "Though it never got quite /this/ cold, but still... I'm good and if you get us sick, we can all just have a sick party in my weyr and stay warm in the bath and the healers can come to us more easily." There are silver linings on every on eof Iolene's clouds -- most of the time. "Here." The arms about Quinlys depart, finally, if only to pour out some tea for the other girl. « Mmmm. Well, » not that she herself has much contact with either of the other two queens, « It's just something I was wondering. If it's really true or if it's something we just do cause people tell us about it. » Ysavaeth's curiosity then hones in on Olveraeth. « I do have to ask you to do something for me though, if you want to. » And though that last bit is added, it's not much of an 'if you want to' situation as much as a 'please do this, really' minus the please. During that moment, Quinlys looks about to back away herself, the tension obvious in her stance; she seems surprised and relieved when, in the end, it doesn't happen. Accepting the tea, she manages a wan smile for the younger girl. "Thanks," she says. "I-- I'd appreciate it. It's just awful outside." And she hasn't completely stopped shivering, though she's definitely warming up slowly. Olveraeth is obviously fascinated by this connundrum, and it's obvious, about the edges of his mind, that he really does intend to do some more experimentation-- just to see. But, « Of course, Ysavaeth. » If he's even noticed that there's not much of a choice, here, it doesn't show in his tone. « What is it? » « You're not allowed to fly drills for the rest of the week. » Ysavaeth's honeyed tone that allows no argument is composed and sweet to the last syllable, though not falsely saccharine. She's a queen, albeit a very young one, very /concerned/ with the well-being of her wingmates, or Weyr, her /pack/. "Quin," Io's low voice extends in conjunction with Ysavaeth's command of the bluerider's dragon, "Let's go back to my weyr now. I think we should get you into the bath and it'll help you warm up faster. And I'll have the kitchens bring you some more tea and rice porridge with ginger or something." « But-- » begins Olveraeth, but it's not a real protest: not really. If anything, it only emphasises the quiet concern already present, lingering around the edges of his mental presence. « No drills, » he agrees, then. « I'll look after her. » Quinlys, too, looks like she's going to protest, but she's not completely stupid, and after a moment's pause, she gives a short, sharp nod. "I-- okay. I'm sorry, Io." Her voice sounds funny, and her cheeks are all flushed. "This is stupid." « You, » Ysavaeth allows, most magnanimously, « May share my ledge with me tonight. We'll both look after her. » Let the gossips talk. "It's not. You're sick. And you should be taken care of and my grams taught me how to take care of people like this." Not quite like a healer, but if Iolene's visceral reaction to healers and the infirmary is any thing, she likely believes she's better than a healer. "C'mon. Up we go," using her lean, weyrling-honed strength the teenager tries to shoulder herself beneath Quinlys' arm to get the bluerider up and propped against her. The weyr is going to have a /field/ day. Not one, but /two/ women sleeping in Iolene's weyr with her? Quinlys is in no state to comment on that, though, or even argue, really. She gives a mute little nod, and lets Iolene help her up, using the goldrider to keep herself vertical. "Shells, I'm sorry," she murmurs, looking rueful and awkward. But tired and sick, too. Olveraeth sounds pleased and flattered as he tells the queen, « My thanks. We appreciate it. » Both of them. If Ysavaeth is smug? Well that's kept pretty tightly under wraps. But those stars in Olveraeth's head might sparkle just a touch brighter than they normally might when left alone, as if she's polishing them one by one as she leads the way outdoors towards her ledge for the blue to follow. And later? Later, Iolene makes as good on her word at taking care of Quinlys. Plus, there's that /bath/. BATH! The stars twinkle and gleam, all night.
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