Logs:Washing The Taste Out Of Their Mouths
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| RL Date: 1 June, 2013 |
| Who: Leova, Olveraeth, Quinlys, Vrianth |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: After escorting N'hax and C'wlin home, Quinlys and Leova decompress. |
| Where: Vrianth's Semi-Dimly Lit Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 12, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, Anvori/Mentions, Azaylia/Mentions, Braeden/Mentions, C'wlin/Mentions, Devaki/Mentions, I'daur/Mentions, I'kris/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, L'vae/Mentions, Meara/Mentions, N'hax/Mentions, Taikrin/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions, Yuliye/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Backdated! |
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| Partway through that long, cold ride home, Vrianth disappears without warning. At least, without warning to observers... To Athimeroth and Jhorinth, each by each at the very last minute rather than shared between them, there's cool, impersonal awareness that's mostly saved from the static their riders might be owed: they'll follow Olveraeth. If not, she'll know. Before that, the blue himself, amidst what passes for their discussion: two stars plucked out like eyes or moons, shining. « Olveraeth. » And, « After those are deposited, you may join us. » If he likes. « Your rider, too, may wish to wash the taste out of her mouth. » A broad, darkly shadowed ledge. A hearth, soon to be lit within. The glint of firelight off bottles... interesting bottles, for humans at least. Vrianth has other preferences entirely. « We'd like that, » is Olveraeth's answer, promptly delivered. The physical exertion of the flight has calmed some of his disquiet, although his rider's cold fury still burns about the edges of his thoughts. Of course, she has two weyrlings astride behind her-- and that is not a position that can be terribly comfortable for anyone. It's not all that much time later before the blue warns of their impending arrival: long enough for them to return home, and for the miscreants to be sent to bed without supper, but not long enough for any kind of lecture (that would require talking to them, and no, we're not doing that, oh no). His warning is a wash of stars, an unnameable constellation that precedes his arrival only by moments, wings furling close. Here. Now. Now is good, and amid the blackness between his stars rise pinpricks of a less natural light. Vrianth awaits them upon her ledge, her straps removed, her trees whispery shadows in the dark. Some are weighted by fruit, still, the apples while the plums have long ago been picked. It's not just fruit that weights their branches, though, for other decorations turn and turn in the cool wind. Vrianth waits. It could, under other circumstances, be ominous... but they have been invited. « Ah, the trees, » says Olveraeth, pleasantly surprised by (and so-obviously approving of) Vrianth's ledge. « They whisper so. » He'd decorate them with a cascade of stars, but there's no need for that, is there? « Thank you for inviting us. » He's polite, positioning himself carefully so as not to take up too much room; his rider, for all that she's a ball of tension, attempts to be equally so, directing her attention towards the green as soon as her feet touch the surface of the ledge. "Vrianth. I should go on in?" There is, was, maybe still is room for bronzes. There's room enough for Olveraeth and Vrianth and Vrianth's trees, even. The rangy green elongates herself in a way that's too closed in to be a true sprawl, stretching close to the rock instead of raised the way she might in warmer times, at once acknowledging him and answering his rider's question with the new-made trail of dark light that leads inward. If only Olveraeth can see it, he can guide his rider. But then, perhaps Olveraeth's rider can see, unless that's just blurriness from the long flight. Every light she passes will vanish behind her. Quinlys', "Ah!" is an exhalation that suggests, one way or another, she's seen the light(s); it comes accompanied by a droop of her shoulders, as though exhaustion, after everything, is finally finding her. Still, she's solid enough in her, "Thank you, Vrianth," and in the steps that follow: one after another, all the way inside. Invited or no, she hesitates, once in there, hands tangled in each other behind her back.
Past the human couch, the weyr wraps around and out of sight, eventually also shielded by thick draperies that can be pushed aside by humans or even Vrianth. Curved walls become more square within the inner weyr. A series of rugs, once all different colors but overdyed with a rich brown that lets their variations show through, act as stepping stones toward the living area centered around the hearth against the far wall. There, its light can flicker on a round table that ordinarily would seat four but has five mismatched chairs anyway. Nearby is a sturdy wooden settee that seats two, placed at an angle to partially block the views of the sleeping area. The weyr's most striking feature, however: four large, arched windows that look out over the Bowl, shuttered during undesirable weather but otherwise able to be left open for light and air. (+views) Vrianth's rider meets her at the threshold with a rare candle in hand, her fingers cupped about its flame to keep it from being blown out. It's dark within the weyr, dark and cool. "Thought it might be easier on our eyes," Leova says, low. Easier, after all that. "Come in." The rest of the way in. There's the outline of an old leather couch against the stone to the right, not far off from what's still in the barracks. To the left, a rush-softened vacancy better suited to a bronze. Leova doesn't pause at either, but rather keeps walking past a second curtain, holding it so it doesn't fall in Quinlys' face. It's dark here, but not as dark, cool here, but not as cool. A fire's begun to burn within the hearth, scented with evergreen. Leova places the candle in what must be its holder upon her round table, just off center. Next to it already sits a decanter, clear enough to hold water, and glasses. "That's safe to drink as much as you like, if you're thirsty." She walks away, moving with familiarity through the dim-lit weyr. Quinlys opens her mouth, as though she intends to comment on that candle, but evidently changes her mind; instead, she inclines her head, just once, and follows Leova through to that inner cavern. The dim light is easier on the eyes, and easier, too, for allowing Quinlys to make it as far as the table with relative ease. She hesitates there, turning to glance over her shoulder at Leova's progress, her hands untwining. She looks tired, and now that the anger is boiling away, halfway defeated. "I was almost disappointed that he didn't want to keep them," she says, breaking her silence at last as she reaches for the decanter. "I'm glad you were there." The greenrider turns, at that. Candlelight flickers distantly with the amber in her eyes, with the suggestion of surprise. "Sometimes it's actually useful, being torn between worlds," she eventually says. "Take any seat you like." They're all different, but for their wooden rungs and their softer seats. It could say something about Quinlys, which she chooses, but tonight it's not a quiz and the greenrider doesn't stay to see how long it takes. When she returns, it's with a tray of smaller bottles, some slender and some squat, and even smaller glasses. What she gives Quinlys first: "It's just as well. Imagine what he'd do with a brace of bronzeriders, over time." Surprise, even just the suggestion of it, makes Quinlys' cheeks darken with a hint of pink, just barely visible in the dim light - and only for a moment, before she turns again, to take the nearest chair. The decanter gets abandoned, in that moment; forgotten, maybe. It's usually her habit to talk more than not, especially when as off kilter as she presently is, but for the moment she's surprisingly quiet. Only, "I don't trust him any more than I trust them. He's going to use this to his advantage, isn't he." "Why wouldn't he? It's his job, our weyrwomen would and should do the same. I don't think, however, he'd break them to pulling a plow." The errant weyrlings, the weyrwomen, one pair or another. Leova asks, "What do you like to drink? My weyrmate," here she smiles, one-cornered about her mouth but wholly within her eyes. "Has gifted us with a supply. Not without limits, mind." "No, of course." The hasty shake of Quinlys' head is intended, presumably, to promise that she's not so naive as to think that these things don't happen, or even shouldn't happen. "I know that's how it works. I just hate to think what it's going to mean for us." She's taking that personally, too; now, now that she's not in front of the weyrlings, her uncertainty and guilt are a little more apparent, and no doubt the reason why she focuses her thoughts there and not, immediately, on the rest of what the greenrider has to say. Finally, "Anvori. I shouldn't be surprised. Something..." She hesitates, considering. "Fruity?" "Yes." That's darker. "And he's newly confirmed, will it be a taste of what's to come in his reign." Leova, too, bore a silver thread in her time. Was one of the very first. She never has been allowed to fully forget what she'd learned... but of course, it doesn't even take that knot to think of this. "Fruity will be easy. It's what I like. Try this." She checks the bottles without Anvori's unerring ease, but has the advantage over Quinlys of knowing his handwriting, at least. When she pours, the scent rises, lush orange-fleshed stone fruit. Fresh with summer. Blunt with a kick. Quinlys leans in to get a better whiff of that liquor, and her expression is certainly one of approval for it, despite ongoing worry. "It smells like summer," she comments, with a near-wistful sigh. How easily, however, she tracks back in order to add, "We can only guess what he's capable of. He's never been cleared of murder. And to rise this far..." She turns her gaze towards Leova, watching the other woman with her lips slightly parted. "He's not to be underestimated. Taikrin--" She breaks off, suddenly uncertain again. Leova sets the first glass neatly before Quinlys before pouring her own. The candlelight is golden light, their own little hearth. "If you like it, there's more, or another." But she's tracking right back with the other rider, nodding. That flight, Vrianth-flight, took or transformed much of that tension... but the rest of it is back. "A marriage is said to be more permanent than a queen's flight." She keeps looking at Quinlys, even leans in toward the candlelight so that the bluerider can better read her expression. Taikrin, "--Is my wingleader, at the very least." That expression is troubled. "Forever," agrees Quinlys, of marriage. "Unless you're Lord Braeden and Lady Yuliye. Though," and her brow furrows, her gaze dropping towards the glass her hand is reaching for. "Are they still married? I only know that she left." She pauses her thought in order to try a taste of that liquor, rolling it about on her tongue in a way that suggests she approves of it, even if she doesn't say as much. "Taikrin will probably be replaced, as soon as one of our queens rise. But until this, being Lord Holder was supposed to be for life." A breath. "Taikrin's my friend, and I hate that she's dismissed because she's a brownrider, and a woman, and all of those reasons. But she's not subtle. Lord Devaki would run rings around her. All of them, maybe; I don't know." "Maybe it's Yuliye of Crom who's forever." Leova moves back in her seat, to what's become a normal distance from the light. She keeps an elbow on the table when she sips her drink. "'Cromth'? Don't even know what it really takes to undo marriages for Ladies. Not like it was simple where I grew up, but. Different rules." She's got a nod for Taikrin. "And some people appreciate straightforward. But. Got to wonder how it's going to go down between now and then. Listen, you want something stronger to mix in, got some of that too." Reflectively, "The only 'forever' I've ever wanted is Olly." And there's a smile for that reference to her dragon, that other part of her soul. "I remember seeing Yuliye when she was at the Weyr. I was just a little girl, and I thought she was the most beautiful person I'd ever seen." Which makes Quin's head shake, and abruptly turns her gaze back on Leova more directly. The sip she takes from her glass is, perhaps, intended to answer the last of what the other woman has said; for the rest, she adds, thoughtfully, "There's nothing wrong with straightforward. I think it has a lot of merit. But-- yes. Exactly that. There's so much uncertainty." "Lucky." Leova's slight smile is one-cornered, her low voice little lower than usual but just that understated. The anecdote deepens her smile, alters her gaze, as though she's seeing the bluerider in a different light. She stands then. Moves out of the light but not out of earshot. Returns with another bottle, this one taller. Darker amber. Well-used. She sets it, open, with its cork before Quinlys. She doesn't sit again yet, leans on the chair's back instead. "Reckon so. Keep catching myself wondering, how much different it would have been. If they'd taken to it instead of tearing at each other. But there's no point, not to that." Something about Quinlys' smile implies that she really does see herself as lucky; it verges on smug, even if it doesn't linger over-long. As Leova stands, she reaches for her glass again, tasting the liquor with a deliberate, semi-serious movement of tongue in her mouth. The glass gets set down again when Leova returns, allowing her to lean in and take a sniff from this new bottle. "No," she agrees. "There really isn't. It's-- we can imagine, but it won't help things. It's the future we have to think about, and how we can help. I thought we were doing a good job, but now..." It may be the weyrlings she's talking about, but it's not wholly clear. "Now it's a mess," Leova agrees. "And the kids," and the kids. Not just them, then, at first. Now, "Roughing the men up like that. It don't sit right with me." Amber eyes stay with Quinlys. She doesn't mince words. "Could be they've gone rotten." Quinlys goes back to what's left in her glass, downing it, and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, before she's willing to say anything else. When she does, however, she's looking at Leova again. "Nor me. You don't... it's tantamount to torture." It disgusts her; it's right there in her tone, edged in misery. "I can't trust them. None of us can. If they were willing to do that... What do you do with dragonriders who've gone bad like that? Shells, before they've even managed to graduate." Leova pours for herself from the tall bottle, tops it off with the fruit, swirls it between two contemplative fingers. "Wish I knew. If it has to be done, it's the Lord's to do. Not us. Not them. And not pretending to be harpers," the wrongness of that all too evident in the uneasy tinge to her voice, ashes in smoke. "Not like they're little, either. Glad we don't so much Search them that young anymore, most days, but today..." Quinlys drops her gaze towards her glass, staring at it as though it might actually hold some of the answers, even empty. Maybe especially empty. Still, it doesn't stop her from echoing Leova's actions with the bottles as she says, "It feels like little kids would be more sensible, somehow, yeah. Less... bravado? Certainty of their abilities? The idiots." 'Idiots' is probably not the word she's actually looking for, but it suffices. "I've never been so glad I Impressed Olly." And not, presumably, Ysavaeth. "Maybe. Boys," Leova's got a twitch of her shoulder, not even a true shrug. "A journeyman, you know? And you'd think even an apprentice would have more respect for his Craft. Even if he didn't for people." She drinks. She doesn't look at the bluerider when she says, "Did you ever, ever feel a twitch about it? What people would say. Or whatever." Sipping at her drink, Quinlys shakes her head, expression moodily irate. "Fuck 'em all," she declares. "The moronic weyrlings, the imperious new Lord, and everyone else between." Her shoulders sink as, after another sip, she answers, "I don't know. A little. Sometimes a lot." Glancing up, she adds, "I would've made a shitty goldrider; I can see that now. But I think-- thought-- I could do this weyrlingmastery thing. Do you miss it?" "Fuck 'em," Leova agrees, drinking. Her brown, scarred hands cup the small, small glass. The scars are paler than they had been, not even pink, mostly. "I'd reckoned you might. Hard not to, with people setting you up like that. Glad to not have gone through it, with Lu, but then neither of us were local girls." She drinks again, more like a sip. "Sometimes. I don't know. Was always a push-pull, you know? Always got cranky, not enough sleep, and Vrianth..." "I was relieved, when no one seemed as inclined to do that over Hraedhyth's egg," admits Quinlys, then, her cheeks pink with the recollection of it. "It was hard, Iolene being who she was. People seemed to forget, later, and that made it easier." Her gaze wanders around the room, focusing on a lot of things that aren't the greenrider, and aren't her own drink (though she does sip again). "Vrianth doesn't love it, the way Olly does," she says, finally, in a way that isn't really a question. "I think I understand all of it, now. More. The transition to co-Weyrlingmaster has been harder than I expected." "Maybe it was me as who got told more about the twins," supposes their quasi-aunt. "Tried to stay out of it, but. Well. Iolene, now." Her lips have flattened. She doesn't drink. "I wouldn't say Vrianth hates it," comes out wry. "Most days. Good thing that he loves it. Vrianth loves Glacier, what we're doing now. Don't want to ever have to pry her away. But. What made it harder?" She could speculate. Doesn't. Turning her glass in her hand, Quinlys wrinkles her nose for reference to the twins, but adds to it a nod of acknowledgement: there was that, even if she herself saw less of it. "Seen some of your drills," she says, turning her gaze back on Leova-- and only partially, for a moment, on those hands, whether or not she can see the scars. "It seems to excite some of our weyrlings. A bit of a change from what Glacier was doing when I was a weyrling." But she doesn't disapprove; if anything, she seems pleased and... proud? "It's - oh, I don't know. Sometimes, I just don't have an answer to their problems, not a good one, and it's hard." "It was that," Leova says. "Snowdrift, she'd have liked Snowdrift too with the rescues and all, or maybe that was just me with the reenacting." She gets to look a little wistful now. The greenrider considers the bluerider, then. "If it's any consolation," she begins slowly, though there's no tentativeness in her voice, only dryness, "I'daur began drinking before he took on the job, I'm told." Fall injuries will do that to a man, regardless of whether it's to him or his beast. "I'm going to ask Snowdrift to try and teach the weyrlings more about rescues, and how to perform them," says Quinlys, sounding distracted-- though her attention snaps back towards Leova a moment later. "Something active, you know? Of course, we knew we wanted weyrlings even when we were weyrlings." Mention of I'daur has sharpened her expression, somehow, and has her licking her lip uncertainly, though she nods, too. "It's good to know it didn't drive him to drink. Or Meara." She glances at her glass. "I'm not very patient. And Olly keeps reminding me to think with my head instead of my heart. It's hard." "Active, practical, actually paying attention... you'd, no, you wouldn't be surprised at how many 'broken bones' wound up with worse lacerations." Leova catches Quinlys' look and reaches to pour, not as smooth as her weyrmate but enough to get the job done. She's looking at the liquor when she says, "You're lucky to have him so you don't have to do it all yourself." Quinlys' "Mmm," confirms that no, she wouldn't be surprised. "It's not an easy job. And I expect... the rush of the actual rescues is mostly overshadowed by drilling and more drilling, training and more training, and just waiting for something to happen. Which is awful, if you think about it, in a way. Ghoulish." She's looking at her glass, having nodded at the greenrider, when she confirms: "I am. And I'm trying to listen. But even now... here I am, taking what those idiots did personally, and Olly, he's no help in this, not this time. I have a punching bag in my weyr, though. I'll beat out some of my feelings on it, later." "Just like the rest of riderhood," Leova says dryly. "'Course, you are saying that to a dragonhealer. We haven't gotten to be bored these Turns as some." She drinks, her voice more quiet when eventually she speaks again. "Handy thing. Punching bag. And it does reflect, you're not wrong. Rightly or wrongly." "Accidents happen," agrees Quinlys, with a wry note to her voice, and a quirk to her mouth. "And all the rest of it: the checkups and so on. It doesn't matter how many Holds decide they don't need our services; we'll always need you. You - and me, I suppose. As long as there are still queens to rise." She drinks again, more than a sip this time, and sets the glass down with a deliberate thunk. "Of course it does. This group... few of them've seemed really down on the silver thread stuff. And I wonder... should we have pressed into them more about hold relations? Did we let them down, in not doing so?" "Queens to rise, and however many decades it takes the last of the rest to knock off. Seeing as how it probably wouldn't be near as many as usual, I'd reckon. Then again. Council'd fight to have one of theirs fill the space." This time, Leova doesn't reach to refill. That thunk has such conviction, she lets it stand alone. "Maybe. Those two weren't them, though, right? Only so much a body can preach about good behavior. Respect. Not beating people up. Shouldn't have to." But. "They'd have to listen." "No, they weren't," agrees Quinlys. "And maybe that's the problem? The trouble is... not all of them are ready for all the extra stuff, you know? A lot of people have enough on their plates. It's not something everyone needs to know... until they get it into their stupid heads to do stupid things. Would they have listened? Probably not. Journeyman and Apprentice Harper, after all." Without her glass to wrap fingers around, her hands play with each other, full of energy that isn't nervous, just... energetic. "I'd hate to see an outsider dragon take High Reaches. Bronze or gold." "I remember." Leova's tone is muted, not nearly as dark that way. "Probably not," she agrees. Her gaze tracks Quinlys' hands for a moment, and then she says, "Same here. Though. Do you count Iesaryth as outsider? Anymore. You know her heritage." She stands, walking to the hearth to first stoke the fire, then return with something warm and wooden half-hidden in her hands. Evidently, Leova's question requires a drink before Quinlys can answer it, because despite the authoritative way she'd set down her glass so recently, now she refills it for herself. It's only after she's taken another sip that she answers, turning her head up so that she can look at Leova as the greenrider returns. "No. Not really. I know her heritage, but she was trained here, and that counts, too. I'm not so keen on who Aishani's father was, or the whole lying thing," several times over, "but she and Iesaryth are High Reachian. They're ours." "Trained as a rider, at least, if not how a goldrider should have been," and there's the deep disapproval there that Leova rarely allows herself. She passes the bluerider the piece of wood she'd brought back, or rather pieces, though they had once been one: a small carved cube with a sphere inside, one that won't escape until it's broken. It's dark wood, strong, though there are a few polished irregularities that might have once been the imprint of tiny teeth. "Question. Quinlys. Reckon they'd have behaved if there had been men in charge?" The face Quinlys makes says much about her feelings on the subject of the training of High Reaches' most recent three goldriders-- and something, too, that might speak of a personal sense of guilt. If she had only done what she was supposed to, and Impressed Ysavaeth... "Maybe," is her answer to the rest, said with a sigh. "It's the uncertainty; it makes everyone feel like they have a say, instead of knowing their gold-damned place." She's not drunk, but the liquor has pinkened her cheeks, and loosened her tongue. It also has her taking the pieces of wood, her gaze dropping to stare, in a largely uncomprehending way. If only, if only. Whatever Leova reads in that gaze, she's silent. "Yes." And then, "Miss that, how it felt. Knowing. They haven't grown up in it. Like it's Interval for everyone, all day long." And last, humor fleetingly making it to her voice and no more, "For fidgeting with." Abruptly, it makes Quinlys laugh - a combination of things, probably; the wood, and its purpose, as much as other things. "It almost makes me feel like one of the adults for the first time, because I remember before all of the uncertainty. Like, I think, so many riders do, for having been riders before the Interval. So: yes. I know what you mean. We need something to unite us all again. Someone, maybe." She fidgets, turning the wood over and over in her hands. Leova does smile at that, one corner deeper than the other but two-cornered all the same. It's smooth wood, dense, will clatter lightly but not break. "Can imagine. We only barely got in for the Pass, the Comet Pass anyhow, but it makes a difference, being there. Knowing. Though... you had family, friends, not like you were oblivious to its harm," nor the exhilaration of the fight that complicates that last word. She scruffs her rusty, spiky hair with one hand. "Like to think it would be unite behind instead of against. Don't know as it would be, the way things are going." Quinlys' fingers stroke at the wood, rubbing at the sphere, rolling it gently. "Mm," she confirms. "I was... five, I think, when the Comet Pass started. It looms pretty heavily in my earliest memories; I remember how much I resented my parents suddenly having less time for us. And then Kianneth was scored, and-- but still. There's a difference between experiencing it, and just having been around. I can't blame people for feeling like we can't possibly understand, because we can't. But it's not our fault. Do you miss having that... sense of purpose? Even ignoring everything else." It's an abrupt question, and comes with an intense glance, studying. "We're not good at the positive stuff, it feels like. There's always something upsetting people, making them want to fight the status quo. I don't know if there's anyone who can turn it around." Kianneth. Leova has to linger for the dragon, has to murmur, "Good to see her in Taiga again." With satisfaction, too. But her eyes are intent upon Quinlys all the while, more and more as the younger woman goes on. For her question, unflinching, "All the time. Not just purpose but doing something about it. Something as what's not just talk." Quinlys can stare all she wants. "Don't know either. At least, when a queen rises, we'll have something. Worse, better, at least it won't be up in the air. We'll make do." Quinlys won't echo Leova's murmur on the topic of her father's dragon, but it's suggested in her expression: it is. "I would've liked having that, I think. Having something to do like that. Not that training weyrlings isn't a little like that, but it's so hard to press the importance of skills they'll never live to put to use for real." Her stare falters, but not because of Leova; she drops it back towards the wood in her hands. "Something solid. It's about time. We may not have known it, but it's been three turns since we had proper Weyrleaders, hasn't it?" Her teeth chew at her lip; her discomfort, for this reference to Ysavaeth's deception, is obvious. "Sort of like making beds, over and over again, for other people to lie in. Or teaching people to make beds, and then when they get their own weyr, they trash the place instead. Respectable work, but easier on some folks than others." The greenrider stirs. "More'n one reason why I didn't want to take I'daur's job after him. Anyhow. Hard to believe it's just three Turns. Feels like we've been sunk in this a whole lot longer. Ysavaeth, she must have been so strong." "Yes." Quinlys' approval for the analogy is partially overshadowed by her exasperation. That said, she adds, after a moment, "I want to say we were nowhere that bad, but I suspect I'm wrong to some degree. And I'm not Meara; not able to just smile and make pointed comments, when I want to reach out and shake them instead." She's still got the wood in one hand, but the other reaches for her drink. "Ysavaeth scares me. Scared me." It's so quiet: little above a whisper. "But I didn't think she was capable of that. It makes me nervous. Did they consider you for the job, after I'daur-- died?" Leova has a sidelong chuckle for that, for being wrong, however more or less. "Some of them aren't even all that pointed, 's what gets me. She's just. Well. Nice in the way that makes other people want to, too." Or something, something that doesn't matter nearly as much as that near-whisper that has her looking closer at the redhead. She nods, too. She drinks again. "Same here." Her mouth tightens. "Iovniath, well. Don't reckon she was any weaker, but maybe less... conniving. Or less... thinking outside of things. Maybe that's what Iolene gave her, hm? I'daur..." The greenrider tops her drink off with the fruity stuff, does the same with Quinlys' unless the bluerider refuses. "Nosing around, anyhow. Don't know if they would have. But I was too split for that. Helping I'daur. Dragonhealing. And Glacier." That name, that very complicated name, not that I'daur's was any lighter. Quinlys wrinkles her nose, expression caught between exasperation and admiration for the other Weyrlingmaster's abilities on that front. A low breath, a sigh, escapes at mention of Iovniath, and no, Quinlys won't stop her from refilling that glass. "Hraedhyth's pretty up-front and obvious, at least," she says, half-thoughtful. "Iesaryth's smart. But I don't know if she's inclined towards manipulation so much. On her own, I mean. I don't know. Olly doesn't consort with them all, much. Glacier." The way she says it, she admires the Wing. "And dragonhealing. All of that. You keep busy. Rumour has it you were involved in the tithe raid stuff, too. But that was later." "Don't reckon as much," Leova agrees, half-repeating. "Appreciate up front on the one hand. Also appreciate, hm. Sitting back, maybe, on the other. Got to be said, they could have done a lot by now, if they wanted." She tips her head back, shadows pooling into the hollows about her eyes, and after a little while her chair tips back too. "Hope there don't wind up being more tithe raids. One direction or another... you know L'vae, how he got tapped to lead Avalanche when we weren't far out of weyrlinghood, any of us." "They could've," agrees Quinlys. "Things could be so much worse than they are. So - that's something. Everyone's doing the best they can." She seems to believe it, too, even if it's with an air of something not so far off desperation: if she believes hard enough, it'll be true. Maybe it even will be. "L'vae. Yes, I remember. He stepped down again, even before Iovniath became senior. It seems awful young. I mean, I know he wasn't a teenager or anything, but that soon out of weyrlinghood." "Listen to us." Could be so much worse. Doing the best they can. That quality of Quinlys' voice. What's in Leova's own. Leova doesn't specify any of it, only laughs, not just short but abbreviated. She swings her chair back, catching it just before the other two legs can hit the floor, and brings it slowly to rest. "It was. Likely would have lasted longer if he'd had wingsecond for a few Turns, at least. But things happen. Wonder what alliances will come out of the barracks. If anyone's going to pull a K'del." She slides a long, slow look at the bluerider. "Which one of those two as Weyrleader? Death is not an option." Quinlys laughs, too, and then takes a drink. "Awful," she agrees. "We sound like old aunties." But at least it made her smile - a smile that abruptly disappears, replaced by a grimace and a groan, for what follows. "N'hax is easier on the eyes, and he's older, but... C'wlin has that Harper training, much good it's done for him. I hope none of them pull a K'del, not any of the bronzeriders, and hopefully no one else. Wingriders until they're thirty, at least', all of them." Says the Weyrlingmaster-at-twenty-five. "Won't try and recollect how old you are," says Leova with something like a smirk. "Wonder, if it came to that, if they were still weyrlings, if you and Meara could ground them. Or take them on a trip with whichever queen wasn't rising, probably safer. If that, flying and failing, isn't part of what seals the deal between a queen and her Weyr." Quinlys has no retort for that; just a grin. Guilty as charged. "That..." She hesitates, her thought processes almost visible behind that too-cute face and bright eyes. Around the rim of her glass, finally, she agrees, "That seems like a reasonable plan. No weyrlings, no out-weyr bronzes. I won't even begin to hypothesise on who should win - as if it matters what I think - but we have to at least try and stack the deck for the best." "Agreed," and the greenrider tips her glass to Quinlys. "Though I'd like to see no out-Weyr anyone. Seeing as how." This time, her toast lifts to the air and holds there: she can't very well toast to I'kris, and won't to Iolene. "But the weyrlings, they're what you can do something about... What was it about Icicle, didn't you take to it?" Tipping up her own glass, Quinlys acknowledges Leova's words and gesture with a rueful expression that suggests she's following those thoughts. "Heard and witnessed. No out-Weyr anyone's, not anymore. Maybe we should stop Searching altogether, for that matter. Weyr-born only. Though," she acknowledges, "I suppose that would count you out. The weyrlings, yes. And I'm doing the best I can. Going to do." Her shoulders have straightened: she's abruptly determined. "Oh, Icicle was all right. Olly's not all that interested in acrobatics, though, and it's hard to just slot back in." "It would. Also, no point in getting riders as inbred as the dragons." Leova says that wryly indeed. "What, did they think 'He's a blue! He must be acrobatic!'? Vrianth and me, we would have taken to that all right. But. Reentry was hard for us too, for what it's worth. Both directions. Maybe a little like some of the exiles that way, at first, 'never fish nor fowl nor good green wherry.' Hard to know what kind of wine to have with that, hm?" "There's that, too," agrees Quin. And, cheerfully, "At least my Olly isn't his own grand-uncle or anything; we got off luckily, not that it matters, mind. I think so. Maybe they wanted to challenge us; I don't know." Her mouth curves at that mention of the exiles, as though it's the first time she's found any common ground in experiences, there. However, "Exactly. I'm glad to know it's not just us. It's - not that I'm hoping for another clutch on the heels of this one. I think we'll all need a break. My hair might go white." "It's a funny thing, how dragons manage when herdbeasts and canines and runners and everything just don't," but the dragonhealer cuts herself off nearly as soon as she starts. Instead, dryly all over again, "So it's not henna, then?" "Dragons," says Quinlys, aiming for serious and authoritative, and not managing too well (she's had too much to drink for that), "are special." Beat. "Now you're teasing me, aren't you? I see how it is. You invite me up here to get me drunk, and then make fun of me." Only her eyes are showing her amusement, pretty clearly, and a moment later she's exhaling again: a sigh that isn't quite. "Special, special dragons," Leova agrees comfortably. "If it does go white, you could do stripes. That would be pretty amazing." She'll offer a little more for Quinlys' glass, too, and then slouch with her own. Likely there's more she could say. Far more than likely it wouldn't be amusement-making. Although, with the tip of the bottle telling her there's not much remaining, "Could let you run off with what's left. Seeing as how 'flying straight' just isn't so far." Quinlys tosses her hair over her shoulder, a gesture that implies a certain amount of vanity, and laughs. "It really would. I'll keep that in mind. I mean, I could just put dark stripes in now... but I don't know if black is my colour, really." She'll accept a top-up, lifting her glass in another not-quite-toast, her cheeks flushed... and not, this time, with embarrassment. "And what would Anvori say about that? Vanishing booze." she wonders, gaze flicking away from the greenrider, towards the wood that yes, she's still been playing with, and then onwards, around the room. That gesture is one Leova can give a half-smile to, some twenty-odd Turns and a not-inconsiderable amount of alcohol later, though she hasn't been putting it away quite as much as Quinlys has. Today, anyway. Even after a day like what they've had. "Black, it grows out, what a mess. But speaking of a mess... it's not like we've broken into the really good stuff, Quinlys." "Point." And then a pause, her gaze abruptly returning to the greenrider. "Hah. I see I don't rate the really good stuff." The words are cheekily followed by the rest of her drink, after which she sets down her glass and shakes her head. "But the way I drink, it wouldn't be worth it. No. I should clear out before I do something silly. But--" She pauses. "At least I don't feel like beating anyone into a pulp, now. Or throwing myself off my ledge." "Nobody does," Leova gives her lazily. "Not for another decade, anyway. A couple, maybe. I don't know, maybe it's for Via's kids." The greenrider's had a considering look for the bluerider to go along with that, and now adds, "Good." Enough of that going on already. "But at least, if you want to get rid of that drink... you know whose ledges to do it on, hm?" The shake of Quinlys' head that follows Leova's earlier remarks suggests she finds that a bewildering idea: holding on to any kind of alcohol that long. Still, "I hope it tastes amazing by the time it gets opened, that's all I'm saying." The piece of wood gets set down, at last, as the bluerider stands, holding on to the edge of the table for a moment before she recovers her equilibrium. "Hah. I do at that. It's not like they are going to see them for some time." And what a surprise that would be to come back to! "It's-- thanks, Leova. For the invitation." "Think we'll have to trust his," Leova reconsiders, then just smiles. It's right on the edge of two-cornered, too. "And once it snows... anyhow. Welcome." She's stood too, will get Quinlys to her dragon. Will welcome Anvori back in not too long, too, and not even hide the evidence. |
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Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Tue, 11 Jun 2013 02:28:32 GMT.
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It was fantastic getting to see their opinions on everything. Leova's especially, 'cause she has a talent for not saying much. Poor Quinlys. <3 It's good to see that she at least recognizes her faults, even if she struggles with heart-over-mind. ^^
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