Logs:The Requirements of Leadership
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| RL Date: 2 June, 2015 |
| Who: Quinlys, Z'kiel |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Z'kiel wants to know how people are chosen for their silver threads. |
| Where: Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 20, Month 12, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Irianke/Mentions |
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| The weather has not done the Igenite any favors. Nor does it seem to have done much for Ahtzudaeth; it's no secret that the bronze is going through another of his itching spurts. His misery, at least, is kept contained - save for the periodic brush of prickliness that might be felt if other dragons try to reach past the mirrors of his mind. Ultimately, it just means one thing: Z'kiel has been busy. Busier, probably, than even the weyrlings who sport the silver threads. The pair of them have been pushing themselves harder than they need to, probably harder than they should, but surely that's better than the alternative. Whether it's a matter of his choice or some other pressure is immaterial; it's the weyrling rider that eventually forces himself to take a step that is, perhaps, long overdue. To Olveraeth, there's a good-natured warning from Ahtzudaeth, « Ah! Olveraeth. Mine will be seeking out yours... » Z'kiel raps firmly on the door. « ... right about now, I do believe. » Olveraeth's amusement is obvious; « Your 'warning' is appreciated. » Still, he's not bothered by it-- and nor does his rider seem to be, given her cheerful-enough, "Come on in, Z'kiel!" She's often found in the office after class, as if she hangs out there just to make sure she's on hand if she's needed, sometimes even late into the evenings. Today, there's a stack of recently submitted essays in front of her, and a mug off to one side that has probably been sitting there, abandoned, for hours. Blue eyes lift towards the door; Quinlys waits, expectant and interested. With a barely audible grunt, Z'kiel opens the door and steps inside. There is no greeting - like as not, there's some unspoken assumption that Ahtzudaeth handled that part of the proceedings. There is, however, a salute - whether necessary or not, that's just him. Salute early and often. The scenario is taken in as a whole between one blink and the next, a full handful of seconds allowed to pass before: "What are the requirements to join the silver thread program?" The wording, stiff as it is, is likely coached to some degree; the bronze's distant presence relative to Olveraeth may speak to that. The blue might even be privy to the bronze's role in this whole situation: that of a hand on his rider's shoulder, reassuring without being overpowering. Quinlys' short laugh is followed instantly by an apologetic expression and, "Straight to the point with you, isn't it? Always. No beating around the bush. But I think the question you're actually aiming to ask is why you weren't chosen, am I right?" More serious, now, she gestures towards the empty chairs around the table, inviting the weyrling to sit without seeming to anticipate it. Olveraeth's amusement has faded now, too, though it's less to imply that he is unamused, and more to suggest his own thoughtfulness, a trail of stars seeming to commend Ahtzudaeth's efforts. "I asked the question I wanted the answer to," is Z'kiel's reply, flatly offered as it is. He remains standing, though he does move closer to the table for the sake of speaking. His hands rest on the back of one chair and his grip is relaxed - but tension still works fine threads through his shoulders all the same. Ahtzudaeth, for his part, seems to ease back a little - and lends a coil of aromatic smoke to wend through the stars with an equal measure of thoughtfulness. "What are the requirements?" Although her brows raise, and there is the faintest suggestion of a suppressed eye-roll, Quinlys maintains a relatively neutral expression. "The silver thread program is open to those who have been identified, by the Weyrleaders and weyrling staff, as showing potential to lead at High Reaches." Olveraeth's sigh is nearly wistful, stars extending into infinity. « He asks the wrong question, » is his opinion. "Arbitrary, in other words." Z'kiel sucks his teeth, lips twisted with the barely suppressed urge to spit to one side. He remains calm, however, with even his shoulders losing the traces of tension after a moment. "How are they chosen?" Is the next question - perhaps heedless of whatever suggestion is offered by the bronze. Ahtzudaeth utters a mental chuff, still somehow amused despite the situation. The stars are mirrored all over again in mirrors cloaked in a thin scrim of smoke. « He's asking the questions he needs to ask for his sake. He'll come around to it in due course. » Those words are full of faith, as they so often are. Yet, teasing at the fringes, « But, if you've suggestions that I could sneak into that thick head of his, they would be appreciated. This sort of thing isn't his greatest strength - but we're working on that. » "No." On that count, Quinlys is firm; there's a warning note to her tone. "Arbitrary would be me sitting in here and picking the names of people I liked off of a list." She lifts her chin, blue eyes seeking to meet Z'kiel's directly. "The Weyrleaders and weyrling staff keep an eye out during the first few months of weyrlinghood, and before. Suggestions, with reasons for those suggestions, are compiled, and I make the final decision." Olveraeth's understanding is immediate, with sympathy for the thickheadedness of riders (his own... well, what can a dragon do?). « Perhaps it's a question for himself, as much as for her: what reason might they have had to feel he wasn't suited to leading High Reaches. » "If there are no set requirements, the selection will always appear arbitrary," Z'kiel replies, his voice pitched just a little lower, a little harder, than before. "Promptness. Studiousness. Helping the others. Doing what we're asked to do. Doing more than we're asked to do. Performing at our best - and pushing harder to be a better example. If none of that is what you are looking for in a leader here, then what is?" To his credit, there is no clenching of jaw or fingers; like as not, he's too focused on getting the words out than he is on whatever's roiling around within. « Ah, and there. Close enough, I suppose. My thanks to you as always, Olveraeth, » is a pleased - perhaps too-pleased - chortle. « The bigger question is whether or not he'll accept the answer as given - and what he'll do with it. » There are bigger fears, too, but those are safely trapped behind mirrors, draped with the glitter of potential to change their shape and nature. Calmly, "All of those things are good traits. All ensured you were considered for the program. But there was a reason you weren't selected, Z'kiel, and it did not just come from me: it came from the Weyrleaders, too." Quinlys seems genuinely unbothered by the hardness of Z'kiel's voice, though she's studying the weyrling evenly. « You are most welcome, » is Olveraeth's reply, he who makes no attempt to probe further into this fears, those secrets. « We have, whether he believes it or not, high hopes for you and your rider. She's stubborn, but she's not stupid. But we all have things to learn, and hurdles to overcome. » Something twists at the tip of Z'kiel's tongue, but he bites that bit of nastiness back. Instead: "Then, what." Barely a question, but far from a demand; it's a flat request, left to fall where it may. He remains calm despite that, fingers still loose and posture still stiff - but out of upbringing and habit than anything else. She'll just have to endure the weight of his gaze for a time, that's all; studying her as much as she's studying him. « I tell him this, but he's... suspicious. Always suspicious when matters of politics have the potential to be involved. » There's a rich chortle at that. « But, you are quite right. There is so much more to learn - and we will glut ourselves on that knowledge. » Or maybe it'll just be him out of his particular pairing, but still. He's hopeful. « I am sure he will live up to those hopes, Olveraeth. » The weight of his gaze doesn't seem to bother Quinlys; she hasn't even resorted to her usual defense mechanism of smugness. Instead, she's quite calm in her answer, and in the expression that accompanies it. "You requested to go back to Igen, despite knowing you were among those permitted to do so," she says. "Why should you be trained to lead at High Reaches when you don't even want to ride here?" « I understand, » is Olveraeth's quiet reply. « So is she. She feels too much and too hard. And then there is pride. » His own amusement radiates out like a spiral galaxy; oh, Quinlys. « I am so glad. It is as it should be. » "Did you ever think to ask why I did it?" Z'kiel pushes back from the chair, his arms falling slack at his sides. A slight twitch suggests a suppressed urge to fold them; for now, they hang, harmless and, somehow, vulnerable. "Or did you just assume that I did it just because of that?" He lets those questions hang, but only for a beat, two, before: "I needed to send something back home so they would stop asking when I would be returning. And my telling them that Ahtzudaeth refuses to leave was not enough." Hands spread, the motion oddly placating, only to fall flat again. « Oh, pride, » that word is a gust of amusement, of smoke and glitz and glitter that makes a tremendous mess of things. To the elder blue's last, however, there's a sense of sidelong amusement, a winking of borrowed stars, and a musing, « Was there ever any doubt? » "You couldn't just tell them that you had no choice? That having Impressed at High Reaches meant you would now be staying? Riders do what they're told. Riders don't have control over their lives-- isn't that what we've all been reminded?" Quinlys' opinion is not swayed; there's no sympathy there. "Every action has repercussions. Perhaps you did what you felt you needed to, but at the same time you made a statement; one that we could not ignore. It was your choice." Pride. Olveraeth's not precisely short on that particular attribute himself, but-- stars, now, accentuate that glitter. Pride. « No, » he allows. « No doubt. » "You know that. I know that. But. There was a deal. They clung to that - and the idea of a transfer later on. I chose to do what I thought would be the only way to silence them." Z'kiel's words come slowly, each carefully chosen. When he's done, a shoulder rises and falls in a lopsided shrug. "It worked for that. I should have explained as much. I did not. That was my mistake." His jaw tenses just a little, the admission coming cleanly - but not without some twinge of self-annoyance. "I had hoped that everything we did after would have been enough to prove that we were settling in. That we were a part of our wing. Apparently it has not been enough. So. What do we need to do to be considered for the program?" Mirrors flicker in the glittering, star-encrusted dark. Pride? Ahtzudaeth might well be made of the stuff - but, for now, there's only satisfaction. Abstract and exquisite. « Now, » he muses, « we'll just have to exceed those hopes. » "That deal never included bronzes," says Quinlys, but it's quieter, this time: not quite sorrowful, but perhaps just a little resigned. Her nod acknowledges that admission of a mistake, accepting it without pushing for anything further. "It's not just about making yourself part of the wing," she says. "Make yourself part of the weyr. If I were you," and there, now, is the hint of a twitching smile, "I might start with speaking with the Weyrwoman. After all, doesn't she face the same problem?" « Exceed? Oh, I do hope so. I would like nothing better, young Ahtzudaeth. » Olveraeth carries with him, now, the faintest hint of his rider's own smugness. "Perhaps not. But tell that to a family that was holding to desperate hope." But that's the last of it, the topic dismissed for the better. Z'kiel issues a much more familiar grunt at the suggestion. "I don't know what problems she faces," is honest, if nothing else. "All I know is what I've heard - and that's that she'd have rather sent me back before Standing." Matter-of-fact, that. He salutes again and starts the half-turn to depart. "I will speak to her. Thank you." As for Ahtzudaeth, there are no further words, just that distinct sense of satisfaction all over again, threaded through with pride and something more. Gratitude curls at the edges of everything before the bronze withdraws, already seeking to press his thoughts elsewhere. Quinlys' nod, this time, acknowledges the difficulties of family; this time, that's definite sympathy there in her expression. "You're welcome, Z'kiel." Beat. "I'm going to make you wingleader next month, you know," is added, then. "Prepare yourself. Have a good rest of your day." Olveraeth, too, withdraws: stars, now. Stars, now and forever. "Worry more about the others being prepared." A joke? Inconceivable. It's entirely too deadpan and Z'kiel's already turned too far to determine whether or not a smile is to be found. "Rukbat willing, it will be a better day. Be well, Weyrlingmaster." And then he's gone, soundless and swift. There is work to do. |
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