Difference between revisions of "Logs:Quinlys Has Her Reasons"

Southern Rim of the Bowl, High Reaches Weyr

Directly opposite the sharp spikes of the Reaches' characteristic spires lies the bowl's south rim, from above seeming pinched like a baker's pie crust to form this distinctive lip: a soft curve, several dragonlengths long but only four lengths wide before narrowing into impassable crags. It would have to be an apprentice effort, however, given how even the flatter area is riddled with cracks and hollows, dusted with glittery silicate quartz that is far more gritty than sweet.

Though the view down into the bowl is commanding, the views beyond it can be absolutely breathtaking on clear days: eternally snow-capped mountains descending to high-altitude meadows and the dark brush of evergreens, and greener valleys beyond even those, with only glimpses here and there of human habitation. But the views come with a risk: the wind can blow hard and strong, and whether looking inward or outward, there is no protection from the precipitous chasms that fall away from these heights.

The weather today is very pleasant. A few clouds chase each other across the mostly clear skies, and a soft breeze picks up in the afternoon to make for a fine day.

While the little dragons are not yet strong enough to carry their riders aloft, they are considered strong enough, now, to travel higher and further, right to the top of the bowl. Today, Quinlys and Olveraeth have taken Ghena up with them, monitoring Knioth's progress as he makes his own way there; Olveraeth drops into a careful landing upon the ledge of the rim, fanning out his wings and says, « Mind the winds up here, young Knioth. They're stronger, over the edge. » "Right, Ghena," says Quinlys. "Hop on down. You've been up here before, I expect?"

Ghena scratches the back of her neck, before shimmying down off the blue. It's a rather awkward thing to watch. "Aye, I think so, few different times." She admits, once she's on solid ground. For all Ghena's awkwardness however, Knioth is the picture of winged grace, even if he is only a little shorter than half Olveraeth's length. « I fear no winds Sir Olveraeth, They should fear me! » The silvery blue trumpets as wings pump to carry him upward, if more slowly than the larger blue landing with a scratch of claws on stone.

« The winds are sentient, are they? » wonders Olveraeth, amused by this prospect, and imagining it to share: winds with faces, faces full of wicked, evil glee. « Well done, anyway. » "It's a good spot for them to stop and rest, anyway," explains Quinlys, and she dismounts, rather more graceful than her student. "Though of course they'll insist they're not tired. Even if he's not, the view's good, right? And it gives us a moment to catch up. How are things going?"

Ghena puts a palm to her face, looking at her lifemate between split fingers. "I'm not entirely sure he's capable of being tired. He seems to enjoy piling work on other people." Herself presumably, she gives Quinlys a look "It would be a lot better if someone wasn't having a laugh at my expense." She admits. Knioth grins, well as much as a dragon can, all toothy like. « They can of course be defeated, if one is brave and just! » joining in the imagery, he imagines dragon wings becoming mounted warriors charging against the faces and dispelling them before dissolving themselves. He puffs his chest in pride at the praise from the instructor.

"Who's having a laugh?" Quinlys wants to know, genuinely bewildered by the question, and the look that came before it. She's leaning up against Olveraeth's forelimb, now, using him as a shield against the wind that - despite the fineness of the day - is really actually quite chilly. « Now, now, » says Olveraeth, amused. « You don't really want them completely gone. What fun would it to be fly, if they were - as you put it - vanquished entirely? I rather imagine we would never get anywhere at all. »

"Someone had the crazy idea it was to put the student with the lowest marks into the silver thread program, As if the extra remedial work wasn't enough, some joker put a silver thread on my cot." The weyrling admits, of course this earns her a look from Knioth. « Thou hath impressed to the finest of the clutch, why doest thee question status? » She ignores him. She's getting good at it, and he's easily distracted enough by the wind, and Olveraeth's words. Of course his wings spread as he starts « Sir Olveraeth, thou dost have a -- » Whwuuum, up he goes claws scrabbling at the rock, wings fold quickly as he drops again when it dies down a little, keeping them tightly held to his body. « Point. » Nothing to see here. Nope.

Quinlys counters that remark with a grin, and with, "And you can't see any reason why you might be chosen, Ghena? Nothing about yourself? Maybe I'm just trying to seduce you into my bed." She's teasing. She's clearly teasing. "Or maybe it's just Knioth I'm after. Or maybe..." She could go on. Olveraeth, true to form, does not laugh. Nor does he chide, or make any kind of I-told-you-saw remark. « All things exist for a purpose, » he says, instead. « Where would the wind be, without us to utilise that strength? »

"I knew it, no one is ever interested in me, just my dragon." The deadpan delivery is shockingly reminiscent of a certain old man weyrling and his bucktoothed companion. Eyebrows waggle at mention of seduction before she finally laughs. "I think, you are trying to work me to death. Just like that clown over there." She thumbs at the blue who seems intent to soak the wisdom of the elder blue. "Knioth's a perfectionist. So I can understand his potential, but me? I don't even genuinely like people." The last deadpan. « It would be unseen were it not for the beauty and strength of our wings to adorn it? »

Perhaps too shockingly reminiscent: it makes Quinlys double-take, and then consider Ghena carefully for several silent seconds. "Maybe, Ghena, I just see something in you that you haven't yet seen. So, sure, you needed some remedial classes. Plenty of people do. Doesn't mean you don't have potential. You, not just him." « Precisely, » agrees Olveraeth, his mental landscape an endless universe of stars and supernovae. « We live in harmony, using each other. So it is with the world - with our riders, with the food that we eat, with all things. »

The weyrling shrugs. "Far be it from me to question the sanity of the Weyrlingmaster. I usually end up with laps that way." There is a deep exhale though, "It's just - I don't think I have ever felt like I've had to play catch up before. If G'laer wasn't helping with the academics, I'm not sure I would keep up." She seems dubious about her brother's aid as well, but shakes it off. "He fessed up to you didn't he? Or did you figure it out?" What exactly she does not expand on. Knioth is overwhelmed by the enormity of the mindscape, his own small chinks and tings melding into the background noise. « Even the peasants? » The concept of such equality a little difficult for him to grasp.

"Your brother and I are the same age," Quinlys points out, before making any comment on the rest of it. "We knew each other as children. But yes, he came clean. What was I going to do, take Teisyth away from him? It doesn't matter, now. My point, Ghena, is that... I think you can catch up, and I think you can get ahead. You just have to work hard. And if you can keep your brother's ego in check, that wouldn't hurt either." « Even them, » confirms Olveraeth. « All things, Knioth. All of them. Watch, and you will see. »

Ghena tilts her head at Quinlys a little surprised. "So you did remember, but you never interfered with him being a candidate?" As for G'laer's ego there is a lopsided grin, "Oh I can think of a few things to bruise his ego with, we're just sort of at a truce at the moment."

Quinlys admits, after a moment, smug despite the need for the admission, "Oh, I didn't think about it, then, I guess. I knew I knew him, but... he wasn't really one of us, when we were kids. I tend to figure it's harder to Impress, once you're older. Your mind tends to be closed to things; you're set in your ways. If his was open enough for Teisyth, then... that's fine by me. However," she grins, "I could do without him wanting special attention. But no, keep your truce. You'll need it."

Ghena rolls her eyes. "Did he come whining to you then? Big lout. Probably still sore about green, though, I think that little bucktoothed slobber ball is right about exactly what he needed. Takes himself too seriously." She grows thoughtful. "What was he wanting special attention for?" Not asking for something to hold over her brother perhaps but maybe thinking of a way to ease the poor weyrlingmaster's burden.

That particular description of Teisyth has Quinlys' mouth twitching, humour breaking through despite her very best efforts to be coolly professional. "Oh, he wants to make sure he can fit into the wings as a proper rider immediately, without the whole weyrling stigma. Because of his age. He wants extra attention for it. It's..." She stops. "I probably shouldn't even be telling you. He came to me in peace, after all. But it's frustrating. He's my student, and yet he's my age."

The younger bluie blinks. "Even if he's matured as a male - " She sounds dubious at the male part. "Teisyth is still a young dragon, he could carry himself right, do the right things, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference. She still doesn't have the experience even if he does." As far as the confession she shrugs. "I won't tell if you don't. Hell I kept my mouth shut about the old fart, and I actually like you." She teases.

"And," concludes Quinlys, "there's a difference between experience, in general, and experience as a dragonrider. It's all different. But-- you're right about Teisyth, too." She turns her attention away from the weyrling, though she can't hide the fact that she seems pleased: clearly, being liked, even if it was said teasingly, is worthwhile. "Anyway. The point of all that was-- I believe in you, Ghena. If it gets too much, if you decide you want to quit, that's on you. Your choice. But I wanted you in for a reason."

Ghena seems a little taken aback by the vote of confidence, scratching at the back of her neck, and staring at her feet. "I figure you know what your doin' Quinlys. I'll try to stick it out for as long as I'm able." She looks over at her lifemate who seems to be preening himself and giving her the I told you so look.

Quinlys' gaze follows Ghena; she seems amused. "That's all I ask," she promises. "I won't look down on you, if it doesn't work. It'll be fine. Sometimes it doesn't. As long as you try, first." Considering Knioth for a moment, she adds, "If he's ready, we should head back down. If you're ready."

Ghena gulps and nods. "Uh this mount and dismount thing? there's a trick to it right?" Knioth seems eager to try his wings again, taking Olveraeth's lesson to heart, its more graceful when his wingsails fill, and he warbles back. « Race you down! »

"Practice," is Quinlys' only suggestion; she's grinning, at least. The trip down is smooth, and Olveraeth is perfectly happy to race... and let the younger blue win, too. "And soon you'll be up on him, flying together," adds the Weyrlingmaster, before the younger pair are dismissed. Happy days!