Logs:The Niceness of C'ris
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| RL Date: 30 October, 2015 |
| Who: C'ris, Quinlys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: C'ris shows up to take over weyrling supervision. He and Quinlys talk about the whys and wherefores. |
| Where: Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 22, Month 2, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: J'vain/Mentions |
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| The older group of weyrlings have now been so for more than a month-- and their dragons are no longer as tiny as they once were, even the littlest of the greens. Still, little dragons do enjoy playing on and around the ice, and they're still a good size for it, even if it does crack beneath them every so often. Quinlys is, nominally, watching out for them, but it would be more appropriate to say that she's not watching them; she has a blanket spread out upon a boulder and is sitting there, cross-legged, staring dreamily off into the distance. J'vain? J'vain is watching the weyrlings. In the skies above High Reaches Weyr, a wing returns all at once from drilling, with all the tell-tale energy that comes from an intense morning of maneuvers. Frostbite is dismissed by its wingleader, one blue dropping into the bowl only long enough to allow his rider to jump off and remove straps. Then Mivength is gone again, avoiding the area near the lake as he gains the air and stretches his path away from the Weyr altogether. It leaves C'ris to trudge the distance to the gathered weyrlings, straps and saddle bags slung over his shoulder and the tips of his nose and ears flush red with windbite. "Hey!" he calls out to the watching (or not) weyrlingmasters. "Sorry I'm late. Drills ran over." "Mm? Oh." Quinlys glances up, shaking away the deep thoughts that have been capturing her attention so intensely, and gives C'ris a little shrug. "Drills're your first priority," she points out, by way of dismissing the apology. "Wing first, weyrlings second." With the flick of a hand, she gestures J'vain away, leaving him to return to the barracks, though she stays where she is. "Why do you do it?" "Sorry," C'ris will mouth to J'vain anyways as he moves to leave, even as he shrugs down his straps and packs to land with a thud next to the spread blanket. "No, I know. Drills, yeah. I don't miss them or my duties, I promise. Just-- you know. I like it. Being able to help them adjust to life as riders, make sure that they're happy with-- everything." He stops rambling, though, with a quick shrug and a glance over to Quinlys, thoughtful. "You?" "But I mean--" Quinlys has turned her head now, looking more directly towards C'ris, those blue eyes studying him with interest. "I get paid to do this. It's my job. You... this is your downtime. The time when you're allowed to do things for fun, or because you have an interest. Doesn't it suck, working a second job like that? For free?" "Well, I mean, it's not like I have much else to do," he offers first with a slow exhale that sounds like a laugh and his easy smile. C'ris moves to take a seat near his straps, taking up only the edge of the blanket as he starts rifling through saddle bags instead of meeting Quinlys' study. "I'm not, you know. I don't really like to drink or go to gathers or any of that. I'm not talented and I wasn't ever a crafter. But this-- It is interesting. And I feel useful." A pause, before he corrects, "Sometimes." Quinlys' grunt is the only obvious indication that she's listened, because her gaze has slid back towards the cavorting weyrlings, focusing there instead of on C'ris. "Do you want to be a proper assistant, one day?" is her next question, one that is very clearly not a job offer given the way she follows it up with, "One day." C'ris hums a noise, thoughtful, and then triumphant. The triumph is quickly explained as he pulls a bottle of clear liquid out of one of the bags and extends it towards Quinlys patiently, until she notices it. But then he continues, "Well, I'd like, but--. I mean, I want to earn it. I want to be good and I still want the weyrlings to like me and to make them into good riders." It takes Quinlys a few moments, but when she does register that extended bottle, she seems pleased. Pleased-- except she hesitates, too, before accepting it and drawing it close for examination. "You don't have to buy--" she begins. And, "Shells, C'ris. Why are you so sharding nice? You're doing me a favour, working in your spare time, for nothing, and then you bring me booze?" Beat. "Or are you simply asking my opinion on this fine bottle?" "No, uh. I am pretty sure it's, uhm, shit," C'ris admits honestly, a sheepish grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. But then he's ducking his head, that hand lifting to muss at fluffy hair in a habitual gesture as he adds in a murmur, "I'm not that nice. It's-- I'm doing it because I like to. And I don't have anything else to spend my marks on, since they feed us and house us and--." Quinlys gives C'ris a look. "You make me feel like a bad person," she tells him, in a way that is both honest and not completely serious; self-deprecating, but also exaggerated. She tucks the bottle beneath her knees, balancing it there carefully as she adds, "You don't have to, but I do appreciate it, C'ris. You're helpful around the barracks. And if you want to make this an actual job, we can do some training, and we'll see how it goes." C'ris shakes his head, quickly, despite her self-deprecation, as he glances up. Warm brown eyes meet blue as he assures her genuinely, "No, no. You're great. You're--." He stops himself, shrugging up a shoulder lightly, as his own hand falls to a loose thread on his boots to worry at. "Training?" "More officially. To work towards you being ready to step in to an assistant's role." Quinlys bypasses comments on her own greatness (whoa) in order to focus on this; intent and intense. "If that's something you'd like. You'll need to learn how to be firmer, though. To punish, as well as praise." "Right, I do. I want-- I don't think they'll ever take me seriously if I tried to punish them, or..." C'ris trails off on that thought to glance towards the weyrlings there, watching them. "Isn't that what you do as the Weyrlingmaster, though? For most things, wouldn't it be you?" Quinlys nudges the bottle into a more secure place between her legs, visibly hesitating over this answer. "Yes," she says, elongating the vowel sound carefully. "But also no. On a day to day basis, you need to be able to step in and say 'that behaviour isn't acceptable.' Sometimes, that can be all that stands between them and serious injury." "Right, right. I can do that," answers C'ris with more confidence in himself than many would have in him for that statement. "Telling them when they're doing something wrong." Quinlys gives C'ris a look, as if to imply doubt, but in the end she nods, curls bobbing about her shoulders. "All right," she says. "We'll see." Beat. "You can start by telling J'dev to stop taunting Niolath." One gloved hand lifts to gesture towards the group of weyrlings. "Oh." A pause, before C'ris asks-not-asks, "Right... now, then." And he slides a look sideways to take Quinlys in, studying the Weyrlingmaster for a moment before he pushes himself to his feet. He brushes hands against his pants, taking a moment to gather himself before he strides purposefully towards the weyrlings. "J'dev. You need to stop taunting Niolath, ok?" he tells the greenrider, managing not to smile, at least, at him. "It's just a bit of fun," argues J'dev, hands on hips. Niolath-- the green belonging to one of his clutchmates, nearby-- does not seem so sure; her thoughts radiate distress, and her rider is squirming, fists clenched. "It's not my fault she's so... you know. Lumpy." From her perch, Quinlys waits. And watches. "Niolath, you are not lumpy," C'ris is quick to assure the dragon, breathing out a slow breath as he moves to stretch out a hand to scratch lightly, reassuringly at the green's neck, if she allows it. "Don't listen to him." And his gaze slides back to J'dev, firmer than before where the bluerider says, "Stop. Now. Go take care of your own dragon." Niolath is relieved by the feedback and leans in to scratches on offer; that's better. Her rider exhales. J'dev... he scowls, clearly not having anticipated this kind of response from C'ris of all people. "Whatever," he says. "But she is lumpy. Never going to get that fat ass into the air. Jekorath, let's go." And Quinlys? That could well be an approvingly smug look on her face. Or gas. C'ris watches J'dev silently until he moves to leave, only exhaling another breath after he's gone and turning his attention back to Niolath and her rider. "She's not-- She's perfect. And her wing'll grow with the rest of her; she's going to fly just fine," he assures the greenrider, lingering longer to give more affection in light scratches against Niolath's neck before he finally straightens away to return to Quinlys. It's only once he's always that he'll mutter, "That one is an ass." Niolath's rider gives a tearful little nod, one that comes with a tentative and grateful smile; C'ris wins this round. True, she buries her face into her green's neck after he's gone, but who can blame her? They're having a moment. "Yes he is," agrees Quinlys, quiet and surprisingly unbreezy. "Waste of a good blue, really. Poor Jekorath. But you did well." A quick bob of her head follows as she begins to gather up her things (bottle included). "I'll let you keep watching. Have fun." |
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