Logs:Second One
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| RL Date: 9 June, 2015 |
| Who: Quinlys, T'mic |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quinlys shows T'mic and Jorrth around some weyrs. |
| When: Day 12, Month 13, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
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| In ones and twos, the weyrlingmasters have been pulling weyrlings aside to take them on a tour of the available weyrs, spread out over days and even weeks. There's been some grumbling by those yet to be tapped for it, but promises have been made: everyone will get a selection to choose from. Patience. Today, at the end of drills, it is Jorrth's turn to get a mental nudge from Olveraeth. « Stay behind, » he instructs. « We're going shopping. » Sort of. Quinlys leans up against her blue's forelimb, snow dusting her hat, expression breezy. T'mic has not been among those complaining. He's not even been much among those talking excitedly about a weyr. He's been comfortable in Jorrth's couch, even now the blue is bigger, and by all indications, he'd stay there forever if they let him. But that doesn't mean that Jorrth doesn't answer with an easy, if still-slightly-more-focused-from-drills, « Okay. » Followed, a quick, « For a weyr? » Jorrth has been aware of the rehoming of many of his clutchsiblings. And Jorrth, at least, has been anticipating. T'mic doesn't run away either, even once he's dismounted, a hand kept on his dragon's (most recent) set of straps. « Right, » agrees Olveraeth, sharing an image of his own weyr, complete with the stars his rider can see as she lays in her bed at night; perfect. "It's a bit weird at first," says Quinlys, as her gaze falls upon the blueriding weyrling. "Having your own space. I never did, before I Impressed. But you do get used to it, and you'll want the space and privacy sooner rather than later. Is there anything you're after, in particular, in a weyr? Either of you?" The idea is intriguing, to Jorrth; more so now that his clutchmates have started to move away, that the barracks isn't the home of the whole herd these days. He understands it as a rite, if perhaps not yet a privilege. "Yeah?" says T'mic, hand still gripping those straps, not an actual search for more from his weyrlingmaster, so much as pseudo-agreement. "I don't..." And while he's getting to the word, "Know," Jorrth is providing, « There can't be too much wind through the couch. Or else the hay will blow away. » Oh, there will be hay. « A ledge with room for others. » He thinks. That sun-warm smell comes up. « Lots of sun if we can. » « Sun, » agrees Olveraeth. « Naturally, that is important. » No doubt he relays all of this to his rider, because the corners of her mouth turn up into a smile, and she straightens. "We'll find something that suits," she promises. "Once you've seen a few, you'll probably have more ideas over what you want, and what you don't. Mount on up." She gestures towards Jorrth, tapping Olveraeth's leg with the rolled up hide she's carrying for emphasis. "And follow us up." "Yeah?" again. Good thing T'mic kept hold of that strap this whole time. Up he goes. And, after Olveraeth, up Jorrth goes, too. Olveraeth takes his time, flying upwards: it's a nice day, despite the snow, and even if they just finished drills... well, why shouldn't he enjoy the thermals beneath his wings. Still, there's a job to do, and so, eventually, he circles down towards a nice, broad ledge, and lands. >---< Stained, Forked Weyr >-------------------------------------------------< This modest ledge juts out from the bowl wall, creating a broad space large enough for a pair of medium dragons to comfortably reside. The dragon's couch is at the back, just barely under the rock that forms the roof of the weyr. This area doesn't boast a fireplace of its own, though it benefits from the residual warmth from those in the weyrs to either side of it. Its only furnishing is a large table: because the soft wood that it's made out of is easily damaged, some creative youngster has decorated its surface with his pencil, engraving his name over and over in every direction, along with numbers, the alphabet, and even a few small doodles. At the back, the cavern narrows to a short hallway. Not six feet back, it branches, forking into two paths that lead to two separate smaller rooms. The one on the left is slightly larger than the other, though both are currently empty of all furnishings. The weyr is clean and in good condition except for the floor, which, from ledge to back wall, boasts large purply stains at irregular intervals. >----------------------------------------------------------------------------< Jorrth stretches those wings of his. They're shorter than Olveraeth's, but he knows how to use them, by now, and he does his best to out-thermal the other dragon, reaching out, reaching wide, eyes always set on the older blue. The reaction to Olveraeth's change in course is quick, enough he nearly overshoots the ledge, and even so has to wing back for a better, second-approach landing. No time to snort; the weyrling dragon is looking at the angles, from ledge to Weyr and sky. T'mic is just dismounting, glancing to Quinlys before wandering a bit toward the inside. Olveraeth seems pleased with Jorrth's flight; pleased with how he stretches, even pleased-- or perhaps just amused-- for that need for a second-approach landing. He sets his wings back, tidily furled, as his rider dismounts, her hands moving to her pockets as she follows T'mic into the weyr. "Poke around as much as you like," she says, cheerfully. "You spent much-- any?-- time in private weyrs before? No, right?" T'mic shrugs a little, hesitating, pressing his lips together into a line, and then shaking his head. No. He's pushed his own hands into his pockets, mirroring Quinlys without much thinking about it. 'Poking around' seems to mean going over to that table, first, and hovering over it, tilting his head as he looks over the markings. Jorrth goes to the couch, of course; what steps he takes might count as a little, bouncing trot. « What's your weyr like? » "No idea who used to live here," says Quinlys, breezily. "People come and go. Later on, you can move again... usually, it's something you request from the weyrwomen. Most people tend to get settled in their weyrs, though. I've been in mine since I was a weyrling, definitely, even though I could probably rate something fancier, now." She hangs back, content to let T'mic do whatever it is he needs to do. « There are shelves for her things, » says Olveraeth, sharing an image of Quinlys' cluttered weyr. « And a large ledge for me, and a couch with a few out to the sky. And a tunnel, up to the sky, in the ceiling. » He's very proud of that tunnel. « You have a tunnel to the sky? » It's impressed. It's curious. Were it not Jorrth, it would most certainly be jealous. He circles in around this prospective couch. « I would like to see it. » He lies down. He stretches out. T'mic, meanwhile, says, "Hmm," to the (lack of?) information about the former occupants. He circles the table, and then continues on downwards. And disappears, into the smaller room first. From there comes called, "How many rooms does yours have, ma'am?" in an informal way that makes the title strange. « I do, » confirms Olveraeth. « We like to stare out at night, when the skies are clear. We like to see all the stars, and count them, in our way. » The larger blue considers the smaller, shuffling his wings carefully. « How do you find it? » This couch, presumably. Quinlys, leaning up against a bare wall, smiles, but mostly just to herself. "It's really just one room," she reports back. "With a bit of a bubble area where the bed is. Most weyrs are really only one room, in my experience." This is what Jorrth is determining as he glances back toward T'mic, and then promptly tries to wallow a bit, so much as his wings will let him. And then he pauses, and looks to where his limbs are, in relation to that overhang of rock. « This is the first one, » says Jorrth, filing it into his memory, short, but not so much he won't be able to compare for this outing. T'mic resurfaces from the little room, and heads toward the larger one. "And probably not purple, right?" has a bit more life to it. « And so, » allows Olveraeth, « You have nothing to compare it to, just yet. That is understandable. » "Not purple," agrees Quinlys, laughing. "I never quite understood that stain in here, but... it's a little decorative, don't you think? I don't know. No hearth, of course, but it's still pretty warm in here; your neighbour to the right is from Ista, and keeps things boiling in her weyr, as often as possible, so it leaches through." Beat. "You doing okay, T'mic?" "I'm pretty warm, usually, anyway," says T'mic as he surfaces once more, hands still in his pocket, the usual shrug in his shoulders, and a bit of a smile back on his face. It's a once-over from there, a look up and around and then down to the purple stain. "I don't mind purple," he decides as he heads back toward the ledge. Jorrth gets up in anticipation. « Next one. » They're ready. Quinlys' own shrug is easy enough, and comes, after a moment's pause, with a sharp nod before she falls in step behind T'mic, and back out to the ledge. "Let's see," she says, as much to herself as to T'mic, as she clambers back up atop Olveraeth. "Oh, I know. Up we go!" It's not a long flight, this next ledge roughly mid-way up the bowl. >---< Bosom Buddies Weyr >---------------------------------------------------< Much worn, this ledge dips like a wallow itself, forming a shallow bowl cupping the entry to the weyr. Water likes to pool there, despite the groove carved to lead it out and over the edge of the ledge. One spot to the side features a bench carved out of the stone wall; sitting there reveals a charming view of the Weyr's lake, far below and just beyond the curve of the ledge. Beside the chair is the weyr's entry. Inside, the weyr opens into a single kidney-shaped chamber, not fully separated into dragon and human areas. It lacks, too, a distinct wallow, instead having two or three shallow depressions worn out by different dragons over the turns. The narrowest point of the weyr is just past that, and it features a series of hooks across it, bisecting the weyr and allowing a curtain to be hung there to separate rider and dragon quarters. Further in, along the outside curve of the wall, a storage closet has been hollowed out, its door hung with a curtain. Past that, the back lobe of the weyr has a rounded fireplace decorated with carvings that seem grown out of the rock as they support the broad mantle. On it rests a single multi-colored rock, shimmering with indigo, violet, and olive. Like many weyrs, this one also features a stone shelf for a bed, laid out with furs already. >----------------------------------------------------------------------------< Up they go! There isn't competition this time; Jorrth is properly on a mission. When they land, T'mic moves with a bit more certainty into the weyr, starting on one wall and letting it lead him around. "We'd have hay everywhere," doesn't exactly sound like it's a detractive feature... but put up for consideration. Jorrth is no doubt also considering, leaving a neat footprint in the snow gathered in that dip in the entrance as he goes. The hooks are eyed by each. The fireplace, by each. T'mic is the one who runs his hand over the carvings, though. "He really likes hay, huh?" Quinlys is amused by this, trailing after the blue pair as she does-- Olveraeth, once again, stays to the ledge, perfectly content to watch without getting too close to anything in particular. "I like the carvings. Some of these weyrs are just beautiful, you know? And these are the standard ones-- the kind they don't mind giving out to weyrlings." "The way it smells sort of... goes with him," says T'mic with a shrug. "I don't know. Maybe it's 'cause I like it, too. But since we went to the stables. And I guess it's hard to argue with it, if it makes both of us happy enough, right?" There's a little pull in one of his cheeks to go with this particular shrug. "What's this one supposed to be, do you think?" One of those shapes has been singled out, and he steps back, so his bulk's not blocking Quinlys' view. Quinlys' smile is bright. "Absolutely," she agrees. "Some things... you just go with them, right? When they work." The weyrling's question draws her away from her vantage point and closer, so that she can lean in and get a better look at the carving. "It's either something inappropriate for children," she declares, after a moment's consideration. "Or someone's depiction of a sandhold they built on the beach when they were a child." T'mic's "Oh-" is cut off from a full, rounded sound by the closing of his mouth. "Hah. Yeah, I sort of..." Is the weyr ruined forever more? The younger bluerider turns for a final look around, and then nods a little and starts for the ledge. « They're strange about things sometimes, » is all Jorrth has to say on that matter to Olveraeth. And on the other, « Does your weyr get cold in the winter? Does he need a fire? » Beat. "Sorry," says Quinlys, though maybe there's a 'not sorry' that goes with that, even if she doesn't say it out loud. Regardless, she trails after the other bluerider, back to her dragon, who is saying, « They're so strange. But fascinating, too. Why so bothered? And then they turn pink and even purple... » Science is fun. « We have a fire, but many weyrs do not. They hold in the heat well; I do not think he needs one, unless he is especially prone to chill. He takes off as soon as his rider is situated, gaining altitude for a few moments before landing upon the next ledge. >---< Lower Weyr With A Pair >-----------------------------------------------< Now this is a large ledge, not only substantial enough for a medium-to-large dragon land while a smaller one is perched, but with an outcropping that has a built-in bench that could comfortably fit three good friends... or a pile of straps when a rider can't be bothered to put them away in summertime. A little more than a third of the way down the Bowl wall, it's out of the worst of the wind, with a view of the craft complex and its greenhouse down below and a glimpse of the lake that's further yet. It could make a prime sun-catching spot, even if it's north-facing sun, and is only lessened by the other, smaller ledge up at an angle that shades part of it part of the time. Past the overhang and the outer curtain, the weyr has a truly large cavern for the dragon's time-smoothed wallow, with two steps up to an inner curtain and a smaller, human-scaled room beyond. Though recently aired and definitely clean, here there's a faint medicinal smell with a hint of sickroom, as though someone had spent his last remaining Turns here andvacated the place only very recently. It's still furnished, too, with a comfortable armchair by the simple ceramic-tiled hearth as well as a round table and three chairs, and clothespresses at both the head and the foot of the single-sized bed. The innermost wall has a quite large, finely polished sheet of metal that must once have been expensive; though too blurry to be the best mirror, it does reflect light and makes the place seem more expansive. Of course, close examination would reveal that one of the raised sections of its wooden frame is also a latch... letting the whole thing swing out as a low-linteled, high-thresholded door, though one through which adults would have to duck their heads to pass. At least the ceiling's slightly higher inside, where a narrow staircase spirals upward. >----------------------------------------------------------------------------<
Quinlys' nose may wrinkle at the smell of this weyr, but otherwise, her gaze is appreciative as she considers it. "Bluerider," is her answer. "D'resh was his name. Impressed way back in the Pass, lived here all that time, from what I know. He knew my parents, though he was much older than they are. The weyr above this one-- that was where his weyrmated lived. J'shel. But J'shel died turns back, now, and I think D'resh just got... lonely." She shivers, despite herself. T'mic stands, awkwardly, slowly, and rubs his thumb thoughtfully at his belt, over his hip. There's a glance back toward the ledge, where Jorrth is asking, « Have you ever seen what all the crafters do? » of Olveraeth. "Do you... you can get lonely - even with a dragon - like that?" « I have seen what many of them do, » confirms Olveraeth. « And watched them. They make things out of nothing; I wish I could do that. » Instead? Stars. « Her clutchmate, he is a crafter-of-stars. He makes things that lets us see them closer; I like that. » He's inspired by that. Quinlys pauses, then gives a short nod. "Sure," she says. "Our dragons are part of us, and we can't imagine being without them, absolutely, but... we need human companionship, too. We need other people." T'mic's hands find his pockets again, his arms in close against his sides. "So do you think anyone's going to live in the one up from here?" He still hasn't seen that latch. "Like, in my clutch?" « I would like to see how he makes that, » says Jorrth, curious and interested all over again. Quinlys' mouth twitches, just faintly. "The one above is taken," she says. It's possible she doesn't know about the latch. Or perhaps she's not telling; either is entirely possible. "Brownrider. Rh'mis. He'll be a pretty easy neighbour to have, I imagine." Beat. "Would be, taht is. If you were going to take this one." « It is delicate work, » answers Olveraeth. « I could not get close enough to see for myself, but he showed my Quinlys. » "I don't think I know Rh'mis," muses T'mic. « Could he show T'mic? T'mic can see. » And Jorrth can explain. It would be glorious. T'mic moves away from that armchair, from everything. "Third one," is murmured, more to Jorrth than Quinlys herself. What he does direct to the weyrlingmaster, with a slight lift of brows, is, "How many do we get to look at?" "No," says Quinlys. "You probaby don't." Whatever that means. "Oh, as many as you like, really. I mean, eventually we'll run out of things on my list, and then you'll be out of luck, but... we can look at least a few more, if you like." « I don't see why not, » Olveraeth decides, volunteering Quinlys' brother without a pause. « I do believe he'd like that. Sharing knowledge... it is a family trait, I think. » « Could we fly there? » It has that sense of a mental gasp of excitement, as the possibilities unfold in Jorrth's mind. « On a clear day, maybe, if we could stay until night... » Oh, look, T'mic. "At least a few more?" Tentative, but. « Not yet, » is regretful, but full of promise for the future. « One day, I will take you, and we will talk to him. » For the moment, however, Quinlys simply bobs her head in answer, smiling cheerfully: "A few more," she agrees, before leading the way back out to the ledge. In the air again, it's not long before Olveraeth is landing-- somewhat hesitantly-- atop a particularly virulent ledge. >---< Fantastically Blue (And Orange) Weyr >---------------------------------< It's blue. It's also orange, tangerine and even lemon and lime, a mishmash of colors that rather detracts from the positive features of this well-set ledge. The most recent paint is blue, but wind and weather - and poor quality paint - has worn it back in uneven patches, from streaky water damage down the weyr walls to scratches and grooves, decked out in pale peach and gold, upon the sprawl and sweep of the ledge itself. A particularly virulent shade of orange has worn most of the way through around the set of outside shelving, and the slightly creaky, worn-out rattan and wooden chairs set into the shelter of the bowl wall. Blue (and orange, peach, gold and crimson, though less of them here, out of the weather) continue on through the archway between ledge and weyr, finally giving way to the natural grey stone of the weyr's interior. Ah, quiet: no wind, no noise, no eye-blinding colors. Inside, the weyr is all soft shades and creamy furniture, its pale wood furniture clothed in natural hues, with driftwood and thin linen accents covering the many storage alcoves, and the lovely rounded sleeping room. The hearth is likewise sleek and smooth, its short mantle holding a simple stone vase, presently empty of flowers. Only along the edges of the dragon wallow near the door does orange explode again, matched by citrus-hued sacks full of sand for resting a dragon's tired chin. >----------------------------------------------------------------------------< They land, and for a moment, both simply... look. There are things unsaid out loud, shared between Jorrth and T'mic. It's T'mic who comes out with, "It would be easy enough to find in a storm, wouldn't it?" Once dismounted, the tour of this one is quick, taking in the layout, while Jorrth goes on to nudge at the sand pillows, stretch out in the wallow, consider the oranges. "You wouldn't get lost," agrees Quinlys, unable to keep that smile from blossoming across her face. "The last rider who had this one, she tried to paint it the blue, but..." As they see. "It's pretty nice otherwise, though, you know? Nice interior." "Yeah. Lots of spots," T'mic agrees amicably enough, looking back over the weyr. "Did she leave it because the paint didn't work, or..." 'is this another tragic tale of broken hearts' goes unspoken, though he half-winces in preparation. Just in case. "She's still alive and kicking, if that's what you mean," says Quinlys, breezily. "Just living elsewhere. It's fine, promise. Though... really, any weyr you've lived in has previous occupants who died, though for the most part, dragonriders at least don't intentionally die in bed." "It's not that they're dead-" T'mic starts to say. But Quinlys seems to have it, so he stops his interruptions, and just nods. "It's not that this one isn't nice, it just... It's just, what's next?" « Fourth, » Jorrth chimes in as he heads back to the ledge. "It's just not for you," says Quinlys, with a nod. "Can't blame you; it's not one I would pick, either, were I trying to find somewhere new to live." « Fourth, » agrees Olveraeth, cheerfully. « And soon fifth as well. And sixth? And seventh?" How high will they go? For now, however, they're heading lower: down towards the lake, further down the bowl wall. >---< Cozy Family Weyr >-----------------------------------------------------< It's on the smaller side of ledges, this one, large enough for two smaller dragons stretched out, perhaps, or two larger ones if they're willing to sit close. Still, it's in a convenient spot relatively low in the bowl, positioned to get a good view out over the lake. Ledges above provide some protection from the elements, though a small amount of afternoon sun still breaks through to these lower reaches; for a small dragon, this might make a very comfortable home indeed. Cozily furnished, with plush arm chairs about the tiny hearth and a massive bed already in place, the much larger indoors space has been sectioned off with intricately carved wooden panels that delineate each 'room', however small they might be. A living space area with a rounded table and four chairs rests on the opposite side of the hearth and arm chairs. One of the decorative walls separates this from the back where the bed and a bassinet sit. Yet another divider, though this one is a loose curtain that hangs, allows for privacy when changing in a small corner of the bedroom. Telltale markings of finger paints on the wall - the slight blue and reddish blush that no amount of scrubbing can take out - add character to each of the rooms. >----------------------------------------------------------------------------< In the fifth weyr, after the initial tour, the biggest thing to stand out to T'mic is, "There were kids here." It gives him pause enough to find one of those armchairs, and sit down. "Everyone does it differently here, don't they? For what they want. For people." Jorrth, in the couch of course, is mostly quiet, thinking, listening, perhaps lamenting the lack of wallowing and sunning space here, on some lower level of consciousness. "Mm," agrees Quinlys, keeping a close eye on T'mic. "My parents didn't think it made sense to keep us up in their weyr-- too many accidents waiting to happen. Some parents feel differently, of course. That's half the point, though: you get to decide that kind of thing. If you want kids. If you want to weyrmate, or just have regular sleepovers with someone. « Many dragons, » Olveraeth muses, quietly, « Choose to sun up on the rim. » And yet... and yet. Space is important. Private space is important. T'mic brings up one of those big hands of his and scrubs it all over his face, while leaning back in that chair. "So," around the heel of his palm, "we should probably pick one today." It's not enthusiastic, but it sounds wise, even coming from T'mic. "Are there any more you think we should look at? Last couple, maybe?" « I like the rim. » Says Jorrth. « Too. » And yet. Quinlys' nod is slow. "I could let you sleep on it," she says, "but come tomorrow afternoon, someone else will probably get a tour, and then..." There's no guarantee that the one he might wish to choose will still be there, after that. "Is the problem that none of them appeal, or that you're just not sure?" "No." T'mic shakes his head, puts both hands down on either arm of the chair, and pushes himself up. He looks to that little couched area. "I think - no - yes. The one with the carvings." He's made it sound decisive, and the verdict is delivered looking at Quinlys, while Jorrth gets up. « Sometimes waiting makes it worse, » he says to Olveraeth, only once the importance of the moment seems to have passed. « Decisiveness is a virtue, » answers Olveraeth, pleased and approving, his stars stretching out into forever. "Ah, the carvings," says Quinlys, with an approving nod. "I'l make it so. Congratulations, T'mic: you now have a weyr of your very own. Move in at your leisure... assuming you can fit it in at some point." She wiggles her fingers as she says it (jazz hands?) though what she means by that is far more difficult to determine. "How are things going? While we're here." "Maybe," suggests T'mic a bit wryly, "I can get Jorrth to stop growing for a couple days so that we can swing it." He looks about ready to sit when she asks that broad question, and with his fingertips on the arm of the chair seems to remember that it is now not even prospectively his. So the bluerider stands. "We're okay," is insistent. "The straps are taking lots of time. I want to make a pair that can stretch lots of ways, though. So maybe it can be some time now, but then we won't have to keep redoing them. And the writing's getting better. And we're good at the drills, you know?" Summary comes, as convincing as he can make it, "We're okay." Quinlys' smile is wry. "They're at that age," she says, nodding. "And Jorrth is perhaps worse than some. Adolescence, really. But-- it will even out. The stretching straps are a good idea; so's building in room to grow, as long as you can tighten them enough in the short term." Rolling her shoulders back, then shoving her hands back into her pockets, she adds, "Good. You're doing fine, both of you. You are good at the drills. Hard to believe they're nearly half a turn old, isn't it?" "He's getting so big." It's a sentiment that's been shared, in just that same fond disbelief, with many in and out of the barracks. T'mic shakes his head a little bit. "Guess it's hard to believe, except also... it's not. It's like half a turn's forever, too. That make any sense?" His posture's relaxed a bit, weyr decided and thoughts directed to his dragon. Jorrth pushes some air out through his nostrils, his mind now on, « Second one. » "Yeah," says Quinlys, with a laugh. "I know the feeling, believe me. Another half turn, and my job with you will be done. Full riders, ready to face the world." Her head shakes, red curls bobbing over her shoulders as it moves. "It's hard to remember a time before them, too. It feels... different. Wrong, in a way." « The second, » agrees Olveraeth. « You chose well. Should we let you go and look at it again? » Beat. « Will you be able to find it again? » "Ready to face the world," repeats T'mic, not sharing the thoughts that actually sound like they might be there. But Quinlys is watched carefully, and the younger bluerider nods. Sure. "I don't know about wrong... Jorrth knows about before, and there... it's important, before. 'Cause without it, it wouldn't be now. It's just... like a stranger you try talk to or something." « Of course, » and there's pride and significance in that. « Is it done, though? » Are they? Quinlys lets one corner of her mouth turn up slightly, but otherwise resists too much commentary. Except: "That's true. And a good way to look at it. It's not like we didn't exist, before, just that... everything changes, after. That's half the adjustment." She straightens, not quite gesturing towards the exit, but certainly showing some suggestion of movement. « It is done, » promises Olveraeth. « Your home is yours, and we will take it off the list so that no one can try and take it from you. » "Everything," agrees T'mic with a remarkable degree of solemnity. "We should go," is agreement to that hint of motion, perhaps also to something suggested by Jorrth. "Sleep in the barracks tonight, though. When we're done everything." He almost seems ready to insist they're okay again, but stops, just looking at Quinlys for a moment with lips parted, and then closing them. Change of course: "Thanks. For showing us all those weyrs. And you should put someone who's probably not going to get lonely in that other one. Or at least give them the chance. Too much loneliness... could be bad for a place." There's something crooked in the line of Quinlys' mouth at that last comment, but it disappears after a moment. "I'll keep that in mind," she says. "And you're welcome, T'mic. Glad you found something that suited. I'll see you in class tomorrow." A bob of her head... and then she's off. |
Comments
Alida (05:11, 10 June 2015 (EDT)) said...
Goodness...I almost forgot how much I like Ollie. :)
Edyis (11:31, 10 June 2015 (EDT)) said...
Science is Fun!
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