Logs:Growing Pains
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| RL Date: 2 December, 2015 |
| Who: Jocelyn, Lys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Two weyrlings discuss the challenges going forward, but oddly not flying. |
| Where: Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 9, Month 6, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: The weather today is very pleasant. A few clouds chase each other across the mostly clear skies, and a soft breeze picks up in the afternoon to make for a fine day. |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
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>---< Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr >--------------------------------------<
Ringed by rough granite walls to all sides but one, this end of the huge
bowl narrows from the even broader plain to the west, continuing the ever
so slight downward slope toward the blue and green of the Weyr's lake and
surrounding foliage. More open to sun and wind than the western bowl, but
less frequented when there aren't weyrlings in residence, the bowl's
grassy tufts keep the topsoil in place and thicken into a bloodstained
meadow within the feeding pens that adjoin the lake.
At the base of the surrounding cliffs lie entrances to several caverns,
including the dragon infirmary and the weyrling barracks: the former to
the northwest near where the spires begin, the latter opposite to the
southwest. Both archways are large and dark enough for any dragon to pass
through, but it's the infirmary's that is haunted by faint smells of
redwort and numbweed, as though over generations they have seeped into the
very stone. To the southeast, between the weyrling area and the lake,
there are a handful of structures built into the floor of the bowl,
standing out amidst otherwise an empty space.
The weather today is very pleasant. A few clouds chase each other across
the mostly clear skies, and a soft breeze picks up in the afternoon to
make for a fine day. Midsummer renders the outdoors temperate and comfortable enough for work or exercise throughout the day if the weather holds; on this quieter side of the bowl, where weyrfolk aren't starting to stream in significant number toward the lower caverns in anticipation of the evening meal, tight-lipped Jocelyn has been seated against the caldera wall some distance from the weyrling barracks for most of the past hour, glowering down at a seemingly endless tangle of undyed straps pooled on the ground before her. The addition of the silver thread to her knot seems to have heralded the return of her nearly-perpetual scowl over the past few sevens, and she's lately been a barracks neighbor of answers in three words or fewer. At present, she's alternating between stitching on another length of leather and punching additional holes down the newest piece; judging by the way she stabs with needle and tools, it's possible that's she's taking advantage of the force necessary to exorcise some of her frustrations. The silver thread in Lys' own knot is borne uncomfortably. It means an increased workload and that is something that adds so much more to the already exhausting elements of Evyth's dedication to flight exercises and practice that extend to Lys herself. Three words or fewer has been returned in kind, with even the occasional communicative groan or grunt. Now, that exhaustion is visible in the shuffle of her approach and the way she drops her armload of straps unceremoniously on the bowl floor. Her aim is to settle with her back to Jocelyn's, such that their straps have no chance of becoming entangled with one another but, too, that they could converse if the can find enough words between them to do so. "Will you be moving soon?" are the five Lys comes up with to start a conversation, tone tired but betraying little in the way of other emotion. Nevermind that in only a month or so's time they'll all be moving. At first, there's only a forceful exhale to greet Lys once the redhead grows aware of her presence, punctuated by the metallic sound of her tool meeting the bowl floor. The older weyrling has apparently finished with punching holes for the time being since the awl gets nudged toward the other immediately after in a silent offer. "I don't know, " Jocelyn answers wearily after a lengthy pause, lifting an arm to wipe at her forehead before taking up thread and needle once more. "I hope so. We both need more space." Her press, or what's visible of it when she opens it in the morning and at night, seems packed with more scrolls and stacks of meticulous notes than actual clothing or belongings - and there's always another little armful to add with the advent of the next day. And Aidavanth, well: she's been working hard to try to keep those long limbs and that forever-long tail within the confines of her couch so that she doesn't end up disturbing the greens on her left or her right. "It will feel strange after having mostly adjusted to the lack of relative quiet, " she predicts almost absently, tugging at her newest stitch with a frown. The sound of the awl moving across the ground draws Lys' glance and she reaches for it, with a little grunt that acknowledges, accepts and expresses gratitude for the offer all at once (if one chooses to interpret it that way). Leaning forward, away from the redhead, the green weyrling gets to work. "You'll be in one of the ground weyrs," the blonde observes in between punches. "You could ask Weyrwoman Irianke and Weyrlingmaster Quinlys if you could move there early. Seems silly to move down the barracks to a bigger couch only to move again." Still, with a slightly amused truncated snort sound preceding it, she offers, "Evyth says Aidavanth can cross the divide between their couches and sprawl if she ever needs to." Then, "You'll adjust back. I hope I can find one that's... spacious." There's an odd quality to Lys' voice. Uneasiness doesn't come to it often and it sounds strange now, but there's definitely anxiety there. "You might even ask for a spot to keep your notes in the records room, since you'll be working there often enough later," is added as an afterthought. "I could, " Jocelyn agrees at some length, perhaps for all of her fellow weyrling's suggestions between counting stitches under her breath. "It'd make a lot of things easier, to have all of that extra room now rather than later." Even if 'later' is no longer six months away, but one. Face still bent toward her handiwork, the redhead permits herself a small, if genuine smile for the verbal delivery of Evyth's offer while there's no one to witness that quick, little flash. Nevertheless, it still ends up in the decidedly warmer, "How generous of her, " she gives in reply, even as she shifts slightly so that she can better peer over at Lys with lifted eyebrows for the other's anxious words. "I'm sure I'll adjust back quickly - and surely even the smallest weyr would be larger than the room you used to share in the dormitories." She's awkward and perhaps not very reassuring with her matter-of-fact reasoning, but it concludes with an expectant pause for Lys to fill in the blank of that unspoken, 'what's wrong?' "Evyth is nothing if not generous," is wry response by the blonde who more times than she would like ends up the unwilling partner in that generosity. How does one say no to a face like Evyth's? (The mindtouch is even harder to hold against.) "If we can just make it through another month..." Lys murmurs in a way that suggests things will get better then, if not before. "For me, it's-- well. It's not so much the space." She pauses a moment, obviously thinking how best to put her concern, "I have nightmares if the ceiling is low." That much is said seriously, though no one sees the small (dragon-derived) smile that follows. Jocelyn's subsequent, "Oh, " manages to be at once a cautious and thoughtful syllable. She stitches in silence for some minutes, then: "I think you're permitted to pick one - to a certain extent. Perhaps if you're lucky, you'll end up with a ledge large enough for you to be able to sleep outside with Evyth while the weather's warm enough for it." There's a pause in which a breath gets released slowly. "I'd like to be able to choose for myself and Aidavanth, but I doubt that option's available to me." It shades a tad bitter, that last sentence, as she resumes her original position facing away from Lys. "That would be nice," Lys says, but wistfully. "Evyth will help. Maybe if I just sleep with her I won't have nightmares." It borders on hopeful. "Your choices are probably limited," the young woman acknowledges, "But, if your weyr's anything like Farideh's or Irianke's... It'll be nicer than any of ours anyway. But we can always trade if you want," that last holds the (tired) note of teasing. "You can have the weyr, the dancing lessons, the political bowing and scraping and the eventual appointment with a personal stylist, if you want them, " says Jocelyn drily. "I think I'd rather a smaller weyr for myself and the freedom to have a preference for what will come after. Aidavanth needs plenty of room, naturally, but I could probably get on just fine in a weyr that was even half the size of Irianke's." There's discomfort evident in the set of her shoulders throughout the remainder of their conversation, a tenseness that lingers long after she eventually pushes to her feet when it's time to report to the living cavern for dinner. "No, thanks," Lys is quick to lob back to the goldrider. "I don't even want this silver thread." Still, quieter, "We'll manage. We all will. With the stupid, annoying, horrible things we have to face and do and get through." Perhaps some of Evyth's optimism is rubbing off on her rider after all. Having said that much though, Lys is more than content to lapse back into little beyond 'pass the Thingy' and 'check this?' two and three word phrases until it's time to get up and go. |
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