Logs:Old Traditions Resumed
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| RL Date: 7 March, 2014 |
| Who: Quinlys, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: In commemoration of weyrling graduation, R'hin shouts Quinlys a drink. |
| Where: Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 8, Month 3, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: A'rist/Mentions, Aishani/Mentions, G'laer/Mentions, Ghena/Mentions, I'kris/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Lujayn/Mentions |
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| Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr Made private by a thick, insulated door that blocks out most of the noise from the barracks beyond, the Weyrlingmaster's Office is a comfortable, quiet alcove. Instead of an imposing desk, much of the room is taken up by a large round table, with five chairs spaced around its edges. Beneath it is a square rug pieced together with twisted rags that stretches from wall to wall, just leaving room for the long bookshelves and filing cabinets. On the back wall, a tapestry of the Weyr's badge is hung, providing both insulation and decoration. In one corner sits a small green plant, growing strong despite the lack of sunlight in this windowless room. Beside it rests a tea cart, prepped and ready. It's been two sevens since the official graduation of the weyrlings, though only a handful of days since they've all been tapped into wings. That one of them -- greenrider Nita -- ended up in Savannah Wing might be the reason R'hin's skulking around the weyrling area, heading for the Weyrlingmaster's office. That he he's carrying an unlabelled dark bottle of something might well be another reason. "Quinlys?" he calls as he strolls in through the door. With no more weyrlings to watch over and no eggs upon the sands promising new ones to come, by rights there's far less reason for Quinlys to be in her office - but there she is, anyway, with stacks of papers piled up all around the big round table. Admittedly, this must be the very relaxed kind of 'working', because she's got sock-covered feet up on the table, and is balancing back on two legs of her chair, bouncing a ball off of the wall. R'hin's arrival has her miss her catch, those chair legs slamming back to the ground, as the weyrlingmaster lets out a little squeak of surprise. "R'hin," she says, hastily attempting to compose herself. "What do you want?" "A drink, and an ear. If you're further inclined, a strip tease, some baklava and a pretty runner to call my own -- though I'll settle for the first two." R'hin sets the bottle on a spare space on the desk, and there's a clink as a pair of glasses follow it. "An old tradition, when I was... when I used to be here, was to shout the Weyrlingmaster a celebratory drink once he," a grin, "Or she had gotten rid of the weyrlings. So," he gestures towards the bottle, as if seeking her approval or lack thereof. It apparently doesn't take all that much to earn Quinlys' approval when it comes to drinking, because she laughs, withdrawing her feet from the table so that she can sit in the more traditional fashion, while gesturing towards one of the other chairs. "You mean 'good job, you hopefully didn't kill too many this time,'" she says, with a smirk. "Nice tradition. Pity it fell along the wayside with your successors. I tend to keep a bottle in my drawer, but... it's always better when someone else does the buying, isn't it? I think I can manage the first two, at least. Just this once." "More like, I'm so sorry for saddling you with them for a Turn please don't immediately quit." There's a clink as, once the Weyrlingmaster assents, R'hin begins to pour liquid into the glasses. It's a dark amber looking color. "I took the label off so you don't learn from where I acquire my secret stash. Rest assured it's the quality of a... Lord Holder's cache." He's grinning all too smugly as he sets one glass nearer her, before reaching to turn around one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, sitting across it backwards, arms resting on the back. "To freedom," he suggests, as he reaches for the other glass. The liquid is strong and not altogether subtle, but it leaves a pleasant sort of aftertaste of fruit behind. Quinlys' expression takes a further turn for the amused for R'hin's description - and becomes increasingly smug of her own accord after that, which may have something to do with the described quality of the booze he's brought. Pale fingers wrap around her glass and lift it, her head bobbing in acknowledgement of the toast. "To freedom." She sips once; she sips a second time; she smiles, smugger still. "Not bad," she allows, as an understatement. "I won't turn you in even if it did come from a Lord Holder's cache. I hear you've been saddled with one of my-- former charges." There's a brief smirk for her assessment of the drink, before the bronzerider gulps down another mouthful himself. While R'hin's pale eyes might glitter at her comment about turning him in, he doesn't comment further. "Nita," the Wingleader confirms, and there's a little lilt at the end that turns it into a question. "I haven't got her measure, yet. What did you think of her? She was one of the silver-thread weyrlings, yes?" "She's..." Quinlys considers, mulling over the question as she drops blue-eyed gaze towards the dark amber of her drink. "She was one of my first picks for the silver threads. She... well, she proved less disappointing than most of them, this time around, given she and P'kavi were the only two who didn't drop out or get themselves into trouble." There's a smugness in her expression, even now, suggestive of the fact that she's being deliberate about not giving too much information in her assessment. A curious-yet-encouraging noise is echoed from R'hin's throat, but he doesn't otherwise interrupt until she's done speaking. Turning his glass this-way-and-that, he finally asks, "Did she not get herself into trouble because she wasn't causing trouble, or because she didn't get caught?" The distinction is, for the bronzerider at least, fairly important. The distinction has Quinlys hesitating, regarding R'hin levelly from beneath partially lowered eyelashes. "That," she says, "is a question you'd have to ask someone other than me, I think. If I knew she were up to something, chances are I would've caught her, don't you think?" The twitch in one corner of her mouth suggests she's aware that that's not necessarily true. "If you thought she was being clever, you might not want to dampen that particular trait, I imagine?" R'hin's speculating, pale eyes watching Quinlys carefully as he suggests it as if to judge how it's received. "Perhaps I'll ask one of your assistants." A beat, as he empties his glass in one hit. Casually, "What happens to your assistant weyrlingmasters between clutches these days? Do they rotate back into wings?" Those big blue eyes of Quinlys' can be guileless, when she wants them to be, even if the impact is rather ruined by the abrupt return of her smile, as smug as ever. "There is rule breaking," she says, "and there is rule breaking, if you catch the difference." She's been slower with her drink, thus far, but as R'hin finishes his, she does likewise: all in a gulp, all without flinching, coughing, or otherwise. The glass is slid back towards him, albeit not in a way that suggests dismissal. "Most of them rotate back into the wings," she confirms, tilting her head as if to deliberately seek a different angle with which to view him. "Some have the option of staying on." Her eyebrows are lifted. "Of course I know the difference. I just never let that difference actually stop me, when I was a weyrling." When she finishes her drink, R'hin reaches for the bottle to make sure her glass is topped up, before sliding it back her way, then his own. "So," he says, with a grin, "I can bait them on with a better offer. How about you, Quinlys? Do you have the option of returning to a... normal wing?" As she reclaims her glass, Quinlys is smirking again. "There are stories about you in the weyrling records. I can believe it." She doesn't seem to be surprised by the bronzerider's answer to her unspoken question; instead, she laughs. "I suppose you're a safer option than the real wings. You will run back to Monaco eventually, so there'll be no wing for them to be tempted to stay with." She regards him levelly over the rim of her glass. "We occasionally do a little flying with Snowdrift. Here and there. Let's be honest: I'm used to being mostly my own master." "I thought about having them expunged, once I became Weyrleader. Rewrite history, so to speak," R'hin pauses to take a sip of the liquid, looking amused, "But I figured I would be a suitable warning for future Weyrlingmasters about what they might face." His chuckling is self-deprecating, rubbing at his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "Mm, Snowdrift does try some interesting things; I quite like Mielline." Which is quite a compliment for him. It's the Weyrlingmaster's latter comment that earns a low-throated laugh, understanding and amused all at once. "I hear that. Aren't we all? And yet you train weyrlings not to be. Then I get to undo all that good work you've done..." hard to tell whether he's joking on that last part or not. "Well, maybe I'll suggest Mielline snatch up Nita, once I'm done with her." "I think I might have enjoyed going toe-to-toe with you as a weyrling," muses Quinlys, reflectively. "Though I'm not sure I would've won. I suppose it depends on which version of me we're talking about." A short incline of her head answers the comment about Mielline, but it's the rest that has her laughing. "True, true. But better we teach them how to obey first... what are you doing with that wing of yours, anyway? I was surprised, frankly, that any weyrlings ended up with you." "Perhaps a reluctant truce to avoid mutual destruction," R'hin decides, of a potential weyrling-him versus Weyrlingmaster-her. Then, with a hand to his chest and wide-eyed affectation of innocence, "Me? Nothing. Well... unless you want to rethinking being cycled back into a wing?" a lift of brows seems to be invitation, however casually it's tossed out. "And as for why I ended up with a weyrling, well, it wouldn't be very supportive of cross-Weyr relations to give a weyrling to every wing but mine, would it?" Quinlys is evidently pleased by R'hin's conclusion as regards their weyrling-weyrlingmaster toe-to-toe, her smile broadening as she lifts her glass in answer: she'll drink to that. That invitation has her expression turning more thoughtful, though she gives no direct answer to it. Instead, "I suppose that's so. We can't have you feeling like any less of a real wing than any other, while you're here. How much longer are you here for, anyway? I've forgotten." R'hin, too, drinks to that. Or merely uses her drinking as an excuse for him to do likewise. Her comment about a real wing makes him chuckle darkly under his breath, though he refrains from comment, instead answering her question easily, "Six months, give or take a seven or so. You're asking because you either want to get rid of us, want us to stay longer, or don't really care either way. Somehow I suspect you're in the latter camp. Unless there was a secret lover that got sent south with Polaris?" the speculation has him tipping his head to one side to regard Quinlys. "Mm, no. You're not much for the secret lover I imagine." Those fine, red-tinted eyebrows raise as R'hin regards her; Quinlys can barely keep the smirk from reappearing across her lips, right until he reaches his conclusion. "Got it in one," she agrees. "I've never seen the point of secrets like that. I mean, unless I was stupid enough to fuck a weyrling, maybe... and I wouldn't be. Besides, almost all of them are way too young for me. No, honestly, I don't care at all, except that you're recruiting, and up to something, and that just makes me curious. I'd care more if my sister had been among those recruited into Savannah before you left Monaco." "Oh, it can make things more interesting in the short term. But it rarely lasts," R'hin says, a tiny little smile that's fleeting and covered with the lift of glass to his lips. After he's swallowed, "Your sister?" Oh, that's definite interest in the bronzerider's tone. "Remind me which one she is again?" Quinlys gives R'hin a dubious glance for a moment, though she's easily distracted by that other topic. "Rysa," she answers. "Arysanne. Greenrider. She Impressed when Aishani did, and never came back. I mean, not that I can blame her, when it's the middle of winter here, not to mention the whole having a weyrmate and a kid thing, but... it would've been nice." "I didn't know she was your sister." The way R'hin says that makes it sound like he's very... familiar with the Weyrlingmaster's sister. But, then again, there's a glitter to his gaze that suggests he might well be doing so deliberately to provoke a reaction. "She settled in well with Monaco's lifestyle. Leiventh keeps an eye on her green." Provoke a reaction, however, R'hin does not: Quinlys' lips pull together, but it's mostly so that she can smirk. "Does he? He's a more interested sire than most, then. She... did. I suppose it's better, anyway, that she Impressed down there. My brother Impressed in Rielsath and... in Rielsath's last clutch here, and that was pretty weird for me. I mean, I was only an assistant then, but still. Once was enough." "He's interested in those I'm interested in," R'hin throws out casually, though there's a low chuckle under his breath even as he says it. He stretches forward to splash more of the liquid into Quinlys' glass, then leans back a little. When she mentions Rielsath and the hesitation that follows, he pointedly adds, "Svissath's? Yes -- that's an interesting line. Leiventh's a part of both lines. But yes -- a boss and a sibling would be awkward. Thankfully that's not a burden I've had to bear." "How useful of him," answers Quinlys, without pause, looking smug around the rim of her glass. She pauses the conversation in order to drink again, doing so slowly: the liquor is allowed to dwell on her tongue, hover on her lips. It may be a deliberate attempt not to react too much to R'hin's recitation of the brown's name, though she confirms it with a nod. "There can't be many dragons, if any, hatched at High Reaches in the past fifteen or twenty turns who aren't part of Leiventh's line," she muses. "Mostly in thanks to Cadejoth's claim to the senior," R'hin says in turn. "A feat one hopes he'll be able to repeat again." His support of the Acting Weyrleader appears casual but is likely anything but. "And Honshu now too, I imagine, now that Rielsath's senior down there. I suppose it should make me feel proud, but it mostly makes me feel old," he chuckles, and with a deliberately loud groan, pushes to his feet. It's undoubtedly an exaggeration given his level of fitness and tendancy to run around the lake nearly every day. Quinlys says nothing in answer to Cadejoth and any future claim to Hraedhyth, and the observant will certainly notice the abrupt and deliberate neutrality of her expression, which no doubt speaks more clearly than it is intended to. "Poor R'hin," the bluerider says, laughing. "I'm afraid to say that I have only a child's memories of your tenure with the big knot. Most of my former pupils don't even have that." She drains her glass, though, and adds, "I think I like your traditions, though. You might suggest to K'del, or whomever replaces him, to follow in your footsteps on that one." "I'll do my best to pass on the tradition. Some traditions are worth keeping," R'hin says, with a low laugh. He reaches for bottle and glasses -- once she's drained hers. "I'll keep the bottle for the next clutch. It tastes better with age, after all." He turns to go, pauses, and glances over his shoulder, "Next time I'm back Monaco way, I'll remind Rysa to come visit. One should never forget one's roots. As long as they aren't rotten," the latter is said lightly, and serve as parting words as the Wingleader disappears through the door. Quinlys opens her mouth, perhaps intending to say something more-- but R'hin's departure forestalls it, and instead, she leans back in her chair, and looks, well, smug. Why? Who can tell! |
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