Logs:The Right Questions
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| RL Date: 26 March, 2016 |
| Who: Jocelyn, Quint |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quint prepares to travel (for a time) and asks a favor of Jocelyn. |
| Where: Records Room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 15, Month 5, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions, Jaine/Mentions, Silva/Mentions |
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| The dour, wet weather has driven many indoors for the day, and even within the records room there's a scattering of occupants come evening. Quint's taken over most of one table, covered in maps of the surrounding area around the Weyr. His hair and clothing are quite dry, indicating he's been here for some time; he's half standing, leaning over one or the other map, frowning in concentration before he makes notations on a smaller hide illuminated by a fading glowbasket. There are advantages to having one's weyr attached to the weyrleader complex, one of which affords the queenriders a little less time out in the elements while traveling to and from the administrative caverns. Despite being a little damp, Jocelyn is certainly no drowned rat upon her entrance; neither is the bound record she's carefully wrapped for transport, which she's quick to return to its proper place. The way she scans the adjacent collections suggests she's in the market for reading material of a similar subject, and the frown that pinches at her expression is hardly unexpected once she's chosen another one - no, two - annals for perusal. There's the most passing of glances for most of the other occupants of the archives as she angles for a table, and a not-so-passing one for Quint and his maps by the time her books lightly thud down at the table across from his. Her lips purse slightly as she gets settled, pulls the first set of pages to her and to all appearances, promptly immerses herself into the accounts at hand. The thud of books lands moments before Quint touches tip to hide -- inadvertently avoiding a misstroke. Setting the pen carefully aside, the harper's expression is schooled as his gaze lifts towards the new arrival, taking in Jocelyn's appearance and her apparent immersion with a momentary twitch of expression. "Bad day, weyrwoman?" he asks, voice pitched low, casual. "Or have the books mistreated you so?" An exasperated huff is all Quint gets in answer for a few minutes, at least until Jocelyn's gray eyes finally move upward to stare back at him. "Harper. These aren't exactly feather-light, " she retorts, nudging the one immediately in front of her slightly to the side so that she can better regard him. "The only mistreatment they're guilty of is not giving me the answers I'm looking for - and they can't be faulted for that. They didn't write themselves." Her grousing may be commonplace enough, but she does have the good sense to try to soften it after the fact with a not-quite smile, lifting her chin toward the man's maps. "I've disturbed your relative solitude." It's not exactly an apology at first blush, but it seems to be a gruff attempt at one. "What are you researching?" "Perhaps your assistant can help you carry them, in future," the harper replies, easily, unruffled by the silence nor the retort that follows it. "As for the books..." there's a slight twitch of Quint's lips, "Perhaps the issue is that the answers aren't in the books, but in some person's head, never committed to paper?" Quint's head tilts, as if surprised by the goldrider's latter words, taking a moment for his gaze to drop to his work-in-progress as if to assess it anew. "Relative, making the solitude not so precise a word," with a wave of his hand in easy dismissal. "Attempting to memorize all the nearby roads and trails. My apprentice is overdue the experience of rough living, and I've an urge to actually journey for a time." "I didn't hire Jaine to carry records around for me. And even if I had, she certainly deserves her night off." The redhead's eyebrows lift for Quint's insight, followed by a little wrinkling of her nose that smooths away quickly enough. "I'm hoping that isn't the case. Far easier to search here than in someone's head." Jocelyn's attention shifts from the maps to their handler, lips pressing into a little line for his explanation. "So. You're leaving." It's a flat pronouncement, laced with something difficult to read as she dips her chin back toward her book. "I imagine you've a lengthy character-building exercise planned." Although there's no verbal response, there might be challenge on the differing definitions of assistant in the way Quint's head tilts, momentarily. Instead of pursuing that subject, he deliberately leads on the second: "On the contrary. A person's head is far easier to search -- with the right questions." The flatness of her next words earn a low chuckle from the harper. "For a time, anyway -- I'm afraid you're not quite rid of me, yet, weyrwoman. A Journeyman ought to journey, after all." He spreads his hands at the latter, "I've quite found life to be an excellent teaching tool in and of itself, under the right conditions. One does not grow without some measure of challenge and opportunity, after all." "You're assuming, of course, that the person is willing to give up their answers, " the goldrider says pointedly, expression a considering one through the remainder of Quint's elaboration on his soon-to-be journey. Nonchalantly: "One does not, indeed. And how long, precisely, is 'for a time?' Not exactly the sort of term that has a, what do they call it, a ring when written in a chronicle, is it?" Her gaze remains quite fixed upon her book; really, there's only a slight stiffening in the set of her shoulders to indicate that she does have some interest in his answer. "I think you will find most people are willing to talk, if one is convivial enough," the lightly spoken words could be taken as a criticism, though if they are intended as that, there's no bite to Quint's tone. While her gaze is on the book, the harper's is on her, taking in her demeanor. "I would venture a more precise answer, but I'm afraid that I would be wrong -- given the vagaries of life, the weather, and many other such obstacles -- and I do hate to be wrong," he says, with a low-throated chuckle. "If you're concerned that I might not be back in time for some event of import -- a hatching, a gather, a turnday? -- you have only to advise me and I will do my best to adjust my schedule to accommodate." If Jocelyn's truly scanning the page in front of her, she's certainly taking it in with an incredibly minimal amount of eye movement. "I think I've found that some answers are unlikely to be given, regardless of one's approach, " she says at some length, finally lifting her eyes again to his. "I'm sure you'll be kept advised of an 'event of import' by the appropriate people." There's a glance for the activities of the cavern's other occupants, perhaps to ensure that they're all well-engaged in their own literary pursuits. Quieter, and with some awkwardness before her attention returns unseeingly to her record, "I - rather think I shall miss our little discourses." Quint's lips purse, briefly, at her first words. "Perhaps," the harper responds, finally, unwilling to agree, perhaps begging to differ by his quick move onto the next subject. "Are not you an appropriate person?" he asks, with a brief grin, and while it lingers as she continues speaking, it might be a shade more fixed. The silence that follows is filled with his careful inspection of her, as if determining whether there's sarcasm in those words. Then: "Well," is all he says. After a beat, or more, the harper adds: "I shan't be gone that long." Finally giving up on any pretense of attempting to read, the redhead closes her book, carefully stacks it on top of the other one before her and clears her throat before making a reply. "I suppose, depending on the event, I would be. I don't expect that we'll have need of songs for hatchings any time particularly soon, but people do seem to keep having turndays." It's brisk enough, as composed as the set of her features. If two, little spots of color appear high on her cheeks in the wake of his addition, there's little help for it. "I'm sure that High Reaches wishes you a safe and efficiently conducted journey, whatever the duration." "Does it indeed?" the harper replies, blithely, with a little smile, now. "I'm pleased a place cares so well about a single harper's well being." Quint taps at his map with his finger, an absent gesture while he regards Jocelyn silently again for a moment. "Perhaps, while I'm gone, you could do me a favor?" There, a wry curve of a smile from Jocelyn. "Aside from bringing the rain indoors with your arrival, have you caused enough disruption for it to have good reason not to wish you well?" His inquiry elicits a small exhale. "You want me to check up on Silva, " she guesses, sounding more weary than displeased by the idea. "I haven't outright refused her offer of friendship, you know. Someone befriended me at a formative time when I was younger than her, and it shaped a great deal of who I wanted to become. I don't know if I can be that sort of person for her. She might have more in common with Farideh at the end of the day." "There were some that thought I had a hand in judging the Weyrleader accused of murdering one of your Wingleaders -- though I did not," Quint adds the last with matter-of-factness. "There are others that feel a harper's only role is to meddle -- a charge I deny, since we don't just meddle," another trace of rueful smile appears. At her guess, he seems surprised. "Yes," he allows. "Outright refused isn't the same as encouraged -- and the girl seems easily discouraged." Another of those grins, this time coming easily and naturally. "You need not be her mentor. But as someone who -- mm -- seems intent at holding people at arm's length, perhaps it can be of benefit to you both." "Some think and others feel, " Jocelyn repeats drily, eyebrows lifting. "Hardly enough justification for - this place - to hope your traveling party stumbles on every stone along the way." There's a faint purse of her lips as he continues, although it softens, if only just, after that easier, more natural grin. "Maybe it can be, " she allows after some moments. "You're a fine one to talk about holding people at arm's length. I'd be surprised if people don't wonder if you wear all of that harper training when you sleep." It's a light enough statement, and hardly a jibe meant to insult if the amusement that creeps into her tone is anything to go by. "People can be protective of their home," is all Quint says, with a brief twitch of lips. "But heartening to hear from you that we won't have to look over our shoulder as we leave." His gaze flickers briefly to the map, but doesn't linger -- returning almost immediately to the woman across from him. The harper's chuckling again, undaunted by the words. "Well, I've not caught anyone poking their head in my door yet to check -- my own apprentices aside." "And why shouldn't we be?" replies Jocelyn smoothly, permitting herself a self-deprecating smile. "We have a history of outsiders rising to some significance and ultimately damaging something that's important to our functioning, whether it was intended or not." Pushing to her feet, she leans over to grab a nearby scrap of paper and a writing utensil to scribble briefly, sticking the piece into the front of the topmost book of her stack once she's finished. "I suppose you wouldn't, " she deadpans. "I don't think many people sleep with their eyes open." With some squinting, it might be a joke. The harper leans forward, interested in the challenge of the words, and rising to it: "And this place -- like many others -- have a history of just as many insiders doing the same. Insularity causes more detriment than benefit. Look at how poorly it worked out for the exiles -- they didn't trust outsiders, and because of that distrust, no outsiders trusted them." Quint's finger taps, thoughtfully, against his map. "The irony being that the exiles are -- because of their origin and subsequent interbreeding -- more High Reachian than many present Reachians." To that last, he spreads his hands as if washing himself of the accusation. "Even harpers sleep like everyone else, as much as they put their pants on like everyone else." Jocelyn's mouth twitches upward. "You're quite correct, of course. There's something to be said for bettering our relations with others, even after some of the more tumultuous accounts that have resulted from actions of turns past." It shades thoughtful, that sentence, even as the rider glances briefly to the harper's attire in the wake of his assertion. "So do weyrwomen, although I'm sure there are those who would find it difficult to believe." Hefting both books up into her arms, she tilts them toward her so that gravity will keep them fairly secured, tilting a look toward the doors. "If the rain has lifted, I should make a - hasty walk for it so that these don't get too damp between here and my weyr." They're a bit cumbersome, but where another woman might ask for help, she only nods toward Quint and his maps. "I've interrupted you long enough, I'm sure." It's almost an apology. "It seems to me, weyrwoman, you're in the perfect position now to do just that," Quint says, blithely and unapologetically. While he stands when she collects her books, where she doesn't ask for help, he doesn't offer. Instead, with a press of hand to his middle in a brief bow: "A pleasant interruption," he corrects instead. "Good evening, weyrwoman." And then, he steps towards her, his coat proffered: "For the books," he says, reaching as if to drape them over the books in her arms. "It seems to me, " Jocelyn replies, "that it would only benefit everyone involved if I made efforts in that direction." There's an equal amount of seriousness for his blitheness, and a small exhalation for his bow. "Good evening, harper." And as he approaches with his coat and offer, she, in turn, looks faintly surprised but allows the books to be safely covered with a mouthed 'thank you' before marching from the cavern. With a nod for the silent thanks, the harper soon resumes his seat, bending over his map to continue his work. |
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