Logs:Two's Company
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| RL Date: 6 February, 2016 |
| Who: Jocelyn, Quint |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Returning from the Fort gather, Quint has a late supper and picks Jocelyn's brain. |
| Where: Kitchens, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 13, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Wind, rain, and snow combine to make for miserable, sleety weather today. |
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>---< Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr(#267RJs) >----------------------------------<
Polished marble and granite surfaces, gleaming metalwork and pale woods
characterize the vaulted fastness of the kitchen. Several large hearths
gape red-mouthed against the outer wall of the cavern, their fires almost
always stoked for the constant cooking the Weyr requires to feed its
denizens. Sinks line the wall to one side of the hearths, providing ample
space to wash large quantities of dishes, while to the other, cabinetry
and a deep pantry provide storage space for items commonly needed on a
day-to-day basis.
The remaining wall space is taken up by passageways and extra seating:
swinging doors that lead variously to the main living cavern, the inner
caverns and the storage rooms, a counter-height pass-through for food
service to the Snowasis, and a series of nooks equipped with tables and
benches for quick, out-of-the-way meals any time of day.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Jocelyn F 25 5'5" lean, red hair, blue-gray eyes
Quint M 30 6'3 lean, dark blond hair, blue eyes
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Living Cavern Inner Caverns Storerooms
>----------------------------------------< 11D 13M 39T I10, winter night >---< It's somewhat late -- past dinner hour, certainly -- with the regular stew burning at the nighthearth, there's not much else on offer. Perhaps that's why Quint -- still wearing his thick coat, and soaked wet from the horrible weather outside -- strides into the kitchen instead to see what's on offer -- or who might be on duty. He makes a beeline for one of the kitchen workers, a younger girl who he chats with amiably, and it's not long before he's secured himself a bowl and some bread, murmuring his thanks to her before he strides towards the nearby tables. Based on appearance alone, Jocelyn's probably been pulled from her nighttime ablutions to address something that's come up among the staff, striding in from the storerooms with her hair loose, if dark with moisture, and an expression that might better belong on a rain-soaked feline. "I'm sure the substitution will be fine, " she grouses with eyebrows drawn together to the assistant who emerges from behind her, waving her off with a tired look. Wrapped in a short coat over pants that look entirely too soft to be professional wear, the goldrider's halfway to the doorway to the caverns at large before she catches sight of Quint, pausing briefly before heading in his direction. "Harper, " she greets evenly. "You're eating late." "Weyrling," Quint returns, with notably more warmth than her greeting, giving her a quick glance as he divests himself of his soaking coat and lies it over the back of a chair. "Just back from Fort's gather. Go to enough of them, and you crave nothing more than simple soup to end the day with," he says, with a gesture to his bowl, moving to his seat, but halting at the last minute as he gaze flickers back towards the goldrider. "Care to join me?" he invites, easily -- oblivious to her apparent mood, or uncaring thereof. "I've already been to my fill of them, I think, " Jocelyn says wryly, "and all I want at the end of a day of performing to an occasion is some peace and quiet." Perhaps that's why she hesitates at his invitation before walking to the seat across from his, settling there almost gingerly. "If I'm intruding on yours, I won't be offended if you tell me to let you eat in peace." Delivered with a sniff, her brusque words are an attempt to cover the awkwardness of her expression which follows, hands tucked into her lap beneath the tabletop. "Already," Quint responds in amusement to her wryness. "And so young," he adds with a cluck of his tongue. Her hesitation earns an insistence in the gesture towards the chair she's already touching, and perhaps also in the way he waits to take his seat until she's taken the one she's selected, too. "This is peace for me. One person does not a crowd make -- and really, I'd enjoy the company." Surely that's a well-practiced harper line, said with such smoothness as to maybe make it seem otherwise. Jocelyn snorts faintly. "And you're not? You can't be much older, yourself." Blue-gray eyes travel quickly over his face, as though in an attempt to back up her assessment. "What is it that they say - two's company?" There's an almost grimace for that practiced smoothness. "You can leave off the blandishments, Journeyman Quint. There's already enough insincerity for me to contend with in the politicking that you know I enjoy so." With a wry twist of lips, Quint responds: "Yes, but my... three? Five? Seven? Turns of seniority has made me so much more worldly," he's clearly putting it on, and, after he sinks into his seat, he reaches for his spoon, nodding easily to her reference to that old statement. "It does have the benefit of meaning that if she," he gestures with his spoon towards the assistant that was talking to Jocelyn earlier, watching not very unobtrustively, "Decides to come and ask you something, three is definitely a crowd." He dips his spoon into the soup, eating with the long practice of one who can effectively not slurp it in polite company. Her latter words earn a lift of hands, as if in self-defense. "I can't help my natural bearing, honed over Turns of training, I'm afraid. But I'll do my utmost, in your honor." A beat, before he tilts his head, thoughtfully. "You've been studying the hatching records as part of your training, no doubt. Tell me, if you would -- have there been many instances of candidates over the age of twenty-five impressing at High Reaches?" "What?" And Jocelyn glances over to give the aforementioned assistant a pointed look that's leftover from her assistant headwoman days, one that clearly says, 'I know you have work to do.' "She really should ask me as a last resort, now. I'm not a headwoman anymore. We have an outline of proper channels for a reason." Lips pursing for Quint's inquiry, the weyrling's eyes narrow before both shoulders lift into a light shrug. "I haven't run into a great many cases, but I can't say that it hasn't happened at all, either. Why?" "But you are almost her boss again, regardless," Quint observes. "I've heard it won't be long until the weyrling graduation, yes? I hope you're more enthusiastic about it than some of your fellow weyrlings," he gives a rueful smile, before he continues with the soup. If he's aware of the narrowed eyes, he doesn't acknowledge it, attention mostly on his soup. "My sister, Gizzy -- Gisele. She's going to stand for Fort's clutch, if the Weyrleaders allow it, given she's just outside of the age range. I'm -- curious." For obvious reasons. Jocelyn makes a little face. "More like a supervisor for her supervisor." There's a half-smile that briefly shows. "Not long, " she confirms of her status - and that of her fellow weyrlings. "I don't expect it to feel any different. It's been pointed out to me that at this juncture, being still considered 'in training' is not much more than a technicality." She's terribly matter-of-fact about the concept, but seems just as glad to seize again upon the other topic at hand. "Your sister, " she repeats, then, "at Fort. I imagine they've a need for more bodies on their sands, particularly since they're - rebuilding, " she finishes almost carefully, lifting a hand to cover a small yawn. "When we had almost thirty between the two here, I was sure they'd be drafting every person around the appropriate age from the lower caverns. But they'll need a large, solid selection; if she isn't far removed from the maximum, " she guesses, "I don't know why a weyrleader in need of candidates would turn her down." It stands to reason that she, apparently, wouldn't. "A boss is a boss is a boss," Quint replies, in a near sing-song tone, chuckling. His gaze does flicker towards the weyrling as she talks of her status, taking in her demeanor, though silently -- letting the topic slide for the time being as it's directed elsewhere. "It's -- more of a favor than a need for them to go out of their way, as I understand it," the harper says, easily despite the care with which the words are selected. "I don't imagine they will," he adds, with a nod, though there's a faint frown about his features all the same -- unusually enough on the normally jovial harper as to take note. "I'd always assumed the age was for suitably for the dragons." His gaze, weighted on her, might be an invitation for her to suggest otherwise. Jocelyn's eyebrows lift. "A favor, " she repeats almost absently, gray eyes lingering briefly on the other's frown before they find his gaze. "I think it'd be logical enough for part of the age requirement to exist for the rigors of weyrling training. How the dragons know to choose someone within the span of a decade, however, I couldn't tell you, except that they will Impress to someone presented to them in the hatching grounds and those presented usually are within a certain age range, by default. Whether or not she actually stands, if she's present there, that day, and a dragon hatches with the intention of seeking her - they might just find each other anyway. That's documented as having happened before, certainly." There's another yawn to be stifled. "You can look all of this up too, of course. I'll leave you to finish your soup in real, actual peace. You don't need me snoring all over your dinner. Not that I do." Briskly, she pushes herself to her feet, hands clasping before her once she's pushed her chair back under the table. "Good evening, Journeyman Quint. Do remember, " with a parting glance for his coat, "not to drip all over the floors." Genuine amusement colors her tone for that last before she heads for the doorway. The harper listens in silence, even stilling his eating in favor of paying close attention to the weyrling's words. When she's done, Quint nods, lips thinning briefly. His response -- whatever it might have been -- is prevented by her brisk departure, earning an easy smile in response as he half rises to bid her farewell. "Good evening, weyrling Jocelyn." If he's surprised by the reference to their first meeting, it shows only in the slight tilt of his head and the amused response that follows: "I wouldn't presume to." |
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