Logs:Something New
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| RL Date: 17 October, 2015 |
| Who: Elaiton, Quinlys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, High Reaches Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: Elaiton gets Searched. |
| Where: Kitchens, High Reaches Hold |
| When: Day 13, Month 1, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Issedi/Mentions |
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| The evening meal is winding down in the great hall, which means dinner is just about to pick up in the kitchens, where those who lack rank take their meals. Elaiton is the assistant steward who is presiding over the meal tonight, a cheeky smile flashed at the cook who is distracted from her cooking so she can rap her wooden spoon against his sly, thieving knuckles. "There'll be no bacon for the soup if you keep stealing strips when you think I can't see." Elaiton makes a puppy-like series of whines but, suitably chastised, he heads towards the head of the long trestle table he and the rest of the staff will eat at. With two clutches on the sands, High Reaches riders have been in and out more than once, these last sevens, though they've been careful in what they take and how many: the last thing anyone wants is to cause problems. Tonight's visit is less official, given Quinlys-- who wears her knot but is otherwise informally dressed-- is on her own, letting herself into the kitchens quite as if she belongs, despite how plain it is that she doesn't. "Oh, don't get up," she says as she enters, whether or not anyone actually moves to do so. Some of the serving girls, who were seated, spring to their feet when Quinlys entered, though one of the girls looks irritated when it's not someone important. Elaiton, who hasn't sat yet, looks to the door and the arriving stranger and smiles pleasantly enough, crookedness claiming his mouth and nods in that overly polite fashion of someone who is used to the formalities of serving. "May I help you, ma'am? Our duties," he encompasses the entire kitchens and its curious staff, "To High Reaches Weyr and their queens. And clutches." The last is added quite thoughtfully, after the smallest, most deliberate pause. Quinlys' smile, so winning, is probably intended to mollify that girl's irritation-- though it is so swiftly moved on towards Elaiton that it may not have the chance to achieve its full impact. "Honestly," she admits, then, "I just wanted to get out of the cold for a bit. We were out and-- last chance before those clutches hatch, and my life turns to work, work, work." She rubs her hands together, a shiver acknowledged in the shift of her shoulders. "You won't kick me out, I hope?" That girl might. She looks about ready to make some retort that this is their sanctuary and why do people insist on making themselves at home in places that they should not go. Her face really is that expressive, but a sharp kick beneath the table from another girl has the retort die before it comes up. Little escapes Elaiton's notice, and a shadowed look takes in the pair of girls, smileless and cool, before turning to Quinlys. The shadows are gone. The smile is there again, and a small gesture, so polite indicates the hearth. "Hardly, ma'am. Pull up a chair, make yourself at home. There'll be stone soup soon and some fresh baked bread now that the Lord and his kind have finished up, up there." Quinlys pulls off one of her gloves, waving her hand expressively: "Oh, it's not necessary to feed me, I promise. I will sit, though." Which she does, swinging her legs over it and then setting both hands atop of it (once her gloves her safely in her lap). "I'm Quinlys," she adds, addressing Elaiton most particularly, though the others, regardless of individual opinions, get glances, too. The cook is quick to bring over a mug of something hot, and the kindly cherubic woman has a wink for the dragonrider. "Gave it a good nip, if that's something you appreciate." Then, it's back to work, leaving Elaiton to entertain the woman. The girls certainly don't seem inclined to as a group, though a few eyes look over at the dragonrider and her attire enviously. "Elaiton, but most people call me Lai, like the lies we tell ourselves when we look in the mirror and wonder, do these pants really make me look fat?" The pleasant smile takes on a sardonic edge with the falsetto that draws a flush not just one of those girls faces. "Don't mind them," he adds, in quieter, less sarcastic tones, for Quinlys. "It's been a long day and winter is always hard these days without Lady Issedi around." Quinlys is absolutely appreciative for that mug, her eyes shining-- her smile smirky-- for the nip within it, though it's only with a nod that she acknowledges it. For Elaiton, as she warms her hands upon the ceramic mug's surface, "That's terrible, I love it. It's fine, honestly." She doesn't look at the girls, but instead adds, "I know what that's like. It changes the way a place feels, and then you remember the awful things, and-- well, it sucks. What do you do with yourself around here, Lai?" "A little bit of this, a little bit of that. I try," Elaiton confides with that easiness he wears almost like a Lord's mantle, "To be indispensable. There's a lot of assistant stewards looking to make their mark and be considered to be Steward some day. I'm only twenty-three, but if you don't have dreams, what do you have to live for, right?" He remains standing, though the formality of his posture relents with the pretty girl he can't stop staring at sitting right there. "We? You mentioned we? Should we be expecting others?" Smugness overtakes Quinlys' smile; she's amused. "indispensable. I do that too. You can't be replaced if there's no one to replace you, no matter what you do or say." If she doesn't wholly believe that, she's careful not to show it in more than the twitch of her mouth, the laugh of her words. "We," she agrees, head tilted upwards to meet his gaze. "My Olly and I. My blue. It's all right-- he won't be coming in here." Some gleam in Elaiton's blue eyes is most discernible as desire when Quinlys speaks of what it means to be indispensable, and disappears when he exhales heavily. "That kind of security seems to only be for those who were born to it." The lack of bitterness or resignation is more striking than if it had been filled with it. It's a bitter statement, that is said in the most neutral way. "Oh yes, your dragon. I thought you might have meant other riders other... what is it you do that your life will be all work work work soon?" Curiosity, as well as diversion, makes him ask. The kitchen around them is starting to bustle down as stew is ladled out into several large bowls and baskets of read start being set down in intermittent intervals. A more senior steward has made his way down and the seat Elaiton was about to claim earlier is now taken by this tall, imposing figure. Quinlys notes that gleam, watches it, though does not comment. "I'm the weyrlingmaster," she explains, instead, blue eyes shifting from Elaiton towards the kitchens all around them, that bustle hardly going by unnoticed. "I certainly wasn't born to that, although you can argue Impression was in my blood. Still, promotion is generally based on merit, and given my Weyrleaders and I aren't best of friends, the fact that I'm still wearing the knot says something. You don't think you'll have the chance at Steward, one day?" Elaiton looks back at the man who has now claimed his spot and the tips of his ears seem to vibrate with a tension held in. "I think I do. Some day." But some day is not now and now, Lai tears his gaze away from the man to a more pleasant sight. Looking at Quinlys seems to calm him, stripping away that passing irritation. It's acknowledged with a rueful look. "We have history," he says, by way of an excuse. "You know those people who just know how to push your buttons no matter what? Maybe," he ventures with more curiosity heavy in his groomed brows, "Something you've experienced too? Isn't it maddening?" "Fuck, yes," says Quinlys, before she pauses, clamping one hand over her mouth: oops. "That sucks, anyway," she says after recomposing her expression and putting that hand back to her mug. "It's pretty much the worst. I bet it sort of makes it... well, it's hard to get what you want, when there's someone like that around, and they have the advantage." Abruptly, she straightens. "Want to try something else?" The evening meal is starting to gather, people finding their seat along the benches and the cook finally sitting and resting her feet by the hearth not too far away. "I'll try anything once," he starts, and she ends with, "Except dyin'." She grins broadly, one tooth visibly missing on the side, and he, good for him, grins back at her. "What she said." Quinlys' laugh turns her attention back towards the cook, for whom she has a wink. "I'm pretty sure I'd rather avoid that one, too," she confirms. "Give me another fifty-odd turns and we'll talk. What I was going to say, though--" And now, she's looking back at Elaiton, considering and thoughtful, and still somehow so very, very smug. "--come back to the Weyr with me. Stand for the clutches. One of them's due tomorrow or the next day, so you could even be back in a couple of days if you decided it wasn't for you. But it'd be a chance. An opportunity." "An... opportunity." Elaiton draws this out considering. The old woman looks interested, but says nothing at this juncture, looking from Quinlys to Elaiton and then Quinlys again. The man looks only at the dragonrider, as if memorizing her features and that bright hair of hers. "But I could stand for the next one too, if the first didn't work out?" It's not a yes. A cough sounds from the head of the table, some words, inaudible to him, are spoken, and then everyone sits and the clatter of silverware and tureens hitting the bottom of ceramic bowls is heard. Even the crack of crusty bread being broken apart is somehow magnified in this moment. Quinlys looks back, eyes bright with enthusiasm, hair bright despite recently having been out in the cold and the snow and the weather. If the bluerider is aware of everything going on around them, she's not inclined to show it; this question? It's important. "Yes," she agrees. "In another couple of sevens. Two chances for the price of one. If you want it." "You make this so tempting," Elaiton wrenches his gaze away from Quinlys and her mesmerizing hair to watch his colleagues break bread together. There's good conversation, simple for the most part, and a lot of gossip, but camaraderie; a camaraderie he is standing just outside of right now. "Yes. Yes, if you promise to be the one who brings me home again if the opportunity passes me by." The cook snorts into the back of her hand, but otherwise pretends like she's suddenly not paying attention. Gravely-- very gravely-- Quinlys says, with a nod, "That I can promise. Congratulations, Candidate Elaiton." And then she grins, bright and broad as ever. "Now: do you want to eat here, your last meal at home, or shall I send you up to pack your things, and we'll get something back at the Weyr?" She has her mug to sip from, with that warming nip. Fuck this popsicle stand. Elaiton doesn't say it, but the dark look he casts the man in the head seat says pretty much the same thing. "Now," he responds blithely, "I've had a million stone soups and will probably have more in a few weeks. I'll go gather my things and speak to the Steward." That, Elaiton, is exactly the reaction Quinlys was hoping for; the smugness is truly out of control, now. "Lovely," she says. "You go and do that, and I'll stay here and warm my old bones." Ha. "Meet me back here, and then we'll head on home." "Not so old," says Elaiton, somewhere in between charmingly experienced and boyishly naive. He ducks his head, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck, aww shucks, as he walks out to find his thing and the Steward. It doesn't take him too long. He has a satchel over his knotless shoulder. While he's gone, Quinlys garners more looks and the cook continues to pretend not to notice, though she is one of the hardest lookers. "I'm ready." He looks and sounds ready. Quinlys, defiant, answers each of those looks-- the cook's in particular. She's smiling, though, perfectly at ease in this foreign place, and with her theft of their assistant steward. She drinks from her mug, one sip after another, finally rising to her feet as Elaiton returns. The mug gets set down, her gloves picked up again. "Good," she says. "I like a man ready for action. Come along, then-- I have a hankering for home." Twenty-three and blushing at what he gleans from her words. Elaiton laughs, not to cover his cheeks' betrayal, but in correlation with them. A sheepish, naively holdbred sound. "Never ridden dragon back. Don't laugh if I fall off the other side," he says, following after Quinlys to wherever she goes. Literally. Quinlys seems to find this adorable, but doesn't rub it in; her smile is plenty. "You'll be fine," she promises. "I won't let you fall." With that, the gloves back on, and she leads the way out into the cold evening air, where Olveraeth is waiting. Where, true to her words, there will be no falling: only a short, uneventful trip back to the Weyr, where dinner and a brand new bunk in the candidate dorms is waiting. Bunks. The one part of the equation he forgot to ask about. If being at the Weyr, with all its difference in culture and people isn't all he expected it to be, Elaiton doesn't let anyone, least of all Quinlys, know. But bunks! |
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