Difference between revisions of "Logs:Turnip And Potato"

Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr

Made private by a thick, insulated door that blocks out most of the noise from the barracks beyond, the Weyrlingmaster's Office is a comfortable, quiet alcove. Instead of an imposing desk, much of the room is taken up by a large round table, with five chairs spaced around its edges. Beneath it is a square rug pieced together with twisted rags that stretches from wall to wall, just leaving room for the long bookshelves and filing cabinets. On the back wall, a tapestry is hung, providing both insulation and decoration.

Ok, so usually, when I'zech doesn't feel much like being hands-on with his charges, he ends up sprawled on the couch, shouting orders from afar and making himself, you know, 'available'. And when he doesn't feel like being remotely involved but is still technically on duty, he avails himself of the office for a little peace and quiet. As much as most people might assume he spends his whole day in there, Quinlys would know better. Somehow, between not being properly dressed, his flippant, pain-in-the-ass mouth and his general air of 'I'd rather be sleeping', he actually does show up pretty much on time, has a certain no-fuss way with the weyrlings and has even picked up the odd extra shift here and there. So all in all, somehow, miraculously, he's still not actually sucking. Don't let it get around. But anyway, with the constant bickering of two sisters who impressed a pair of greens, half the barracks has cleared out and their stalwart assistant weyrlingmaster is hiding. Maybe Quinlys is already here, maybe not, but he comes in and closes. the. door. before turning to find himself some klah.

Quinlys is, in fact, in here... and she may, in fact, be hiding out of her own accord, though let's not let that get around, either. There's been some redecoration since Meara left, the tea cart having vanished (but not the klah pot) and the tapestry having been replaced by something just a little more modern: geometrics, mostly, in warm jewel tones. Today, the bluerider's got socked feet up on the table, and a stack of weyrling placement exams arranged haphazardly around her. It could be the epitome of industry, but it isn't, not when her attention is focused at the opposite wall, and especially not when there's the faint flush of even a small amount of alcohol about her cheeks. Quinlys isn't a lightweight, but she's never going to be able to be secretive.

"It has to be some kind of practical joke, right?" I'zech tells the wall, pouring and then stopping to rub his hands over his face. "They don't stop. I think I know more about their family than I do about Rojeth. If they bring up cousin Calasa again..." Well, he's not sure what he's going to do... Because the endless yammering has liquified his brain. So he just turns to look over at Quinlys, lifting his mug for a temperature-testing sip. And his eyes narrow. "What are you all rosy about? Rubbing one without me?" He doesn't even really bother to be obnoxious about it -- that's too much effort. There's just a quick hitch at his mouth and then he drinks. It would seem he's not quite expecting her to be in an alcoholic flush.

"Why do you think I got out the booze?" Quinlys doesn't usually make a habit of drinking while on duty... today is, apparently, an exception. "Help yourself." She doesn't seem to expect that he'll have a problem in joining her in that particular state. "Anyway, you got off easy, unless Ariessa needed you to reassure her that bleeding was perfectly normal and just a fact of life, since she didn't believe her sister, and it was upsetting the dragons." She pauses, just for a beat, and then adds, "Hopefully that means she'll swing into another mood sooner rather than later and we can have a day or two of peace. Or we could walk off the job, I guess."

The rubbing commences again -- just one-handed this time, since he has his mug -- but his fingers grind across his brow, down over one eye and the scruffy side of his face, pulling his mouth askew. "Where's Telavi when we need her," he mutters without any real desire for Quinlys to hear it. Maybe the trudge of his boots toward her is enough to muffle it. And hey, maybe she's lucky and doesn't remember how I'zech got rather tricked into checking up on a weyrling who was all stuck in bed with her lady troubles. And why does that keep coming up? He says nothing more about it now, just reaches for the booze. "And thank you for that," saving him from more menstrual conversations. "How is it possible their parents didn't just kill themselves?" Sadly, everyone in the barracks know they're alive and well, because those two girls discuss them constantly.

Quinlys' smile, just short of brilliant, could be in relation to that Telavi-recollection, though since she's given no other sign of having heard, it could be for something else entirely. Instead of remarking, she turns her attention to her own mug, taking a fairly idle kind of sip from it. Then, "I bet their parents are even worse. Where else would they have learned it from? Fuck. They better never bring that cousin around. At least," and these are very small mercies indeed, "their dragons aren't too bad. Or so Olly implies, anyway. And the rest are fine. And," she's reaching, okay? "This lot should be in their own weyrs before Iesaryth's hatch."

Ugh, the parents. And the potential that Quinlys is right about them. I'zech will pour an extra tip of liquor into his mug for that. "Watch, she'll impress one of Iesaryth's," he tells her of the cousin Calasa, a smirk for the twist of bad luck that would be. But at least he can sooth himself with his heavily spiked klah and turn to take a half-seat on the tables edge, facing the bluerider and letting an distant gaze move down over her. There's a smack of his lips, a mug-lift and a head-tip to thank her for sharing the booze. And so he'll share this: "Rojeth calls them Turnip and Potato." There's the sense that maybe he's not really supposed to be telling anyone what Rojeth says. And also, in the cock of his brow, a question about whether or not Olveraeth might have a similar opinion of the two greens.

A good natured groan answers that first possibility, though Quinlys is largely still smiling. One of her feet wiggles in answer to that tipped mug, as if the rest of her is just too lazy to move; she's glancing back at the wall again. It takes her a few seconds, and then: "Turnip and potato. Are you implying that any dragon hatched out of these bloodlines could possibly be as... actually, he's probably on to something. What's better? Having... let's be polite and say 'too much personality'. Or having none at all? Let's just say that Olly doesn't pay them much attention."

"Could possibly be... mistaken for some damn vegetables?" But hey, Quinlys has a point, too, and now I'zech ruminates over it, his glance drawn blankly to the door as his knuckles scrape along the bristle at his cheek. "I'd probably have given a different answer a few weeks ago," before those sisters moved into the barracks. It goes unsaid that, right now? Less 'personality' please. But a mirthless huff of a laugh comes out and his attention returns to his boss, an eye (appreciative) for those pink cheeks she's sporting. "How long have you been in here?" he asks with a smirk, like he's totally filing this away for the next time she tells him to hop to and do something. That does still happen, right?

Of course it happens. Which would explain why Quinlys is so very quick to wave her hands at the various scattered exam papers and point out, "I'm working. Not all of my job involves hands on working with weyrlings." Beat. "There have to be some perks to the big knot, after all." Aside, presumably, from the stipend. And the power. "Anyway, I'm not sure I'm needed out there. They've got you, and J'vain, and haven't most of them wandered outside anyway?" She turns her attention back onto I'zech, expectant. He'll know the answer to that, right? And her, "Hey. There anyone you think we ought to hire, before the next lot come in?"

I'zech takes a sideways glance down at those papers, a little tip to see if he's half-sitting on any, and yep, there might be a few corners bent. He tips the other way to slide them free, as if that makes them good as new. "Who looks at any of this, really? You'd think a quick 'Day 68 and all's well' would do." Even if there's that one blue who has had some trouble, but really, there's always someone having some minor trouble, right? Anyway, all of that is kind of a beside the point. The point is that it's time to drink and so he lifts that steaming mug again for the sweet blend of caffeine and alcohol. "Not that comes to mind right away," he says with a shrug. "You looking at anyone?" He lets out a heavy breath, "At least last time they were all at once, we didn't have half the weyrlings here and the other half there." He stares ahead dull-eyed, no doubt imagining all the Work.

"Well, some of it's useful. Like... if you use a particular technique with someone and it works really well, it's good to have record of that for later. And the exams are important, because we have to worry about placement for extra classes and whatever." But even Quinlys seems dubious about all of that, and goes so far as to sigh, rubbing at her temples as she leans backwards in her chair. "I don't know," she admits. "I've never had hiring power before. You were the last person we got on board, and that wasn't really hiring, was it? I guess I'll have to ask around." She seems to agree on the last of what he says, adding, "It's very poorly planned of them. I mean, not that I want two flights at once again; that was shit. But I guess this is better than having two groups in the actual barracks at the same time."

"Oh. Right." Exams. I'zech spares them another glance, and perhaps a hint of curiosity about just how this class is doing. But he's distracted easily enough by Quinlys's leaning -- there is a glance at her more exposed mid-region -- and, perhaps with even more satisfaction, the nature of his 'assignment'. He cracks a smirk. "And look at how well that's turned out," a droll mutter, the amusement twisted. "What are you looking for? Old like Meara but without all the 'this was my job first' shit? Or someone all young and relatable?" Now when his eye skim over her, it's with a more calculating tightness. "If it weren't for the knot, you could pass." But there's a 'oh well' bounce of his brows for the reality of her big shiny knot. As for the golds, "Hopefully they'll start putting some more distance between rising." There's a bit of distaste lingering in the roll of one shoulder and he drinks again.

Quinlys seems-- seems-- largely oblivious to I'zech's glances, not that she won't stretch and roll her shoulders, or idly point her toes. "Shells, no. Not like Meara, I mean. Younger, new ideas, new energy. It always seemed to work well for me, being closer to people's ages, so young is good. But no teenagers, because that's just ridiculous, you know?" She rolls her eyes at him, adjusting that oh-so-shiny knot as if for emphasis. "Hopefully they will. And hopefully Iesaryth will choose better, next time. I know our dragons are kind of ridiculously inbred, the most of them, but picking outsiders is just not on." Then, more musingly: "I should've known she'd have more than one knife on her. I was too busy approving when she gave me the obvious one."

"Young, right. There's always the last class. Doesn't get younger than that." But I'zech barely gives it much thought, and clearly not enough to come up with any names. Or maybe he's just not in the habit of vouching for anyone, since he's not even quick to do it for himself. But as talk settles more solidly on the recent flight, there's a twist on his mouth and he resettles his weight to cross a boot comfortably at the ankles. "Milktoast dandy-boy." Or at least, that's his guess of N'rov. "But I get the feeling she could be a twisted one in the sack. Shame to miss out on the easy way to end up there." His tongue pokes at his teeth and for a second, it's clear he's not so much thinking about anything to do with weyrlings. But then he realizes he doesn't quite follow what Quinlys has said. "You took a knife off her?" A brow cocks. He'll take an explanation.

Wrinkling her nose as if to declare that the latest class are just a little too young, rightly or wrongly, Quinlys nonetheless seems to be considering the idea-- at least for a moment or two. She, too, is easily distracted by talk of that flight, though, smirking as she reaches to reclaim her mug and sip from it, though the contents must, by now, be getting cold. "I can't see any other way of you ending up there," she retorts, amused. "And I, alas, will never get my chance. Sure, I took a knife off of her. Belt-knife. Right as things were starting. We were in the Snowasis, and she gave it to me for safekeeping. Apparently, she carries multiples."

I'zech mouths a silent 'oh' for the barb of Quinlys' tongue, eyes narrowed in faux-pain or appreciation. Buuuurn. Except he scoffs at it. "She'd go crazy under me. She knows it." But after that, he looks aside at the bluerider, taking a new measure. It may or may not be connected to her wanting a chance. And if not that, then it must be the knife. "Your idea?" Taking the weapon. "Or hers." He's thinking something, even if his interest has gone a little topically bland. He empties his mug down his throat and then straightens up from the table, free hand moving to pluck Quin's mug from her grasp without any explanation.

"She seems pretty happy with Toast Boy," says Quin, because clearly 'milktoast dandy-boy' is just too long, and also, probably, because it's fun to tease. She'd say more, seems to want to say more, but her mug has been taken, and though there's no resistance from her fingers, her expression is surprised. "Hers," is what she says, instead, promptly enough, though there's a lingering question in her tone. Then: "What?"

"What you," I'zech retorts, the king of words. He makes a face at her, blowing off her surprise and curiosity with the jerk his chin for those other things she wanted to say. The eyebrow bounce, even, taunting her to spill. And, alas, if she's thinking that the bronzerider is in the midst of one of those smooth 'take the glass and make a pass' moves, it would appear not to be the case. He just heads over to the klah to give her an unrequested warm up. This time, at least.

Such an unrequested gesture, such a nice gesture, does seem to surprise the bluerider... though she won't let that show in her expression for long. Instead, she laughs. "At least it wasn't a senior flight. Can you imagine having some foreign dandy of an interloper wander in as our Weyrleader? When half the Weyr doesn't trust Aishani to begin with? Anyway. If you can get yourself into her bed, sans flight, I'll-- I don't know. Do something impressive, anyway. Consider it a challenge. That's what bronzeriders do, isn't it? Collect goldriders?"

I'zech just his jaw to blow an upward breath -- if his hair was long enough, it might flop around, but it isn't, so it stays exactly as half-flattened to his head as it has been. "Like I'd tell you," if he got so far with, well, anyone. "Why should they trust her?" Maybe it should be 'we', but it isn't, for whatever reason. He leaves his mug by the pot and returns with hers -- full, but with room -- all nice and warm and steaming. It's handed over without fanfare; the nice gesture is enough. "I'm getting called," he mentions, one of those unheard kind of calls, coming through the dragon pipeline. It could be an explanation. "You know, you could come out to the barracks and shoulder a little of this sometime," he chides her flatly. "But, meanwhile, you come up with something impressive." Just in case, says the sudden smirk and the roving eye that still enjoys the pink in his strawberry boss's cheeks.

"What, no gloating?" Quinlys accepts the mug back with a grateful nod, and otherwise, no comment. Thanks are assumed, perhaps. "What is wrong with people today. If I bagged a goldrider, I'd probably tell the world." Lazily, she drags one foot down off the table, and nods. "Go to it, man. And I'll come up with something." Beat. "I'll be out in a few. Anyway, I'm on night duty, so don't think I'm getting off too lightly. Have fun!" Pink cheeks and all, she gives him a saucy glance, the kind that's only slightly gloating over the fact that he needs to head out, and she can stay here just a little longer.

"I don't give a shit about her gold," is I'zech's reasoning. So it would seem there's no particular pride in it. "I heard rumors that Azaylia doesn't mind girls, what with the things people said about her and Taikrin." Or at least, the things they said to him. He gives Quinlys a smug grin, one that pulls askew as he adds, "I'm sure there's a piece of gold ass out there for you somewhere. If that's what you're looking for." Maybe just a hint of a question in that. And yet again, his eyes pick over her, this time lingering more about the thigh region, which deepens his smirk. "Spike that for me," he tells her of the klah with a bare tip of his head. And then he will, with feet dragging reluctantly, turn toward the door. A glance back to catch that saucy haha-sucks-for-you look and he snorts. But fine, he'll get back to work. So many weyrlings.

Quinlys' laugh follows I'zech out. But sure, she'll spike the klah. It's the least she can do.