Logs:Lifesaver
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 26 March, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Quinlys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Never let it be said Quinlys isn't nice! She even says yes to Farideh when she asks to Stand! |
| Where: Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 12, Month 5, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Rainy. |
| Mentions: Iolene/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions |
  |
| Off and on throughout the last few sevendays, an inconspicuous laundress has been dropping into the barracks, but never managed to find the bluerider there. It's another such day - despite the grayness of the day and the rainfall - where Farideh's sloshed through the weyrbowl, tromped through the big, empty training cavern, only to peek her head around the Weyrlingmaster's door frame in hopes that the redhead will be occupying her office. There's already a mix of disappointment in her open expression, which fast turns into surprise. "Quinlys?" "Farideh?" The surprise, it seems, will be on both sides: the redhead has clearly not been expecting this visit (or any, from the looks of it). Indeed, she's thrown off her socks and boots and slung her feet across the big table, the rest of her body lounging back in her chair; truly the pose of someone hard at work. Unrepentant, she gestures towards the chairs across the table. "Come on in, shells. Is it still raining out there?" If Farideh's put off by the bare feet-on-table, she's not mentioning it. She comes in at the bluerider's suggestion and seats herself in one of the available chairs, which she scoots up close to the table, so she can put her forearms against the edge, leaning in a conspiratorial way; never mind those feet. "It is. It's gross and wet and yuck and--" Her words ground to a halt and she exhales loudly, compressing her lips then trying on a light smile. "Quinlys. I want to Stand," is momentous! Or, the gravity she puts into that statement says it is. Surprise! This time, the surprise is enough that Quinlys does move, drawing her feet off the table and actually putting all four legs of her chair in contact with the ground. "What?" she says. And, "Why? Shells. You know they could end up forcing you to Igen. I mean-- blah blah I'm not discouraging you because they'll fire me, but-- are you sure?" More than the feet, Farideh doesn't look put off by the bluerider's dissuading comments, but maintains that slight smile of hers and her conspiratorial lean. "Quinlys," she begins, "I'm from Igen." She's not scared to drop that bomb in this context, and links her fingers together, watching the other woman's face for a reaction. "It won't be too much of a loss, then. I would much rather stay here, because it's my home now, but--" She gives her head a little shake. "It would be better for me to go, if I Impressed, than someone who didn't want to and doesn't have a single interest in Igen, right?" Conflicted. Quinlys is over thirty, Farideh. It's possible she's old enough that her heart can't take this many surprises. Certainly, those red eyebrows disappear into her hair as she stares, outright, at the laundress. "What?" And, "You are?" Still, it's surprise and not horror, and it certainly draws her expression into something more thoughtful as she takes in the rest. "Suppose. If someone has to go." The weyrlingmaster, however, does not seem convinced; her dubiousness is obvious. "Is that your reason for wanting to? Stand, I mean." "Yes," and, "I am." Farideh looks amused and patient, more than anything; she must have expected this reaction from the overtly boisterous bluerider who-does-not-like-Igen's-schtick. "No. I wouldn't Stand if that was the reason. I already said I'd prefer to stay here. I left Igen, didn't I?" She gives the redhead a look, but leans back, finally, and relaxes back into her seat. "I want to. Stand. I've given it a lot of thought and it's-- something I want to at least try. I know there's a lot of things that come with it that aren't desirable, but then there's-- freedom. To be you." Not Quinlys you, just general you. Quinlys taps her fingertips upon the table top, considering this answer with apparent seriousness. "To be you," she agrees. "But only as far as your superiors allow." The note of bitterness is quiet, but certainly present. "It's not that I'm trying to dissuade you, mind, just..." A deep breath. "You're absolutely sure?" "You are," Farideh laughs, not taking offense that Quinlys' well-meant words. "I'm absolutely sure. I've been talking and talking and talking, and thinking and thinking and thinking. I've talked to the Weyrleader and Irianke, I've talked to candidates and other riders. I have multiple opinions to refer to-- and there was just something. You all have it. Why can't I?" She's earnest, now, with a beseeching look at the bluerider. Quinlys is; guilty, and she knows it, her cheeks turning faintly pink for the accusation. "If you're sure," she says, after a long, quiet moment. "It's not something I'll stand in the way of. I'll even cheer you on." Her gaze tracks away from the laundress and towards the table, staring at the woodgrain for a handful of seconds before; "But only if you'll do me a favour." A hard nod is Farideh's answer to the question Quinlys repeats, but she's curious at the condition, her brows coming together over dubious hazel eyes. "What?" If anything, Quinlys looks faintly embarrassed for this. "If it comes up, make it clear that I said yes. That I agreed to let you Stand. That we discussed it, if you like. That I was reasonable about it." She presses her fingers flat upon the table, studying her nails rather than looking up at the laundress-turned-candidate. The confusion leeches out of the younger girl's expression, and her eyes are brimming with laughter, though she's managed to keep her mouth in a steady, compressed line. "I can do that," Farideh replies, watching Quinlys still. "I'll tell everyone you were very accommodating. That you wished me well and that you'll--" Her smile curve winsomely upwards. "Cheer me on." It's that smile that does it, in the end. The potential for laughter has Quinlys' shoulder straightening, but by the time that smile curves so, the bluerider can't seem to help herself: she grins. "Exactly so," she agrees. "And wave you off to Igen, if I must, though I rather hope that won't be the case." With the returned smile, the brunette's stretches that much wider. "You never know. I might not Impress or--" she steeples her fingers together, "there could be many brave riders who choose Igen's desert instead. It's invigorating." Farideh's only half making fun of Quinlys, in a light-hearted, fond way, but she sobers a bit at the end and sighs. "It would be a tragedy to come this far only to be sent back, I know. Still, life would be much better than washing the Weyrleader's dirty socks, that's for sure." Quinlys' nose wrinkles; her sigh suggests not-so-fond memories. "I used to clean," she relates. "Before I Impressed. Like, it was considered a promotion to be allowed to clean the ground weyrs rather than just general areas. Kind of gross, though, you know? I wasn't sorry to leave it behind. Mind you, there's plenty of gross when you Impress, too, but..." Her nod is sharp, fingers tapping upon the table again. "If I can help make sure you don't go to Igen, I'll do what I can, I promise. I'm just not sure my opinion counts for much these days." "You? Cleaned?" Farideh sounds surprised, glancing over the bluerider with a new keenness; that of acquired knowledge. "That's terrible. I'm grateful I'm not the one who changes the sheets in the ground weyrs." She scrunches up her nose and curls in her lips, obviously in repulsion. "But look at you now." Her smile returns, if less broad, and her fingers play idly with an errant curl on the side of her face. "There are definitely higher ranks at play here." A beat. "Shouldn't you show me to the candidate room? Or tell me the fast and hard of it?" Today certainly is a day for surprises. "Me," she agrees. "Pretty gross, that's all I'm saying." Now, now that all the hard stuff is out of the way, she can go back to looking smugly pleased with herself. "Look at me now, exactly. This is how things can change! Shells, for a while I was pegged as a possible Impressee for Ysavaeth." Of the rest, she shrugs. "Do you need instructions? You know where they are. The rules are up in there. It's pretty simple, really. Just... don't get pregnant, don't get drunk, and don't leave the Weyr without a rider escort. What more do you need to know? The headwoman's staff can hook you up with a knot and whatever." The bluerider's smugness is met with laughter; the kind that crinkles up her eyes in the corners and creates dimples in her cheeks from smiling so hard. "No, I guess I don't, but I figured since you weren't busy and you've been so accommodating," Farideh says, not without a saccharine sweet tone. She rises after that and sighs, much more content, now. "Thanks, Quinlys. Really. For--everything." The chance to Stand, that one time with Raum, ew, that one time Issedi got stabbed. Quinlys, lifesaver. Certainly, the thanks seem to please her, that smile growing all the more brilliant. But as for the rest? "Who said I wasn't busy? I have very important pre-hatching preparations to make, I'll have you know. Preparing mind, body and spirit; vitally important. How else am I going to survive seventeen little horrors?" A beat, and then: "Seriously, though - you're welcome, Farideh. Even if you are from Igen. Come ask if you have any problems or questions, okay?" "Even if I am." That part is important. A couple more giggles leave the newly-minted candidate before she jerks her chin in a nod to Quinlys. "I will," Farideh attests, and gives the bluerider a wave in parting. It's after that she finds her way out and, presumably, to her new living quarters with the rest of the candidates. |
Leave A Comment