Logs:Holey Fort
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| RL Date: 5 December, 2015 |
| Who: N'rov, Olivya |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'rov and Olivya discuss vacancies at Fort. |
| Where: The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 6, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: A little muggy, the sun is bright and puffy white clouds cruise by. |
| Mentions: Mirinda/Mentions, W'leri/Mentions, Kh'tyr/Mentions |
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Despite its subterranean locale, the creamy wall paint, pale woods, and
frosted glass give the cavern a light, airy feel. Oil lamps reflect softly
in the polished wood of high-backed booths, glimmering through the opaque
glass dividers that help lend intimacy to the seating arrangements;
round-backed booths carved from stone, lined with deep, terra-cotta
colored padding and the addition of strategic, lyric shapes painted in a
subtle red shade. The sweeping, half-circle shaped bar with its top of
smooth stone, backed by cut-glass-fronted cabinetry flows gracefully into
the soft lines and mellow colors that dominate the Glass Fountain.
All the atmosphere aside, the main attractions of the room are clearly the
massive, multi-pronged chandelier that hangs from multiple chains from the
ceiling and the re-worked leak - which no longer resembles a leak at all,
having been channeled through glass to become a beautiful piece of art. A
curving wave and a series of glass bubbles guide the water past a bank of
glows, allowing the light to shine through the water and turn it into a
sparkling fountain. From its dark, dim, shabby history, the Glass Fountain
has become an elegant place with lattice-stands to hold the menus with
their selection ranging from typical 'bar food' to high-end dishes and
fancy desserts. As the plague seems to, cautiously, be retreating at Fort Weyr, there are more bodies to be found each night in the Glass Fountain. It isn't crowded by any means, especially given recent events, but there are quite a few residents and riders to be found here this evening. Olivya sits at the bar, talking to a female bluerider over a whiskey. Her bright, bold jacket is the same as the one she arrived in despite the weather outside, that red leather and wild, blonde curls marking her presence easily. Living bodies, it must be said. For all that N'rov doesn't favor the Fountain, he frequents it when needs must, whether with his onetime wingleader or on some other mission. He's been making the rounds, talking here and there over the beer that's only half-gone after all this time, half-gone and yet now he strolls up to the bar anyway. On Olivya's other side, but it's her companion's eye he makes to catch rather than greenrider or bartender's, his baritone inflected with Boll and Southern and humor. "Evening." Olivya hasn't been oblivious to the Weyrleader's presence, that soft, blue gaze lifting to track him on occasion. As he approaches the bar, there's a trace of her gaze over him, but she doesn't shift when he moves to her other side. Her attention falls back to the bluerider as well, the hint of a smile on red lips. "Weyrleader, evenin'," the bluerider greets, perhaps for them both, straightening away from the subtle lean that joined the greenrider and her in conversation. "I'd like to borrow your companion," N'rov says easily, confidentially, for all that they're right there in the Fountain with the bartender and people and, let's not forget, the greenrider herself. He slides a look at said greenrider, she of the red lips he doesn't seem to notice; "Are you borrow-able, Olivya?" It's not to N'rov that Olivya answers but to the bluerider where she tips her chin in a subtle gesture, before the woman herself straightens further and retreats with a salute to the Weyrleader and a quick smile to the greenrider. Only after does she finally turn in her seat to lift those blue eyes to N'rov, even as she catches up her glass of whiskey to bring to her lips. She replies with her own dry humor, "That depends. What do you need me for?" "Work," N'rov says succinctly. To the bluerider he'd given, "My thanks," and a disarming smile that suggests he didn't mind if she stays; for, after his own draught, he sets the beer mug on the bar and nods toward the exit. "Let's go, Olivya. Bring your jacket." His quick smile marks the one she's wearing. Olivya's brow curves upwards in something that could be a challenge for the order given, but the greenrider only drains her whiskey and sets the glass back on the bar before rising in one smooth movement. "You lead the way, Weyrleader," she offers to N'rov, sans smile. N'rov does so, obligingly; perhaps he's stolen her smile, perhaps that's what's lurking about his mouth. His is an easy walk, unhurried, and once they're out of the Fountain, he makes room for her to walk beside. As they pass through the tunnels of the inner caverns, "Monaco must miss you," he supposes readily. "What are you making of Fort, as you adjust? Beyond all the..." he slants a wry look towards the ceiling, just for a moment, "stone." The comment of stone certainly sees the brief hint of Olivya's subtle smile return, there for a moment before it's gone again as she falls easily in line beside him as he makes room. "Not as much as you might think, with Mirinda here," she offers. And it might be easy to see why in the way the greenrider carries herself, that exacting way that could be pulled off by a Lady Holder with some of the implied distance it entails. "It's resilient, beyond all of the stone. Dahlia, for example-- And so many others, stepping up and stepping in. Even with everything that has been thrown at it. At you." That offering gets a lift of one brow, inquiring without asking; or, at least, without interrupting. "At us," N'rov agrees in turn; he glances over at the worker with his mending, the couple helping a pair of aunties off to bed. Too many of the aged were hit hard; one of these is still tottering. Then he glances at her. "It's got a lot of strength. The hard part's going to be making do with less, I think; not just the food, the supplies, we've done that and will scrape closer yet to the bone before next winter's through. The people, though; the knowledge, not all of that gets written down, can be written down. The connections. There are too many holes." This moth-eaten Fort: is she sure she wants to try to fill it? Patch it? Mend it? "I don't make permanent connections; I learned that lesson long ago," replies Olivya simply to that inquiry, the words sincere enough even if they do not address Mirinda and they leave more questions than they answer. Soft blue eyes flick towards the residents as N'rov speaks, only sliding back to meet his after even as she offers boldly, "Knowledge can be replaced, improved. The loss is a shame, but it won't hold us back forever. People-- are harder. It takes time, and what do you do until then? Put one doing the work of two, three? And how do you train them, compensate them for that--." She doesn't speak as if she has the answers, the clear tones holding only thoughtfulness, churning over the questions as she looks to the Weyrleader. "That's the question. Well, one of them," N'rov says, a wry twist to his mouth as he pauses to snag a jacket (his jacket, his knot) off a hook; he doesn't head for the Bowl, though, but rather resumes their path into the caverns, purposefully if still unhurried. "I suspect there's going to be a lot of seeing what work is truly required in the time we're in," he says to her. "There will be innovations in addition to preservation, I hope, for the short term; others that will 'last the test of time,'" and here he laughs, but not a light laugh; "Quoting my uncle, half of Pern's uncle. Shells." A hint of curiosity finally shifts in Olivya's expression, her light gaze sliding to their path and then back to the Weyrleader given their divergence from the way to the Bowl. She doesn't ask, for all that her brow quirks slightly, as she falls in step with him again. "You know what they say, about cliches and all," she says, her shoulder rolling in a light shrug. A pause, before she continues more seriously, "Likely, some of it could give way in the short time, in the Interval. Sweeps and transportation-- The holders need that more than ever, now. But drills? Firestone sorting?" And more, given the way she opens her hand, palm up, in an empty, weighing gesture. "I speculate," N'rov says dryly, a little tiredly, "there will be a certain amount of disagreement as to what 'they' think is a necessity and what we do. Matched when it comes to tithe, too, of course, with the seed crops to keep in mind.... You were Hold-raised too, weren't you?" He glances at her before addressing the rest. "I was. Mirinda?" Olivya asks simply, perhaps just looking for confirmation to who exactly has been talking even if she might already assume. "Holders appreciate routine. There will be some leeway as they recover themselves but-- If we establish a routine before they start making demands, perhaps it would be enough. Transportation could be replaced with a schedule, restricted between certain times; sweeps could be kept to occupied areas and roads. There are always compromises to be made." A pause, before she offers, a subtle incline of her angled chin in respect, "I am sure you have already speculated that, as well." There's a quick, confirming nod (Olivya, yes; apparently the bronzerider doesn't join them at the hip as much as some) and then, "Schedule the Masterharper? Sacrilege," N'rov deadpans. "Perhaps we just won't let him bring his twenty apprentices with their golden chamberpots." He doesn't hesitate before entering the main cavern; along the way, "In any event, I agree about drills being less frequent. Firestone sorting, it's important that weyrlings have it down, but I hardly expect it to be a large part of their days," said with the ease of one imagining that they're in the same chapter, even if they haven't yet determined whether they're on the same page. He trades a brief word with a few of the others who are up at this hour, making introductions to and for Olivya if any don't know each other, but he doesn't linger; evidently the kitchen calls. There are some that Olivya needs introducing to; a pattern will quickly emerge that she's found her way into introducing herself to many riders and many drudges, in particular, with only a scattering of residents otherwise. "It's important for the next generation to know, certainly," she agrees on the subject of firestone sorting. "It's important for the weyrlings to know many things; the formations and drills and dragon anatomy. But, it is an Interval, N'rov." She pauses on the threshold of the kitchen, sliding a look around before she continues, "And our dragonriders are floundering, without purposefulness. Because so many of our weyrling programs are designed to turn them into a dragonrider, any dragonrider. They aren't designed to turn them into the best dragonrider that they can be; they don't give them particular focus except the wing and their dragon." A pause, before those soft blue eyes look specifically for the Weyrleader's. "Would it be better if a dragonrider who were a baker before had the chance to be taught how to fit that into their Weyr-life? Especially given our current concerns." Drudges. If N'rov comments on said pattern, it's no more than a glint in those gray eyes, the minutest fraction more of a smile; that said, as he makes his way in, "Scrambling, yes, with so much to do and so little manpower, with so many organizers," wingleaders and wingseconds, "lost. Floundering for want of their ultimate selves, not so much." His tone is complicated: dry, confident, grieved, sharing. "My understanding is, at Fort, the goal has been to train weyrlings in the basics and have them take on specialties later," though the courteous tip of his head suggests that Monaco may have made other choices, choices in which he's interested should she wish to explain. "An apprenticeship, if you will. It's not so much 'any' dragonrider as 'be prepared for anything.' In the wings, now, I'm interested in incorporating previous know-how, on top of the coverage of basic needs that we're currently scant on. So, yes, there's room for your baker, for M'vyn and the like." "And what is the point of that specific path now, Weyrleader? We aren't in a Pass, where they need to graduate immediately from weyrlinghood into fighting Thread. To teach them to step into every role-- They should be taught to step into their role. They should be apprenticed early to the appropriate people, learn the appropriate things. We shouldn't be teaching them the whole history of the Weyr and how to run every drill, if they never want to be a wingleader," Olivya counters, but she doesn't press that point even if there's a depth of passion to it. Instead, she'll only level that gaze on the N'rov for a moment in a weighted study, before she agrees, "I am sure the wings will benefit from it." He inclines her a nod in return to that study, that agreement; to, perhaps, that passion for her subject. "The specific path," N'rov explains where it is that he's coming from, "is to gain flexibility, to be prepared to work as a team, to give themselves a chance to figure out who they are. It's hard, I know, because while we think another Comet Pass is unlikely, we can't be certain that it won't happen." He leans against the counter, continuing to regard her without more than a glance to the others across the room. "Training how to run drills isn't something I recall being trained in as a weyrling, but training how to do my share in drills was, and not even the most unusual drills at that... But back to their figuring out who they are. Some newly-Impressed riders adjust easily to their lifemates; others have more difficulty. Whoever they are, Olivya, they aren't the same as they were. Part of what weyrlinghood needs to do, I believe, is to support that and to give them room to reinvent themselves. It's not to say that the Weyr shouldn't claim the use of whatever skills they had already, but more to say that if we immediately say that this one could become a wingleader, this one can't, we're doing ourselves a disservice in the long run. Older Tradition would say to take the bronzeriders to that end and train the others toward secondary tracks, but I don't believe either of us wants to go there." "That isn't what I am advocating either," corrects Olivya with the curve of her brow upwards, the only crack that shows in her usual composure. "But I am saying that for those who do know who they are and what they want, we should be supporting them, and to support them in the same way as supporting those that don't is a disservice and can't truly be called support, can it? Every case is unique, and we do not treat them that way." She doesn't lean against anything in the kitchen, taking her own place out of the way but with her exacting posture still intact for the moment. "As Kh'tyr said himself, we teach them all to be cows and that is success by most measures." Her brow curves; his mouth does. Listening, N'rov gives her a nod for those that do; the mention of Kh'tyr seems to amuse him more than otherwise, if she can follow those subtle changes in his expression. "That makes sense, then," he says agreeably. "So long as they still learn the basics and can work as a team, if they can reach for more, I'm for supporting rather than stalling them. Some might find it favoritism," but he shrugs: surely capable hands can address that too. Speaking of, "What opportunity have you had to take a look into our program as it stands? Other than Kh'tyr, of course," comes with the slightest of smiles. "I've talked to one of your assistant weyrlingmasters about the program," answers Olivya simply, "But with Kh'tyr quarantined and your Weyrlingmaster sick-- Only that. I haven't had the chance to look over any records or written lessons she may have kept." There is the hint of a smile for that; no, she hasn't been rooting around in empty offices or caverns. "It is a basic program, as it's been described. I am not quite sure about the junior assistant program that she had going or why there was the need, but--." It's answered by N'rovs smile, wider. He's silent, listening, and the casualness of his slouch is no impediment to the elegance of his half-bow later on: "Former junior assistant, at your service." He lets there be a silent moment for sufficient effect; then, "My recollection is that it's designed to up the number of warm helpful bodies without as encompassing a commitment, otherwise known as half-time service, otherwise known as hooking potential assistants slowly... and being able to toss them back if they don't appeal. Some of those potentially useful individuals wouldn't have taken the full-time job, but were willing to make themselves useful this much. Some became full-time assistants, some didn't." His grin is quick, brief. "It provides a certain variety of personalities and skill sets, you could say." "I can understand the appeal of more skill sets to teach, and there are certainly always a weyrling's personality that needs another of a similar temperament to get through," agrees Olivya for that, her chin tipping slightly as she slides a look over N'rov and his smile in a study. "But given our current situation, I couldn't see how any Weyrlingmaster could keep the program running, or that there would be a wealth of volunteers with free time on their hands as we try to fill in the necessary holes." A pause, before she consideringly adds, "Perhaps, later when we have more time on our hands, a smaller, simpler thing where we take tutors if we have many volunteers, and get them involved with the weyrlings who would benefit the most from their set of skills and personality. No rank and no full-time commitment, either." N'rov's, "'Volunteers,'" is distinctly, reminiscently wry. Not that he lingers; "It's a possibility," he's free to agree instead. "Possibilities, pros, cons," his slight shrug suggesting he's not committed nor, even, terribly attached. "There are the older riders to draw from as well, for the times when such a job is less physically demanding. Agate, or even..." more decrepit? "older still. It might also save pay, but that has him stopping himself short. "Later. If. In the meantime, I can get you the requisite access; I know Mirinda's for that, though you won't be the only one looking into it. Once you've had a chance to explore it, how long do you think it will take to write up an outline and approach as to what you have in mind?" "Two weeks, at least, to fully catalog and research the written lessons and records," suggests Olivya carefully. "I'd like to talk to Kh'tyr and the other assistants as well, so that I would know how best we'd fit as a team and how lessons and duties would be more efficiently split." A pause, before she adds, "Another two to devise an outline and approach that incorporates that as well as what I would keep and change. I will include some sample lessons for you to look over, as well." That, it seems, is enough to draw her reclusive smile onto her lips, almost a teasing thing where it appears as soft eyes sparkle with buried humor. "Excellent." It sounds as though he means it, too, with that flash of grin. N'rov braces away from the counter, taking a step forward as though his retained grip's all that's keeping him from moving. "Any questions?" "Don't you owe me a drink?" is Olivya's question, her brow curving upwards and that humor spilling out dryly into words. She remembers to add, a buried hint of cheek in the way she offers it, "Sir." She glances around the kitchen as if to see where a drink might be, but as she steps away, having never leaned onto any such, counter, it seems this time she expects him to follow her as she moves towards the stores. "I'm pretty sure I'd have noticed," N'rov drawls, but, that doesn't mean he doesn't oblige by ambling after her; the humorous glance he asides towards one of the workers with an interested eye on them owes less to his new knot than his Turns of knocking (and talking) about the place. "Mm, but you pulled me away from both my drink and my companion, so I believe that means you have to replace them both," replies Olivya with a drawl of her own, her gaze sliding over her shoulder to flick over N'rov as she continues on into the tunneled stores. Surely, behind one of these doors somewhere, will be a drink. "So, tell me about yourself, Weyrleader. I know that you have quite the fan in Dahlia and Mirinda is impressed, but--." Apparently, she is not, yet, despite everything. "You finished your drink and you're saying I owe you a bluerider? You might find a bluerider back here," N'rov supposes as though he's seeing this place for the very first time, complete with skulking looks here and there even if she isn't looking. He even checks the ceiling: perhaps there's one waiting to drop down on them? If the greenrider isn't impressed, perhaps he doesn't notice or else it doesn't signify; "Neither is a bluerider, I understand, however convenient for current purposes it might be. What would you like to know?" A touch of laughter catches on her words as Olivya assures him as blandly as possible, "You'll do; it doesn't have to be a bluerider. But it does have to be a drink." She gestures down the tunnel, turning a look onto N'rov at that. "So, where are they?" But her smile has returned, caught into the corners of her lips. And it stays as she adds carefully, "No, they are both goldriders. And that in itself could say a lot, but I have gathered other opinions." She doesn't even show any shame to have shown that hand to the Weyrleader. "Blueriders, too. W'leri thinks you are pretty, but not the type to lead a woman properly." "You want to drink me?" N'rov marvels with a countrified cotholder's air. "You do realize that at the Fountain, you'd have to pay for the privilege." His smile is ill-hidden in his eyes. "No need to argue with W'leri on my behalf, though I won't hold you back. There's a lot to be said for 'ladies first.'" Speaking of which, this half-bow marks the tunnel's direction, so that Olivya for the moment might count. Soft blue eyes slide appreciatively over N'rov at the question, before Olivya counters in a warm, amused offer of, "I would pay to drink off you; you are very pretty. But I doubt drinking you would taste very good." She will move in the direction he indicates, not one to be self-conscious about leading the way, though she adds, "I didn't argue on your behalf. Mirinda's, maybe, but not yours. I still need a reason to do that, and all I know is what others have told me." That gets a quirked brow, and N'rov thrusting his hands in his pockets; "It's just as well. I can't afford any more blood, even at the Fountain's prices," said as he ambles after her. Only to slow. "Do you think Mirinda needs to be led?" has the slightest, protective edge. "No," is a dry, flat thing; as if the fact that he even needed to ask is not worthy of that moment of Olivya's answer. "But she does need a good Weyrleader, one that won't take advantage of her nature and one that will be worthy of her." With that, she does look back again, gaze settling briefly on N'rov without bothering with her own protective edge; that has been built in for many turns. "Better." N'rov considers her. "What else do you think she needs?" is an invitation, if not a bantering one. Olivya shakes her head rather than answering, carefully suggesting, "Let's not talk about Mirinda. Let's talk about you." And to that effort, she questions lightly, "You are Holder born? Blooded?" "Lead me into a dark tunnel and quiz me," N'rov doesn't exactly mourn. Rather, he goes with it for now, slouching as easily against the nearest wall as he had the counter; "Holder, yes, ma'am. Safely un-Blooded, unlike our other clutchmate. Our family served the old Lord." "Mm, they do not consider Blood in the Southern continent the same way. My father was the Holder and could be a Blooded, if only--." Olivya rolls her shoulder, apparently unperturbed by the lack of Blood flowing through her veins, stopping to slide a look from N'rov where he slouches and down the tunnel. She curves a brow upwards but she doesn't continue on. No, instead if anyone were to stumble upon them, it would be just the greenrider and Weyrleader standing together in a empty tunnel. "And how did you adjust to the Weyr? Obviously well enough to be linked to-- quite the number of female riders." There is a touch of amusement there, rather than censure from a woman who has quite the number of visitors to her weyr in the short time she's been at Fort. His left brow lifts; "I have no quarrel with flights," N'rov says, and his shoulders shape a slow, controlled roll. "Beyond that... What about you, did you embrace your first one?" "The first one? Mmm," is all Olivya replies noncommittally, her lips curving into a brief smile as she continues, "I have enjoyed them since, once I understood them." She nods down the tunnel, though she doesn't move with N'rov leaned like that against the wall. Instead, she asks, "Drinks?" "'Understood'?" is quick, curious... and less than deliberate; N'rov's already shaking his head in the next moment, smiling. For the rest, "Let's hold that thought," those drinks. "Another time, perhaps. I'd best get back before they send out search parties." Olivya only smiles, countering, "And now I think you officially know more about me than I do about you." Translated: no, she won't be answering that question, deliberate or not. Her brow curves upwards, but she doesn't seem inclined to trap N'rov down here with her, at least, as she adds, "Whatever you say, Weyrleader. Enjoy your evening." "Enjoy yours, Olivya." N'rov will escort her back if she seems headed that way too, or abandon her to the depths should she seem so inclined; regardless, his parting smile carries wryness but also a touch of solemnity. "Good speaking with you." Although he pauses to talk with a different kitchen worker, it's bief, professional, and the resulting carafe-plus-extras have nothing alcoholic to them at all. The greenrider will remain in the depths of the stores, not needing an escort out. What, exactly, she will be doing there may just go unnoticed. (At least nothing goes missing.) |
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