Difference between revisions of "Logs:(No Longer) Teacher and Student"

Overhead, the sun is high and the sky is clear of clouds, and plenty weyrfolk are taking advantage of what -- at any point -- could be the last beautiful day of summer. Children and dragons splash in the lake, while the rest of the bowl is filled with life and noise. Under the stand of willow trees on the far side of the lake, Farideh is sitting on one of the stone benches, hidework spread out on her lap. She could be seen as working diligently at her new tasks, but her expression is far-away and dreamy, her eyes only half-focused on a blue frolicking in the shoreline nearby.

Olveraeth is not the frolicking blue, but his rider is nearing, wading through the shallows in a sundress and oversized floppy hat. Farideh is not her initial target-- that would be the benches themselves-- but the goldrider's presence is plainly not unwelcome; corners of her mouth twisting upwards, Quinlys draws her hat back just enough that her eyes can be seen beneath its brim, and says, "Farideh! No-longer-my-student!"

A big floppy hat, sundress, and red hair should have been enough to draw Farideh out of her reverie, but it's not until she's spoken to that her head snaps up and her gaze hones in on Quinlys. "Weyrlingmaster," is returned, equally as pleasant, all remnants of her distractedness fading away beneath a wide grin. "Are you that overjoyed? Free at last from the teenagers who drove you almost to a trip between?"

"You're allowed to use my name, now," points out the bluerider, with a grin of her own, as she seeks to wade her way out of the shallows and onto the (somewhat squishy) solid ground, and from there towards one of the other benches. "I don't outrank you. You also don't outrank me--" She breaks off, waving an idle hand. Rank. Boring. "I'm... pleased, in any case. It's nice to have some time; a break. All my little chicks, flying from the nest."

"You have a name?" Farideh cheekily replies, widening her eyes in mock-surprise. "You won't have any more for a while, if you're lucky. Another turn, maybe two, isn't that what they say? What will you do with all that free time?" She shuffles her hides to the side, and stretches out her legs, boots digging into earth. "Are you pleased though? With how everyone turned out? Where everyone ended up? No regrets-- not even one?"

Quinlys, cheerfully (adultly!), sticks out her tongue at Farideh, lounging backwards on the stone bench, her bare-- and now slightly muddy-- feet drawn up onto its surface. "There are always regrets," she says. "Always things I wish I'd done better, or wish I'd been able to assist people with more. I'll fill the time, don't worry; one turn or two, there's always something to do." She tips her head towards Farideh's hides. "How are you going?"

"It's good to know I'm not the only one. I don't think I've taught anyone anything," Farideh replies, slanting the bluerider a sideways look. "Going, I suppose. It's easier without the extra activities in weyrlinghood, but it's still--" Something unqualifiable. "It's gotten easier now that I know when to keep my mouth closed-- mostly." She doesn't look apologetic for that, at all. "We do the best that we know how and we hope everything'll even out."

Quinlys, giving her toes a good wiggle, laughs. "As you well know, keeping my mouth shut is something I'm still learning to do; it's hard. You seem to be doing well at it, so good for you." The forward tip of her head is approving. "Use this time," she adds, then. "No one'll be looking for either queen to rise for a while, yet, so the pressure isn't on as much as it will be. Of course," her smile is cheerful, "I'm sure you're well aware of that, the pair of you."

As if crashing back to reality, Farideh's smile wans. "Gossip abounds, still. Two Igen women, two queens of Igen stock-- I'm not sure anyone wants either, but then, they can't ring Azaylia back from the dead." Her fingers toy with a corner of her paperwork, plucking needlessly. "It's something I hope to avoid for turns yet, but it doesn't stop their tongues from wagging." She gives her head a good shake, and turns her knees for towards Quinlys as she conjures up a smile. "Tell me the place you're going to go first."

"They don't exactly want Azaylia back, either," points out Quinlys levelly; her own smile hasn't faltered. "Or Aishani, or Iolene. How far do you want me to go back?" Still, there's acknowledgement in those blue eyes, and when she speaks again, it's to say, "For the moment, I'm enjoying what's left of High Reaches' summer-- then there will be harvest gathers, and then, long warm days down south wherein I attempt, desperately, to avoid turning as red as my hair. Unless," she allows, then, "I'm sent to Igen."

"But if they had any of them, opposed to us?" she specifies, still contemplating Quinlys. "I don't know that there's ever a right goldrider, a right Weyrwoman, unless you consider Nimae," and her lips do twitch briefly into a smirk, "but to many-- a bad weyrwoman, be she untutored or otherwise, is preferable to one foreign. Legacy, loyalty," as she rolls her hand, signifying drama. "Why would you be sent to Igen?" Farideh asks at the end; her expression is closed off enough that it's hard to discern if she genuinely doesn't know, or if she's faking it.

"Satiet was, I think," muses Quinlys, her eyes flickering closed beneath the rim of her hat as she considers. "Though I was just a little girl, then; but the way people talk about her. It's been different, with everyone since. Some of the goldriders have been nicer, but everyone still respects Satiet." She uses one hand to adjust her hat again, peering at Farideh from beneath the rim as she adds, "Well, Irianke had spoken of sending me there for a time. As part of her rider exchanges." There's a brittle neutrality to her voice.

"The woman's dead, by too many turns," Faryn replies, vaguely disbelieving. "Even holders don't pay homage to those that far past-- not more than tradition-- not respect-- the world changes far too often for that." She looks sour as she glances away from Quinlys, but her voice is level and calm, uncharacteristically undramatic, "Irianke isn't sending you to Igen. She might have plans to-- I'm not sure-- but I wouldn't let her."

Quinlys is plainly less convinced, as if she too is caught up in the myth-slash-cult of Satiet-- but then, she is High Reaches born and bred. Fingers draw that hat down into her lap, smoothing the brittle straw as she hesitates over the rest of Farideh's words. "Good," she says, aiming for a levity that she doesn't quite make. "Thank you. I'll keep my head down, I'll-- whatever I need to."

"It would make sense to me, with everything that's already been shaken up, not to add another item to that list, needlessly." Farideh's eyes drift from the lake, back to Quinlys, noting the hat that she's pulled into her lap now. "We can find something else to give her, if she's set on it," she says, helpfully, trying to meet the bluerider's eyes with her own. "It'll be fine. Besides, if anyone is taking a vacation to Igen, it's going to be me," with a purposeful, self-assured nod. "Summer's not much of a summer without the heat."

Seriousness fades, abruptly, to laughter-- Quinlys' merriment is cheerful enough, now, and without any lingering hesitation. She'll meet Farideh's gaze readily enough, and say, then, "Now, now. High Reaches has lovely summers. You're just not appreciating them properly."

"And Faranth was blue," Farideh tosses back without malice. "I'll never get used to a summer that's colder than Igen or Ista's winters. Not a real beach in sight." She makes a 'tsk'ing sound and idly shuffles her hidework together, so the edges all line up. "Maybe you do need to go to Igen. See what you're missing. Besides all the sand, anyway," she teases, scrunching her nose.

"No beaches at Igen," points out Quinlys, though there's acknowledgement that, of course, there's more to the Igen area than just the Weyr. She gives her toes another wiggle then sets them back down upon the ground and adds, "Just sand, sand, and more sand. If I want sand, I'll go sit in the hatching grounds, thank you very much. You can, too. In fact, it'll probably just terrify people, because they'll think you know something they don't about Roszadyth."

"I could show you some places," Farideh says, after quiet consideration. "That aren't all sand, and as for Roszadyth--" Her face pinches before she blows out a loud, annoyed breath. "Another two turns, Quinlys," as she scoots to the end of the end, preparing to stand; she grabs her hides first. "I'd prefer not to give the rumor mill anymore fuel just now. Now after-- not with--" She's got a guilty, indecisive expression, but says not more. "I should go. I've already spent too much time away from where I am supposed to be." Chagrined, she stands, considering Quinlys. "It was nice to talk to you, Quinlys. When we're not weyrling-and- weyrlingmaster. Away."

That guilt surely does not go unnoticed, but Quinlys does not get a proper opportunity to pursue it; Farideh's efforts to leave are in no way hampered by the bluerider, for all of her obvious curiosity and concern. "You, too," she says, genuinely. "And yes, do show me some places. Igen's not an area I've spent much time in and around." But for now-- she has toes to dig back into the mud, and Farideh has places to be. No matter.