Difference between revisions of "Logs:Life Sucks"

The early evening hours can be busy, in the Snowasis - not as busy as it'll be in a few hours, perhaps, but still buzzing with that low hum that tends to result from dozens of different conversations happening all at once. Quinlys has taken a seat at the bar, right off to the far side, and is carefully nursing a full glass of whiskey, blue-eyed gaze dropping broodily towards it as if she's more interested in staring at the amber liquid than actually drinking it.

A short distance away, Faryn can be found among a group of apprentice crafters who apparently have the day off. They've been there for a spell, their voices raised in laughter and sometimes yells of objection when a hand of cards goes poorly, but they're good-natured, and most seem pleasantly drunk. Though part of their party, Faryn's own drink is just a steaming mug, but that doesn't stop her from slipping away to the bar to try and get the tender's attention and order a round for her friends. Her gaze slips to the broody bluerider as she waits for them to come, and eventually, she says, more out of curiosity than anything, "You reading fortunes in that glass?"

"Hm?" A pause, and then the bluerider glances away from the glass, seeking out the source of the question. "Mm. I'm sure there's something in the way it swirls when you turn the glass; very illuminating." Her tone is dry, aiming - it seems likely - for amused, but falling somewhat flat given how tired she sounds. "Anyway, I'm not sure it's possible for me to become Weyrleader, so either I'm reading it wrong or it's a bad batch of fortune-telling whiskey."

There's a rough chuckle. "I heard from reliable sources that the accuracy really depends on how much you drink before the reading." The herder's amusement is short-lived, her brows furrowing. "Weyrleader," she echoes. "Why on earth would you want that? Seems a lot of responsibility and not much reward. Glorified babysitting. Which," she adds, tipping her head towards Quinlys' knot, "is something you do already, only at least real babies are involved."

"Because if I were Weyrleader, I could make less--" But Quinlys stops herself, shakes her head, and actually takes a sip from her glass. Once she's swallowed, she adds, "But you're right. Really, I much prefer my own job. Raise 'em up, shape their minds; that's real power."

If Faryn cottons on to when Quinlys could make less of, she doesn't offer any insight. "And it seems like most people are pretty thankful, after the fact. I'm not sure K'del gets the same appreciation. I heard my mum say once that she thought Weyrleaders were lucky, everyone else was skilled. Don't know that she was entirely right - but she seemed at least half right." She pulls herself on the bar, leans over to try and spy the bartender and her order, and leans back when she finds nothing.

Begrudgingly, and with a sigh, Quinlys says, "Getting the Weyrleader position, that's definitely luck, whatever people say. Actually doing the job well, well, that's different again." She gives her glass another moody glance, but seems, then, to relax a little. "But you're right. People are thankful. It's more tangible. I like my job." Pause. "Love my job, really. What about you? Do you love what you do?"

"Do you think he doesn't deserve it?" she inquires, genuinely curious. The weyr leadership effects her so minimally that it seems the question is genuine. The people she answers to are in a different hierarchy entirely. At the very least, she doesn't hesitate to answer, "Most of the time. Some days are better than others, but I think that's anything, innit?" She thinks for a minute and adds resolutely, "I love the runners. I'd be happier racing them, but that isn't respectable."

Quinlys' lips press together, which is, perhaps, answer enough. "It's been suggested to me," she says, rather more quietly, now, "that if I wish to keep my job, I should keep more of my opinions to myself." The explanation has her setting down her glass, pushing it slightly away from her... and then reclaiming it a moment later. "What's not respectable about racing? You're short enough, aren't you? There have to be some advantages to being pint-sized, right?"

Faryn can't help but laugh at that, a small and somewhat bitter sound. "I've heard that," she says, "and reject it out of hand. Which is why I'm still an apprentice, they tell me. But you probably have more to lose." There's a sadness in her acknowledgment, though she doesn't appear to have any strong opinions on the weyr leadership either way. She's content enough to drop that topic, either way. "It's the only one, from what I can tell," Faryn decides. "It just isn't part of the halls. Just...gambling, is all it is. I dunno." A petulant shrug. "Just isn't. And nobody to race here, anyways. Maybe if I ever get stationed at Bitra, I'll change jobs."

The glower Quinlys aims at her glass is a pretty good suggestion of her feelings on the subject, but she, too, is happy enough to put that aside and consider the rest of what Faryn has to say. "Lame," is her opinion on the subject of the lack of racing. "It's something I do with the weyrlings, a bit: relay races, individual races, that kind of thing. Build up some competition, even just in fun. Of course, dragons are harder-- the size difference and all. But you can manage it. Olly and I were never much for it ourselves, as weyrlings, but some people really get into it."

"Really?" Faryn says. "Probably easy when they're smaller, I guess. But something about a runner, y'know?" She props her chin in her hand, elbow on the bar, looking thoughtful. "I guess it just seems very different." She gnaws her lip, searching for some thought just out of reach. "A dragon can read your mind, and that seems like cheating. Oh, there he is." The bartender, looking apologetic, has reappeared with a platter of drinks, and Faryn digs in her pockets for payment while he makes his way.

"I guess so," says Quinlys, noncommittal on the subject of runners. "It's--" But she breaks off, fingertips lifting to rub, unhappily, at her temples. "Hey-- before you go." She doesn't seem especially happy about this, either. "I guess that means this is a no, but, well, I have to ask, right?" Unhappily. "Olly - my blue - seems to think you should Stand for Niahvth's clutch. And, you know, probably get sent to Igen if you Impress, but--" She turns on her chair. "It'd probably do something for the situation I'm in, if you said yes. Or at least told people I'd asked. Will you? At least think about it?"

Faryn's hand freezes in her pocket momentarily, enough to betray some surprise at the request. She'd just told someone she thought this wasn't likely to happen, though she doesn't seem to be jumping with joy about it anymore than Quinlys is thrilled to ask her. It all feels...off. She finds her marks, exchanges it for the platter. "Igen, y'say?" she says, and someone isn't keeping up on politics, clearly. "I hate the desert," is the response, rather than a straight answer. The tray of drinks is tugged closer. "I can tell people you asked," is offered, almost like it's a compromise. "I just...Igen, shards, really?" Tray in hand, she waits for an answer despite the expectant calls from her table - "Shut your holes!" is their answer, impatient and a little annoyed - now that their refreshments have been spotted.

"Just-- think about it, please?" Quinlys looks, well, almost desperate. "You don't have to answer now. Tell people I asked. In good faith. And make your own mind up. I don't-- I wouldn't want to be sent to Igen, either." Doesn't want to send people to Igen, for that matter, given how unhappy she looks. "Take your drinks. Take your time, too." Awkward, she attempts a smile. "It was nice to meet you."

Faryn gives the bluerider a smile, genuine but a little sad. "Yeah, I - sure, I will. Think about it." Her correction is quick. "And I'll mention it, if it helps." She hoists her tray with a careful motion, dismounts her stool, and says, "Nice meeting you, too. I hope things look up for you." She turns and makes her way towards the table, but her "Igen, blech," is still likely audible.

Quinlys, left to her own devices, drops her head towards the top of the bar, lightly banging it there once, twice, and then a third time. Life? SUCKS.