Difference between revisions of "Logs:Two Steps Forward, Three Steps Back"

With the hatching now within spitting distance, the weyrling barracks-- so long unused-- are in the process of being prepared. Mops, buckets, and a variety of other cleaning supplies and implements are stacked at the wall near the entrance to the training cavern, the walls and floor showing every sign of being newly cleaned. The door to Quinlys' office is open, though the bluerider is not presently in residence. Instead, there's a humming from the barracks themselves, and inside, a grubbily-dressed redhead with a kerchief holding up her hair, and a mop in hand.

Irianke's approach towards the office deviates upon hearing the humming, whereupon she stands in the large archway. Her arms fold over her chest and her body leans into the wall. Having just taken part in her own one-woman mop dancing spetacle, the goldrider's smile indicates her amusement at catching another much the same. For now, she is silent.

It rather looks as though the barracks have already been cleaned, and properly, but there's diligence and determination in the way Quinlys attacks her task, seeking out every nook and cranny where stray dust and dirt might haunt. Still, the humming certainly suggests she's enjoying herself, as is the cheerful way in which she spins-- and stops, spluttering. Those blue eyes widen... and then narrow, as her cheeks turn pink. Cautiously, and with only a hint of defiance: "Weyrwoman."

It can be assumed all of it is noted, Irianke's dark stone-blue gaze catching the transitions Quinlys's expression goes through. The acting Weyrwoman stands up straighter when noticed and offers the bluerider a testing sort of smile, the kind of smile that accompanies circling someone and waiting to see how they react before deciding which way to truly go. "Quinlys. Mops are fine dance companions, are they not?"

That cautiousness in obvious in Quinlys' stance, now, too: she stands erect, her shoulders drawn back, and that mop held almost like one might hold a rifle, were this an army and not Pern. She's clearly uncomfortable with the topic of this conversation, however, and falters before saying, "They do the job." Beat. "Ma'am." Something in her expression screams the desire to say more, but she restrains it, chin lifting ever so slightly.

"Irianke. I prefer a first name basis with those I work closely with. That is," the goldrider tilts her head to one side, considering the bluerider with cultivated nonchalance, "If you would like to continue working closely with me."

"Iri--" But Quinlys stops. Her brows knit. Bluntly, then: "Does that mean you're not here to fire me?" Her fingers tighten about the mop in her hand.

"Pragmatic issues aside," Irianke begins, none of which she elaborates on, "No, I am not here to fire you. However, I did ask K'del to fire you three months ago, but the world is a different place now than it was three months ago. I am sure," the goldrider adds, not shifting her position or her gaze, "It does not come as a surprise to you."

The short, only slightly sulky, nod that Quinlys gives implies, without stating outright, that she knows something of that conversation between Irianke and K'del. It's clear, however, that she's much more interested in the rest of what the goldrider has to say, watching her cautiously. Her second nod is surer, though not accompanied by any confirming words.

"You don't like me. Or, you don't like what you think I stand for. I feel you have made it abundantly clear. I, however, do not work with people who are barely keeping their disdain at bay. Should you wish to continue working with me I expect to actually be worked with." Irianke's smile disappears, that hesitant one from before. "Can we meet each other halfway, weyrlingmaster?"

Quinlys' rebuttal is actually, "What I don't like," beat, "Irianke, is the deal that brought you here. You? I don't know you." The words say one thing; her tone, which she is clearly trying to keep even, says another: neutrality towards the goldrider would be the best case scenario, and an unlikely one. "My job is training weyrlings. They are my first priority. Where do you see halfway being?" She's trying; that much is obvious.

"Then you should have taken it up directly with the Weyrwoman." What Azaylia did or did no do is not something Irianke dwells on now though, speaking ill of the dead and all. But her response is no less blunt. "You pride yourself on training weyrlings and yet you attempt to poison the well you draw from even before they Impress. Why? One of the candidates," who wasn't then, but is now, "Approached me with concerns which led to my approaching the Weyrleader."

Whether or not Quinlys did take this issue up with the Weyrwoman, she makes no comment. "My concern," says the bluerider, simply, "is making sure that no one goes into candidacy without thinking through the potential ramifications. Igen is a very different Weyr to High Reaches; I'd prefer to challenge people to consider that." She pauses, biting her lip, and then admits, rather more quietly, "I was angry. It should never have been a secret. But..." But.

"It was never meant to be a secret," says Irianke, her words simple now. "Why the Weyrwoman chose that course is something we will never know now, but has no true bearings on us moving forward." Her arms finally uncross a sheaf of papers that were wrist-curved behind her back coming forward. "New orders."

It's a complicated place to be in: angry with one's former Weyrwoman, while also grieving her death. Quinlys' teeth come to rest upon her lip again, hesitating there, as those blue eyes track from Irianke to the papers. That she's wary of them is obvious; that she is drawing her shoulders back and emphasising resignation is obvious, too. She hastily rubs her hand on her loose shirt, then extends it. "What do I need to know?"

"I will be announcing it at dinner tonight. Igen and I have settled on new terms in the wake of the tragedies here at High Reaches Weyr and my unexpected extension." Irianke unfurls the papers a little and glances at the first of them. "A maximum of four volunteers of blue and green weyrlings only. They must decide by the time their dragons are four months old. Whether any volunteer or not, there are other stipulations that may be of concern to you that will not be made public until after the hatching."

Quinlys' silence is a stunned one. Her hand falls back to her side; her eyes lift, now, to search Irianke's expression. She opens her mouth, holds it there, closes it again, and-- no, she has nothing. She's staring.

"Would you like me to continue or is this when you throw your knot at me?" Irianke presumes to know the answer to that question. It's heard in the overt innocence of her voice rather than any actual shift in her neutral expression.

"I--" Quinlys starts without seeming to have any idea of what she's going to say, and thus gets no further than that initial syllable. She blushes, instead, and then shakes her head. "Please," she says, her voice a little strained and fluttering. "Continue."

"We will be promoting an exchange of ideas as well, and while the next Weyrwoman can and will surely change the terms, it woul be my recommendation she does not." Irianke continues, the paper moving so her thumb can find the exact point she's looking for. "A full wing exchange for six months every three turns. And," she looks at Quinlys, her blue eyes quizical, "A half wing contingent of chromatic riders in leadership at High Reaches, who will move to Igen temporarily to train those with leadership potential among their chromatic riders."

Quinlys' slow nod confirms the first of the mentioned terms without incident; evidently, she considers that not-unreasonable. It's the latter that has those fine red brows knitting, and her mouth drawing tight for long seconds. "You intend," she supposes, quietly, "for me to be among them. May I... is it fair, to show them wingleaders and weyrlingmasters, when they won't have the opportunity to ascend to those positions themselves?"

"Further misinformation." Irianke states. "Unsurprising as Igen Weyr is a half continent away that gossip goes through the wringer."

Quinlys' brows ask the question she can't seem to bring her words to: explain?

"Those chromatics with leadership abilities will be granted their own wings. Smaller. More agile. Meant to dart in and get the job done with the stamina they have and dart out." Irianke explains when it's clear Quinlys would like to know more. Her mouth twitches funny however. "And the weyrlingmaster position, traditionally at Igen has been and I am assured will always be a blue or brownrider."

Quinlys', "Seperate but equal," is dry, but quiet enough to almost count as beneath her breath, though she allows the rest with a nod; the pink of her cheeks does, indeed, suggest some embarrassment. Running her mouth without knowing the facts? Perhaps. She slides her hand down her mop, silently.

Irianke's smile here is faint, just a slight curl at the tips of her lips. The sheets in her hands crumple as they get folded once more and fall to her side. "Is it truly any different than how wings are during actual Threadfall? No blue or green dragon actually lasts an entire Fall and are switched out intermittently. Woe if the wingleader or wingsecond are blue or greenriders."

"I can't speak for Igen," answers Quinlys, her chin lifting slightly, "but at High Reaches, when we had Threadfall, a green- or blue-riding wingleader would rotate out with his or her wingseconds. They generally have more wingseconds to compensate, and the wings are generally in the lower flights, but... I believe it worked." Beat. "My greatest concern is that assets do not go under-utilised. That's all. If they are not, then presumably I can have no quarrel." The stiltedness of the words speak, presumably, to how hard she is trying.

"I appreciate you trying to step outside your comfort zone, Quinlys. You will only have to for a few more turns and then I imagine I will be sent wherever I am needed next, particularly if your next Weyrwoman would not like to lead with my Igen influence here." Irianke's neutral drops at the end, the sarcasm deep in the emphasis. "Maybe you'll raise hell while at Igen." A shrug animates the goldrider. "I have a meeting with Giorda to discuss education of our candidates prior to the hatching. For next time."

It's that sarcasm that makes Quinlys' expression shift, darkening, and turning towards the defensive. Despite that bullishness, she manages not to make the retort it's clear she would like to. "Of course," is what she says, instead, those two words stiff and unyielding.

Irianke notes the response, her eyes sweeping Quinlys, but she leaves without another word. Two steps forward, three steps back!

And Quinlys? She goes back to mopping. With feeling.