Logs:Total Bullshit
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| RL Date: 10 July, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, Quinlys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Faryn and Quinlys are both on Team Farideh... it's just what that means that they're unsure of. |
| Where: Living Caverns, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 22, Month 3, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, Azaylia/Mentions, Farideh/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, Teris/Mentions |
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| When midday rolls in and it's still cold and soaking wet, plenty of people with outdoor duties take it upon themselves to retire for safer, warmer havens. The caverns are busy (and oppressively balmy) for it: late lunches and conversations for everyone, and myriad cliques of people discussing why they can't possibly finish their duties outside until the rain lets up. Faryn was either trapped or tried despite it; she's muddy from boots up her trousers, the seat of her pants, the cuffs of her sleeves, with splatters on the breast of her jacket and the ends of her scarves dipped in grime like paintbrushes. She still treks for a seat newly freed, before it's noticed by someone else, and squishes into it with her plate, where she begins gamely shedding things that make her too warm, now, starting with that scarf. Keysi and Edyis' present regime sees the weyrlings themselves eating as a group and Quinlys, thankfully not part of the cohort, doing her very best to stick well away from them when she eats her own lunch. Thus, she's ended up at a table filled with a motley collection of residents and crafters, one to which Faryn's arrival is notable only because of the mud (and perhaps the stripping). "Take it all off," suggests Quinlys, brightly, her smile smug from across the table. "Give the weyr something to talk about." Faryn's regard is sharp and abrupt in seeking out the source; she's ready to lash, clearly, sharp words on her tongue until she spots the weyrlingmaster's smug expression. The prepared tension relaxes out of her shoulders, slightly; as much as it can when she's so damp. "Faranth, are you hitting on me? I never." She winds the scarf to set it in her lap, and doesn't decide against the jacket, either, though that's easier. "Have to keep them guessing, or I'll never find myself a proper partner." Now she smiles. "Hi." "Best way to be," is Quinlys' amused reply, though something in the considering glance of those blue eyes suggests she's been closely monitoring Faryn's reaction-to-be. Exactly which part of the other woman's comments she's replying to is less certain, and is made no less clear as she continues. "Hi, yourself. Did you get that messy just walking back from the stables, or have you been out in this all morning? We were doing drills, and may I just say that baths are amazing." So is the hearty stew with rivergrains on offer, from the looks of it; hers is mostly gone. The lack of clarity in Quinlys' statement earns a curious look - narrow brows up, up. "Unattainable?" she hazards, "Or coy?" A shrug regardless, as it doesn't seem especially important. She takes up for her own lunch now, spooning up a bit of her own stew, shivering when the warmth gets her just right. She swallows before, "Lost my footing. Been holed up most of the day, actually, just reading in the loft, but I got hungry. Would you believe I fell with the caverns in sight? I made it almost all the way without incident." She snorts a small, self-deprecating laugh. She gestures with her spoon. "Food first. Then baths. I'm not going back out there." Quinlys' expression, so very smug, suggests coy, but the bluerider's not making comment either way; perhaps that's just part of the fun. In either case, she licks her fork, cleaning off the few remaining grains from it as well as the gravy, and then, nodding, says, "That's the worst. I hate this time of turn, really; spring is so close, such as it is, but there's still the rain and the snow and the muck of it all. At least my weyrlings can-- and need to!-- travel further afield, so we can head for the warmth." Tipping her head towards Faryn she adds, "Lucky, if you don't have to go out again. Even if I want to go home, I have to go out into it, and there's no bath up in my weyr, you know?" Life is so very hard. "It's so unpleasant it makes the good weather seem shorter," Faryn grouses, but she's really too into the stew to be properly incensed. "I can't wait for summer again." Quinlys' mention of the weyrlings earns them a look; they've been staples in the same place since the month started, and her gaze drops on them with a directness that says she's been watching them when they're in. "You have your own space, though," she points out, "plus being able to go to warm places whenever you'd like. They're all good enough now, to do that? They were all babies, not long ago." "Yeah," says Quinlys, with a sigh, though she, too, can't muster more than passing dismay. She doesn't turn her head to follow Faryn's gaze, but no doubt she's aware of where the beastcrafter is looking; her slight little nod seems confirmation enough of that. "I do, and that's true," she agrees. "It won't be long, now, before they're senior weyrlings and even less in my hair. More freedom. I'm sure your friends will take you to the warmth; all you'll need to do is ask. But do think of them as they learn how to ride sweeps for hours and hours at a time." Faryn's look doesn't linger long. It drifts back to the weyrlingmaster presently. "Rain or shine, sweeps?" she wonders, leaving little room for an answer before, "Ew." It's good-natured enough, as expressions of disgust go. She props an elbow on the table. "Relieved to have them out of your hair, Quinlys? Who gets more freedom when they graduate, you or them?" The sharp jut of Quinlys' nod confirms that all too clearly: ew. So much ew. "Mmm," agrees the weyrlingmaster with a languorous stretch, setting down her fork and nursing her mug instead, leaning back in her chair. "Both, I should think, but in different ways. Really, though, probably me; they have to get used to their new wings, their new way of life. I... although I could end up sent to Igen for a while, this time, so who knows. Usually I get the chance to take a vacation, at least for a little while. It's likely to be another turn-- more than that-- before there are weyrlings again, even after this lot are graduated." "Igen?" sparks Faryn's attention, apparently, and there go those hyper-expressive eyebrows too, to relay her surprise. "Are you going? I thought you --" ah. Whatever she is left implied, replaced (carefully) with, "No vacation this time?" The weyrlings are forgotten for the most part, and Faryn's gaze averts to dig through the stew for the bits she wants. Carrots pushed off to the side, starchy tubers and pieces of meat prioritized. "A turn's a long vacation. I'd jump on it." If she were Quinlys. Which she isn't. That reaction is not unexpected, and the blandness of Quinlys' smile marks it, knowingly. "We'll see," is what she says. "It depends on the Weyrwomen. I should definitely prefer the vacation, but we do what we must, don't we? But," she continues, with another nod, "I'm definitely in need of some rest and relaxation. Not that it ends up being entirely a vacation, of course-- I'm not that indolent, I promise-- but there's time, and I value that time. There'll be less of it, of course, with two producing queens. Going forward." Faryn's expression and tone are both neutral. "Mmmm." She's biting back questions, that's clear. Her mouth opens, then closes. "You'll be back, though? If you go? It's not permanent?" The permanence seems the most important part, for some reason. The herder manages a laugh, shaking her head. "I wouldn't imply it at all. Lounging around gets pretty boring, as it is. You can only do so much reading, visit so many beaches, drink so many drinks before it all feels foolish and empty." She sets her spoon down in the bowl, tapping a fingertip on the table and considering Quinlys more directly; the question she musters is likely not one of those she suppressed, but rather on a different tack entirely. "Can I ask...it's been bothering me. Statistically - not opinion - who is more likely to go up first?" The potential for trouble has alreay been acknowledged, but she adds, lightly, "I need to hedge my bets." Quinlys nods, smiling ruefully around the rim of her mug as if to say 'you can't get rid of me that easily' over this whole Igen thing. Any comment she might have had, however, is cast aside as she focuses upon the rest of what Faryn has to say; another nod for the lounging, and then, with a sharp inhalation, her answer: "Probably Roszadyth, but... well, it's hard to know. Our last few queens have all been about two when they first rose, but Iskiveth was only a turn and a half. From what I understand, Niahvth rises every two and a half turns, which puts Roszadyth ahead unless she's a late bloomer... but only just." The bluerider makes a face. Still neutral, save a gentle twist of the lips as Faryn bites the inside of her cheek. "I almost hope she is." A late bloomer, likely, because, in the same tone she'd mention the weather is shit, "Farideh's a mess, Quinlys. I'm not pretending I know what's best. I'm just -- I have my own reasons for it, but Farideh asked me to be her assistant. Like Lya was for Irianke. And I told her yes, but -- if they're almost seniors, and you and everyone else haven't managed to help her figure this stuff out...?" She looks a little pained to be saying it, her mouth pursing and her brows knitting together. There's no smug little smile, now. Instead, Quinlys is serious as she nods. "I know," she says. "Oh, Faryn, believe me I know. I mean, at least she's not fighting her bond the way it sounds like Fort's new little goldrider is, but--?" But. But. Her brows knit together, tight and sharp, and her voice lowers... though for now, none of their table companions seem to be paying too much attention. "She's doing better than Iolene did, too, but that was... different." Setting her mug down, Quinlys takes in a deep breath. "You'll support her though, won't you? Help her. Remind her to stop and relax and... all of that?" It seems Faryn was hoping for something more heartening than Quinlys' agreement. "Aw, shit." She shakes her head, short and quick a few times, and when she laughs it's humourless. "Does she even know that?" Faryn matches the weyrlingmaster's tone and volume, half because she sounds a little strained. "That there's been worse, and better? I don't know what to tell her, that she hasn't heard." No, not that. "That she'll listen to." But she huffs a breath, up towards her hair, and her straight bangs fly a little with the force of it. "I'll try. That's what I can promise. I want to, or I wouldn't have agreed to leave the Hall for her." Her eyes drop to the table. "Is it wrong, to hope Niahvth rises first, while I'm looking her in the eye and telling her she'll be fine at this?" "That's the problem, I think: she's so caught in her spiral of self-recrimination that she doesn't seem able to hear when you reassure her. She's-- she's not bad. She has the potential to be very good, I think. But." But. Quinlys draws in a breath, holding it there for long moments before finally releasing it and, then, "No. It's not wrong. It's not untrue, is it? Eventually, she'll be fine at all of it. I believe it. But she's twenty turns old, and a young twenty at that, and... as much as I prefer her to Irianke on a personal level, as much as I'd rather work with her than Irianke, the truth is that she lacks the experience. The confidence. The political... well, you know." Faryn listens, her eyes drawing up from the table to hear Quinlys out in earnest. She's chewing her lower lip while she does it, anxious, and her finger drums staccato rhythm on the table again. "How do you break that? She's already discounting that when she does things right, it's luck, or a fluke. I'm not sure I didn't bite off more than I can chew, and I can't tell her no, not now. She...needs someone" That she might not be that person is clear, but the herder shrugs, resigned that nobody else is really volunteering, or any more suitable. She scoffs at the outline. "Everyone knows that. They can smile pretty at her and Irianke all they want, but both of them are poor decisions if you ask around. Irianke's still a foreigner, and Farideh's -- you know. Farideh. Lose-lose." She puts her hands flat on the tabletop, as if she might rise to leave even though most of her stew is untouched. "How did you keep yourself, Quinlys? When you Impressed. Do you just wear masks for every role? Quinlys the bluerider. Quinlys the weyrlingmaster. Quinlys...the what-have-you." "Well, the thing was, I wasn't a goldrider. No one expected me to be a certain thing; I had the freedom to choose what happened next, what path I went down. If I'd Impressed Ysavaeth, things would've been... different." Quinlys makes a face, as if momentarily imagining what that might have been like, and finding it a poor alternative. "Maybe," she adds, after that, tapping one finger to her mouth, "maybe what she needs is a series of wins, then. One after another. Something to boost her confidence in a way that isn't just... fluke." "Should we just have her throw a series of elaborate parties, full-blown decorations?" Yes? There was a fire last time? Ah. No then. The realist in Faryn has her shaking her head. "I can't guarantee that anymore than you can. If it were that easy, you'd have already done it." Quinlys exhales into a sigh. "No," she agrees. "That's true. That's the problem. And anything too obvious... becomes a set-up, and that's just worse. I have to believe Irianke is doing her best to help at her end," though she sounds somewhat dubious; sorry Irianke, "But... It's a shitty system, you know. Really. That Impressing the right-- wrong?-- dragon at the right-- wrong?-- time changes the course of history. That someone like Farideh, or Azaylia before her, could end up leading a Weyr." "If she's junior, it's easier. It has to be terrible, being in limbo like this, not knowing. If Azaylia hadn't -- Farideh would know her place perfectly. What the immediate future held, until she was ready to be what the weyr needed." If Quinlys sounds dubious, Faryn matches her in expression. "And if she isn't? Why should she? Farideh only wants to make her proud, impress her with how good a weyrwoman she'll be, and I don't know if she realizes it's supposed to be, in a normal world, a competition." She thinks the better of that, after a beat. "Irianke wouldn't even have to try to make her look unsuitable right now." Now Faryn sighs, too, and sounds displeased when she decides, "This is total bullshit." "Total bullshit," agrees Quinlys, darkly. "And it's not even as if we can rig the competition one way or another. It's not-- it'd probably suit Irianke for everyone to prefer her, and that's just so damned frustrating." She gives her mug a sharp, disgruntled poke, and then sighs again. "What a fucking mess. Damned either way. D'you suppose that Irianke's whole courting potential weyrleaders thing means she knows something we don't?" "I don't know I'd rig it if I could, unless it was to keep Roszadyth down an extra day. And that's bullshit too. I'm supposed to be her friend." Faryn reaches for her bowl again, to poke at the meal that has rapidly cooled, and still decides to put some in her mouth because it's something to do, while she considers how fucked they all are. "I think she knows what she wants, if it's true. More than we can say for Farideh, right how." "Mmm," says Quinlys, after a moment. "In that sense, you'd be being a good friend, to prevent Roszadyth from rising, wouldn't you? Farideh doesn't-- though she might grow to resent it, later, were it taken from her." The bluerider presses her hands flat to the table, considering Faryn with a serious expression that abruptly grows more serious. "I commend you for agreeing to her offer, but... how are you going to balance all of that with your own career?" Faryn's smile is cooler than normal. "I'm not. I hate the weather and everything's a mess, but -- I want to stay here. If I leave now, before I actually have to be a journeyman, it'll be easier." Her look at the bluerider is sidelong and cautious. "To Stand again. If I can, when one of them goes up." She scratches the side of her nose nervously. "It's a long way out. I can't afford to be transferred again, if that's how it goes. And if it's not, at least I've tried to help Farideh before I try something else." A short laugh. "Always trying." Quinlys is too perceptive not to see that coolness in Faryn's smile, and too heart-on-her-sleeve not to show her own reaction: dismay, sorrow, and also, deep understanding. "I'm sorry," she says. "That it didn't work out. It's-- quite a change, huh? From your initial reluctance to Stand, to... this. But I promise, we'll get you on those Sands again, next time. You'll get your opportunity. And in the meantime, there are definitely less comfortable jobs than the one Farideh has offered you. Does your craft know, yet?" "It's stupid," Faryn says softly, uncomfortable in having the conversation turned on her. It's probably the look on the other woman's face that really makes it, has her shifting uncomfortably in her seat like it's suddenly ill suited. "It's the only thing that feels -- not right, really. Necessary?" She shrugs. "Not yet. I was waiting for them to be seniors. It's not a letter that comes back, and I wasn't sure. Now I am, though." Quietly, simply: "I understand." It seems genuine, too, in a way that Quinlys so often bypasses for smugness and glee. "And I hope it works for you; honestly, I do. I'm very grateful that Farideh is going to have you on hand; she needs as many supporters, and as much support, as she can get. It seems, too often, that too many people don't even begin to understand what she's going through, and how difficult it is." "I'm not sure I do, either. Not really," Faryn admits wryly, her smile only touching one corner of her mouth. "But I can try and make sure she doesn't drink herself into a stupor, and doesn't insult foreign weyrwoman, and gets enough sleep that she doesn't collapse with exhaustion. And if you're not at Igen," she adds, "maybe I can ask you for advice, when I'm out of steam. You've done it for months. There must be tricks to keep from wanting to shake her when she is suddenly barely 19 and it's everything in your power to wipe that look off her face." "At least you can see that... that she is struggling, and that it's best to be kind to her. Except," Quinlys' own mouth twitches, wry and rueful all at once, "when you want to smack her into next turn, yes. I'll help wherever I can, of course. She's-- I cared about her long before she Impressed, and I'll continue to do so after she's out of my direct authority, too. Send her to me, if you need to. Whether I'm here or elsewhere." Now Faryn does move to get up, gathering her bowl up without any hurry. "I think only the second part of that marks me as any different, really." There is a quick flash of teeth in a grin as she grabs her coat and scarf, too, slinging them over an arm. "I'll do that. Thanks, Quinlys." It seems to encompass a lot of things that require her gratitude. "I hope you do get a break. Now I'm tired, and that was just a talk." She tsks, clicking her tongue behind her teeth, "The things we do for the people we care about. Enjoy the rest of your soggy day." She lingers long enough for propriety, to hear anything Quinlys might say, before she turns and makes her way to dump her dishes and make haste for the second best part of being inside on a day like this: the baths. Quinlys' nod is plainly intended to convey more than just agreement, and certainly approval is in there, too. "Thank you, Faryn," she says. "Good luck with everything, and especially with staying dry. If I can do anything..." She doesn't specify what, and simply, after that, waves the younger woman away. |
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