Logs:Social
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| RL Date: 16 November, 2013 |
| Who: G'laer, Quinlys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: In early month 2 of weyrlinghood, G'laer pays Quinlys a visit. He might have feelings after all. Thankfully, if he does, only those behind closed doors have the proof. Mostly. |
| Where: Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 12, Month 4, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: A'quin/Mentions, B'gherio/Mentions, Gallania/Mentions, Ghena/Mentions, Lysanne/Mentions, M'raz/Mentions, Rh'mis/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Back-dated to the day after Lythronath makes a mess of Rhey's cot. |
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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.
G'laer wanted nothing to do with it, really. Let the children have their... fun? Whatever. However, G'laer's wants never get to be so simple now that he has Teisyth. She insisted he help collect feathers, and more importantly, she insisted that those feathers he collected end up in her pillow. Something about something Rosvelth told her about fluffy treasures. Fluffy was her word, not his. And some battles are too fearsome to win. So, Teisyth got her feathers and G'laer looked extra sullen the day before. Now Teisyth's asleep with her feathers, contentedly, and G'laer has slipped away and knocks quietly but purposefully on the Weyrlingmaster's office door. It takes rather more seconds than perhaps it ought for Quinlys to respond to G'laer's knock; he won't see it, but she glares at the door, frozen, as if she's half hoping whoever it is will just go away. But she's the Weyrlingmaster, and sometimes that means doing things a person doesn't want to... and so, heaving a quiet sigh, she says, "Come in." At least she's mostly managed to regulate her expression by the time the door opens. "Quinlys," G'laer greets her informally once the door is closed behind his efficient step within. Maybe it's the ghost of the mostly banished expression that has him asking, "Is this a bad time?" and offering, "I can come back," with a gesture toward the closed door he just came through, or maybe it was all part of his intended tactic to begin with. Something sharpens in Quinlys' expression at the informality of that comment - and this, too, may enlighten G'laer further as to the bluerider's mood. "No," she says, with another sigh. "You're here, now. What do you need, G'laer?" During her predecessor's rein, there would be an offer of tea and cookies around about now; Quinlys, however, has removed the tea trolley, and her klah pot is, for the moment, cold and empty. At least the table's still here: plenty of places to sit. It's not the warmest of welcomes, especially with the sharpening of the expression, but G'laer doesn't get put off easily. "Well, ma'am," There's a slight emphasis to the word. It's not sassy or humored, more simply acknowledging despite his initial informal greeting, that he recognizes her authority, etc., etc., and so forth, all in one simple word. "Things've been busy since hatching," Fact, "I hadn't really had a chance to say hello." Beat. "After yesterday, I thought maybe it'd be nice to see a friendly face." Can he mean himself? After all, he and Quinlys never were close; in fact, does Quinlys even really remember G'laer as more than 'someone she was in the nursery and later harper classes with'? Certainly, G'laer's words don't seem to convince Quinlys, whose gaze has narrowed, now; who seems outright dubious, even. "So... this is a social visit," she concludes, giving him a lengthy glance. "I mean, sure, I remember when you were nerdy little Gal, but... we haven't spoken in turns." If what they did as kids counts as 'talking'. G'laer lets the one side of his lips pull into the smirk that passes sometimes for his friendly face. The dimple peeks, but doesn't fully form at the description of his younger self. "Oh, come on. I was never that little." Well. Never too scrawny, anyway. "It is a social call." He admits, then shrugs, "But I didn't actually mean my face." He steps to the edge of the desk, withdrawing from his pocket a very faded scrap of green cloth, or so it seems until he leans and delicately places it on her desk. That's when the outline of the dragon becomes clear with its tiny stitched eyes and roughly-etched thread outline. "Seemed to me the last time I was in here," Must have been with one of her assistants, mustn't it? "That the decor was lacking a good luck charm. Of course, I could be mistaken?" He offers this as his eyes start casting about at her choices of decoration. Maybe there is something here that Quinlys would call her lucky charm. Quinlys just... stops. In those first few moments, it may be difficult to determine whether she's pleased or upset; it's entirely possible that she's not sure herself. In the end, her expression seems to settle on something resembling nostalgia; she exhales, a sigh. "You kept one, all this time?" she wonders, reaching out a hand to hover above the piece of fabric, not quite touching. "Two, actually. Can't give away all my luck." G'laer's baritone is briefly wry. "I started with more than two, but my little sisters..." He lets that trail, shrugging. He can't mean Ghena. She was a little more than a twinkle in the eye when he left the Weyr, turns after the particular fad of comfort objects (and what gave rise to them) had faded somewhat in memory. But the others. (So many others.) "Took the two with me to Crom when I went. One green for Faelaerith and one blue for Kozeranth." His parents' dragons. "They've served me well enough over the turns. Even if they mightn't actually be lucky. I thought maybe it'd bring a little bit of calm to all the..." He trails off, eyes moving to the fabric as he decides on a word before looking back to the red-head. "Excitement." Quinlys gives a tiny little minute nod, the kind that suggests that while she's listening, she's also lost in remembrance. "I always intended to keep mine," she says, finally. "For always. I was going to hang them in my weyr, when I had one, and that way they'd always be with me. But... I lost them." Now, finally, she glances back up at G'laer. "Thank you." It's genuine, utterly heartfelt. "I'd forgotten, somehow. Most of your classmates won't have any memory of the comet pass... shells, that makes me feel old. Sixteen turns since it ended. Were you... are you old enough to remember the very start?" She sounds cautious, suddenly. G'laer clears his throat. It's not for her remembrance or to draw her attention, but rather because the quality of his gaze as it returns to the fabric and as she speaks has shifted to something too soft for public consumption (which isn't to say as soft as others would be embarrassed by, but soft enough that G'laer would be). His cheeks tinge with the slightest color as his words turn a little brusque, "Yes. Well. It was-- a trying time. And they did have a way with some of us." These little flimsy fabrics of dragons with their crookedly stitched outlines. His blue gaze returns to Quinlys. "No. They won't. I admit, sometimes I feel very old." The question she asks about his age receives some consideration, some hesitation and he settles himself in a chair across from the desk. "You don't remember?" It's asked simply. Gaze fixed upon G'laer, there's nothing of her usual smugness in Quinlys' expression; she remains off-kilter, soft in a different way. "It worked," she agrees, simply. "I didn't feel so frightened or alone, anymore, when I had my little dragons to protect me-- me and my parents. No, I don't remember exactly how old you are. I thought we were around the same age, but..." she shrugs. "It's not like it matters, okay? You're the oldest weyrling, and it's weird, still, having weyrlings from my generation, but whatever. Okay?" G'laer's smirk shifts to a softer half-smile. "I remember once pinning mine to my father before he left for the day." So it would protect him. He shouldn't need to say that aloud. It's shared quietly, though his eyes are not on the woman again, but elsewhere in the room. After a moment of silent consideration he turns his gaze back to Quinlys, expression becoming serious. "Would it matter," his exact age, "-if I lied, to get my spot on the Sands?" At this point, he's not concealing that he did. The question is phrased candidly but with the weight of what admitting it could mean. No: that doesn't need to be explained out loud. Quinlys' expression shows instant understanding; her nod, though barely visible, certainly echoes it. His question, however, has her exhaling. "It's a little late for it to matter, G'laer," she says, finally. "It isn't as though we can take Teisyth back and give her to someone appropriate." She shakes her head, letting those dark red curls dangle about her shoulders. "I don't like that you lied about it, but... let's be realistic. It's a rule because, mostly, people are settled in their lives by that point. If you were willing to give it all up... well. What's done is done. But lying is not something I value, not for any reason." "I don't make it a habit." G'laer's words are firm, "But you'll see that in time if you care to." His hands slip from his knees and move to clasp between them. "I'm your age. A bit beyond where they'd've let me stand. Maybe they would've anyway, but..." He glances back toward the door and to where Teisyth dozes beyond. "I couldn't take the chance. Sometimes," He thinks, then corrects, "Seldom, the stakes are worth the dishonesty. She needs me." Beat. "I need her." For all that she isn't some big buff bronze. "Just because I'm your age doesn't mean you have to see me any different, I know. But sometimes it's hard for me to be out there. With all of them." He takes a breath, "Twelve turns sometimes means nothing, like with training," At least the dragonrider-specific bits. "Sometimes... It makes me feel lifetimes apart with nothing to bridge the divide." Quinlys is still watching G'laer by the time he's finished talking, and this time, now, there's something else in her expression: not sympathy, but certainly understanding. "I can't imagine," she admits. "Some of them are just so... young. It's a young class, this one, with you the only real outlier." And what an outlier he is. "I can't treat you different from the others. Actually... I'm more likely to be harder on you, let's be honest. Show 'em how an adult deals with stuff. Be better. Because you all have a lot to learn, regardless of who and what you are, where you've been before." There's a slight nod to G'laer's chin to acknowledge at once all the things that she has said. "I know training in the guard at Crom is different than training to be a dragonrider." It's another kind of acknowledgement. "But I do know what it is to train, to be held to a hard standard, and to rise to the occasion because that is what is necessary. I can take it." Her being harder on him. "But you should know," Another but, and now he looks to meet her gaze evenly. "I'm a hard man. I'm not little nerdy Gal anymore, and haven't been in turns upon turns." There's a pause, "But I'm also at a disadvantage, and I know it. Young though this class is, they're going to have turns to practice and perfect what I need to learn faster and better so that when I'm a wingrider, I can integrate with my peers, and not be stuck paddling in the kiddy pool." Beat. "Will you help me? Outside of regular training. Can you give me extra?" He doesn't have remedials eating his time, after all. Too many turns of study under his belt for that kind of thing. It's a serious question, and one posed with its due weight. He knows it's not a small request. Quinlys' gaze narrows in consideration as G'laer talks. It's a less suspicious expression than the one she wore earlier, focused instead upon evaluating his words - and very obviously so. "My concern," she says, finally, "is that you'll get used to considering yourself separate from your peers. That you won't integrate with your clutch-- and frankly, I do think that is important. For the better part of the next turn, you're one of them. Why should I let you separate yourself further?" "Because like it or not, we are different. It doesn't mean I can't or won't work with them. I would be the most effective teammate by learning things well and being able to model and share that learning. Some things will take me longer to learn because I'm not as young and things mightn't stick as easily. And I have no doubt there are things some of them will help me learn, but I, in turn, should be able to offer them the best of me, which is my discipline and self-study. My mentor is helping, but he's not as current with the workings of young rider life." No, greenrider M'raz is edging ever closer to riding with those already in retirement. "I need more than just him. I need help from someone who understands what the goals of weyrlinghood are, who-" G'laer probably would go on with his Very Serious and even a touch impassioned argument, but there's a thudding on the door that interrupts him. Nowhere as neat as his own knock. More like a tail, or maybe a nose smacking the door enough to make the sound. Throughout G'laer's argument, Quinlys' gaze never leaves his, and her expression remains-- well, as impassive as hers ever gets, though it's still possible to see doubt in it. She'd probably break in and shut him up before too much longer, but that sound at the door has her half-jumping, gaze finally breaking away so that she can stare at the closed door. "Sounds like you're needed elsewhere," she says. "Actually," G'laer answers with a sigh, "She wants to join us." At just over two months, she's still of a size where that's feasible. "She feels she should have a say in this." And, indeed, if Olveraeth is being mindful of the rusty green at the door her mind is atwitter with ruminations on the topic. Opinionated ruminations. Quinlys, glass-faced at the best of times, can't do much to hide her dismay at this particular intrusion. "And what does she think?" she wonders, lifting one hand to rub at her temples all over again. "I'm all ears, believe me." She doesn't sound thrilled about it, either. G'laer looses one of his elusive smiles at the question, and probably the gesture that's paired with it. "She thinks you ought to teach me whatever it is I want to know. Because I'm amazing. Her word, not mine." G'laer might not be a doting rider but that's alright because his dragon has that all covered. It takes him the time in which he rises from the chair to rid his face of the smile and make it more appropriately serious. "I'm not asking to be leaps and bounds ahead, just to devote my free time to more depth where there's more depth to be had on the things we're learning. More practice. Will you think about it?" He asks calmly, candidly, glancing toward the door where the thumping that ceased is persisting again when it seems she's not going to be invited in. "I'll give it some thought," says Quinlys, which promises - very definitely - absolutely nothing... though it also doesn't promise that it will necessarily mean a 'no', in the end. "Thank you for coming, G'laer," she adds. "For my gift, and also, for being honest with me. Go look after your dragon before she knocks my door down, hey?" The answer to the last question is a smirk, a nod, and a "Yes, ma'am," that holds just the smallest bit of sass. As he moves toward the door, the thumping stops, but he pauses with his hand on the knob. "Hey," G'laer half-turns back, as though this is an afterthought, "I know we never really talked when we were younger, and I know you're my boss, but... if I start to go crazy out there with-" And he abruptly affects the manner of a twitterpated teen, "-'He's like, so totally adorable, and I think he might like/like you, but-, like-" And it drops away again just as seamlessly, "Think I can come by again and get a dose of adult conversation?" Quinlys, too, can smirk-- and she can look smug, which is something she's especially good at. She hesitates as G'laer turns back, however, and has to visibly hold back her own laughter at his impression. "You can try," she says. "But I'm pretty good at fluffy conversation, too, and don't you forget it." Quinlys' humor is rewarded by an over-the-top look of horror, clearly for the Weyrlingmaster's benefit from G'laer before he's acting as though he's fleeing the possibility of getting roped into fluff. Only, once again, before the door closes fully behind him, his head pops back through the door, saying seriously, "Well, I am a greenrider now; I expect to manifest the ability to talk fluff any day now..." But before he can be shooed for impertinence or scolded for using the stereotype, or anything else, the door is actually closing, the latch clicking into place. On the other side, there might be heard a muffled, "What can I say? She didn't think 'I'm amazing' was unarguable." A draconic snort, and then a rare laugh before footsteps (and pawsteps) have the pair heading toward their couch. |
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