Difference between revisions of "Logs:Negotiating Freedom"

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 of the Weyr's badge is hung, providing both insulation and decoration.

In one corner sits a small green plant, growing strong despite the lack of sunlight in this windowless room. Beside it rests a tea cart, prepped and ready.

With the weyrlings spending their afternoon shadowing wings, the weyrlingmasters have a lot more freedom-- and a lot less work to worry themselves over (thankfully). Thus, it may only be mid-afternoon, but Quinlys has already closed the file she was working on, and is now lazing back in her chair with one leg draped over the table, and the other curled beneath her. There's a good chance that there's more than just klah in her mug, too, given the faint pinkness in her cheeks. The barracks are relatively quiet, despite their continued state of inhabitance; the door to the office is open.

"Hello?" The greeting proceeds the rap of his knuckles against the frame of her doorway. Z'ian can see Quinlys in there of course, his eyes dropping to the mug in her hands and then catching onto the faint pink in her cheeks. His smile is easily lopsided as he makes his way inside, "Do you have a couple of minutes? Not a social call unfortunately." He shrugs his shoulders semi-apologetically and leans forward, bracing his hands against the back of the chair that faces her across the desk. "I wanted to talk to you about that pair out there." One thumb jerks in the direction of the barracks beyond the door.

Red brows raise, and the smug smirk that begins to show fades out, turning rather more into a grimace by the time Z'ian gets to the point of his visit. "Them. Pity." She pulls her leg off the table, and slides the other one out from beneath her, abruptly more business-like... and far less reminiscent of the last time the pair of them were in this office. "I have some time. Please tell me they haven't managed to fuck up something else. Please."

Z'ian does look apologetic. He pushes off of the chair and reaches back to close the door to her office, presumably to prevent the pair beyond from attempting to eavesdrop on their conversation. "They haven't fucked up anything else that I know of." He drops down into the seat now, inching forward to put his hands onto her desk. "I was thinking, they're not doing themselves or you any good in there. I got the sense they're a decent pair. Intelligent, apparently really motivated. They need their energy channeled elsewhere. Let me have them. Your fledglings are about ready to graduate anyway."

Of all the things it might have crossed Quinlys' mind to anticipate, this is... not something that came up, clearly, because her surprise is visible: her eyebrows lifting all over again, her mouth dropping open, her gaze seeking and searching for something in Z'ian's expression. "You actually want them? Shells, I didn't think we'd find any wing to take them. I figured someone would have to be forced into it, probably buttered up with other weyrlings of their choice, or something."

"I actually want them." His smile is crooked as he rakes his fingers through his hair, "I have a thing for troublemakers." Z'ian glances back over his shoulder to the door. "N'hax worked under my brother now and again when they were both at the crafthall in Telgar. I'd be remiss if I didn't give his former apprentice a shot at a second chance, all things considered. C'wlin's just as promising too." Shifting back to her again, "So does that mean you'll let me take them on?" His smile shifts from crooked and a bit mischievous to something more charmingly pleading.

The explanation seems to do something to ease Quinlys' so-obvious concerns, though it doesn't entirely remove her bewilderment. "I can't let them graduate early," she says, promptly. "That makes it seem like a reward, and it can't be that. But," she glances at him, chewing at her lip, as she reaches for her mug again, pale fingers twining around the handle. "I can assign them to shadow Boreal. You and your wing can make sure they're proficient with Between - they've only had basic training - and you can be responsible for anything they do. But they'll be weyrlings until I say they're not. Theoretically, Taikrin assigns them to wings, but no one'll argue you for them. I can make it happen."

Z'ian doesn't raise any objection to that, "That's not a problem. I've got a couple of them in my wing that would be more than up to the task. And of course, I'll work closely with them. They won't have the spare time to get into anymore trouble before they graduate or afterwards." He grins lopsidely again and shakes his head. "Yeah, there's probably not a big market for them right now. But hey, I think they've got the makings to be good riders. Just, you know. Maybe if they can be steered away from breaking into any Holds for the indefinite future."

"Did they really think it was going to work? That they were just going to sail in and then out again, scot-free?" Quinlys doesn't wait for an answer to that, just stares, moodily, into her mostly-empty mug. It gets set down again, right as her gaze lifts back to Z'ian. "Well, I hope so. For your sake. I definitely don't want to be considered responsible for anything they do from here on in. It was bad enough the first time, you know? Idiots. We've the weyrling camping trip, next month. I suppose I'll have to let them come to that, this time."

"Probably?" Z'ian's offering of an answer isn't likely to make her feel any better. But he knows that and she probably knows it too, from the look on her face. "I'm used to it by now, I think. Being held accountable for others unusual decisions." He laughs wryly and glances at her mug of 'klah'. "If they're driving you to drink, maybe we should get you something more exciting? Fuck, you wouldn't be the first Weyrlingmaster that keeps a bottle around to indulge in." And as for whether they'll be allowed on the weyrling camping trip or not, "Yes, this time. But think, soon you won't have to see much of them at all."

Quinlys' reaction to that probably is a rueful snort; for the rest, she just laughs. "Meara would be horrified, but... I keep a bottle in the bottom of the filing cabinet, just in case. This job, it's harder than I expected it would be. Or maybe it's just that this group is harder than I expected them to be. Anyway." She nudges the mug away, grimacing at it, and adds, "Mm. Yes, true. Your problem altogether. Don't let Taikrin murder you, okay? Or they might end up on my hands again, and please no. We'll probably ask you - or someone will, anyway - if there's anyone else you want, sooner or later, anyway. Keep an eye out, maybe?"

"Meara should probably retire, don't you think? This is your office. Your desk. Put the damn bottle in the drawer of it. Let her be horrified." Z'ian shoots her another one of his broad smiles, "You're ballsy enough to stand up to the old guard. Stake your claim." He stretches his legs out before pushing the chair backward and getting to his feet again. "Oh, well. I can't make any promises on Taikrin murdering me or not, I'm not exactly her favorite rider these days. But then again, who is?" For her advice he tips his head towards her. "I will, don't worry about that. I'll try not to die too."

Quinlys' eyes light, no lie. "She should. I'm hoping she will, as soon as this clutch is gone. They've been so much trouble, isn't it time for a rest?" She seems terribly, terribly pleased by this. "Maybe I will. She can be my Taikrin, only more feeble and less likely to actually commit violence on my person-- not that Taikrin's that bad, really. She's just frustrated." And Quinlys is just loyal. "No dying. Good. It's a deal. I'll let you inform them, then. Lay down the law. And the smackdown, if you need to. And don't let them forget for a moment that it's their fault we're all going to go hungry this turn."

Z'ian is about to open the door, his fingers resting on it before he turns to regard her over his shoulder. "Interesting, isn't it? That Devaki used a method similar to Edeline's? That N'hax and C'wlin were able to get as far as they did? That they just let the pirates go with hardly a punishment after causing a ship to sink? Endangering lives? Seems odd to me that two weyrlings being rash and stupid would be enough for him to cut off tithes to us for a whole turn." The bronzerider glances down to the floor, "Very strange, actually. Perhaps they were just pawns? A convienent excuse. But what do I know?" When he looks up again it's with a quiet sort of smile and yet another loose shrug of his shoulders.

Oh, Z'ian. Quinlys' mouth opens. It closes again. And then she shakes her head. "I don't really care, to be honest. All these conspiracy theories. What I do care about is making sure it doesn't happen again, because I don't want to be cold and hungry. So..." She waves Z'ian away. "Just stay out of trouble. If you can." Her expression, however, is doubtful... she may already be regretting this.

"Just something to think about. That and... well they weren't the ones to send the tithes we did receive back to the Hold." But Z'ian has to know he's really pushing the imaginary welcome mat that's out in Quinlys' office. Because he pulls the door open quickly and steps out, poking his head back to add on, "Thank you." Then getting out of there before she can change her mind.

Quinlys stays, quite still, for some time after he's gone. It... well. It looks like she's thinking really deeply. And not necessarily happily. In fact... not happily at all.