Logs:The Quality of Work
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| RL Date: 22 February, 2008 |
| Who: Leova, Louvaen, Niena |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Leova + Louvaen = Return of Class Issues. And everything had been going so well... |
| Where: Central Storerooms, HRW |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: Rhonda/Mentions |
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| Central Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr (#17755RIJM) Though certain of the Weyr's supplies are stored at the places where they are used, most are kept here, in the central storage complex. A series of caverns grouped around a central corridor, the complex is cut on the grand scale necessary to hold all the items a full and active Weyr needs. The main corridor is wide and tall enough to admit a laden wagon. The walls are lined with heavy wooden doors, their wide spacing evidence of the size of the rooms behind them. Each of the doors features a posted inventory and map of its room's contents, and there are small piles of returned items beside several, waiting until someone has the time to reshelve them properly. There is a set of hardwood shelves available on a space of wall between two of the doors where people can place items when they are not sure which storeroom they belong in. Scanning the door signs, you note cold stores, dry food stores, rooms for textiles and furnishings, the records room, and the supply closet. To the south, the corridor opens out to the lower caverns.
Outside the pools of glowlight, in the dusty dimness, Leova watches him for a few moments before she makes her presence known. "'Your assistant' reporting for duty." She steps into the greenish light, which does her hair no favors but underlines the curve of her mouth. "That was what L'sen said, wasn't it? Rhonda still hasn't stopped sneezing." The disgusted look he's been giving the cloth doesn't leave immediately as Louvaen turns at the sound of a voice. His features drop to a look of surprise as he recognizes Leova. "Yes, something like that," he agrees as a smile curls up at one edge of his mouth. He drops his arms a bit and the cloth with them, turning towards Leova and taking a step towards the middle box. "She really got a snoot full, poor girl. Yet I suppose some good has come of it, if it brought me you." There's a pause, a tilt of his head. "How are you?" Leova glances at him sideways, at that, and checks the nearest glowbasket, giving Louvaen another glance before she goes on to the next. "Clean. I don't suppose that will last." Another look, another basket, moving around the outskirts of the light. "And it's good to see you. Too. Without everyone... chattering. With their firelizards and lovely clothes." "No," Louvaen notes wistfully about the chances of cleanliness, dropping his gaze to the foul thing he holds before him which has only brushed more dirt upon his shirtsleeves and down his front. As Leova continues speaking, his eyes slide up to follow her movements. "Hmm. Lovely clothes," is echoed wryly. Sighing, he dumps the cloth into the middle box. "I bet runners make for quieter roommates, don't they?" is asked half in jest, half in empathy. Leova half-lids the next to last, her hands nearly as deft as with currycomb or reins. "Quieter. All in their places. You know what they need and whose turn is next." This time, she doesn't look at him, "Got a message back already. Granite's got someone flown in to take care of them until Big Foot can be bred again. Weren't angry, just wished good luck. So it's good. In good hands." Less good to be replaced, if only in the stablemaster's eyes and not the mare's. Not yet. Louvaen brushes his palms together a few times, only serving to spread the dust into the air. "Safer," he appends softly to her comments on the runners. Frowning briefly down at his hands, he then sets the heels down against the edge of the tall box and leans his weight into his shoulders. "That is nice of them. Big Foot will stay at Tillek? It should be easy to visit her, then." That single word gets that much more of Leova's attention, though he had it already, and only her eyes move when she looks at him once more. The way he is now: the way he had been. "Didn't I say? Was a deal with the owner of the stud. They would get the first foal. Granite, the second. She's a good mare." Not that he doesn't know that. Not that he doesn't know she knows that. "Are you? Eager to visit." "Maybe you did," Louvaen allows. The soft smile on his lips is tired. He lifts a hand as if to rub at his temple, but stops short of smearing dirt on his face and sets it back down. "That means Little Foot should be at Tillek, too." The thought brings a bit more cheer to his expression and inflection which he sends on to Leova with his smile. "You've led me to grow quite fond of your runners, so I think I'd like the chance to see them again while Little Foot is still growing." He pauses, his eyes falling away towards the box he hovers over. "Otherwise, despite some of the less pleasant aspects, I'm quite enjoying my time here at present." Leova dips her head, and for his sake doesn't wonder what they might be calling the filly now, not out loud. "I hope you'll get to." She takes the last glowbasket nearer to him, toward that box, and hesitates before removing that handkerchief of hers, or one very like it, from her pocket. A few swipes on one of the larger boxes, one that still has its lid, and she says, "Sit." Simply, "You look beat." Louvaen doesn't move for a long moment, save his head turning to the side so he can look at Leova over the top of his braced arms. "Thank you," he finally answers. Shoving himself back to stand straight on his feet, he shuffles over to take the offered seat. He slumps immediately, elbows propped on knees and wrists dangling between. Looking upwards to Leova now, "it's hard, yeah? Working all day. Work like this, I mean." One hand flops on its wrist to gesture vaguely towards the pile, or maybe the cavern itself. There's no pity there, if that's what he's looking for. Sympathy, yes, in those amber eyes and her mouth that doesn't smile except a little, right at the very corner. Leova crouches near him where he won't have to look up and where she can sort through the pile, separating what looks salvageable from what's broken from what's merely old. "Yeah," she agrees, turning over a perfectly usable cup that is only missing its handle. "Even when you're used to it, it's hard." A glance up, then back. "Did you ever have to, before?" Sympathy he'll accept, but even that's with hints of embarrassment tugging his eyes away and dropping his head lower between his shoulders. Still, Louvaen sure isn't making any moves towards resuming work at the pile as she goes to it. "Not... really, no," he answers reluctantly. There's a quiet snort of air through his nose, the shadow of a wry laugh. "It's not something I have much experience with, not something I'm comfortable with - like you with being around all these people, I suppose," he finishes with a rising tone that's nearly a question, his eyes peeking up to glance towards Leova. Nor does Leova ask him to get back to work, or tell him, the way she told him to sit down. She's just doing it and doesn't seem to mind, feeling gently through a large, thin might-be-tablecloth for anything that might lie within. For a moment she meets his glance, looking up with that hint of smile again that supposes, now, that fair is fair: "More than Tillek," she agrees. "And more... surrounded. I hope you're right, that we'll get to visit. Or fly somewhere. Anywhere..." "Mmm. Anywhere. Everywhere!" A smile brightens across Louvaen's features, his dimples returning. He's lost a moment with the thought, his head tipping back so that the glowlight spills across his face again. Dropping his chin a fraction, he slides a sly sidelong glance at Leova. "What do you think of the choices available now, Leova?" He's learned, and the gentleness of his voice attempts to soften the question despite its impishness. She laughs in that smoky voice of hers. "Everywhere. That could take a while." He makes it too easy to laugh, and even to roll her eyes up at him in a way that's very light, "What choices? I thought the dragons pick. Or did you mean something else?" Leova holds up the broken cup in one hand, a handful of the dusty tablecloth in the other, as though those were the options of the hour. Louvaen shrugs a hand in concession, but he's still grinning. "Not as long as it'd take by boat. Or wagon." Her proffering of the salvaged junk brings a chuckle to his lips. "I didn't mean that." There's a pause as the laughter smoothes out of his voice. "A dragon will decide whether or not you'll become a rider," he grants. "But you had the choice to come here. And will at least have the choice to return to where you were, or not. You seemed you might have felt... stuck, before. I wonder if that's changed." The tablecloth now on the try-to-salvage pile, Leova sits back on her heels, a fraction away from the crate. She keeps the cup. "It's duty," she says. "What we're supposed to do." Her hands rub against the smooth ceramic, but it's not Big Foot's hide. They slip and slide. "Wouldn't be right, not to... Stuck? Lucky. I still think that. " She looks sideways at him with the cup held up, through what would have been the its handle if it were still there. "You?" Louvaen listens intently, watching her hands fiddle with the cup that is so unlike a runner. Talk of duty, he understands. But luck? A small furrow comes to his brow, his head tilting as he leans closer towards her, chest dropping lower over his knees. "You felt lucky?" There's surprise in his voice, and he completely ignores for the moment that she'd turned the question back on him. "Lucky, to be caring for another man's runners?" "Why wouldn't I?" But for all of that question being turned around, too, Leova poses it simply, with the same patience with which she explains. "It's a good job to be doing. They like it. I like it. When I think back, Louvaen, I can remember not wanting it but..." She shrugs, then smiles up at him, just a little. "It's just a memory. I don't /feel/ it. Not what you're used to... I follow that. But don't feel sorry for me." Brow furrowed, eyes searching Leova's face as she speaks, Louvaen is trying to understand, trying to follow. At her last he gives a small shake to his head and sits up a little straighter, though his elbows still rest on his knees. "So you would be content, to stay in that job forever?" There's uncertainty in his voice, and incredulousness. "And what of this memory?" So rapt is his curiosity that his questions push on. "Was there a time you... felt more? Dreamed of more?" Could Leova be easier to read? Her arms fold, her head drops, chin right above the circle of the cup. "Yes," she says, rusty hair fallen about her face. Silence falls. Even the echoes fail, the dust motes still. Then just as suddenly everything's changed and she's staring at him, chin raised. "Did you think I was pretending? It's what I do, and I do a good job, too. I've learned. And you like the runners. To play with, anyway. Is that the way it is with me?" Louvaen is dissuaded somewhat by Leova folding in on herself, enough so that he doesn't immediately ask her to further expound upon that 'yes'. Tension exudes from him in the following silence, fascination pushing him to the cusp of breaking it and fearful worry holding him short. And then, oh, to be suddenly fixed by that amber gaze! It rocks the young man back, head lifting straight as his eyes widen. His mouth opens, starts quiet protest, when her final question stings him like a slap. Forearms sliding across his thighs, hands now on knees, he sits fully upright as dismay splashes across his features. "No," he breathes, trying to summon conviction that isn't there. "That isn't the way, Leova." She stands up, slowly. She sets the cup without a handle upon the crate, next to him. The glowlight is not as bright as it had been, but it's bright enough, bright as it needs to be. Multiple baskets ring them, throwing shadows at all angles as well as light. Leova looks down at him, her back to any distant onlooker, her shoulders set. "Louvaen," she says very quietly. "You might want to be sure about that." Niena steps into the storage room, sees the others, and takes an involuntary step back. "I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?" Horribly entranced, Louvaen can't take his eyes from Leova. His chest inflates with a breath, but instead of speaking his teeth click shut. A nervous swallow bobs in his throat. There's vulnerability in his eyes, obvious even in this dark place, and his lips part again as if to speak. But then there's another voice breaking the spell and his gaze snaps away towards the silhouette in the doorway. "Don't be sorry. We've been sorting through one of these awful piles," he calls back to Niena after a rather long pause. And then he's standing, eyes coming back to Leova as he does. Uncertainty is gone, replaced by more typical confident cheer. There's even a touch of a reassuring smile on his lips as he speaks softly, close to her ear. "I am sure. I value your friendship greatly. You're no plaything, Leova." Eyes dwell on the former Tillekian a moment more before turning to the door again. "Are you here to help?" is asked more conversationally. Leova is so very much not saying anything, her mouth compressed against it, her brows drawn in, even her shoulders tight. He's the one who had to speak. But at Niena's first words she has to turn. Into the brighter light, blinking against it, it's a struggle to speak after all. "Careful." Following the party line, which also happens to be true, "Dust all over." Louvaen whispers, and she dares a look at him out of the corner of her eyes. "Help for everyone." Niena nods for now, moving into the room and sneezing accordingly. "You weren't kidding!" she says to Leova. "Should I help with the pile you're working on or sort through one of the others? There's the briefest faltering of Louvaen's smile at Leova's last comment, but it's a small thing. His eyes remain bright as they slide a glance to her, now almost playfully so. "Uh oh, not again!" the young man turns his attention to Niena's sneeze, then must explain: "I lost Rhonda to sneezing earlier. But you're more then welcome to help with this pile." A gesture is made to the clutter. "Maybe with three of us we can finish sorting it before dinner." "Old. Broken. Who knows," Leova points out the three already-sorted areas, a folded tablecloth conspicuous on the first. "You live here already, don't you? Do you fix most everything that can be?" she asks Niena, followed by a sideways glance at Leoven before she explains. "Think I saw you. With the babies. When they had me helping out with some of the older ones." Her tone says she may not have been much help. Niena grins as the piles are named. "We do try to repair and use as much as possible, though I suspect this dress will be retired permanently when I'm done with it. I am... was... a nanny, yes. It's going to be strange not working with the babies any more; it's all I've ever really done. Louvaen looks between the two girls, nodding at Leova's thought to ask the question and then listening expectantly to the native's answer. As they talk of babies something that had been nagging behind his eyes blooms to recognition. "Ah, yes! Niena the nanny," he places her name with a grin. Looking to Leova, "we met a few days ago by the Snowasis. Niena, this is Leova." He shifts happily into making the introductions for them. "She is from Tillek, as I am." Leova's picked up that old cup again, rubbing her thumb against one of the rough spots where the handle broke off. "Niena." She stretches out the first consonant the way Jaeni had with hers, testing, before giving Louvaen another of those familiar, sideways smiles and setting the cup on the salvageable pile. "Louvaen's good with introductions, isn't he. Don't know if he mentioned the beer... should see if there's any left when we get to dinner. Could dye the dress? If it wouldn't just smell of babies ever after anyway." She glances down the hall, wrinkling her nose as if that would help her smell dinner, or at least not the imagined babies. Niena considers this. "I'm not so sure dying could help, at this point. I believe it belonged to another nanny before me. Of course the cloth wouldn't be wasted; it can be made into washrags or diapers. And it has a few more turns in it for me; I'm pretty sure I've stopped outgrowing things." She begins sorting, the "repair" pile getting most of it. Leova gives Niena another, closer look and then nods to herself. With the younger girl being so productive, she crouches by the repair pile to gather up an armful. "I'll carry this over to where the rest is. And bring a basket next time," sharing a smile between them before she disappears down the hallway.
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