Logs:On Merit
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| RL Date: 9 January, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Quinlys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Beauty tips, gathers, executions, and politics; all in a night's conversation. |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 8, Month 10, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, Braeden/Mentions, Devaki/Mentions, Joremy/Mentions, Madilla/Mentions, Miska/Mentions, Wulfan/Mentions |
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>---< Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr(#1549RJ) >------------------------------<
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.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Farideh F 18 5'5 Skinny, Brown hair, Hazel eyes 2s
Quinlys F 30 5'4" Soft, Dark red hair, Blue eyes 0s
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Inner Caverns
>------------------------------------------< 8D 10M 36T I10, autumn night >---< Just days after the capture of the thieves in Nabol, gossip and chatter are still going strong, with many speculating and even casting bets as to the fates of the culprits. Naturally, the laundry being a rumormill unto itself, it has been non-stop with talk of Nabol, and separately, Igen; thus Farideh finds herself in the early hours of night - when most weyrfolk would be winding down or otherwise asleep - curled up in a chair near the hearth in the bubble cavern between the kitchen and living cavern. She has her legs crossed, feet tucked into the sides of the chair, with her knees resting on the plush arms. Her hands are occupied with a mug of hot toddy, her lips pursed as she blows away the hot tendrils of steam that curl up from the murky surface of the beverage; and her eyes, they're occupied by the dying flames in the hearth, looking-but-not-seeing. Quinlys is not drunk. Not... not really drunk, anyway; just tipsy. The bluerider's dressed up, her flared skirt perfect for dancing, her red hair tousled and half-undone. She's undoing her coat as she comes in, not teetering but certainly swaying a little, as if she's still listening to some harper whose music is silent to everyone else. She probably makes enough noise to be noticed, and even if she doesn't, her passage takes her towards the hearth - and towards the klah pot - in a way that means she's likely to fall into Farideh's field of view, though she herself doesn't seem to have noticed anyone at all. Anyone would have trouble not noticing that entrance, and Farideh does, from the skirts to the swaying, watch every little thing the redhead does, when her eyes finally lift from the embers. Her head tips to the side, her hands, with her prize of beverage, lowering to her lap. "Did you go to a gather?" the laundress asks with a little wrinkle forming between her brows; unspoken is the which, if there even is a gather. "Southern Hold," is Quinlys' prompt answer, offered without any attempt at identification; whoever Farideh is, clearly this is free information. "Lovely people, the Southern Holders, though the sand makes for blisters." She kicks off her shoes as if for emphasis - and sure enough, there's now a scattering of sand upon the floor. Mug in hand, she finally glances around, considering Farideh with idle thoughtfulness. "Southern," the brunette sighs blissfully, sinks back into the chair cushions. "How fine that would have been. Sand beats this retched cold any day." Farideh lifts her mug again, only to pause on its journey to her lips when Quinlys kicks off her shoes and sends sands all over; that's one way to enjoy the same tropical luxuries. "You're--" another wrinkles forms, in time to the question popping into her mossy green-brown eyes, "Quinlys, right?" One of them knows the other, at least, but who doesn't know the Reaches' Weyrlingmaster? Quinlys, nonetheless, seems gratified by the identification. "That's right," she agrees, draping herself over a nearby chair, one leg hooked after the armrest so that her foot can dangle idly in mid-air. "It was a good gather. I like going at night - still warm, of course, but I don't end up getting all burnt and blistery." Now that she's comfortable, she turns her gaze back onto her companion, lips pressed together. "And you are?" Farideh does not mind that her new companion is draped all over the chair, though she is watching her with that same interest as before. "I thought so," is what she says about her positive identification, taking a dainty sip from her mug and fitting her fingers more tightly around it. Resurfacing, she wrinkles her nose pertly: "Night is nice, better than here, but the sunshine is the best part." Her tone is defensive, as if Southern's reputation could depend on this one opinion! But, she turns her head to fully gaze curiously at Quinlys. "Farideh. My name's Farideh. I'm a laundress, here." "Oh, I like the sunshine too," promises Quinlys, indulgent in her smile. "My skin, however, does not. At least with no weyrlings to worry about, I can spend more time looking after it. Moisturise, Farideh. Never stop." That at least indicates she's picked up on the introduction, because she seems otherwise disinclined to comment. "A laundress. You enjoy that? Must be awful on your hands." "Have you tried the potions by Master Yvsaya from Healer? They smell like oranges and my sister swears by them for moisturizing." Since they're trading beauty tips now, apparently. This comes as easily to Farideh as breathing, or breezily, with the way she glibly suggests and then takes a long swallow from her toddy. "Hats, you have to wear hats," the girl imparts lastly, "otherwise, you'll be as red as the fruit." She sighs and holds one hand up, for perusal. "It is. I try and try, but they'll never be the same. I don't think I want to be doing other people's laundry forever, but--" Her lips part in a mischievous smile. "It is fun to know everyone's secrets." It seems that Quinlys has not, because she perks up immediately, repeating, under her breath, "Yvsaya. Yvsaya." It's only after that that she seems to remember her own drink, lifting it for a careful sip before forming a reply to the rest. "Hats," she agrees, with a sigh. "And I do. When I remember, anyway. The laundries are as gossipy as ever, are they? I'm not surprised. When I was back on the cleaning crews... well, the things we found out, you know? What's the current topic of conversation down there?" "Yvsaya," the girl repeats, too, "though from what I gather, her potions cost a pretty mark piece. Quality and rarity of ingredients or somesuch," while she waves her hand around flippantly. Being tan of skin, winter or summer, Farideh has little other advise save hats, so she skips right along into talk of the laundry, warming to the topic with obvious relish; someone has become accustomed to their new lifestyle. "We hear more than anyone else, I think, besides the kitchen, but those kitchen girls are crafty, getting the gossip while they're serving or cleaning up. Eavesdropping isn't as easy in the laundry, or by the pools." She stops, momentarily, to pout about that, but quickly recovers, tapping her fingers against her mug. "What everyone is talking about. Nabol and those-- you know. Rumors flying out of Igen. Talk about that healer-" and she stops herself, purposefully looking away; bad subject. Quinlys' shrug seems to suggest that price is no object - no doubt her stipend must be reasonable, given her position - and, in any case, she seems more interested in the immediate sense in the rest of what Farideh has to say. "But the cleaning crews," she says, abruptly grinning, "get to poke around in the ground weyrs. Some of them, anyway. But-- mm. I guess I should've expected that answer; gossip is the same, really, wherever it gets shared. The healer inquest?" Curiosity has her focusing more intently upon the laundress; her brows raise. Bad subject, maybe, and yet... Farideh's nose wrinkles at the implication. "I wouldn't want to do that. It's enough to wash everyone's underpinnings, and the stains," punctuated by a dramatic rolling of her eyes ceiling-wards; weyrfolk. "They also have big opinions on who would be great to sleep with, who they would weyrmate, and who they would kill. It's a game, they place, when the laundry gets dull, which is always does." She buries her nose in her mug, to take another long drink, and makes an 'mm' sound when she lifts her head to look at Quinlys. "Yes, the inquest thing. One of the girls heard a rider who knows someone at the Hall who said Telgar's been all over it, on flimsy excuses." "Oh, that game." Apparently, Quinlys knows it will, because she grins. "I never much liked it, actually, because my answer was usually, 'Well, I'd sleep with all of them, except for that one who is a dick and he can die.' Weyrmating? No thank you." Abandoning her klah - apparently she really isn't going to drink it - the bluerider angles her head back, thoughtful. "Well, Telgar's got an interest in it, certainly. So do we. We just have to hope the healers they picked aren't morons. It'd... make me uncomfortable, frankly, if they decided Miska was innocent of everything. The precedent of it." "You wouldn't weyrmate anyone?" Farideh asks, with a laugh, turning slightly in her seat so that she can half-lean against the arm of her chair opposite Quinlys. "There has to be at least one or two?" But she, notably, doesn't argue about sleeping with 'all of them', and that one who is a dick can definitely die. "Miska is his name? That's a nice name, for someone so many people hate," she says, wrinkling her nose again. "What do you want to happen to him? Strip him of his rank? Exile him? Throw him between?" Perhaps Miska is the one who can die! "You wouldn't--" she frowns, "you would never live without your dragon?" "I'm no good at commitment," Quinlys explains, with another of those easy shrugs. "I like... variety. Keeps me from getting bored." Pointing her toes idly, she hesitates over the rest of her words. "I don't want him practicing his craft with dragonriders; beyond that, I don't really care what happens to him, except I'm not usually a big fan of killing people. Even those Nabol guys... maybe. I don't know. It's complicated, isn't it? And... no. No, I could never live without Olly. I wouldn't be me without him, you know? I'd be half a person. Less, maybe." "That's why it's a game," Farideh points out, helpfully. "It's just for fun." She lets her good-humored expression wave in light of the seriousness of their discussion, and has a thoughtful mien as she listens, clutching her mug absentmindedly to her chest. "I heard he was a midwife. How'd he get to decide if someone dies or not? Shouldn't he be-- delivering babies?" she asks, frowning. "I don't know about those Nabol guys. They stole and killed people, maybe they should be killed, but-" She tips her head back and forth. "I don't know what that's like. I don't have that kind of experience. I don't even have a firelizard, though I have a sister, and that's not the same, but I think I'd be outcome with grief and wouldn't know what to do with myself if she died." Her gaze is inquisitive, on Quinlys. "I can try to understand, and I don't get how he didn't." Quinlys, shaking her head, "Clearly, it was a mistake. The weyrhealer should never have put him in charge; if he's guilty, then her judgement can't be trusted, and who wants a weyrhealer they can't trust?" As for the Nabol guys? "I'm just glad I don't have to make that decision, you know? I don't want people's lives in my hands. Not... more than I do when I train people, anyway, which is different." She draws her leg off of the arm of the couch, now, dropping it to a more sedate position on the ground, fingers fussing with the edge of her skirt's hem. "He lacks empathy, seems like. Must do. And you don't. That's a good thing; everyone should have empathy." "What if they find them guilty? Will you have a problem with the Weyrhealer too? I think," Farideh hedges, "she might have made a poor decision, if she chose him. People make mistakes. I don't think I would hold that against her." Her thin shoulders come up in an indecisive shrug, her head inclining in acknowledgement of the bluerider's stance on the thieves, or more so her desire not to pass judgment on them. "It is a tough position to be in, and a tough decision to make, but I think if they gave them a lesser sentence, they would be inviting others to do the same and spitting on the families of the people who died too. Not to mention how pissed the holders would be for working on the tithe only to have it go missing, and the thieves sitting in some cell somewhere, eating bread and drinking water, which is more than some people have." And here, she has an opinion, albeit a strong one. "Hm. Empathy. I was going to call it common sense," with a little cheek. "Common sense," intones Quinlys, "isn't always so common." The rest, however, has her hesitating, clearly working through some hefty thoughts before she says, "One poor decision's not enough to taint a person forever, no. It only-- gives you pause. Makes you more cautious. We'll see. She's been around a long time; people seem to respect her. What if they send the prisoners to the mines? At least then they're doing something constructive, even if they are still eating... and breathing. Did you ever meet Aishani? High Reaches executed her father. There's always consequences." These are some deep thoughts, and Farideh has little to show in the wake than a pensive expression, her fingers curling and uncurling around her mug idly. "Aishani-" she perks up, a bit, "that goldrider who-died. Unfortunate, but, that worked out well. Her fathered was executed, and she became one of the leaders of the Reaches. Did the punishment fit the crime?" "Ironic, isn't it?" Quinlys' expression falls just short of smug for that; perhaps it might have been outright so, if things were different. "Pretty sure she wanted to destroy this weyr for what they - we - did. And then... her father was a renegade, like the Nabol ones. He led a whole family of them. Left them destitute; most of their men, caught and killed, or sent to the mines." Her voice is quietly thoughtful. "Destroy the Weyr? Why did she even stand? Why did the Reaches let her? If they knew--" Farideh's forehead is full of wrinkles, from frowning so hard. "It makes you wonder what the dragons find, when they find someone." She, not being one to dwell on thinking about thinking, purses her lips and shifts her weight to press her back against the chair cushion. "It left an impression, though, didn't it? If they killed people, if they left others within food or shelter, then it only makes sense that they should suffer the same, otherwise--" She shifts, again, and seems uncomfortable. "Otherwise, what else can you do to let them know it's not okay? To stop others from doing it?" "She borrowed someone else's identity," explains Quinlys, rubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. She's definitely no longer even a little drunk; so much for the high of a good party! "So no one knew who she was. She... announced it, publicly, after she was Acting Weyrwoman. After a hatching, even. I guess she figured she'd destroy us from the inside." Plainly, Quinlys' feelings towards the now-deceased weyrwoman are complicated. Farideh's discomfort has her pause. Then, "Mm. As long as you don't then encourage revenge. It's... a proportional response, I guess? That's the difficulty of leadership. And that is why I'm very glad I Impressed my Olly and not, say, Ysavaeth or Iskiveth." The laundress' eyes get large, like saucers, and she scrambles to sit up taller, leaning forward with her one forearm on the chair arm. "No! I hadn't heard that. I suppose in deference to her death, but she pretended to be someone else?" She really should have a mind to be embarrassed, given her own circumstances are similar; still, she's avidly waiting for the bluerider's response. "Why didn't they send her away, to somewhere that wasn't-- a place she wanted to destroy?" Farideh's hot toddy is basically forgotten, cooling in her hands. "You're glad you Impressed a blue? And not, a gold? Don't you wish you had-- power? Fame?" All of those things and more, her tone conveys. "It's got to be a hard life, with all that responsibility, not just for people, but for dragons too." Quinlys is as pleased as anything that she gets to share all of this; as if the sharing of information is power, in its own right (which it surely is). "Oh yes," she says. "She swapped identities with a seamstress from Crom, Brieli, and pretended to be her for turns. I suspect, in the end, it was safer to keep her here, where people could keep an eye on her; in a way, anyway." The bluerider relaxes a little again, leaning backwards into her chair, as she says, "No, I really don't. I have work I enjoy, with responsibility, but I don't have to make all the difficult decisions. Anyway, I have some fame, plainly, if you knew who I was." "I wouldn't have wanted her around. I would have sent her as far away as possible. Monaco? Southern? Whichever would have her. Keep her out of the affairs of the Reaches, out of the northern continent completely, but--" Farideh isn't in a position to make any decisions, much less decisions that matter. She moves to tuck her legs under her body, leaning her head against the chair's back. "Of course, people here know who you are, because you're a public figure. I didn't, before I came here, but if you were a goldrider, everyone would know who you were." She laughs, lightly, flashing teeth. "No one wants to have to make the difficult decisions, I think. Wouldn't life be grand if you didn't have to and still have all of the prestige? I don't envy them that. No, I don't envy them at all." That surety makes Quinlys smile again, without comment. "If I were that kind of public figure, I'd never be able to go anywhere and do anything without people hearing. People would report on what I wore, and who I talked to, and-- ugh. I'd hate living like that. No, other people can keep that prestige; I'm happy as I am. Besides," her chin lifts. "I got my job because I was qualified for it; on merit. You can't really say about that weyrwomen or weyrleaders. Or lords and ladies, either, you know?" "Not normally," Farideh agrees, uncertainly, while she contemplates something on the tip of her tongue. "Acting Weyrwomen? Acting Weyrleaders? And, then, there's Igen-" Which just causes her to frown. "From the rumors, people were dissatisfied with Lord Wulfan and Joremy made those same people respect him. He might be said to have gained his spot on merit, which is only if the conclave chooses to acknowledge his Lordship." She chews on the inside of her lip, gaze meandering back to the hearth and the ever-dying flames there. "I wouldn't mind people talking about me," she says at last, ingenuously so. Quinlys' expression allows that, maybe, there might be some merit involved for people in acting positions, although she points out, "An acting weyrwoman still needs to have been chosen by a gold, and that doesn't necessarily mean you're amazing." Plainly, though, she's more interested in Igen, and says, "There's certainly some merit to Joremy's position, I'll give you that... although it certainly helped that he was born into the right family in the first place. Why do you want people talking about you?" "You don't have a high opinion of goldriders? They have to know something we don't, right?" Farideh asks, her lips twitching with repressed humor. "And, it's technically up to you to make sure they're up to par." She grins, then, wide and full of mirth, but sobers somewhat when she switches back to talk of Igen; that somber topic is enough to sag her shoulders a bit. "What about Lord Devaki? He wasn't originally of High Reaches, he was one of those exiles," with a flick of her hand, frivolously. "Why? Why not? To have your name on everyone's lips. To have them wanting to emulate your style, your manner, wanting to be you. That's a high form of praise." "When they earn it, sure," explains Quinlys, though her mouth has already twisted in mirth for that second comment. "Sure is. And that's why I make sure they earn it; no coasting in my weyrling barracks. Devaki... well, sure, he's probably another one, though you could also argue that he talked his way into marrying the right person, and who knows if he put pressure on poor Braeden." She's rather more dubious for the rest, but shrugs, shaking her head as her shoulders relax again. "If you say so, I guess." "I'm sure," the brunette avers, but laughs. "Those are some bold statements about a Lord, and your own." Farideh doesn't sound offended, just impressed, that Quinlys is so bold with her words, even when discussing High Reaches' principal tithing Hold. She unfurls her legs and pushes up from her chair, standing on her own two feet and giving a little stretch upwards with her arms. "I should go to sleep. Laundry in the morning, more gossip to cultivate. It was nice to meet you," and she wiggles her fingers in a wave, before turning on her heel and, mug still in hand, makes her way towards the resident dorms. Quinlys's answer to that? Nothing but a laugh, and, to follow the laundress out, "Sleep well!" |
Comments
Tela (18:14, 11 January 2015 (EST)) said...
Poking around in ground weyrs. :O
Fun and girly and deep stuff and old information and yes! moisturize!
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