Logs:The Power of Words
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| RL Date: 7 January, 2016 |
| Who: Olivya, Quint |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Olivya and Quint discuss the prospect of people stepping out of the bounds of their duties. |
| Where: Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 5, Month 10, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
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Partly sheltered by the curving stone overhang, partly exposed to the
weather, the wide stone patio serves as a balcony for socializing or just
plain drinking on a sizable scale. The repurposed ledge might once have
let two large dragons land, but now there's too much furniture for that:
two rustic tables with attendant chairs, plus a couple more in
particularly good weather, and a wrought iron bench situated to make the
most of the view of the western bowl and the lake beyond.
Other changes include rough little niches carved out of the stone walls to
hold glows in colored bottles at night, the climbing plant that's being
trained to grow up along the overhang, and the blue ceramic pots of
flowers that dot the edge of the ledge as a colorful reminder not to fall
off.
An archway leads to the Snowasis itself, housed in the ledge's former
weyr, while a few wide steps descend along the wall to the bowl.
A layer of gray clouds covers the sky. The air feels cool and damp, but
there is no rainfall today. It's pretty busy in the Snowasis, with the post dinner crowd present, picking up their usual wing games of darts, or cards, or just general social chit-chat. The patio outside provides somewhat of a respite, as much for the fact that there's a bit of a cool nip to the air. Still, there are groups of people here and there, one such being a cluster of crafters, sharing the last of a pitcher of beer. One -- a big smith -- is already standing up to leave, and after a sigh, the woodcrafter follows him with a grin to the others. This sets off the inevitable mass exodus, although Quint's not yet stirred, still nursing a half glass of beer, cheerfully waving off invitations for the other to stay until he finishes. The abandoned tables, empty glasses, and lone harper make for the aftermath of an entertaining evening. Ivraeth, when she appears above the skies of High Reaches' bowl, is likely not recognizable from any other green, especially in the evening without even a hint of her color. When she gracefully wings to land and her rider slides from her back, her rider may be more recognizable where she approaches the light of the patio's glows for her bright red jacket and those wind-blown, blonde curls. There's a certain satisfaction in the bare curve of her brow as her gaze catches on the solitary harper, as if she expected to find him there even before she mounts the steps up from the bowl. "Journeyman, good evening," she greets, her eyes sweeping away from his over the empty glasses with a hint of mock disappointment, returning to him with a question. "Do you mind if I join you?" Habit means the Harper's answering without lifting his gaze, "Good evening," even before Quint's lifted gaze and recognized just who's addressing him. His momentary surprise at her presence certainly isn't feigned, and it's a beat later before he gestures, "I don't know. All my friends are here, but -- maybe we can fit you in?" There's certainly plenty of empty chairs to choose from. Habit, too, makes him rise: "Would you like a drink?" "You'd be surprised at where I can fit in. I don't mind getting comfortable quickly," promises Olivya with a dry edge of humor, and then proves it by taking the seat closest to Quint rather than taking a seat further away. "I'd love a drink." That comes with a smile in reward for the offer, only there briefly before it disappears again. "How many do I have to catch up on?" "Enough that I'd feel ungallant sending you home on your dragon," Quint says, with a smile. Still standing, he steps away -- not because she chose the seat next to his, but to find a clean glass on the tray just next to the archway leading inside. Stepping adroitly back, he pours her a glass from the pitcher -- all but empty -- before he seats himself again, regarding her with a curious look he's not much trying to hide, but he's at least apparently going to let her wet her lips first. Olivya does that first, her glass tipped in a salute to Quint first before she takes a slow, appreciative sip. She sets it down before she answers the curiosity, allowing lightly, "How are you, Quint? And your sister? The thought crossed my mind that I'd never heard how she settled in to the Weyr." Quint, too, takes a swallow from his own glass, though perhaps in smaller measure, given the level of liquid doesn't reduce overly noticeably. "I'm well," he answers, with a ease at which he's used to answering the question; the second makes him think for a moment, however. "Gizzy is... she's better. She misses being able to walk down to the weavercraft hall though, I think. And the sunshine," with a faint, wry twitch of lips. "I'm not sure how she'll fare in the winter, but by that time, I'm hopeful she'll have settled in, made some friends." He glances at his glass, then towards the rider with a rueful twitch of lips. "I'm flattered you remembered, frankly." "And why wouldn't I have?" questions Olivya with easy humor, her head tipping just slightly as she pushes a curl behind her ear. "I feel for her. I'm not sure how I will fare come true winter. And I've heard that Fort is not nearly as bad as High Reaches, though I'm not sure I believe it." She has quite a lot of drinking to catch up on, as Quint said, so she reaches for her glass again. "Mm. I'd have imagined you have a lot on your plate as a rider. A," Quint's gaze goes to her knot, bigger than when he last saw her, "Weyrlingmaster, and as part of a Weyr left with the aftermath of a plague." His fingers gesture, "And winter. I'm told it's not the first hard winter for High Reaches. Nor for Fort. But at least it sounds like your Holds are sorting themselves out. Good news, at least, about Fort and Boll." He lifts his glass in silent toast, taking another sip. Olivya tips her chin in a gentle agreement to Quint's point, though she counters with a simple, "I didn't find you or your sister to be unmemorable. I can even inquire again if your sister is ready to consider risking Impression yet, given that we find ourselves in need of candidates yet again, and write this off as business." She doesn't actually make the inquiry beyond the statement, however, as she lifts her glass for the toast and studies the harper over it. After, she adds, "Not so for your holds, I hear. Dragonriders acting as farmers? I don't suppose it impacts you much as a crafter." The genuine smile that appears only dims momentarily at the reminder of her earlier offer. "I-- I will pass on the offer," Quint allows, with a lift of fingers, "On the proviso we don't write this off as a business trip." He leans forward to refill her glass, as it needs it -- as if to underscore the point. "Only in as much as riders stepping outside their purview makes everyone uncomfortable -- riders and holders alike, I rather suspect." Olivya allows the refill, a smile catching in only one corner of her lips for the addendum to which she agrees with an elegant incline of her chin. She won't press the point, instead moving to the other subject with a soft brush of humor as she says, "And you without a way to put words to song to sway the masses one way or the other? Or are you not that type of harper?" And neither does Quint linger on the point, intent on moving on: "The question is not whether I'm that type of harper. The question is whether that type of harper should try and sway the masses. Is it wrong to seek to suppress the disgruntlement of a group of people told their lives will be this," he holds his hand up at eye level, "Only to have it be this," his other hand is held, lower. "Or to feel at the mercy of the charity a group set apart from your own?" He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and sinks back with beer in hand before taking a gulp. "Perhaps we're too ingrained in our lives being a certain way. Perhaps it wouldn't be suppression more than encouragement to allow change and growth that will allow us to survive the Interval," counters Olivya with academic interest, her soft blue gaze sweeping over Quint's hands before returning to meet his again. That she leans slightly forward into the distance between them is only so her words can drop lower, kept private between them. While Quint lifts his glass to his lips again, he doesn't quite drink, lowering it as Olivya speaks. "The problem, my dear Weyrlingmaster, with letting people color outside the lines, is that when it comes time to color inside the lines again, few want to go back to the way things were." With a twitch of lips, he observes: "I imagine you'll face similar issues in your weyrling class." Olivya doesn't even hesitate in returning, "Unless I intend to let my weyrlings continue to color outside of the lines, rather than trying to keep them in a 'proper box'." She seems to have forgotten about her drink as well, with her attention focused on Quint with her own quick smile. "We don't live in the same world that we did forty turns ago. I will trust that my successors will be able to deal with their own problems in their own time." There's nothing obvious in Quint's expression -- he's too well trained -- but it would be difficult to imagine he doesn't have a response to that. He's silent, however, gaze drifting towards a group of riders as they laugh and chat, passing by their table as they head for the bowl and then eventually, their respective weyrs. Eventually, he says: "We don't, and we do. The Comet Pass wasn't that long ago that everyone has forgotten, and there's no guarantee that won't happen again. It may not be your successors who will deal with their problems. It might well be us." "And if it is, we will handle it. But there's only so much value to be found in worrying over remote possibilities," challenges Olivya softly, her smile there but not unaware of the timing of that silence. The way she shifts herself closer in response to it might be considered inviting, but certainly anyone watching might very well think-- Well, that they know what is being talked about. "Better to worry about realities that we're facing presently." "That is what I am worried about," Quint observes, before he finishes the last of his beer in one quick gulp. He's not unaware of that shift of posture from Olivya, nor of how it might look. Perhaps that's why, shortly after, he stands. "I've an early start," he says, and there's barely a beat, before he adds, "Perhaps I can let you know, about your offer?" "Of course, darling," agrees Olivya easily enough, not moving to rise with him. After all, she still has beer left in her glass. "I am glad to hear that you and your sister are doing well. I won't have to worry again," is added in assurance to the harper. The harper seems to take that endearment in stride, or at least there's no protesting of it. "It's kind of you to say. Perhaps when you visit next time you can chat with her," Quint suggests, blithely. His gaze goes from her glass, to the pitcher, to the empty table, before he inclines his head to her. "Good evening, Weyrlingmaster." To be fair, the endearment seems more habit than heartfelt, and Olivya agrees, "If you don't think she'd mind." She tips her glass to him in a gesture, but she doesn't drink at the moment. Instead, she'll offer more professionally in turn for her title, "Good night, Journeyman." "On the contrary, I'm sure she'll appreciate the attention of such an illustrious woman," Quint replies, with a smile. With a last look, he heads out into the darkness of the bowl, confident of his direction. |
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