Logs:Constants
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| RL Date: 9 April, 2016 |
| Who: Jocelyn, Quint |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quint calls on Jocelyn to reclaim his coat. |
| Where: Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 4, Month 7, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Irianke/Mentions, Silva/Mentions |
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| Even in the middle of a High Reaches summer, there's a coolness to Jocelyn's fireplace-less weyr; the entry and foremost cavern are warmer with openings to the outdoors, but farther in the back, particularly in her study, the temperature is just cooler enough to be appreciable. With dusk falling, her abode is all but silent - disturbed only by the scratch of the fiery-haired woman's pen as she works at the large table near the entrance for once, hair loosely pulled back and one hand occasionally pulling a glass of ice water toward her between notations. Aidavanth must not yet be home, as no dragon is evident within the weyr or without. Early in the day, the recently returned harper could be seen out in the bowl, out by a small, covered wagon, chatting with with the two people seated up on the driver's bench. With a cheerful wave, Quint sees the pair off, before striding off see to his duties. It's shortly after dusk that he can be seen making the climb of the ledges, pausing at the lack of the expected queen's presence. "Weyrwoman?" the harper's voice carries from his position outside. Jocelyn, having just reached for her water again before Quint's voice carries into the outer weyr, gives a start and pushes to her feet. There's a pause before she responds, occupied by gritted teeth and a hasty sweep of her papers out of the range of the spill from her much-emptier glass. "Harper. Quint. Come in, " she calls in a single breath, striding into the inner weyr to fetch a towel. She returns shortly, making quick work of drying the little section of the table that took the brunt of her surprise. "I heard you were back, " she adds unnecessarily once he's within a more comfortable speaking distance, expression inscrutable. "You traveled safely enough, I assume." Quint steps inside after the invitation, blue eyes flickering around the weyr -- taking in the current state, as well as the spill with a look. "My apologies for disturbing you, weyrwoman." A beat passes as he watches her mop up the spill. "I don't, at least, come empty handed," he holds up the package in his hand, offering it towards her when she steps closer. "It's spiced hardbread -- quite nice with some klah, actually. The gentle lady who made it was indeed telling the truth when she said it would last for some weeks without loss of taste. I forbore to ask what sort of spices -- she had that about her of someone who would take that family secret to the grave, if need be." The latter question earns a nod, definitive and yet unilluminating, likely on purpose. "After the third page of reviewing what we've used from stores within the past seven, a break is hardly unwanted, " Jocelyn says dismissively, setting the towel aside once the table is relatively dry again. Gray eyes slant a look in his direction at 'not empty-handed, ' eyebrows lifting as she crosses toward him to take the package. "Family secret spice bread, indeed. I'll look forward to trying it." A moment later, drily: "If that's a barter for the return of your coat, it's an excellent one." Twitch, go the corners of her mouth. "Ah, yes. The exciting life and times of a weyrwoman -- a book of pages that no one, ever, actually wants to believe is the truth." Quint's expression turns wry, and, after she's taken care of the package, spreads his hands. "Well, you've taken good care of it all this time -- I assume?" there's an uplifting of brows. Jocelyn's eyes make a little roll, but she's clearly amused, judging by the look she shoots at the now out-of-order papers scattered over the other half of the table. "Certainly duller than the life and times of a harper, who can spin stories that people do want to believe." Her mouth quirks into something more akin to a proper smile at his inquiry. "I didn't store it with our flamethrower supply, no. It wasn't flung anywhere. I hung it. Properly. Any creases left in it are not of my doing." She's marching toward the curtains separating her living quarters from the outer chamber, pushing through the heavy material with a brisk, "Check its state yourself, if you're inclined. It's back here." The sentence might sound different coming from a less proper woman; from this one, its delivery is merely crisp, punctuated belatedly by the way she crosses her arms once she makes it back to her armoire and opens the doors to reveal that yes, his coat is neatly hanging behind the business casual attire she prefers for working hours. "I appreciated the loan. The books stayed dry." "Perhaps," Quint replies, clearly not willing to give over the award for dullest career just yet; "You might not say so if I described in articulate detail the last six sevens of a harper's life, complete with running count of 'how many rocks am I presently lying on'." While he follows her, back towards the living quarters, it's not the coat to which his attention strays, but the room itself, blue eyes taking measure. He nods, absent-mindedly, for the report on his coat, but it's clear his thoughts are elsewhere, since he gestures to the room at large and asks: "Is this to your taste, or an inherited one yet to be personalized?" "Rocks, " Jocelyn repeats with a grimace, shaking her head briefly. No thanks! His next question surprises her, given the way she casts a look toward his gesture. "What? It's personalized, " as hard as that might be to believe. "While Irianke had this weyr before Niahvth rose for the seniorship, I doubt she chose the color for the walls. I'd stake marks that she doesn't prefer the same grade of linens used in residential rooms in the lower caverns, either." There's a shrug. "I prefer simplicity." Truly, the only thing in her bedchamber that's anywhere near ornate is the large, beautifully carved chest at the foot of her bed, to which she nods with an explanatory, "A gift from the weyr. I wouldn't have chosen to put my initial on something like that, but it is a nice piece." The harper makes a sound at the back of his throat, one of those annoying uninterpretable sounds that could well mask some sort of judgement. Yet, when he speaks, Quint's voice is light, curious: "You prefer simplicity?" he echoes, "Or it is simply what you've grown up with, been used to, for most of your life?" He steps towards the chest, since she's drawn attention to it, crouching down to examine it closely. "It is nice. And it suits the room," he concludes, after a moment's regard. "Don't people generally prefer what they're used to, to some extent?" Jocelyn sniffs, shifting so that she can lean against the wall near the armoire, hands still at her elbows. "I wasn't born into circumstances where what I wore and how I carried myself was more important than what I know and what I can do. I don't need some overly fancy object if a plainer one will work just as well for the situation. Those linens are perfectly fine for sleeping. It isn't like I'll be wearing them to the next gather I'm asked to attend, " she argues. "By and large," Quint allows, "Though there's some value in adopting change, if it's for the better. Why sleep on rocks," he asks, with a quirk of lips, "When you can sleep on a soft mattress?" His fingers brush over the carving of the chest, lips pursed for a moment, before he pushes to his feet, regarding Jocelyn with an easy expression. "You weren't born into being a weyrwoman, no. Yet now," he spreads his hands wide. "Do you know why I always wear this," his fingers pluck at his harper blue tunic, "Even in my free time, here at the Weyr?" In the matter of rocks versus a mattress, Jocelyn can only give a wry half-smile. "I daresay sleeping on the mattress is better for your long-term well-being and keeping you out of constant trips to the infirmary. Keeping the nicest things I can afford would only make me more concerned for their well-being." Pale eyes follow his plucking motion to his tunic, then lift again to meet his. "One could assume it's a favored color of yours or that you never feel you're off-duty. Why, then?" And now, Quint expresses surprise at that notion: "Would it? Mm," he seems thoughtful, gaze distant for a moment. It's her latter words that earn his attention again, nodding agreeably with her guess: "Some professions allow you to put them away at the end of the day. A woodsmith can put down his wood, and he is no longer a smith. A baker can walk away from the kitchens, and be someone else. A harper--" he gives a wry smile, "Is always a harper. Always listening, absorbing material for the next song, interacting with the world. This is true, too, of a Weyrwoman or a Weyrleader. You may put aside the knot, but the job follows you no matter what." His hand runs down his tunic, smoothing it out. "I believe that it puts people at ease, knowing that the constants will always be the constants -- the sun comes up, a harper wears blue, and a weyrwoman is a reflection of the Weyr." "One could also argue that someone heavily immersed into their profession, regardless of what it is, would never fully disengage from it even after putting down the carving knife, the flour, the what-have-you. Watching people walking through the hallways talking about what they most enjoyed or didn't at dinner always made me think automatically of the next headwomen meeting, even before I Impressed." Although that may just be a case of someone who doesn't know when to take off the knot, acknowledges Jocelyn's rueful look afterward before it smooths away. "So you're saying that people should watch what they say around you, lest they end up in your next song or your next report. They certainly watch what they say around me more than they did before, for which I can hardly blame them, " with a glance flicked briefly to the shoulder where her knot usually sits when she's in public. "I consider the blue plenty forewarning about what they're getting themselves into, weyrwoman," Quint says with a low-throated laugh. "Besides, some people would love the notoriety." He follows her flickered glance to her shoulder, giving a rueful smile. "I'm saying that part of the job is reassurance that things are as people they expect to be. It's not just about what you do, whether you wish it or not -- it's about how you carry yourself, what you wear, how you're perceived -- although, admittedly, the last is a hard proposition for anyone to address about themselves. Tell me, if it's not too intrusive -- do you still think like a headwoman?" Jocelyn makes a little face, crossing to perch stiffly on the edge of the bed after some minutes. "Some people, " she repeats with different emphasis, permitting herself a thoughtful sort of frown for his (perhaps valid) point. "There's some overlap in the headwoman and weyrwoman ways of thinking, so the easy answer would be yes, I do, particularly when it's necessary." But even that qualification might render her answer not-so-easy. Certainly, she seems pleased to have the chance to turn the question around on him, in turn: "There must have been a time before you thought like a harper, or did you emerge into the world already wrapped in the color of your profession before you cried for the first time?" Quint's gaze tracks the weyrwoman, giving a slow nod. "Some overlap -- and yet one informs the other." He stills, at her latter questions, silent for long enough that it might seem momentarily awkward. "I did not," he answers, finally, with what seems like -- for him -- a sober seriousness. "And I work hard to put the thoughts of the Quint-before-he-was-harper away, for they can ofttimes be a detriment to the harper." He rubs a hand, briefly, against his chin, before he walks past towards the armoire, reaching in to claim his jacket. "The harper, " Jocelyn echoes while observing the reclaiming of the jacket with an expression hard to read. "Was not-harper Quint so separate of a person from the one who became 'the harper'? And you may, " after a beat, "find that too intrusive." "You might say... one informs the other, to a degree," Quint's lips twitch as he repeats that phrasing. "But different still, in many ways, by necessity. And, I imagine, by age -- we all learn as we grow into our adult selves, after all." He folds the coat neatly, over one arm -- it's too warm an evening to put it on, it seems. "Sometimes, it is better to get, mm, distance from who one used to be." He might be mistaken for speaking of himself, at least until he says, "Thank you for taking such fine care of my clothing, assistant headwoman Jocelyn," with a minute bow, and a flickered smile. Jocelyn listens silently, eyebrows hiking upward at his address that accompanies his thanks before her mouth likewise twitches at the corners. "It might save you a few syllables if you simply use my name, " she points out while rising. "Thank you for helping, harper Quint. With the books, " all of six sevens ago. "I didn't forget your request, either. I kept an eye on Silva and tried speaking with her." 'It didn't go well' goes unspoken, for the moment. "It would indeed," Quint allows, turning towards the curtain as she rises, as if she's escorting him out. He reaches out to hold back the curtain, hesitating at her mention of Silva, wry smile appearing. "I appreciate the attempt. I know it isn't easy." Because of her, because of Silva, both? He doesn't clarify. "As a harper, it frustrates me that I can't find the right words... you know?" he half turns to regard Jocelyn. "Some times I wonder if it is because I don't have a dragon... or simply because I'm not a woman." Jocelyn, with a smile equally wry: "You should have seen us in our first social dancing lesson. She was thrilled to see me struggle with that particular class." It's perhaps telling of the difference some time and growth have made that she can inject some humor into the brief recount, even as her gaze considers him levelly while she follows him to the curtain. "Being a woman hasn't yet helped me to find the right words with anyone, " she admits slowly. "Aidavanth might be better at that than I am, but I'm afraid the better relationship might remain the one she has with Zaisyreth, who I understand is pleasant to talk with." Quint hesitates for a moment. "Did she enjoy it?" he asks, curiously, his gaze on her even as she speaks of dragons. "Sadly, as talented as I am, I haven't yet discovered the ability to converse with dragons -- so I must make do with mere, human words." He pushes past the curtains into the outer area, half turning to keep Jocelyn the focus of the conversation. "The lesson, or my embarrassment? Seemed to be both." It's spoken politely enough, but there's a flash of something tight over Jocelyn's features before she arranges them back into something even. Lighter, "You might not be able to converse with them, but you can certainly talk to them, you know. You might even get a nonverbal reply every now and then." It would be hard for Quint to miss that expression, brief as it is, since he's watching her closely, and yet he allows it to pass uncommented on. "Perhaps you can give me lessons in nonverbal dragonese expressions. I really do hate an audience that doesn't provide feedback," comes the harper's lightly amused response. With a pat to his coat, he gives Jocelyn a nod of thanks. "Enjoy your evening, weyrwoman." And then he's striding for the ledge. |
Comments
Alida (17:01, 10 April 2016 (PDT)) said...
A pleasant looksie into both people when their hair is a bit down. :)
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