Logs:One For the Records
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| RL Date: 14 November, 2015 |
| Who: Jocelyn, Quint |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Jocelyn and Quint talk world history in the context of the plague. |
| Where: Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 4, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| It's shortly after the rush of the lunch hour, and things in the kitchen have settled down as preparations for dinner are beginning. Quint has claimed one of the kitchen's nooks, sheets of hide spread out in front of him. One is covered in some obscure notations, the other, one a half-written letter, and the third some report or other. The remnants of a meal have been pushed to one side, barely touched. The drums have been pounding, off and on, with increasing regularity for the last seven, and the harper's head is tilted, gaze distant, as if listening, even if things are quiet now. For those living in the weyrling barracks, life continues marching forward despite the news brought into High Reaches by drum and dragon alike; the riders-in-training still gather for lessons and mealtimes, even if some are nervously keeping their distance from others as best they can and fastidiously attempting to follow the preventative measures broadcast from Healer Hall. There's a short break between their lecture and practical this afternoon, which sends at least some of the class in search for sustenance between sessions. Jocelyn hasn't yet taken to wearing the recommended mask, but she does look terribly wary as she inches into the kitchens, bowl and mug already in hand. Two girls at a station set for food prep spare quick glances for the redhead before resuming their tasks, but the weyrling pays them little mind as her attention settles instead on the harper who's here and yet, not. "Harper, " is her low, brief greeting as she gets near enough for conversation, seating herself several chairs away. It's even polite. Her arrival doesn't rouse the harper from his reflections, but her greeting does. Blue eyes focus on her for a moment, before Quint offers an habitual smile, no less reserved for its belatedness. "Weyrling," he's silent for a beat, before he gestures towards the seat opposite him, in silent invitation, drawing hides one over the other, leaving the most obscure at the top. His, "How are you faring?" is politely general enough to mean anything from being a weyrling, to the topic that's been at the forefront of most conversations; the plague. Naturally, Jocelyn's own, pale eyes are drawn to that shuffle of hides, flicking up some moments later to meet Quint's measuredly. Her head tilts slightly in his direction in the wake of his silent invitation to join him, shoulders held taut. Thanks, but no thanks. Her, "I'll remain here if it's all the same to you, in case there is safety in distance, " is delivered evenly enough before she sets to work on her steaming bowl, from which faintly waft the scents of warm broth and seasoned vegetables. A spoonful and swallow of stew later, equally generally: "One does what one must, Journeyman." A beat. "And you and your apprentices?" The expression that crosses the harper's face is some mixture of acceptance and resignation, fleeting as it is before Quint resumes more solid composure. "You are eating food made by others, in bowls washed by others, and sitting in places where other people have sat. I doubt it will make overmuch difference, except, perhaps," with a fleeing smile, "To your peace of mind." He reaches for his, probably cold, mug, taking a slow sip of the contents. "As you say," he gestures, "One does what one must. We are taking shifts, so that we won't miss any news from the drums. Every time I hear them, I prepare in my mind what the all clear will sound like -- but it has yet to sound." Perhaps peace of mind is what Jocelyn seeks, despite having sent him on a wild wherry chase in the past. So says that wry curve to her mouth, anyway, as she gives a considering glance down to her soup. "It's a valuable thing, isn't it, to feel more at ease." Still, she's an attentive enough listener, brow furrowing throughout. At his last, a breath gets audibly released, spoon pushing back and forth inside of her bowl. "I'm not the world's best history student, but I don't recall anything like this being taught in a recount of recent events. Has anything like this actually happened before? After Moreta's Ride, I mean." "It is," Quint agrees, without hesitation, studying the weyrling while her gaze is on her meal. Whatever he reads from her expression isn't visible in his own, as she turns the topic to history: "Minor outbreaks. But no, nothing quite like this since Moreta's time." He lifts his hand, "And since no Weyr has gone amiss, we can safely assume that it won't be needed," he is the very picture of somber, warning teacher, dropping his hand after a moment. "One can hope, anyway," his fervent, near-inaudible murmur is accompanied by that distant, distracted expression again. "I didn't think so, " says Jocelyn with more assurance between further spoonfuls. More darkly, "This sounds like it'll be one for the records, Harper Quint. Future generations will hear of the Tenth Interval Plague - or whatever they decide to call it. Hopefully they won't actually have to use the knowledge themselves." A grimace twists at her features for his somber caution, face scrunching up briefly before it smooths. "One can hope, " she echoes before taking a long drink from her mug, studying his expression in the meantime. There's a slight ripple of a grimace from Quint at Jocelyn's naming of the plague. He's silent a moment, exhaling. When he speaks, his voice is even, assured, a teacher's patient tone, borne of long practice: "There is a school of thought, that all things that happen have already happened sometime in the past. That there is little that is new in the world, merely new to us. Records can only stretch back so far, despite our best efforts -- we lack the tools our ancestors had to commit things permanently." His fingers tap at the hides, drawing his gaze there, the tension in his posture barely discernible. "Unfortunately this means we must miss out on the true stories -- that of people. We must record what might be important to future generations, but stories like --" a brief pause, "Like the many families lost in Boll -- must fall by the wayside when compared to losing the Blood of Boll." Jocelyn tips her bowl toward her in an attempt to politely scoop the last few measures of seasoned broth up, expression shading thoughtful. "If that's true, then something like this has happened before. Maybe even before the records of Moreta's time, " she guesses, although it's swiftly followed up with a shrug: who knows for sure? There's silence from her end as talk turns to Boll; it stretches onward as families are mentioned, culminating in the low clatter of spoon-on-earthenware as she drops her utensil into the now-empty dish. "Surely they won't go forgotten." It's partly a question, even as she presses on: "Someone will survive there who knew them, even if only in passing." Won't they? "Perhaps," Quint agrees, his voice a well-practiced tone of neutrality. His fingers slip around the edges of the hides, pressing there tightly. "Even those who remember will pass on, one day. By the time the next pass starts, will anyone remember an excitable young seamstress? A gracefully aging artist of some talent who depicted one of the former Lady's grandsons? A fisherman saving up to buy a boat with which to support the young woman he hopes to wed?" The harper is silent, allowing enough of a pause that the timbre of his voice changes marginally, something unusually disconcerted beating briefly in the words that follow: "Those are the stories that will pass, as if they never were." There's an uneasiness visible in the way the redhead shifts in her seat, the way in which she studies her mug without draining it before she slowly sets it back down. The sound of it meeting the tabletop seems to stir her into careful answer, expression grave. "If, as you say, everything repeats itself, then it's not so far-fetched to suppose that these same stories will have a chance to unfold again among others." It could sound callous out of context, but the heaviness in her tone renders it anything but, even as she collects her dishes and casts a practiced glance over the assistants still at work. "Be careful, harper." Jocelyn may mean it to be a farewell; certainly, there's a little head-bob of a nod for him as she gets to her feet. The tip of the harper's head seems to concede the weyrling's point. It seems as if Quint's said all he means to say on the topic, but eventually, he murmurs: "Still, and all, it will be little comfort to those who remain." Jocelyn's parting words earn a twitch of lips, of all things, and: "And you, weyrling." His attention returns to the hides, spreading them out again in exactly the same places before, as if picking up where he left off. |
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