Difference between revisions of "Logs:Recovery and Relocation"

The low-slung stone building of the hold sits atop a rampway lined with
  cotholds that leads up to the main courtyard. Here a fountain tinkles in  
  the tree-scented breeze and captures rainbows from the sun during daylight
  hours. Firelizards frequently flit in and out of the water; bathing,      
  playing, and wetting their whistles. The doors to the great hall are      
  frequently left open to invited cooling breezes indoors and the massive   
  windows use sliding shutters of thick bronze instead of the type that     
  swing outward to provide more airflow. Splashes of color from jewel-toned 
  stained glass sheets fall across the courtyard's flagstones from many     
  decorative windows. Outside the hold, the immediate vicinity is kept as   
  green-free as possible, though the jungle endlessly encroaches on the main
  structure and the outbuildings. A staggering line of cotholds tucked into 
  the trees dots the landscape, alternating with open meadows and the tidy  
  lines of fruit orchards.                                                  
                                                                            
  Beyond the cotholds, the roadway eventually slopes downward to the hold's 
  golden sand beach and the docks. Branching off to the west, a side road   
  leads the way to the Weavercraft Hall and its outbuildings.

Dragonriders have come and gone daily from Southern Boll Hold, with Malachite assigned to act as a go between with Weyr and Hold as Southern Boll continues to recuperate from the damages of the plague. But the dragonrider who currently occupies the golden sand beach of Southern Boll isn't from Malachite, nor does she wear a Fortian knot or any knot at all for that matter except for her brightly bold red flight jacket to identify her. A certain ingrained curiosity was what dragged Olivya to Southern Boll, to check on the progress, but it is homesickness that keeps her contemplatively on the beach, distracted from her original intent as she watches her darkly lush dragon wallow in the shallows of the ocean. The sea wind picks up honeyed color hair, pushing it around as her softened expression gives way to nostalgia.

Unlike the dragonrider, Quintus is an absolute reflection of his rank: with not only the Journeyman's knot, but a well-cut tunic of harper blue. He's standing on the beach, surrounded by trunks, bags, sacks, and generally the accoutrements of someone in transit. A woman slightly younger than himself -- but with no small amount of resemblance, deposits another bag on top of the one already there, hesitates, and heads back towards the Hold, head down. "Gizzy...!" comes the harper's call, pitched to carry, but the woman simply hurries her step and disappears towards the path. Letting out a breath, Quint folds his hands as if to give himself something to do, attention straying to gaze over the beach's other occupants.

It is only that lifted voice that finally breaks into Olivya's reverie, her ocean blue eyes lifting from the waves to search out the sound in habit. And when she catches sight of the harper, catching his own glance, she isn't rude enough to look away. Indeed, her lips curve into a smile and she tips a respectful nod as she greets, "Journeyman." Her gaze flicks to the retreating woman and then to the bags and back again, curious. "I can have Ivraeth bespeak Kiovlth? Her rider is up at the Hold, I believe."

And his own habit, schooled through Turns at Harper Hall, means the Journeyman tips his head in a return nod, gaze flickering over the woman and making guesses even before she's spoken. "That's kind of you, rider. But my sister is..." Quint pauses, a grimace rippling across his expression. "She's lost a great deal, here. It seems best to let her do this," his hand gestures towards the trunks and other things around him, "In her own way. At her own pace." A beat, which is enough time to square shoulders and put on the habitual, easy harper expression: "Fortian?" he guesses, with a tilt of his head. "It's nice to see the -- support."

A moment's consideration is taken as Olivya casts a look out to the waters that Ivraeth is enjoying herself in, before she moves away from her dragon only to close the distance between herself and the man conversationally. "That is likely so and very thoughtful of you," the blonde agrees with only the hint of an approving smile. "If you do not mind my asking... If she's lost so much, where will she go now?" Is there a slight pause before the greenrider nods in confirmation to his guess? Well, she still easily adds, "Yes. Our leadership is very supportive of Boll's recovery. Of all of the Holds affected."

Quint follows the rider's gaze towards the dragon, then back, though his expression is unchanged when it tracks back to the greenrider as she approaches. He gestures towards one of the trunks, as if in gallant offering of a more comfortable seat, before answering: "I'd hoped to take her to a Hold, but she's insisting on coming to join me at High Reaches Weyr. I," another twitch that suggests it's a repressed grimace, "Can't refuse her, not at the moment." He makes a noise that might be approving, at the latter, but he doesn't press on -- though the flick of gaze suggests he notes that slight pause. "Quintus," he offers instead, along with a hand.

There is a curtsey that would be just as gallant, if the gesture were paired with the proper gown and skirts instead of the black pants that hug Olivya's long legs. And her own Hold-bred background can be derived by those paying attention with the way she folds herself as gracefully on the offered trunk as if she were sitting down to a lady's dinner. "I do not blame her for wanting to be close to a brother who cares," is offered with a slipped smile as her gaze drags over the harper. "And the Weyr-- is a certain security of its own. There is always work to be found and pay, and three square meals a day with a solid roof." She reaches out to take his hand easily, adding her own, "Olivya. Liv, if you want to get friendly."

Habit means Quint waits until Olivya is seated, dinner or no dinner; and then he, too, sinks onto one of the other trunks, only a pace away and angled towards hers. There's an unbidden smile for the rider's comment of his brotherly attentions, though it slips, perhaps, at the comment that follows, of the Weyr. "Many would say the same, more vehemently even -- of a Hold, or a Craft." His personal opinion however isn't offered; instead, he grips the greenrider's hand, easily, before releasing it. "Quint, if you wish to do the same," with a spread of hands, before resting them on his knees. "I heard -- your Weyr was hit rather hard. High Reaches got off lightly by comparison."

"A well-run Hold, yes. And the Crafts, with the benefit of having your own ambition and skill and hard-work be the only limit you'd find," agrees Olivya lightly, a simple smile belied by the way her gaze holds steady on Quint in a study. Her fingers, when released, only lift to slowly tuck a blonde curl behind her ear as she nods again. "It did, but I wasn't there for the first wave of it, luckily enough. I only transferred in four months ago. I can't say that I personally know who we lost-- But we will recover."

The greenrider's light tone holds Quint's attention, the harper's pause before nodding, ever so slightly, barely noticeable. He seems more surprised -- and more interested -- in her latter words. "You transferred in four months ago?" there's a brief pause, obviously doing some quick calculations that earn a furrow in his brow, and no less attention. "That would have been at the height of the plague... why?"

"I was Monacoan before," explains Olivya, trusting that such an answer would be enough for the Harper to extrapolate the rest. And given his already offered affiliation with High Reaches-- Well, the exacting angle of her jaw and the tension in her shoulders as she waits for his reaction is likely not surprising.

"I see." And he does, it seems -- a knowingness creeping into the harper's gaze -- and yet there isn't any equivalent tension in Quint's posture as he takes in the Fortian's demeanor. "There's a lot of history between Monaco and High Reaches. All before my time there -- but fresh enough for you, I imagine?"

Olivya's wariness doesn't drop immediately away more than it is hidden behind the mask of dry, inappropriate humor as she tells the harper, "Old wounds, unless they are ripped open. I have no love to spare for High Reaches, and I doubt they have for me. Though, now, I think they may have to get in line behind Fort." Her lips lift into a smile to offer him, before she adds, "Another point in favor of the Crafts, I would say, Quint."

Quint's lips twitch briefly at her comment about getting in line. "It's been my experience that Weyrs tenaciously defend their autonomy moreso than any Hold or Craft." His hands spread, at her point about Crafts, admitting: "I do find it far less vexing to owe my allegiance to a Craft over anywhere else, I'll admit." His gaze drifts towards the path his sister took, falling silent.

Olivya tips her head in agreement, though she adds lightly, "And I find it easier still to owe my allegiance to only who has earned it. Even if Fort will never accept me-- Mirinda has my loyalty." But, she doesn't press into his silence. She studies him, following his gaze back to the path and watching for his sister for a moment before she asks, "Is she too old for the Hall?"

The greenrider's contemplation of loyalties has the harper gazing back at her, contemplatively. "Loyalty -- allegiance -- has a strange way of shifting over time." A beat passes, then, "It's good to know that the Fortian Weyrwoman has a strong presence to watch her back." Reaching for one of the sacks, he stacks it a bit more carefully on top of the trunk he's seated on. "Yes. She applied to the weavercraft, once we got to Boll, but she was already too old, they said. It's strange, isn't it, that the momentous decisions in life -- apprenticeship, standing for a dragon -- have to be made before you've even fully understood who you are, let alone what you want to be. By the time you do -- the opportunities are past."

"As it should. Loyalty can be lost and gained; only those who deserve yours should have it," Olivya will agree carefully, meeting Quint's gaze evenly for all that there is a buried thoughtfulness of her own. "But Weyrwoman Mirinda has earned it, despite things outside of her control." She shifts on her own trunk, only leaning forward slightly to listen to the harper's answer. "Strange and unfair. So many things depend on luck, on happenstance." A pause, before she asks, "How old is she? Given how hard Fort was hit and that we will have eggs soon--."

Knowing little personally of the new Fortian Weyrwoman, Quint seems to accept Olivya's declaration with a nod, perhaps still considering her words when the greenrider asks about her sister. "Twenty-six," the harper starts to answer, before Olivya continues. His mouth presses down into a line, before he shakes his head sharply. "I appreciate the offer, but she's -- not in a state of mind to make a life-changing decision like that."

"Just outside of the limitations," murmurs Olivya, but she tips a nod to the harper with acceptance. "Of course. I couldn't even guarantee the Weyrleaders would allow it, but if she does express interest-- Well, you do know my name and where to find me." That she will pair with a smile, a moment's thing before it disappears again. "I do wish you and your sister all the best. I hope that she recovers quickly."

"I do," Quint allows, with a brief, appreciative smile, even if his expression otherwise seems to indicate he has no intention of doing so on behalf of his sister. The familiar figure of the blonde that was talking with him earlier is visible on the path to the beach, though she's stopped to talk with someone. Still, it pulls the harper to his feet, rocking briefly as if contemplating going to her and thinking better of it. Instead, he sinks back down, attention shifting fully to Olivya -- though he does glance towards the path out of the corner of his eye. "As do I. And for the Hold, and the Weyr both," after a nod to the Hold proper. "I've heard that Tavish has been quick to jump into things. A good sign for Boll, should the Conclave confirm him."

Olivya's gaze lifts to follow his as he stands, pulling herself to her feet in one smooth movement. Except, that when he takes a seat again, she does not. Instead, she only slides her own appreciative, approving look over the harper for that concern so blatantly displayed for his sister, before she agrees on the easier topic, "It is a good sign. Lucky for Boll, too, since it doesn't seem as if there are many other likely heirs to be found, I've heard. Not that there aren't enough eager people to claim ties, but legitimately?"

Though Quint's gaze lifts to track Olivya, he remains seated, folding hands into his lap. "You'd be surprised. Once word gets out, I'm sure more will appear from the woodwork -- like with rat. If he were wise, he'd move to get his name established with the other Lord Holders sooner than later. Though," he gestures towards the Hold proper, "I imagine there are more important things on his mind at the moment than politics."

"If he has his priorities right, I'd hope so. Putting his people and Hold, their recovery-- before himself and his claim at the title," agrees Olivya with a nod, her gaze following that gesture but her attention only ending up settled for the moment on the other blonde woman. And almost under her breath, as if she didn't mean to say it out loud: "If only the people could decide, rather than the Conclave."

Whether Quint agrees with her initial sentiment or not isn't clear; the harper's quiet until after her near-inaudible remark. Quietly: "One could argue that both bear weight in protecting the people. After all, what does my sister -- a seamstress -- know of the the requirements to run a Hold, or what makes for a good Holder? If it was pure charisma that chose a leader -- well. The records say Fax was charismatic, in his own way."

Olivya's brow curves upwards for the harper's answer, but she also nods. "That is true, but if they both bear weight, than why does only one have a voice in it all?" she challenges quietly, her soft blue eyes falling on the Journeyman. A beat, before she adds, "And the Conclave didn't stop Fax, either, Quint. Because there's no way to remove a bad Holder."

"It seems to me it bore weight in Igen," is all Quint says, blandly. There's movement from the path again, this time the blonde accompanied by an older Fortian rider probably at least somewhat familiar to Olivya. The latter nods to the greenrider, while the former adds another sack to the pile. "I think I have everything." Gizzy's gaze goes, curiously, towards Olivya. "Ah. Gizzy, this is Olivya of Fort. Olivya -- my sister, Gisele. And... I guess you know B'ral?"

Olivya's gaze lingers on Quint for a long moment, a hint of surprise and consideration subtle in her finely etched features. But she turns easily to the pair joining them, greeting, "Gisele, a pleasure to meet you. I wish your move and resettlement to High Reaches all the best." A beat and a nod, as she adds, "B'ral. Fair skies." She glances briefly back to the harper, apparently her pleasantries for him all left to be conveyed with a look and a hint of a smile on her red lips, beyond the, "Journeyman."

Quint's, "Rider," is equally verbally terse, even if he meets her gaze for longer, before Gisele tugs on his arm. Attention distracted, the group busy themselves collecting Gisele's things as B'ral's brown lands adroitly on the beach. After a short bout of Tetris, they're finally all settled, and they disappear for High Reaches' skies shortly after.