Logs:Self Doubt
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| RL Date: 24 November, 2015 |
| Who: Quinlys, Silva |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Zaisyreth's first flight gives way to expression of self doubt and questions. |
| Where: Eastern Bowl, HRW |
| When: Day 13, Month 5, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Jocelyn/Mentions |
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| Quinlys and her staff having been taking young dragons out for their first proper flights one by one, the better to keep control over the situation (especially given the whole quarantine thing that's still in effect). Today, the bluerider's instructions to Silva are simple: "You and I are going to ride Olly up to the Rim, and Zaisyreth will follow us on his own wings. Is he ready? Feeling enthusiastic?" (Olveraeth is. Olveraeth's thoughts involve a galaxy of stars, constellations pricked out in brilliant light.) Silva's nervous for this moment, and done everything she absolutely could to make sure that Zaisyreth is ready for it. Oil? Done. Grooming within an inch of his life. She's probably heard about this from some of the others, but nothign quite prepares. She's dressed herself carefully for this occasion too, adding a bow to the uniform for a splash of color. "Yes!" Her personal blues are set aside for just a moment, this is Zaisyreth's time. Sunlight sparkles upon Zaisyreth's savannah as an expression of his own excitement. For this, if nothing else, Quinlys can grin. True, it's a somewhat smug grin, but a grin is still a grin; it counts. "Just think," she says, "in a few more sevens, you'll be up there with him. But for now, just this." She gestures the weyrling closer, then turns to climb up her blue's side, settling herself carefully between his ridges. "Need a hand up?" At least Olveraeth is obliging, lowering himself as close to the ground as he can in an effort to keep that climb simple. « You'll say something, if anything hurts, » is Olveraeth's instruction to the younger blue. « Or feels wrong. Or if you get tired. We won't fly far, this time, just in case, but we wouldn't want any accidents. » Um. Sudden uncertinty from Silva as Quinlys offers that hand up. "Is... this... um," she's so not quite that confident young woman who would have taken the candidate barracks by storm, "A bad time to mention that like I... have been on a dragon once?" Considering her new profession it is a little bit strange. So in other words, yes, she does need the hand up. Zaisyreth is bouncing in place with his wings half unfurled. « Yes! We are ready though, it is our time! » "No, it's exactly the correct time to do so," says Quinlys, clearly unbothered. She's probably quite used to this kind of experience, realistically. Patiently, she explains, highlighting the straps, Olveraeth's proferred forelimb, and her own hand as methods to clamber up. "And then settle between the neckridges behind him," she concludes. "You can start practicing on Zaisyreth, though obviously he's a bit smaller than he will be later on." « Indeed, » agrees Olveraeth. « Your time to life yourself towards the heavens. Your time to use those wings to carry you. Time. » Silva takes a moment to look between all the offered ways of getting up, and finally settles on a combination of forelimb and hand to pull herself upwards. The experience leaves her settled before the Weyrlingmaster with a half frown - she totally felt the muscles in the woman's arm. So a slight deviation on the conversation, "Am I going to have to get man arms too?" Honest, she doesn't mean it as an insult. It just comes out that way. "To like, get on Zaisyreth?" Zaisyreth continues to bounce in place, staying obediently on the ground until given the signal to fly, but he is ready. Dryly, "It helps. Most dragonriders are pretty fit." Quinlys may still have some extra padding about her middle, but she's otherwise pretty muscled. "But it's not like you'll end up with stupidly broad shoulders or anything, for the most part. You'll be fine." Luckily, the weyrlingmaster is not offended. "Right. Strap in-- I can see that blue of yours is ready to go." So is Olveraeth, and once Silva has strapped in he's quick to launch himself, smoothly. « Push off from the ground, » he tells the other blue. « And then use your wings to carry you up. A couple of beats and then glide. » "Oh good, because, like, I would hate to have to buy new dresses, you know?" Because that is so important at the moment. Fumbling with her straps Silva makes sure she's settled on the blue's back and is not going to fall out - a fate which would also ruin a whole pile of everything. "O.... oh!" That exclamation comes when Olveraeth takes off and Silva's just going to shut up and clutch the straps. Zaisyreth bounces in place a few times, stretching his wings and causing the sun to cascade off his multi hued hide with a particular sense of elegance. The third bounce has him in the air, though he comes back down again for one last bounce. This time his wings catch and hold and he lifts upwards music dancing upon honey kissed lands in exultation of flight finally. Quinlys glances behind her, amused by this particular sentiment, but doesn't comment on it. In the air, Olveraeth is pretty smooth-- he can't hover, but he can glide, slowly, waiting for Zaisyreth to get the hang of this particular movement. « Good, » enthuses Olveraeth. "Good," says Quinlys. « If you feel ready, you can start climbing, now. Can you see the Rim up there? Give it a try. » Olveraeth will follow, the better to be in position to try and catch the younger blue in case anything goes wrong. Silva misses the glance, her eyes all for Zaisyreth climbing up into the sky. Silent encouragement, because now that it is real she's much too worried that something will go wrong to actually speak. Quinlys doubtless can feel the tension in Silva's form, not all because of her unease to be flying period. Zaisyreth glides for a few more seconds before he beginst to strain his wings and work his way upwards. About a third of the way to the rim he falters in a beat, and drops steadily. No real danger, but Silva screams none the less. Because of course she does. Quinlys, too, watches the young blue's ascent: her gaze turns towards him, trained there to watch and study and be ready to react. As Zaisyreth falters, Olveraeth surges upwards, positioned just below in case of need-- and his rider murmurs, just loud enough to be heard over the breeze, "He's fine, Silva. Don't panic. If you panic, he might too. Breathe." « You're fine, » Olveraeth reassures the other blue. « Catch your beat. Drag and pull. If you need to stop, there's a ledge just there. » The occupant of that ledge won't mind visitors, right? Silva bites her lip at Quinlys' instructions to not panic... but she is panicking. Very much so. Her breath comes fast and she's shaking in place. This doesn't really translate well to Zaisyreth, but he's a determined cookie. A few more faltering wingbeats brings him to the top of the rim and he just barely clears it and bounces to a stop. « Ohh... that was more work then I thought. » His voice is a bit abashed at the realization. "Silva," says Quinlys, her voice low and calm and sure. "He's fine. He's fine. Take a deep breath." They're following Zaisyreth up, now, all the way to the rim where they land alongside him, Quinlys releasing straps and gesturing: "Go. Check him over. But he's fine." « You would have stopped if you didn't think you could handle it. » It's not a question. « You will always stop if you're unsure. » Also not a question. Olveraeth furls his wings closer to his body and adds, « But your wings will get stronger. Soon, this will be nothing at all. » For all her unease with flight Silva doesn't wait a single second longer than it takes for Olveraeth to settle before she's fumbling with the straps and straight up tumbling down from the older blue's back. Landing on a loose stone Silva slips and lands hard enough on one knee to rip her pants and scrape up the skin under. No mind though, because she scrambles right back up and runs for Zaisyreth. Other then abashed though, Zaisyreth is fine and he'll allow Silva to fuss over him and ignoring her "You never have to do that again, promise!" because he is perfectly happy and she's overreacting. « We'll stop, promise. » Quinlys elects not to comment on the need for Zaisyreth to get back down to the ground; instead, she hovers off to one side, dismounted with her arms crossed as she waits for Silva to finish with her fussing. « Good, » says Olveraeth, with a hint of amusement that suggests, just quietly, he's finding Silva just short of adorable. That's probably a good idea... because Silva would probably start crying at the thought. She really sucks at this dragonrider thing. Gently Zaisyreth pushes Silva away from making sure his wings are just fine and lowers her head towards her knee that is dirty, red, and bloody. « She needs a hug. » Which as much as Zaisyreth would love to be able to give, he can't really. « And a bandaid. » Hugs. Not precisely Quinlys' strong point, but at a nudge from her blue she steps forward. "You're all right, Silva," she promises, reaching forward awkwardly to rest one hand upon the girl's shoulder. "We'll get that knee cleaned up back on the ground, I promise. We'll--" She pauses, then starts unwinding the plum-coloured scarf from her neck. "We'll tie it up with this in the short term." « She's trying, » Olveraeth reports back, with a sigh. Silva's breaths are shallow as she works back against her fear, but she's not quite crying yet. A rub of her hand over her eyes makes sure that there aren't going to be any tears. "Ma'am.... what if he gets hurt? It's so high and - " but true to form, there are other things for silva to worry about too, "oh! no! It'll get all dirty and red doesn't go with purple at all." It's like a pingpong of emotions - and they still haven't gotten down yet. "He won't," promises Quinlys. "Going down is easy: he can pretty much just glide. And remember... he was hatched for this. It's what dragons do. There was a dragon hatched a few turns ago with a crooked wing, and even he flies just fine. Your Zaisyreth will be fine." Fine. As for the scarf? "It'll wash. I'd prefer to make sure it doesn't bleed too much in the meantime. It's fine." Never mind that it's the one C'ris gave her as a gift. Silva pulls in a deep breath, holds it, then slowly lets it go. It's hard to keep hold on that panic when Zaisyreth is perfectly happy and feeding those happy thoughts back at her. A rock provides a convient place for her to sit down and hang her head. "I'm... not really good at this." It's an admission she can make with all of the rest of the weyrlings very far away. "Like... really really really not good." A look up at Quinlys to see if she's deny what is the utmost truth. Quinlys moves to sit more or less at Silva's feet, and begins bandaging that knee as the weyrling speaks. "No," she agrees, after a moment. "You're not. But... most people aren't, three months in. No one's expecting you to be good immediately. But Silva... the only way you're going to get better is by working at it. Maybe you're not a natural dragonrider, but Zaisyreth chose you, and that means you are one. It means he believes you can do this job, and that's got to count for something." "Jocelyn is." A touch of bitterness there, and a sign that Silva measures herself against the goldrider and finds herself wanting. "And I do work." Harder than she has ever worked in her life. It's still subpar. "But... it's just... not enough. I'm not enough. He," a nod to Zaisyreth, "is perfect though." "Jocelyn's nearly twenty-five," Quinlys points out, after a moment's pause. "You're... sixteen, seventeen? And there are a lot of things she's going to have to work on. Can you imagine her in a position of diplomacy? Schmoozing Lords?" Quinlys can't. "Yes, he's perfect. And you are perfect for him. What do you see as your biggest failings as a dragonrider? Let's try and break them down and see where we can make improvements." "Seventeen soon." Which is another topic Silva doesn't particularly want to talk about. She wraps her arms around her legs and pulls them in close, as if she could protect herself from the rest of the world just by that action. "At least she," Jocelyn, "knows what she's going to be doing. I'm just like... do this, do it wrong, do that', do it wrong. I'm not as strong, not as smart, and just... not as good. I don't want Zaisyreth to get hurt. Sometimes it's like, why bother? I mean, it's not like I'm going to do it right anyway." Talk about a whole load of negative self talk, and te fact she's found herself isolated from the other weyrlings doesn't help. It's her sharp tounge's fault for pushing them away in an attempt to look strong, but it means she has a lot of time to self-doubt herself. Quinlys hesitates, drawing her mouth together as she considers what to say next. Finally, "If you give up, you're giving up on Zaisyreth, too. Do you want that, Silva?" She exhales, and then continues. "I know it feels hard. I know it feels impossible. But you can learn, and you will. Being a dragonrider is as much about your dragon as it is about you. And once you're graduated... more and more, there's freedom in it. But you need to open yourself up to opportunity, Silva, and to other people. What do you want to do with your life?" There is exactly zero answer Silva can give to that, because of course she doesn't want to give up on Zaisyreth. So instead she'll shake her head slowly while she bites her lip. But the last question, it's one Silva doesn't have an answer to. "I don't know. Like, I figured I'd get married and like, take care of a hold? But like..." A glance towards Zaisyreth, that so isn't going to happen now. A flicker of memory, Slowly... "I'm... suppose to ask why. Like why we work so hard? What's the point?" "Can you think of any reasons?" prompts Quinlys, lifting her gaze to look at Silva. "Why do you think we work you so hard?" "Uh," A question in return wasn't what Silva had expected, and she looks over at Zaisyreth as if the young blue could maybe give her the answer. But... nope. So Silva simply shakes her head again. "I don't know... like, I mean, golds the weyrleader like, they make sense. But I don't understand what the rest of us are suppose to do." "We're..." Quinlys pauses, clearly in an effort to work out the best way to explain. "You've seen harper plays, haven't you? The Weyrleader is our stage manager and director; he tells us what to do, and we do it. In an Interval, our job is to be all the places he can't be. We protect the holds, by riding sweeps over them to watch for trouble, or offer all assistance if they need it. Like at the moment, there's that plague wing? The rest of the wings are keeping watch, and the volunteers are responding to reports to get involved and be on the ground and help. And that's what I mean about there being room to find something you care about: you could end up being good at riding escort, for example. Taking Holders to meetings or important events in other places. Making them feel comfortable. And that's part of why we teach you all so much." A nod, Silva's seen the harpers at work. She listens quietly, without interupting. Twisting her fingers together self doubt sets in. "I.. guess I'm kinda good at making people feel comfortable." Sometimes. When she's not trying to be a bitch she can be pretty nice. She's got a good public face. Quinlys' nod is firm, even approving. "Exactly so," she agrees. "That is something you and Zaisyreth could do well. But you know what helps with that job? Understanding the politics of different areas. Understanding the history. You wouldn't want to walk up to Lady Crom, for example, and imply something negative about Greenfields-- which is where she's from-- or Nabol, where she was Lady for turns. We want our dragonriders to be well-rounded. And we need to be able to identify where your skills are. We also need you to all be healthy and capable and ready to jump into things. Perhaps you end up riding escort, but what happens if an incident happens and you're the only person there? We need you to be ready to step up, if you need to." Silva's dubious silence hints at her not quite believing Quinlys' especially when it comes to stepping up. She's never stood up for anything but her own desires, and Zaisyreth's presence to the side, she's not quite sure she can do it. Aruging won't do any good so Silva just looks up. "I guess I'm going to have to be okay with him like being in danger." "Dragonriding," Quinlys says, quietly, "is a life of service. It's what we do." But she's not going to push-- not even on this topic of danger, although she does add, "He can look after himself, I promise. And flying is going to be something he does all the time. You, too. Shall we head back down? If he's ready." Silva pushes herself to her feet and Zaisyreth pushes his head into her arms. She leands her head against his, as if somehow drawing strength from him. "Okay. Just... be safe okay? Please?" That to the small blue and Silva gets a promise from that. She's put her entire being into this thing with Zaisyreth - what would she be if he was gone? Bad toxic thoughts to think, but they are there. Turning back, "I'll wash your scarf, I promise." Quinlys' nod for the exchange between blue and rider is approving, though she holds her silence for it; it's their moment, and she's not going to interfere. "It's fine," she reassures on the topic of the scarf, quite as if she's already forgotten it (sorry, C'ris); then, she gestures towards Olveraeth, and it's time to mount up and get back to the ground. True to her word, going down is significantly simpler: a simple glide, all the home. And at the end? "You're going to be fine, Silva. I promise. Chin up." |
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