Logs:Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
"It's interesting how different people quantify 'need.'"
RL Date: 30 April, 2015
Who: Quinlys, Telavi, Z'kiel
Involves: High Reaches Weyr
Type: Log
What: Z'kiel's hair gets chopped. And then things go quiet. (And silly).
Where: Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
When: Day 5, Month 9, Turn 37 (Interval 10)

Mentions: G'laer/Mentions, Rh'mis/Mentions




The weather has not been pleasant. It hasn't exactly been unpleasant, either, but it's just miserable enough to the Igenite that he does his best to remain indoors. Ahtzudaeth is settled nearby in a dignified posture, while Z'kiel sits and studies heaps and heaps of paperwork that's clearly leaving him a bit glassy-eyed. It's all too much, really. Studying is not his strong suit, but he's trying and that's important. The bronze periodically huffs out a breath or rumbles something or another - clearly meant to encourage - but it's difficult to tell just how, well, helpful that encouragement is. Enter Quinlys-- a distraction from that study, certainly, but not necessarily a useful or welcome one. She emerges from the office at any ease pace, casting a reflective glance about the cavern; is there anyone who needs her attentions? It's not Z'kiel-- exactly-- that catches her attention. Rather, it's his hair: with a stride that is long for a woman her height, she aims herself towards the bronze pair. "Your hair," she says, by way of greeting. Hi. Ahtzudaeth alerts first, lifting his head and offering a warm rumble of greeting to Quinlys. He even pushes to his feet in a move that's decidedly respectful. And then there's Z'kiel. He steadfastly continues to study whatever horrible assignment he was told to study - and it's only when Quinlys speaks that he intones, "No." Also: hi. Hello. Greetings. It's not hard to spot the tension that's begun threading its way through him, especially when it resolves so plainly in a clenching of fingers that makes the paper crinkle in his grip. A cooler head prevails, yielding a flat, "I am almost done with this history." Maybe a change of topic will help, but it's a desperate gambit to be sure. "Yes," is the bluerider's answer; she ignores the history altogether, reaching, instead, to take the scissors from where they've been attached to her belt (too many weyrlings in need of hair-cutting, plainly). "Ahtzudaeth, do try and talk sense into your rider. Once you've graduated," this, now, to both of them, "You can wear your hair however you like, as far as I'm concerned. But when you're in my barracks? Short hair." The Igenite's jaw tightens. Z'kiel pushes all the paperwork aside for the duration and sits up straighter, his palms resting on his knees in a posture of readiness. The warble from Ahtzudaeth plainly says that he'll try, but dubiousness still manages to work its way into that sound. All the same, the bronze swings his head toward Z'kiel and the weyrling, under assault on both sides, lifts his upper lip into a snarl. "It has not been a problem thus far. Why must it be kept short in your barracks?" For now, he remains sitting - but if she takes another step forward, rest assured that he'll rise to his feet. Snarls don't seem to bother Quinlys. Indeed, she spares a moment to nod at the young bronze, as if to imply she appreciates his efforts, regardless. No doubt she does! She takes a step forward-- clearly, she's undaunted by the difference in heights. "Because it's one less thing to worry about keeping clean and tidy. Because even if I trusted you to keep yours tidy and out of the way, I won't make rules that some have to follow and not others. And," she draws her shoulders back. "Because part of being a dragonrider is learning to follow orders." Indeed, that step triggers a slow uncoiling of the former hunter's frame. "It requires far less care than a dragon," he counters. "And I've tended to it since before I was a hunter - and long before this." Z'kiel gestures at his knot, mindful not to actually touch it. "It could be a privilege for those that could care for theirs," is his middle-ground suggestion, though that clearly seems to be influenced by the bronze that's all but physically leaning on him now. But, it's that last that has him narrowing his eyes further. The snarl is tempered, but only barely. He does not move - but he also says nothing another battle of wills playing itself out. "No," says Quinlys, for a second time. No argument; no tempering. It's just this: no. "I'm sorry that it bothers you, but in these barracks, this is a rule that stands. You can grow it out again when you're a senior weyrling, and as a rider, but right now, it gets cut." One hand on her hip, the other clasping her scissors, Quinlys may need to crane her neck up to meet Z'kiel's gaze, but she does so without hesitation. "Anyway," she adds. "Lice. It's happened before, you know." The bronze weyrling intends to stand firm. Silent. Stone-faced. Ahtzudaeth, on the other hand, has other plans. It's with a look of utter innocence that he stretches and catches Z'kiel's hamstring with a paw. Carefully, of course! But with just enough force to unbuckle his stance. He sits heavily and with a grunt, a glare angled at the bronze that blinks with the utmost obliviousness at him. It's not a convincing display, but he can't be accused of not trying. Resignation worms its way through the Igenite's shoulders and it's with a blistering glare that he grates out, "Do what you must." He's sitting. So, there. Telavi, who'd emerged pink-cheeked from her weyrlingmaster's office with a bounce in her step and her blonde ponytail bobbing, steps over right on cue. "That's what we like to hear," she says with just a hint of cheeky dimple-- for his dragon. Quinlys-- oh, so smug!-- positively beams, giving her scissors a few test snips just to make sure that they haven't stopped working since the last bit of hair she cut (which no doubt was not long ago). "Telavi," she says, brightly, as she drops her hand from her hip and moves around Z'kiel's chair to stand behind him. "Do you want to make sure I'm cutting it straight?" Beat. "Don't worry, Z'kiel. I've been doing this for turns." "I'm sure." The utterance is flat and grim and full of something nasty that's impossible to properly articulate. It doesn't seem to be directed at the Weyrlingmaster, at least - but the situation is certainly one that's earned his dark mood. Ahtzudaeth seems impervious to whatever darkness is bubbling up over there - and he's just canny enough to wink a single lid at Telavi in response to that dimple. He settles somewhere nearby in a dignified posture - right down to crossed forelegs - and watches with eyes a-whirl in a range of amused hues. And Z'kiel? Not moving. Not speaking. And odds are good that if things aren't handled quickly - they won't end well. "Turns upon Turns," Telavi agrees, that dimple deepening-- Ahtzudaeth again, or Quinlys, or the whole situation? As she circles around Z'kiel, if not all the way to the back, she openly scrutinizes his stark features with an assessing eye. "It'll be good for your profile," Tela notes to the weyrling, and discreetly signals with Quinlys to cut that braid all at once if she will. "Would you like just long enough for a ponytail? Or short-short-short? That dries quickly, at least, and," with a brief crinkle of her nose, "winter is coming." "It's snowing out there," says Quinlys, almost as an aside. "Not sticking, but still." Telavi's signal earns a sharp little nod; the bluerider immediately grabs for the braid, deploying her scissors to begin working their way through it. Poor Z'kiel. She's certainly trying to be quick. "All the more reason not to cut it," he intones. But. The deed is to be done and Z'kiel will endure it, grim-jawed and staring into the middle distance. "But. You are cutting it. So cut it. I do not care how." Which is easier said than done. His hair is naturally thick and the braid may take a few attempts to shear through. Displeasure practically radiates from him in an aura that's nearly palpable at this point. The faint pop of knuckles as fists are clenched and the faintly audible grind of teeth doesn't help. Worse is when one of those hands lifts, but only to make a pass at the bridge of his nose with a knuckle in an upward, nudging motion - which, in turn, earns a narrowing of his eyes and a further pinching of his brow. He manages a sidelong look to Ahtzudaeth, but the bronze, unhelpfully, does nothing more than watch. "No." It's accusingly. "Solith didn't tell me that." Telavi's still absently snip-snipping the air with her fingers as she prowls back the way she'd come. "Long hair takes forever to dry in the cold. Ask me how I know. But--" she glances at Quinlys, then back at Z'kiel. She drops her voice, green-today eyes steady. "I can get you a stick to break if you'd like. If it would help. Or are we supposed to not notice your manful repression?" Quinlys, very helpfully: "It freezes, too. Brr." Telavi's accusations are met with equanimity; in any case, the bluerider is still busy trying to hack her way through that braid-- which does, finally, come free. "Shall I tidy it all up for you?" she wonders, finger-combing out what's left with one hand, while the other holds that braid (somewhat triumphantly) up for Telavi to see. "I think it looks cute." "A straight razor would be preferred." Flat, that. And serious. Because if Z'kiel is anything, it's serious. His gaze tracks after Telavi as far as it can, stopping only when the limits of biology dictate otherwise. Even when the queer sensation of release comes, he doesn't move his head. He doesn't dare. His shoulders tighten and everything else wires itself up, but he bites his tongue - very likely in a literal sense. That braid is heavy and, of course, quite clean and well-kept - a fine, fine trophy indeed. The remaining commentary is met with a sucking of teeth and an eventual grunt. The finger-combing does little for him, but it does successfully tame his remaining hair. To Quinlys this time: "The razor. You will not have to do anything more." Cute? He's not in a mood for accusations of cuteness - either of his new hair or his old. "That may be managed," Telavi notes, but no doubt she's just as pleased not to have to go stick-hunting in the snowy wilds. Unless they keep one in the office, that is. "It is cute," she agrees with the redhead, looking at the braid rather than the man; then she reaches just past his shoulder, palm up, to request it. "When was the last time it was cut?" There's genuine apology in Quinlys' tone when she says, "I don't keep a razor, but you'll be able to find one of the hairdressers to do that for you, or do it yourself, no problem." The braid is offered to Telavi, the glimmer of a smile visible in her eyes... and, okay, yes: there in her expression, too. At least she relases Z'kiel's remaining hair, stepping back out of the way once she has relinquished the hair, both living and dead. "Cut?" Z'kiel clicks his tongue against the backs of his teeth. "Never. Trimmed once in a while, but never cut." That bit to Telavi of course, though - well. He's stiff and still at the moment, unwilling to move while they're still there, it might seem. Or maybe he's holding still for Ahtzudaeth's sake, since the bronze is now up and moving to inspect Quinlys' handiwork. He at least seems to approve with a throaty warble. So, one out of two isn't bad. "I will get that dealt with, then," just... not right now. "Never?" Telavi accepts the shorn braid with an answering smile, dimple-free in the moment, and looks at it with interest afresh; distractedly, "K'zin has one, and it's not like he has to use it much; you could talk to him." Her gaze lifts to Z'kiel, solemn for the moment before she glances at his dragon-- and wiggles the braid's tip, as though it were an ink-brush available for him to sniff. Quinlys extracts a handkerchief from her pocket, using it to carefully clean off her scissors before they're replaced in her belt. She moves back around the weyrling now, at least: back in his field of view, and at a (presumably) safe distance, half-an-eye finding Telavi's efforts with braid and bronze most amusing. The other chances back at Z'kiel. "It'll grow back," she says. "New hair, new life. New home. Things'll fit in place in time. Now-- how's that history going?" "Family tradition," is as far as he'll go with that. Z'kiel cuts a glance askance to Telavi for the suggestion and nods, once, in acknowledgment. "If I see him before I get one, I will ask." It's as good as a promise, ultimately. Ahtzudaeth whuffs at the tip of the braid, only to reach out with delicate digits to try to catch the end of it and give it a tug. Testing. One can only assume the rider is oblivious, considering his reaction - or lack thereof. Quinlys is focused on and he shifts his sitting posture, folding forward so his elbows can rest on his thighs. "Poorly," is his answer for that. "But he is stubborn- and I am even more so." "Ahh." Family, elliptically voiced; it's something afterward that brings out her smile, even before she whisks the braid back-- perhaps the dragonet gets a few hairs?-- only to as-delicately attempt to dust those still-smallish claws. Telavi might even be missing talk of studying and history altogether, if it weren't for the glint in her downturned eyes... and for its being right there. "Good," says Quinlys, easily. "Stubbornness is important, in the end. If you're both determined... you'll get there. Just keep working at it, right? And ask if you have questions. "Believe it or not," she casts a glance at her assistant, mouth twitching up at one corner, "Telavi wasn't much for history, either. But we all get there in the end." Haircuts? Braids? What haircuts, what braids! Oh, and Ahtzudaeth does enjoy the bit of game. The strands of hair that he does catch are held between his digits and lifted - if briefly - to his chin. Purposeful or not, the hairs filter free from his grip and the dusting commences, much to his amusement. That amusement is short-lived, however, and he picks his way away to find a clear space. Time for stretching and wing flexing. As for his rider half, Z'kiel reaches to collect his previous work and pull it into his lap. "That is the plan," he confirms with a canted glance to the Weyrlingmaster. A slow blink follows. Then: "I will ask if there is a need." But this is him, so Rukbat only knows when that might be. That Telavi turns up her pretty not-so-little nose at that. But, "It's true," and there's a sigh to go with it; she waves the braid after the dragonet before absently looping it around her wrist bracelet-style. Glancing at her other wrist, now, "It's interesting how different people quantify 'need.'" Quinlys' watchful gaze lingers upon Z'kiel, barely sliding past Ahtuzdaeth. "Mm," she says, letting that follow Telavi's comments. "It is, isn't it. Such different definitions for such a simple word." She gives her assistant a side-long glance, and then shrugs. "But we have to take what people say at face-value, don't we? Until such time as there is evidence to the contrary." After a fashion, Z'kiel gathers up his studying materials and cuts a look to both Telavi and Quinlys before he, finally, rises. His nose wrinkles at something or another, but the expression is a fleeting one. The rest of the topic? Not worth getting into, apparently, for he intones, instead: "If you'll excuse us." A stiff salute is offered and he seems intent on retreating elsewhere to study. But, he won't get far before certain pressures force a hard "Thank you," out for the weyrlingmaster pair. He'll be gone soon enough, with Ahtzudaeth following - and, of course, offering his own, warbled farewell! Tela's returned glance comes with slightly pursed lips, with what she doesn't say with Z'kiel still here-- or, as it turns out, even afterward. Then it's, "He still does fight it, doesn't he." "Endlessly," is Quinlys' reply, accompanied by the hint of a sigh. She turns on her heel, then, using her foot to brush away a few stray hairs; her gaze focuses, now, on Telavi. "I want to say he'll get used to it-- stop fighting-- eventually, but... who can tell. Not everyone does." "No. Not even just Rh'mis," Telavi says, not quite making it to a smile. The braid's started to slip; she re-secures it around itself, around her wrist. "G'laer coped. I think this one will manage? But... will he just disappear, once they can fly?" Mention of Rh'mis draws a scrunching of Quinlys' face; ew. G'laer is not much of an improvement, either, though at least she lets her facial muscles relax after that, rolling her shoulders back as her fingers run down the length of the scissors at her belt. "I hope not," she says. "Ahtzudaeth seems to have... sense. Olveraeth finds him interesting, says he's well aware of what's going on. So that helps." "More sense than some dragons," Telavi murmurs, not naming names. Still, it doesn't have the perturbed quality it might have had at times in the past. She walks a little way towards the office, then stops. "Is it me, or is it a little too' quiet?" Quinlys, too, does not name names; no doubt she's got at least one, if not several candidates in mind for that particular comment. She follows, shoving her handkerchief back in her pocket, stopping as Telavi does. Glancing around, she hesitates. "A little," is cautious, dubious, and suspicious. Tela goes up to her toes, as though the few inches she has on Quinlys weren't enough, and peers around them. In a hushed voice, "I don't see any firelizards, even." Not even her own. The line of Quinlys' mouth tightens. "What do you think?" she wonders. Perhaps everyone is dead. It's not impossible! "I ate lunch, and I'm still fine..." so maybe it wasn't the food that killed them? Tela cups her non-braceleted hand to her ear, even. Hark! Silence greets Telavi's cupped ear. Indeed, it is unusually quiet. Beat. "Maybe they're all outside." In the snow. Quinlys does not sound convinced. Beat. "Let's go check." Or not. Checking is one thing, but, "Inside," is what Telavi goes for. Inside, away from the snow! Though she'll soft-foot it towards the barracks, preferably after Quinlys, she'll also give the couch-- and the table, they could be stuffed beneath the 'Dragonlord' table!-- the side-eye along the way. Will they survive?! Who can say? Death may be lurking at every turn! ... but Quinlys will save Telavi. Promise. Hurray!