Logs:Thump!
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| RL Date: 2 April, 2015 |
| Who: Quinlys, Laine, Schuyler |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Laine and Quinlys' chat in the galleries. They're interrupted by a thump. |
| Where: Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 5, Month 6, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Sunny, with a chance of explosions. |
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>---< Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr(#290RJs) >-----------------------<
Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of
carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground
-- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers,
and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from
falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into
the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off
some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even
feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black.
The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire
cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the
expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is
easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a
broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels
that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks,
however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat.
Commands: +list/eggs The galleries are not Quinlys' usual haunt, of late; something to do with Igen eggs, no doubt, or probably even more than that, to do with avoiding Irianke. And yet, here she is: sitting way up the back, knees drawn up towards her chest, arms wrapped around them so that she can lean forward and rest her chin upon the top of them. She's staring at the eggs-- or perhaps, more likely, into the space between her seat and the eggs, expression a mix of moody resignation and thoughtfulness. Around her, the usual mid-afternoon visitors come and go. At first glance, Laine might appear like one of those coming-and-going visitors--were it not for a mess of leather straps draped over one arm and a small clay pot and rag in one hand. When she enters from the sunny day, she pauses at the top of the tiered benches: letting her eyes adjust, perhaps. When she moves to take a seat, it's near-but-not-next-to Quinlys, and Laine, setting aside that pot and rag, sets to laying out the straps--or harness--or whatever it is. Most denizens of the galleries, today, have stuck closer to the sands, no doubt seeking a better view of the eggs; it's Laine's proximity, then, that draws Quinlys' attention away from her reverie and towards the other woman. "Hi," she says, turning her body so that she can concentrate on Laine, instead; much more interesting. "What're you doing, there? It's-- Laine, right?" As Laine speads the snarl of loops and straps in her lap, twisting here and shaking out there, it might be more readily identifiable as a harness of sorts, although not one for a dragon. Laine glances up at Quinlys' voice, and meets the gaze of the other woman with a smile wrinkling her eyes. "Yeah. Hi." Uncertainty drives her to seek out Quinlys' knots, if she's wearing them, but Laine doesn't seem to be able to come up with a name. She glances down, again, answering, "Conditioning. It's a harness. Rock climbing." The knots are there, all those loops and tassels; regardless, Quinlys is quick to provide her name. "Quinlys," she says. "We met during the flight, as I recall. Not that I expect you to remember." No: she's easy about that, all smiles as she drops her gaze to consider what Laine is working on. "Really? Huh. Never been something I saw any interest in-- I'd rather fly. Always." Any chagrin Laine might feel over misremembering their meeting quickly dissolves under Quinlys' smile, which the candidate returns in kind. "Don't remember much, 'cept that later I embarrassed myself something fierce." She has the equanimity to chuckle about it now. Maybe less so at the time. In any case, she turns to pluck up that rag and dip it in the thick white paste from the pot. As she begins to work it into the harness, the tanner apprentice's mouth turns up at the corner. "No. It's not for everyone--not for most, I figure. I don't have the convenience of wings, though." Unspoken, but she glances at the eggs below: yet. "That's gold flights for you," says Quinlys, cheerfully. "I've always rather enjoyed knowing I don't have to chase in the damn things; I just enjoy them." Clearly interested by Laine's work, she slides along the bench to get a little closer and adds, "Mmm. Some of us are too lazy. Or prefer not to break our necks... not that I'm disparaging your work, mind." A beat. And then, "And you're Standing, aren't you." Laine scratches her chin and eyes Quinlyn sidelong. She hmms, a low noise in the back of her throat. It's almost writ on her face that she's mentally updating her 'pros and cons to different dragon colours' list. But she doesn't comment on gold flights, otherwise. The apprentice shifts her body so she--and her work--are better angled for Quinlys to see, although one may imagine leather straps are no novelty to dragonriders. "It's safe enough," Laine offers, "... Usually." Her mouth twists into another smile. "Yeah." She's standing. "It's the 'usually' that gets me. Well - that and the laziness factor. I'm run off my feet when there are weyrlings about, and once there aren't, the last thing I want to do is something active, you know?" Quinlys' attention lingers upon Laine's work for a few seconds more, and then lifts, drawing up to Laine's face. Her, "Congratulations," is a little less effusive, although there's a nod there, too: it'll do. Laine'll do. "Are there really only, like... twenty of you? Candidates?" The candidate has a mindful sort of nod. "I can imagine. Tanning--well. It's boring. Lot of this," Laine brushes her hand across the harness, then resumes the careful, circular motions working that conditioner in. "So I appreciate the challenge. Excitment, some, too. If all I did was climb, then. I'd probably be of the same mind as you." When Quinlys looks up, Laine's staring absently at the eggs. "Mm," she confirms. "More than twenty, I think. But fewer than thirty." She turns a disquieted frown on the Weyrlingmaster, eyebrows knitting. "Will they go between if they can't find their lifemates?" She toys with the straps. "I heard that... somewhere." Is that guilt, on Quinlys' face? It only lingers for a moment, but it's there: real and honest and raw. And then gone. It's easier, then, to say, "Tanning's probably safe, I guess, but I understand the boring. And smelly, too. But you can always keep at it after you Impress, in some capacity. Useful skill, for a dragonrider." She sucks in a breath, holding it to herself for several seconds before she goes back to answer that last question. "Doesn't happen often. Most people argue that... there's no one right person for a dragon; they just have to find a right person. But if there's no one who even fits a little, that's when it gets problematic." If she impresses. Whether Quinlys is referring to Laine's useful tanning skill, or her useful climbing skill, the candidate lifts and drops her shoulders in an easy shrug. That harness in her lap serves as a convenient distraction, and Laine focuses on it with her bottom lip caught in her teeth, so she misses that sweeping expression of guilt. Listens, while Quinlys speaks. Says, slowly, "but it happens." There's another long pause as Laine turns over a loop to tend get at the right angle. Deliberately: "I don't even care if I get sent back to Igen, I just--it's not right to punish the dragons for it. If that's--why there's fewer candidates." But what does she know? She's just a tanner. Those words draw another difficult indrawn breath; Quinlys hovers over it, keeping it in until she has to release it or suffocate; her discomfort is palpable. "It's my aim to bring in some candidates from outside the Weyr," she says, aiming to keep her tone easy, even light. "From the coverage area. '"They won't care if they're sent to Igen, not like people born and raised here. The dragons won't be punished." The words fall just a little flat. "Anyway, you can't blame people for not wanting to Stand. It's a choice." Though Laine's head is still bent over her work, her grey eyes shift askance. She's not indifferent to that discomfort--she just doesn't know what to do about it. Her shoulders square and she brings her gaze up, again to those eggs, and Laine says, almost apologetically, "They'll care just as much as anyone from here. A person's home is their... home. Born and raised," echoed. She looks, now, at Quinlys, thick brows knit, expression uncertain. "Wasn't talking about blame." "No--" Quinlys stops. She takes in a breath; she releases it. Her cheeks are pink. "I know you weren't. It's just a touchy situation. It's-- complicated. And, no one will want to go. No one will-- it was a stupid deal. We should've just waited for Hraedhyth to rise, you know? She'll do it sooner or later. We managed for this long, didn't we?" The bluerider's bitterness is there, not even lurking beneath the surface, but there. "And people can tell me as often as they like that it's only a couple of them that are being sent away, but that's still too many." "Zadkiel wants to go," Laine points out, hesitation in her voice. The work she has in her lap is now neglected in favour of lacing her fingers, tapping her thumbs together. "Some--won't say most--don't mind the idea." She offers this information up to Quinlys, awkward and diffident. "Won't pretend like I know anything about the politics of it. But. Simple enough from down here." Down here--she shrugs the shoulder with her white-laced knot. "There's people as people with attachments, homes. And there's people as dragonriders with duties, chain of command. And those things are--" Her fingers break apart. "Separate." She parrots something she's heard repeated oft enough since that deal came to light. "Riders go where their told." The pink in Quinlys' cheeks is darker, now, and her stance is tight and stiff. "Riders go where they're told," she repeats, voice heavy with emotion - frustration, mostly, but also something deeper and less easily defined. "It sucks," she declares, heedless of everything else. "Doesn't that bother you? That if you Impress, you give up autonomy? Not," she adds, hastily, "that there aren't benefits, too." Laine's hand clasp together again, and there's a whiteness to her knuckles as she tightens that grip. She begins to repeat herself, "won't pretend--" then stops, mindful of Quinlys' honesty, her frustration. So she chooses her words carefully. "No. It doesn't bother me. Two of my friends, my age, were killed, not long ago," and she releases a hand to hold it up, palm flat, belaying any comment on that, because what she wants to say is: "Because they weren't so lucky to have the choice I do. They'd've been safe, here. As candidates. Or tanners. Or as--whatever. But, same way they could've been safe, I could've been them, could've fallen into what they did. Easily. So. I'm counting myself lucky. I gotta get sent to Igen? Fine. 'Least I'm not dead. 'Least I got the choice." Her voice cracks. As moody and self-pitying as Quinlys can be-- and is, at this present moment-- Laine's speech is an instant get-out-of-your-head card; the bluerider straightens, immediately, drawing her shoulders back as she opens her mouth to answer. The words, however, are not immediately forthcoming, and she sits there for quite a few seconds before she manages, "Shells, I'm sorry." That hangs for a few more seconds before, "No, no, you're right. Better to be alive. Much. What... happened to your friends?" After speaking, Laine's jaw had tightened, and now her cheeks flush, red heat blooming across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her expression settles on a sort of angry unease, but after a long breath in and an exhalation her voice is even and steady. "Don't be sorry. They were the idiots got themselves killed." Despite her level tone, the candidate looks ready to spit on the ground, but says, instead, "got caught stealing. Out Nabol way." She doesn't give more information, but likely Quinlys can put two and two together: that spate of highway robberies that 'Reachian riders themselves helped put to an end. "Sorry." Laine shakes her head. "Sorry. I-- I don't know why I told you that. Haven't told anyone that." The flush that has now made a return on Quinlys' pale cheeks, too, darkens slightly; it's pretty clear that she has indeed put two and two together and made a pretty solid four. "No," she says, quietly. "No, you don't need to apologise. I'm not saying-- well. They were stupid, and I don't know for sure whether I agree with people being killed for it or not, but-- that's not really the point, is it? They were your friends, and I'm sorry for that, at least. I hadn't heard that they'd actually been... you know, executed." Laine looks away, down at those eggs again, her mouth downturned and her face still hot. "Idiots." She says it almost under her breath, but it's with not inconsiderable anger. It's Laine's turn, now, to look uncomfortable--she shifts in her seat, sets that harness aside. "Yeah." She doesn't say how she knows, but she bites her lip. Sighs. "So I'm basically--I'm just grateful for the opportunity." It's an attempt to turn the conversation back to something with more solid footing. Quinlys' blue-eyed gaze studies Laine, expression unreadable. She's slow to respond, but when she does, it's in an obvious attempt to take up Laine's cue and focus on moving the conversation. "It's a good opportunity," she agrees, firmly. "I Stood twice-- missed out one time, before I Impressed, and there was another clutch I didn't Stand for at all, but-- it was worth the wait. And it's important to take opportunities when they come your way. Otherwise, you'll go through life wondering 'what if' and that's just... that sucks." A muted thump is felt throughout the Weyr, as if a giant were stomping in the far far distance. It's dismissible by many who are in places with too many people around. Less so if you're alone. If you notice. You wait. You listen. But nothing else twinges funny. Maybe it was just your imagination. Laine leans forward to tousle vigorously at her short, dark hair. When she sits up again, it's to prop her elbows on her knees and chin in one hand. "I hear that a lot," she says, nodding, a deliberate attempt at moving on in the steadiness of her voice. "Second, even third, time. Never stood before, myself, so." She tips her head, back and forth: ambiguity. "Not gonna get my hopes up. Whatever happens, happens," yadda yadda, she waves her hand in a lazy gesture. "Sucks," she agrees. Then: there's that heavy thud and the candidate lifts her head. Casts a distracted look down at the sands, then pats her hands on their shared bench, as though reaffirming it's still here. "What was that?" That thump results in a jump for Quinlys, who straightens, and then immediately turns her gaze towards the sands-- her eyes have gone round. "I don't know," she says, bypassing the rest of the conversation in order to focus on whatever it was that just happened. "Maybe it was nothing," she says, then, with a frown. "Want to-- I'm sure Niahvth's got an eye on it, and Reisoth, but want to walk with me closer to the sands, just in case?" "That wasn't nothing." Laine pushes herself off the bench, her leatherwork forgotten, and does another scan of the galleries and the sands from her new vantage point. "It wasn't--here, I don't think." Grey eyes narrow. The half-dozen or so other visitors to the galleries are similarly confused, their murmuring a low buzzing that echoes even as some begin to drift to the door and leave. "Yeah. I'll come." The seconds pass into minutes, and when most people have shrugged off the thump as nothing to be concerned about, a low rumbling BOOOOOOOOOOOM is audible within the lower caverns. Even if you don't hear it, you most certainly feel it, this fine evening just before dinner. Whatever this second event is vibrates the very floor you stand on, the walls you cling to, the knick knacks on your shelves. It isn't quite so shocking as to unbalance most, but it is distinct and certainly not your imagination. "Noooo," begins Quinlys, evidently aiming to agree with Laine despite her half-hopeful words, earlier. She and the candidates are up at the top of the galleries, but standing, now: they're on their way down towards the sands. Or will be-- first, there's that BOOM, which has the bluerider grabbing for the railing and letting out a yell of surprise. It's not as loud or as intense, here, as it might be deeper in the caverns... but there's no missing it. "Fuck, what was that? Fuck." From the sands, That vibration rouses Niahvth. She rumbles in that dangerously low tone of a mama bear ready for something. Her movements are quicker than her size would indicate and she starts gathering her children into a mound together, about the golden egg, shielding them with her wings, her limbs, her body. Laine curses. She doesn't stumble, but kneels, one hand splayed flat on the solid stone beneath them, and waits, anticipating another shock. "Quinlys," she says, slowly, urgently, "The fuck was that?" When no tremor comes, she straightens, and her searching grey eyes find Niahvth below on the sands, amassing her eggs. Schuyler heads up a short flight of stairs from the bowl. Schuyler has arrived. Schuyler had been running an errand for the kitchens when the first thump happened, curiosity driving him out of the bowl, he takes refuge, and his curiosity, into the galleries. He's only just stepped inside when the second boom hits and causes him to stumble forward and pitch against the railing, very nearly falling over the top of it and right in the direction of Quinlys and Laine. From the sands, Reisoth has been watching over his mate and their clutch with his usual, quiet vigilance. But the booming draws him into even higher alert. He rises, wings mantling protectively as he moves closer to Niahvth, rumbling with agitation. "I don't know," says Quinlys, her voice low and urgent. "None of the dragons know, either. Olly's checking in. But--" She indicates upwards, the walls around them. "There's no debris, so we're probably safe. But-- shells, look at them." Her eyes are on Niahvth and Reisoth and the clutch, now, and she moves for the stairs, passing Schuyler as she goes. Her gaze only briefly passes over the baker, but it's not dismissal so much as busy. From the sands, It's almost as if she'd forgotten he was there, so single minded in her desperation to protect her babies. Startled, Niahvth looks up, the rumble turning into a worried croon. The large golden head cants from side to side, waiting for the next thing to happen. But nothing comes. Despite Quinlys' reassurance, Laine's gaze scours the arching ceiling and curves down to skim over the seating benches, then again settles on the pair of clutch parents instinctively acting to safeguard their eggs. Then there's Sky: as he stumbles, the apprentice tanner puts up one hand (moreso to prevent him from falling on her than in assistance) and, once checking to ensure he can right himself, single-mindedly moves to follow the weyrlingmaster. "Is there anything we can do to help them? Are the eggs okay?" Schuyler catches the not-exactly-an-explanation from Quinlys and his eyes fall towards the sands. "Uh, I know no one is supposed to touch the eggs but... shouldn't someone check that they're OK?" he half wonders out loud. "Where did that even come from?" is his next unanswerable question. He's straightened himself out at this point, having kept from falling over the railing or onto Laine, and he turns to her. "You OK?" hopefully that question has an answer at least. From the sands, Reisoth's whirling gaze turns toward the movement in the galleries and his rumbling reverberates more loudly through the cavern. Someone had better figure out what's going on! Quinlys stops, a few stairs down - still quite a ways from the sands themselves. Both arms go out, clearly intending to stop the other two from getting any closer. "The only people getting anywhere near those dragons right now are the two dragons on the sands," she says, voice taut with tension. "And maybe their riders. If you-- if anyone, I think-- takes so much as a step closer, well, that would be bad. Look at them. Do you want to get in the way of two enormous dragons that agitated?" She turns now, glancing back at the two apprentices. "I have no idea what just happened. What I do know is that we need to clear the galleries. Come on; everyone out. Quietly." The young candidate wasn't intending on going anywhere Quinlys wasn't, so when the weyrlingmaster stops, Laine does too, only a step behind her. Her hands come up, fingers spread, palms out. She shoots another restless look up, up at the ceiling, around the cavern, and again on an agitated Niahvth and Reisoth. Laine's voice is terse. "No intentions of it, ma'am." Going nearer, that is. "I'm fine," she says, distractedly, to Sky, as she does an about face and starts back up the stairs. There's still a few lingering gawkers, either gaping at the clutch parents or clustering in gossipy little groups; some are staring openly at Quinlys. Schuyler hasn't stepped anywhere yet, happy to leave his feet firmly planted on the ground. He looks down at the dragons then back at Quinlys. "Ah... good point. Yeah." anther look around, maybe looking for damage. "Where should we even go?" he asks her. Quinlys' gaze slides from one apprentice to the other, and then out around the galleries to all those other onlookers. "Slowly and quietly," she directs them, "Go and instruct people to leave. On my orders. The galleries are closed. Once everyone is out, leave. We'll go to the bowl and make sure no one else comes in." She glances over her shoulder at the dragons, but-- well. The people are her priority right now. There. The Weyr itself seems to sigh, and there's one last low rumble before silence. The good kind? Those in the bowl suddenly see a few dragons who live above the Weyr entrance area skittering off their ledges, lifemates in various states of dress or undress in tow. Laine nods, and without response she peels away from Schuyler and Quinlys, down the nearest aisle of seats. She'll take the left, apparently. The candidate approaches a small crowd of bewildered cavern workers and speaks to them in a low voice, motioning to the exit. Even without prompting, the bulk of guests have begun drifting toward the exit, only to pause again, voices rising in confusion, when that final rumble sounds. Laine shoots a wide-eyed look back to Quinlys, alarmed. Schuyler nods solemnly and heads up and to the right since Laine went left. He starts ushering people towards the bowl. He's fairly calm despite the craziness. The final rumble sends the folks he currently ushering out running towards the doors. "Hey, slow! Someone will get hurt if you run!" he calls firmly after them, doing his best to keep his voice on the softer side. Rafevan has arrived. Run run run run run. Rafevan is well out of those collapsing tunnels under the Weyr before he stops, breathing heavily. The flow of people out of the galleries is enough to pull him up short, adn while some are trying to keep them from running... "The tunnels collapsed. There's people down there. We need to help them!" He's not doing his part to keep things calm, not with his wide eyes and pale face. He's covered in rock dust, even his hair turned ashen. Quinlys manages not to yell out at that next rumble, but her eyes are already wide; she looks terrified-- and even more so when, as she begins to leave the galleries, shooing people out as she goes: "But the Weyrleader said--" Rafe's words have caught her off-guard, but that panicked expression is forced away. "He said we should stay away. But if they need help... okay. Show us." Fuck the Weyrleader, clearly. Rafevan's panicked voice urges the remaining stragglers out, fast--either to go help or gawk or something else altogether. And there's Laine, who bites out a growled, "Fuck." She's right behind Quinlys. Schuyler doesn't listen to his own advice when Rafe comes in yelling for help. He darts towards him and nods towards Quinlys. What she said is what the gesture implies. "Where?" he adds, still moving forward. So off they go, Rafevan at the lead: he's the one that knows the way back into the bowels of the Weyr. At least, by now, it's stopped shaking. |
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