Logs:Not So Subtle
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| RL Date: 16 March, 2015 |
| Who: Quinlys, Zadkiel |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Igen Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quinlys attempts to scope out things at Igen. It doesn't go too well. |
| Where: Igen Weyr |
| When: Day 10, Month 4, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: F'rain/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions |
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| Rukbat's passage draws Igen inexorably closer to late afternoon and, with it, the tides of humanity at work are shifting to accommodate. The weather is not yet unbearable and people are still busy with their day-to-day work, leaving the living caverns slightly less full than they might normally be. Zadkiel is not among that number. Rather, the hunter has long since turned in his kills to the kitchen staff and is, at the moment, tending to the runnerbeast that's done its fair share of work as well. He's in the area outside the stables - near the corral, but not so near that hunting dragons will disturb the animals - and is stripped to the waist. He's currently rubbing the creature down with a damp towel while it chews contentedly on some treat or another - and, of course, he's humming something just under his breath, though it's hard to hear what it is from any distance. Head (and hair) fully hidden from then Igenite sun (and Igenite eyes, too, most likely), Quinlys has at least managed to dress for the weather, her long, loose clothing leaving not much by way of exposed skin. Sans knot, the bluerider ambles her way down from the bowl in a way that is almost too aimless: pausing here to glance up at the sky, pausing there to watch the dragons feed. Now, she crosses towards the stables, tucking her thumbs into the belt-loops of her trousers as she approaches Zadkiel and his charge. "Afternoon!" she greets, cheerfully. Whether it's the man or the beast that notices first will remain up for debate. In either case, the runner's ears flick and Zak's attention shifts, forcing him to glance over a shoulder at the approaching rider. Or not-rider, as the lack of a knot might also suggest. There's a faint grunt at first before the lad gives the beast a gentle thump to the shoulder and frees it to wander a while. He turns to properly face her and, likewise, properly greet with a mild, "Afternoon to you, too. I hope it's been a fair one." "Fair enough," allows Quinlys, the smug curve of her smile visible even beneath her hat. Her accent's not local - northern, by the sounds of it - but then, that's surely not that uncommon. People come from all over, don't they? "Fair enough indeed. Yours, too, I hope? Hot day to be out and about." Her blue-eyed gaze flicks past Zadkiel's bare chest, past the runner, too; eventually, it settles upon his face. "But then, this is Igen. Always hot here, eh?" "Glad to hear it. Only a few more fair afternoons left before summer rushes in to burn them away." There's only a faint, barely perceptible creasing of his brows at the shifting of her gaze - but, by the time her attention reaches his face, he's right back to normal, such as it is. Which, as it turns out, is amiable with a perpetual half-smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. "Mine's been a fair one. Could have been better- but, not every arrow will hit its mark." One shoulder rises and falls and he tilts his head to a side, as if to assess her from a different angle. "Hot to most northern folk, I suppose," he muses. "Probably some southern, too. But, when it's in your veins, you don't notice it." "Summer, when it's barely even--" Quinlys stops, perhaps remembering (only belatedly) that spring tends to begin rather sooner in these parts; her smile, at least, remains winning. "You're a hunter," she concludes, hurrying on, and apparently taking his words at face-value. "And Igenite born and bred, seems like." Pleased, she tips her head up, blue eyes studying the hunter all the more obviously, this time. "Heard you sent one of your queens up north," she muses, breezily, and perhaps just a little too deliberately. A low noise escapes him, something between a hum and a grunt. It's oddly melodic, but short-lived. Zadkiel dismisses the first - the nature of the seasons might be of interest, but only for her next observation. To that, there's a stiff nod and a not-so-subtle puffing up of his chest with pride. "Guilty as charged on all counts. That, there, is Dervish. A fine beast, even if he's a fickle one." His chin jerks in the direction of the runnerbeast in question, only for his attention to properly center - and sharpen - on her. He sucks his teeth, the gears of diplomacy clearly grinding away in ways they weren't meant to. Ultimately, "I'm sure it was done after much hard thought." Stiff and flat, that. "But, whatever it was - her doing, someone else's - it's none of my business directly. Still have arrows to make and small game to kill and people to feed." Politely, Quinlys repeats the name: "Dervish. Nice piece of runner-flesh." Still, it's clearly nothing more than that: polite. Whatever her interest is, whatever her reasons for this conversation, his runner - and his occupation - are secondary, at best. "Politics," she continues, "is everyone's business. Don't you think? Like... like the way Weyrleader F'rain is reorganising his wings; men, bronzeriding men, and everyone else under that. How's that fair? Even a person like me can have an opinion on that. Or you." She eyes him, meaningfully. Well? "Can't imagine a lot of people are thrilled about it." "Some politics. Not all." Zadkiel snorts and crosses his arms over his chest. "F'rain's doing what he feels is best for the Weyr. I can't say that I disagree with that. Nor do I disagree with it. Fair is overrated, stranger - and it's not natural, besides. Just ask the fat lot of avians I brought back to the kitchens. How fair is it that they're not even safe in their element?" A shoulder rises and falls. "If they don't like what's happening, then they can always choose to leave. I suspect some have already. In some ways, I suspect it's a test of loyalty - and not everyone will pass." And take of that what one will. "You don't think greenriders and blueriders should be allowed to lead wings? You think..." Quinlys' voice drops to a dangerous level. "You think only men are really qualified to lead?" If she was trying to pretend to only casual interest, that has fallen by the wayside, now; she's plainly horrified. Indeed, both hands go to her hips, allowing her to stare at the hunter with all the more defiance. "Loyalty doesn't mean being stupid. It's not..." She pauses. "You ever Stood?" The shift in tone is one that he rides out with only a slight narrowing of his eyes and a tightening of his mouth. Zadkiel's relaxed posture has grown tense; subtly prepared for- what? A fight? Possibly. It's a coiled, feline kind of tension that finds his arms slowly lowering from their folded form. "Last I checked," and, here, his voice is a dangerous purr, a curious mirroring - or mockery - of Quinlys' tone, "the goldriders are women. There are Lady Holders. There are female Masters. Some women are fit to lead - and don't you dare try to twist what I said." The rest is purposefully left unspoken. "No one said beyond loyal meant being stupid." But, whatever it means to him is left unsaid as well; it's the last question that puts a bump in the conversation and he makes another of those hum-grunt noises. "Every time the dragons have asked, I've answered. It's not been my lot so far, but I'll Stand until they stop asking or I'm too old." Matter-of-fact, that. Quinlys is undaunted. Quinlys is... shaking? "Just not blue and greenriders, then," she concludes, dismissive. "The dragon you Impress defines your worth, then." There's a sneer in her tone, and that smug, smirky smile? Long gone. "No doubt you'll sit back and do as you're told, if you do Impress. If you Impress a blue or green. If you..." She stops, taking half a step back. "No wonder no dragon has wanted you. Why should they? You've already dismissed more than half of them as being followers, forever." "And you're assuming I'd care if I were a leader of dragonmen or just another wingrider. That's the greater insult." Zadkiel shakes his head and clucks his tongue. "We all have our place. Doesn't matter what it is or how 'fair'," is thrown into air quotes, "it is. Just means a person has to work harder and be better at their job than the rest." One corner of his mouth twists into a terrible line, a sneer that verges onto something else. "But what does that matter? I'm not a rider. I don't have fantasies or aspirations to be one. If I don't Impress, I'll not spend the rest of my turns weeping bitter tears about what-could-have-been. But. If the dragons ask, I'll keep answering. That's part of being dutiful. That's part of being loyal." "Bullshit," says Quinlys, with a toss of her head, nearly dislodging her hat in the first place. "I'm not talking about fair. I'm talking about using the abilities of the people you've got. It's just stupid." But she's unnerved by his sneer, nearly a foot shorter as she is, and her foot, on the ground, falters slightly. "Loyalty has to be earned. And not using the skills you've got, the skills of the people you've got? That's just a waste. A stupid, fucking, idiotic waste." And yet, she doesn't leave; her expression, now, is a challenge. "Then I'm sure," Zadkiel finally intones, that twist in his lip only growing more dangerous and hinting at teeth, "that F'rain would want to speak to you so you can tell him how best to use the skills of his riders." He takes a partial step forward, his stride naturally fluid - and with a hint of something predatory. "But who are you to question? Certainly not a brownrider. Green, maybe. Or blue - I'd put a few marks on that. Aye, so I would." Another step. "And an outsider, besides. How do you know that my loyalty hasn't been earned? Or that my skills haven't been put to good use? Or are you now going to say that my life here has been a stupid, idiotic waste as well, stranger?" Quinlys gives Zadkiel a dismissive glance. "He's twenty turns old. Can't be any older than you are. No wonder you like him so much." She shakes her head. "You know nothing," she decides. "Understand nothing. You think-- shells, who even the fuck cares what you think?" Clearly she does, given she started this whole conversation. "I hope you do Impress, one day. I hope you Impress a little green, and spend the rest of your life following orders, the rest of your abilities and skills ignored because of the colour of dragon you ride. I hope you understand what it's like to be marginalised and ignored." That he steps forward has her watchful and wary, but not - yet - flinching. "I know nothing about you, it's true. But I do know that ignoring half your riders? That seems like the biggest waste of all." Now she turns - now she aims to leave. But those words are either falling on deaf ears - or plainly indifferent ones. By the time she finishes her spiel, Zadkiel hasn't moved an inch closer, nor has he moved back. There is a distinct sense of a cool, if not downright reptilian, study of her - and then it's over. She's done and he spits on the ground, just off to one side. There is no trace of a smile, not even that twisted one. His mien is schooled into a thing of indifference and, as she turns to go, he offers only, "Clear skies back to where you're from, stranger. I know they'll be clearer here when you're gone with that mood of yours." But he's not turning to walk away. Not until she's long gone. "I'm just glad we don't have people like you were I'm from," says the bluerider, calling back over her shoulder. It's not true... it probably doesn't matter. |
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Comments
Roz (19:05, 16 March 2015 (EDT)) said...
Oh, this was a good read. Get 'im Quinlys! ;)
Edyis (20:29, 16 March 2015 (EDT)) said...
Slow Clap.
Really great read, and really awesome to see insights from the other side.
Alida (22:50, 16 March 2015 (EDT)) said...
I'm imagining Alida watching from the shadows...and giving a very dark, twisted little smile. ;)
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