Logs:Confessions and Counsel
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| RL Date: 11 December, 2015 |
| Who: Lys, Quinlys, Evyth, Olveraeth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quinlys takes Wingleader Lys to look for a home of her own. Some necessary confessions are made and counsel is given. |
| Where: Weyr Hunting, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 8, Month 7, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Irianke/Mentions, Jocelyn/Mentions, Rh'mis/Mentions |
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| It's time. Wingleader Lys and her valiant, sweet counterpart are waiting in the bowl outside the barracks, but enough of a distance away from it that they're not of immediate interest to the weyrlings who might be practicing outside now that the day's duties are finished. Certainly some with glaring defects have been asked (told) by their thoughtful (bitch) wingleader to make improvements. To be fair, Lys has spent some time with each of them trying to help (even if sometimes it ends in tears - not hers). Compassion isn't her strong suit and by the way she paces by Evyth, hands on her hips, neither is waiting. Still, it's less impatience in her expression than it is a muted anxiety. That Quinlys acquiesced to Lys' request to be wingleader should in no way be taken as a sign of weakness; if anything, she may be making a point given the way she's stayed well out of Lys' reign of terror, and allowed her to make her own decisions. Following drills, Quinlys stepped inside to deal with the usual array of office calls, but now she returns to the outdoors, approaching Lys with an expression that turns from her usual smugness to something more dubious. "Something the matter, wingleader?" she wants to know, voice pitched to a lazy drawl. There's a fine line between tyranny for tyranny's sake or personal gain and when a person is just trying too hard. Lys is the latter. There's a moment where it seems like she's going to just push on with that but there's a small noise from the green that might look and seem like the terribly poor attempt like a subtle reminder-slash-encouragement than it is. The blonde exhales, shoulders slumping. "A number of things, ma'am. It feels like I'm doing it all wrong," for starters. "This-- can we talk about it where I'm not going to lose whatever little respect I might have by--" She looks up, there's not tears, no really, but well... the possibility exists. "Oh, Lys," says Quinlys, not with the exaggerated concern other weyrlingmasters might show, but with what is rather a lot for her. "Yes, all right. You're about to end up eliciting jealousy, anyway, so we might as well make this look good. Mount up, and let's go and take a look at some prime real estate, shall we?" Somehow, that lack of exaggeration seems to help Lys keep her feelings in check. "Yes, ma'am." She bites her lower lip like there's something more and then looks to Evyth whose mouth-watering mind scents seek Olveraeth while Lys moves to mount up. « She doesn't want to say it aloud here, Olveraeth, » the green's voice is unusually lacking in her usual effusive cheer, serious. « Please, can we go to a larger place first? She wants to explain to the Weyrlingmaster in her own words. » But the larger place seems to be key to doing that. « A larger place, » repeats Olveraeth, letting the words hang in his thoughts like so many stars; the heavens are bright, this afternoon. « Of course, Evyth. It's not our intention to make her uncomfortable. » Suggested, but not noted outright, is that several of the weyrs on the list have already now been crossed off; at least it narrows things down. The message is clearly passed on, for something shifts in Quinlys' expression, turning speculative, though she turns her attention immediately towards her own dragon, mounting up and then giving the command for them to rise into the air-- up and up and up-- towards a broad, relatively sunny ledge. Lower Weyr With A Pair Now this is a large ledge, not only substantial enough for a medium-to-large dragon land while a smaller one is perched, but with an outcropping that has a built-in bench that could comfortably fit three good friends... or a pile of straps when a rider can't be bothered to put them away in summertime. A little more than a third of the way down the Bowl wall, it's out of the worst of the wind, with a view of the craft complex and its greenhouse down below and a glimpse of the lake that's further yet. It could make a prime sun-catching spot, even if it's north-facing sun, and is only lessened by the other, smaller ledge up at an angle that shades part of it part of the time. Past the overhang and the outer curtain, the weyr has a truly large cavern for the dragon's time-smoothed wallow, with two steps up to an inner curtain and a smaller, human-scaled room beyond. Though recently aired and definitely clean, here there's a faint medicinal smell with a hint of sickroom, as though someone had spent his last remaining Turns here and vacated the place only very recently. It's still furnished, too, with a comfortable armchair by the simple ceramic-tiled hearth as well as a round table and three chairs, and clothespresses at both the head and the foot of the single-sized bed. The innermost wall has a quite large, finely polished sheet of metal that must once have been expensive; though too blurry to be the best mirror, it does reflect light and makes the place seem more expansive. Of course, close examination would reveal that one of the raised sections of its wooden frame is also a latch... letting the whole thing swing out as a low-linteled, high-thresholded door, though one through which adults would have to duck their heads to pass. At least the ceiling's slightly higher inside, where a narrow staircase spirals upward. Evyth loves flying. Her love of it translates into the hours of practice she puts in, both in formal learning and under assistant weyrlingmaster supervision with Lys, or on her own. It means that the process of getting to the first ledge, of following Olveraeth at an easy distance, of landing neatly are all fairly well mastered things for the green. Lys looks a little green as they land, which might be as much the emotions as the fact that it looks like she's forgotten to use the lemon candy that had been helping her in the past couple weeks. The ledge gets her first attention as she dismounts, looking down and then up along the bowl wall, brow wrinkling and then moving toward the Weyrlingmaster. Evyth's proficiency does not mean Olveraeth does not keep a close eye upon her as they travel, but it's surely not out of doubt; merely protective concern, instead. There's quiet, thrumming approval in his thoughts as they land, though he holds any commentary to himself (or to his Quinlys). Quinlys, dismounting, turns to face Lys, dark-red brows raised to encourage comment: go on. Speak. Some dragons might take offense, but not Evyth. For Evyth, Olveraeth's protectiveness is noble, good, and makes him all the more endearing to her as a teacher. He obviously cares about his work and that's a wonderful thing. Though often a chatty dragon, she now holds her silence, not as companionable as it can be since her tense attention is on her rider, supporting her rider in something that's hard. The blonde draws breath as she stops in front of the weyrlingmaster, her pose still one of unconscious 'attention'. "There's the wing stuff," which acknowledges it, doesn't diminish its importance, but doesn't put it first, not now. "I know it's not in my record," which is always a promising beginning, "but I asked to stand for Niahvth's first clutch, ma'am. After they dug us out of the cave in." That much, she's sure isn't news to Quinlys, but it bears repeating now for context. "Irianke," Lys looks out off the ledge, "had me meet with a mindhealer friend of hers." Looking seriously back to the redhead she states neutrally, "I wasn't permitted to stand. But quietly. She didn't want to take possibilities from my future." Quinlys's mouth works, silently, as if she's working her way through this information in words, one piece after another. "You suffered after-effects from the cave-in," she concludes. "And you're mostly better, now, or you wouldn't have been permitted to stand, but... you don't want a small weyr." Again, those brows raise: has she summed it up succinctly? Accurately? "Yes, ma'am." A pause, because that's not all. Lys takes another slow and steadying breath. "I heard that wingleaders this month get to choose first. That's-- I mean, what I told you before about wanting to lead, wanting to do well with it, feeling ready and that it had to happen sometime so now seemed-- that wasn't untrue, it just isn't the whole truth." The admission is given with sincerity. "I really want to do well with wingleading, and with the silver thread, but I feel like I'm drowning and only my friends--" the word has some stumbling over it, "-are managing to keep me afloat. I don't want to fail at this. I didn't think I'd care, but I do." So very much. Quinlys sticks her hands into the pockets of her riding jacket, appraising Lys with a thoughtful glance. "May I offer you some advice, then?" She doesn't wait for permission. "Don't push your wing so hard. Delegate. Figure out whose talents are most useful to you, and put them to work. If moving is too much of a stressor, given everything else this month, pick your weyr and then stay in the barracks until the end of the month." The nod is late in coming for permission, but it comes and with an odd if grateful look. "The wingsecond I have isn't working for me," Lys doesn't like admitting it, but, "I'd like to tap others. Additionally, if that would be more politic. We're a wing, we succeed or fail together and some wings have more than one wingsecond," she makes the argument politely, but she still makes it. "I'd like to stay in the barracks. I think that would help, but having a weyr I can put my study work in so I'm not in Jocelyn's hair would be good." The last is awkward but meant, "Thank you, ma'am." "You may have one additional wingsecond," says Quinlys, without seeming to pause to consider. "But no more than that. No wing has more than two, and fighting wings tend to be significantly larger than yours. Remember: in a real wing you'd have to justify the expense. Also be warned that this opens the door for future wingleaders. You may end up obliged to assist them should they decide they require additional hands. I leave it up to you, of course." Lys' tilted chin, slightly narrowed eyes and conflicted expression is enough to say that she's not only really listening to the weyrlingmaster's stipulations but that she doesn't love it. Still, what she does is calculate: "If it were a real wing, I'd just replace my wingsecond, but that's not going to win me friends and I don't think anyone much is going to be inclined to listen to me for too much longer if I keep carrying on as I have. It's-- Maybe one day I'll be a really great wingleader, but it's too much for me right now, and I'm not willing to be a shitty wingleader to keep my silver thread, or to punk out on my silver thread work to be a good wingleader. An extra set of hands is the only way to go." She licks her lips. "I'll sort it out within the next few days, ma'am, and if I have to be an extra set of hands to another, I will. Teamwork is what we're taught," and furthermore, "I believe teamwork is the only way this works for me, the only way I can succeed." "In a real wing, that might also not win you friends," points out Quinlys. "In rare cases, in a real wing, you might even be assigned a wingsecond, or put in a position where, for political reasons, you need to name or keep a wingsecond you're not thrilled with. Part of this challenge, wingleader, is to learn how to work with people you don't have an immediate affinity with." None of this seems to be argument against Lys' thoughts, however, because she adds, "Teamwork is what wings are all about. Otherwise, what would the point of assigning a weyrling wingleader be?" Lys's nod this time is acceptance. "That makes sense." Clearly, the current wingsecond can stay and since that's not her choice, there's no need to say it. "Any other advice for me before we find me somewhere to live that doesn't make me weep like a newborn?" There's humor there, a little flat because it's too true, but still, she tries. To Olveraeth, Evyth's been doing so well. So well. Still, she can't now help her quiet glow, « I'm so proud of her, » it's a hushed secret she can tell the blue. She won't say it to Lys, not now, she'd be embarrassed. But she has to say it to someone. Quinlys shakes her head, as if to say no, there's no more advice. Except, "Don't let yourself drown. Use the people around you, wingsecond or no. All right-- do you want to look at this one, properly? I'll not subject you to C'ris' old weyr, but I'm sure we can find something that will work for you." So well! Olveraeth's proud. « As you should be, » he tells Evyth, firmly. « As you should be. » (To Evyth from Olveraeth) "Drowning sounds unpleasant," Lys can agree, however uneasily. Perhaps it's why she doesn't add something like 'but better than getting buried under a ton of rock?' Perhaps it's still too soon for that kind of crack. Steeling herself, she moves into the weyr to give it a good eyeballing. This is a serious decision and she's doing to take it seriously. Quinlys makes no comment in response, but instead trails after Lys into the weyr's interior. "Lot more room than Evyth probably needs in here," she says, but it's not criticism or diminishment of the weyr's other attributes; room, in this situation, is good, right? "I've always liked that glass thing. This place's been through a few owners, but it keeps ending up back on the list." "It smells a little like an infirmary," Lys observes. "That's probably not going to make it very popular given-- 'recent events'." She puts the plague delicately. "It's a nice place," the young woman admits, "the mirror is nice for effect." It's her hand trailing along that (for fresh fingerprinted feel) that catches that it's not just a mirror. She raises a brow at Quinlys in silent inquiry as her hand stops on one of the raised sections of frame. Does she know what this is all about? Quinlys shakes her head: no idea. Clearly, she's not done much exploration in here (or if she has, she's forgotten). "Have a look," she encourages. Report back! It takes more than a few moments for Lys to run her hands across the frame, to work it so that the door pops the latch. Furrowed brow shows in the reflection as she pulls the door open and peeks in her head. There's a quickened breath as she jerks back out and has to take a moment to master herself. "No bodies," is an attempt at humor, though the girl looks shaken. What a nice narrow staircase. "Um. Is it Rosvelth's weyr that's just above this?" No bodies. Quinlys exhales a verbal huff, one that's not wholly descriptive-- she's not moved from her position, evidently comfortable in allowing Lys to take the lead in this exploration. Her eyes, however, narrow just slightly at the obvious reaction the weyrling has had; she hesitates. "Could be," is even enough. (Evyth, of course, may be able to see Rosvelth upon his ledge-- or at least part of him.) "Pity if it is. It'd be much better if there were someone worth booty-calling up there. Does it go all the way up, do you think?" "Don't know. Can't see the top." And she's not looking again. "But you'd think if there's a stair, it would go somewhere." Lys offers silently for Quinlys to take a look before she's determinedly closing that door. "I think probably I'd prefer not to-- Can I see another?" Quinlys, having shaken her head to dismiss the need to take a look of her own, gestures instead back towards the ledge and their waiting dragons. "Of course. Pretty sure I can find something that might work for you. How do you feel about lofts?" Lys's nose winkles a little at the question, keeping pace with the Weyrlingmaster. "Anything that makes the ceiling look smaller is probably... not so good for me." It's more quietly that she says, "One of the worst parts of being stuck was that every time something would shift, more rocks and dust would fall." And lofts, depending on their construction, could look quite chancy from that perspective. Quinlys' quiet, "Ah," is not much more than an exhale; the loft possibility, high ceilings and all, is hastily dismissed. "And I imagine a weyr that belonged, most recently, to someone who died of the plague is probably also off the table." No need to answer that one. "What about one with a window? Would that help or hurt?" "No. I've thought about some of the weyrs that belonged to people who died," Lys' shoulders tense, "but I think I'd rather live somewhere I've never been. Somewhere without memories of people attached. Somewhere that can be mine, in so much as anywhere we live are ours." Since they'll revert to the weyr upon departure. "A window could go either way. Could serve as a reminder that the space is inside, enclosed, or could be nice for access to fresh air." Quinlys, cheerfully: "Can't blame you for that." Of the window, however, she gives a thoughtful little nod. "Well, let's have a look at one and see what you think. Let's go." It's a quick thing, really, to mount up and get moving again: Olveraeth leads the way up into the air and then further downwards, carefully picking his way towards a ledge situated just above the living caverns, landing carefully upon its surface. Windowed Contemplation Weyr Broad at its base, this ledge tapers to a point at the other end but is still easily big enough for a couple of dragons; it's situated low on the bowl wall, almost directly above the living cavern. The entry to the weyr is a lopsided tear shape, mirroring the ledge. While it's tall enough for anyone to walk through, someone with a sense of humor has carved a little pot-bellied figure at its apex. Now, the belly is shiny from so many hands rubbing across it for luck as they leave for sweeps or 'Fall. Inside is a good-sized area for a dragon, featuring a smooth wallow and a sleek wooden chest for holding straps. The rider's quarters are off to the side from that room, separated by a curtained archway. Though devoid of furnishings, this room has a broad hearth to ward off the drafts the spacious weyr is prone to; it also features a window overlooking the bowl, metal-shuttered, with its broad sill inscribed with many of the names of previous occupants. There is one additional luxury in the weyr: a foodshaft leading straight down to the kitchen. Evyth can't seem to help a nuzzle of her rider's shoulder before Lys mounts up, tempering at the woman's murmur of "Professional, Evy." They follow the blue pair to the next ledge, making a landing on the ledge and making a little exploration of it as she may before Lys dismounts. This time, there's no serious talk on the ledge, but rather a direct entry and look around. "A foodshaft," is observed with admiration and longing, but the window gets a leery look and tentative exploration. "Not-- bad--" and yet the assessment is stilted. "Could we check out another?" Quinlys taps her fingertips upon her wrist, thoughtfully, having been content to allow Lys to explore without her interference. "Another one," she agrees. "Something... hm. Perhaps I know just the one. It's been a few turns since it was last occupied, so it may need some cleaning, but... it could work." Again, it's back to the dragons, and up into the air. This time, Olveraeth circles higher, seeking out a ledge quite some distance up, and with a spectacular view out over the weyr. "So?" prompts Quinlys, even before they've had a chance to do more than dismount. Glitter and Glass Weyr Clear the grime, sweep the dust, scrub away the turns of mud, and this little ledge just might live up to its exquisite bowl view. Rust and green copper tarnish mark the floor, leaving unusual streaks of color across the dark stone. The ledge slopes slightly toward at the outside to keep it free of accumulated snow; at its ledge, clever patterns of squares and knots inlaid with mica and pyrite gleam in the bright sunlight that often reaches this ledge. Identical patterns edge the bottoms of the wall and the wind-breaking stones to either side of the smallish ledge. Inside, sea-glass mosaics and glittery materials gleam when lights are sets into the elegant glass sconces on the walls or hung from the wrought-iron hooks on the ceiling. The glowlight also illuminates the other walls, whose dark surfaces glint with volcanic glass. Shadows and light play along the old, heavy wood tables and the smooth floor, especially when the hearth is lit. The furniture is smooth wood, stained dark enough to complement the stone around it; the fabrics chosen to upholster the chairs and cover the bed set off to one corner in the back are simple, dusky greens and golds, accentuating the natural beauty of the weyr. « It's so pretty! » swells Evyth's delight upon descent. Her nose is pressed to the mud and grime almost immediately. Lys must be at least, in part, charmed by her dragons reaction because she has a bit of a smile. "Let me look inside? I think it probably has one vote already." She makes her way inside and stops just a few steps inside. She takes her time to look over this weyr, too, looking at the furniture, the hearth, looking over the wallow before making her reappearance. "It's... beautiful," is the greenrider's pronouncement when she reappears. "Isn't it? It's--" Quinlys pauses, crossing her arms. "To be honest, it's probably one of the nicer ones that they let weyrlings have, I think because it really attracts the dirt somehow." It's probably not to the bluerider's personal taste, given the neutral glance she aims around, but that doesn't mean she can't appreciate it all the same. "Plus, the ledge is small. Not so much of a problem for you and Evyth, but maybe a problem for others. Do you want this one? Or do we keep looking?" There's nodding for the weyrlingmaster's explanations. "I've never minded cleaning," for all that Lys' record might suggest otherwise. "We'll take it," is after a moment's consultation with her lifemate. "Thank you ma'am. For everything." This time, Quinlys evidently doesn't see a need to argue that record-- she's smiling, smug, and giving the weyrling a sharp nod of approval. "Good," she says. "I'll get the records marked. Clean it up and move in when you're ready, so long as it doesn't take you away from your duties. Your wing will start getting their chance to inspect weyrs in another few days. Anything else, or shall I leave you to it?" "I'll go requisition some cleaning supplies to bring back with me after I go make my marks for the day," in the fancy wingleader paperwork. It's probably Lys' way of saying 'leave her to it'. Only, then she asks, "Ma'am, would you have lunch with me once a seven to give me feedback about what I'm doing as a wingleader? I feel like it would help." A pause. Then, Quinlys nods. "Of course," she agrees. "The... third day, shall we? I'll arrange for lunch to be delivered to my office, so that we can talk." For now, however, she will swing back atop her blue and head into into the skies: she has other places to be, and other people to talk to. |
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