Logs:New Reality
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| RL Date: 5 February, 2016 |
| Who: Quint, Silva |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Silva's struggling to accept her new reality; Quint helps a little. |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 8, Month 13, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
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With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life. The weyrlings still work pretty heard, but this evening Silva is totally stealing for herself. AWay from bustle she's carved this corner for herself. She's got a spread of embroidery on her lap and her head is down as she works on it. It's not going very well, as her quiet curses are attesting. Something about how her fingers have so many calluses that they keep catching on the fine threads. The nighthearth might not to be too busy, but there's enough occupants that one of the newcomers selects a seat nearer to Silva than the social obligations might otherwise dictate. Said newcomer is familiar, even apart from his tall, graceful stride and harper's knot, Quint sliding down into a comfortable chair one away from Silva's, resting his guitar on his knees for a moment. He glances over at his temporary neighbour, but doesn't interrupt her apparent concentration -- at least not with words, anyway. Moments later, there's the strum of some familiarly distant childhood tune in the air, his fingers moving slowly over the strings. "I use to be able to DO THIS." Silva gets frustrated enough with her blotched embroidery that she balls the whole piece of fabric (needle, thread and ALL) up and throws it at the fire. She's doesn't have the best of aim, so it doesn't come close to the fire and danger of being burned. With her head up now, she focuses on those around her and abruptly turns a bright shade of red - complete embarrassment. "Journeyman Quint." Beat, but... there really isn't much else to add after that particular overreaction. The frustrated outburst, not to mention the attempt to destroy the evidence, earns a jarring of noises as Quint's fingers stir across the strings of the guitar. It goes silent when he stills them and sets the guitar carefully aside, stands, and moves towards her discarded project, leaning to pick it up and examine it. "Nothing that can't be fixed," he determines, with a smile for the weyrling. "Don't be discouraged, weyrling. There's rather little we've done that can't be undone." He steps back over to offer the piece of material back to Silva. Reluctantly Silva takes up her rumpled project and smooths it out on her lap. "It's my hands." She turns them palm up, showing her sadly hard won callouses, "They keep catching." Fingers curl abruptly into fists. "Sorry." The appology is a little strange on her lips. "You shouldn't have to listen to me bitch about my life." Quint makes a sympathetic cluck of tongue, as he resumes his seat, one hand touching the guitar as if in some way to reassure himself of its presence, though all this attention is on Silva. "It's hard to give up the things that give us pleasure. I'd heard," with a tip of head and a smile, "That you aren't that far off graduation. Perhaps circumstances will make it easier," he gestures towards her attempt at sewing: "Or you'll find new things to keep you occupied." There's a brief flicker of fingers, waving away the apology without drawing any further attention to it. If rubbing hands together could get rid of calluses Silva would totally have managed it by the time she finishes rubbing them against one another. "No," she admits it slowly, "We're not far away. And Zaisyreth is pretty happy." Reluctant comes the admission. She does love her dragon, no matter what other angst she causes for herself. "But like, I guess, I don't know. It's stupid. I'm stupid. You were just like, trying to play your music or whatever." "I can play, and listen," Quint replies, shifting his guitar to do just that -- a couple more notes start up, more upbeat, deliberately so -- one would assume. He's grinning as he says, "It's natural to be anxious about change. You and your clutchmates will be going your separate ways into wings soon enough. Have you any thoughts about where you might like to end up?" he seems genuinely interested, head tipped curiously. "You don't have to be nice to me just because you feel sorry or whatever." Silva tucker her hands into her lap and shrugs slightly at the question. "I figure like, they'll tell me where I have to go and I wont have much choice to go or whatever." She peeks up from under her hair to look up at his instrument. "I didn't say I feel sorry for you. You assumed I do. The truth is," Quint corrects, with a smile to soften the correction, "I prefer company to solitude. So really, you're doing me the favor," he tells her, with a nod like he's thanking her. His fingers continue to pluck notes, turning from something jovial to a higher lilt of curiosity as his lips twitch. "You aren't the least bit curious where you might end up?" he asks. Silva mulishly sets her expression, as if she doesn't quite believe him in his correction. Her eyes follow his fingers upon the guitar, unbending at least a LITTLE bit from the simple tone of his music. "It doesn't really matter. They're going to tell me what they want me to do regardless so like, why should I get all bent up about it?" Quint's head tilts, and he echoes her: "Bent up about it?" like maybe he doesn't understand the phrase -- which would be odd for a harper -- or like he seeks further clarification. His strumming continues, but his gaze remains on the weyrling. "Like... worked up. Or interested, or whatever. I mean, like, it's not like I get to //choose// what happens in my life like... ever again." Lips twisted Silva finally looks away, and reaches up to twist a strand of her hair around her fingers. "I mean, like, I love Zaisyreth, but like... it would be nice to have a //choice// or something!" That last comes out a bit explosively. "No?" Quint's voice lilts up, like he's surprised by her conclusion. "I mean, it's not like you can choose where you want to spend your day off, anywhere in the world at the snap of your fingers," the sound of which is substituted by a momentary discordant note of the guitar. "It's not like you can choose who or when you want to be with someone, or have children, or anything." There's a deliberate blandness to his tone, not intended to be mocking so much as pointing out the fallacy of her statement. "But but like, I can't get married. Or //be// anything //except// a rider. It's not like there's anywhere I'd even //want// to go. I mean, like, even going home or whatever isn't a choice. We never told my parents." So when it comes time for like, weyrling graduation or anything, Silva's going to be totally alone standing there. "Just because you can like, go anywhere, doesn't mean you're free." "You can't get married, but you can get weyrmated -- which for riders is the same thing. And, given it's an interval, you have the luck of more free time than some of your predecessors to pursue other interests," Quint gestures towards her, admittedly failed attempt at sewing by way of example. There's a slight frown, as he leans forward, "Surely you understood and accepted all this, when you chose to stand?" "Oh yeah," more than a hint of sarcasm in her tone. "And somehow get them to understand that they'll always come second in my life? Or maybe shack up with another rider and like, realize //neither// of us will ever be able to put the other first?" Obviously Silva's put some thought into this as she's moped her ways through weyrlinghood. His last question stalls her and now she really //is// avoiding his gaze. "I didn't think about it. I was... just being stubborn and like... what were the chances of it actually //happening//? I mean, I was such a bitch to everyone just so that maybe eventually they'd send me home and then like, Zaisyreth and..." "Seems to me," Quint continues to strum his guitar, kind of casually and calmly in spite of her tone, "That you got yourself in a real pickle. Mm." Another strum, eyes going skyward. "I guess all you can do is mope about it, though. That's surely the best way to deal with it." Silva's head swings around to fix her gaze on Quint. She's scowling. "You don't have to be sarcastic about it. I //know// I'm being stupid or like whatever. But I suck at this, not like, enough they're kicking me out but like... enough." "And neither do you," Quint returns, his easy tones never shifting, his expression at ease while his fingers continue to pluck at notes. "Is Zaisyreth happy?" he asks, abruptly. She's firmly twisting her hair between her fingers down. It's totally not going to stay a vanity if she keeps abusing it like that, no matter how shortish it might be right now. "Zaisyreth is always happey. He's just like.... chill. Calm about pretty much everything. He doesn't worry about things like that." "Then it seems to me like you're doing what you're supposed to do, as a rider," Quint concludes, with a quick smile and a brief shrug of shoulders. "All the rest -- you'll figure out. Or you'll have a wing to help you figure it out, soon enough." That was not at all what Silva expected to hear, and it shows in the way her brow wrinkles across her forehead. "What?" "As a rider, your primary duty is to your dragon, is it not? To see that he's happy, healthy, well looked after?" Quint's head tips marginally, watching her expectantly. "I... guess?" There's a note of uncertinty in Silva's tone as she finally lets go of the curl she's been twisting into her hair. "But like, Zaisyreth's always been chill. Like, even when he was first born and I like, //sucked// at getting him food. And.... like... I still hate blood." But it sounds a little bit like she's stretching in the face of his logic. "Sure. There's things in our life we all find distasteful. But you put up with it, for Zaisyreth, right?" Quint persists, nodding. "You'll find your feet. But you've got the most important part down pat, at least, seems to me." "I... I do love Zaisyreth. He's...." Silva has to search for a moment to come up with the right word, "He's perfect. In like, everything. If I was as pretty as he is and like, easy to love...." It's been months, but Silva is still totally smitten by her blue. "Are you sure about like, everything else?" Quint seems patient while Silva searches for the words, his strumming quiet and almost mournful for a moment. "Well, I'm not a rider. But I am a study of life," the harper chuckles under his breath. "It may seem like an insurmountable task now, but in a few Turns time I'm sure you'll look back and wonder why you were so worried." A tiny smile sneaks its way onto Silva's lips. "You're really good at this." There's another strum of the guitar before Quint replies, all innocence, "At what? Talking? Well -- that is mostly my job." "Well, I guess, like, you got the right job then." Silva folds her once-discarded project more carefully then she had rumpled it before and pats it down onto her chest. "Thanks." "More by accident of circumstance than anything else. Not," Quint allows with a smile, "Unlike your own situation." He gives an easy nod in response to her thanks, accepting but not drawing undue attention to it. With an exhale of breath, he pushes to his feet, the chords of the guitar fading to silence as he lifts it carefully. "If you need a hand with," he gestures to her sewing project, "My sister Gizzy is a seamstress. I'm sure she'd love to help." "Well... then I guess, like, it'll get better." There's still some doubt in the teenager's voice for this uncertain future, but she's at least considering soething more than DOOM AND GLOOM. "Does she know how to be able to do all the stuff I have to do for Zaisyreth, without like... getting man hands?" "She sometimes helped her fiance out on his boat -- maybe," Quint says, after a moment of consideration. "You can only but ask her," he adds with a smile. He gives a firm nod for her (mostly) positive outlook, approving. "Have a good evening, weyrling Silva," he bids her by way of farewell, turning to stride towards the caverns beyond. |
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