Logs:The Way Of Things
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| RL Date: 23 October, 2011 |
| Who: Kesil, Quinlys |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Commiserate over illness, and make explanations. |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 14, Month 1, Turn 27 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Wind, rain, and snow combine to make for miserable, sleety weather today. |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
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| Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life. It's a miserable, sleety afternoon, and that means that pretty much every weyrperson who possibly can be inside /is/. The nighthearth is a popular spot, though Quinlys has made it slightly less so, having tracked ice and snow inside on her boots, and worse, punctuating chatter with regularly spaced sneezes. Red-nosed, she hovers in front of the hearth, clearly trying to get warm (and dry) enough to actually sit down. Soon. Hopefully. Apparently not the only one to think of the nighthearth as a retreat from the bitter chill of a 'Reaches winter, Kesil halts mid step at the entrance. He has a thin, small blanket thrown haphazardly over his shoulder, almost like a shawl, with a higher than expected number of layers bundled up underneath it. A steaming mug of klah, held under red nose and tired eyes completes the picture of one convalescing from one of any of the numerous ailments that can seep through the bones with the cold winter air. Kesil takes a step into the nighthearth, expression wary as his attention is drawn to the sneezing weyrling. "Ah--ah--ah--" Quinlys leads up to another sneeze with an unhappy shudder that may well be involuntary, the bastard offspring of a shiver. It's enough to send another unhappy resident for the door, but not before she scowls disapprovingly at the weyrling, huffing loudly about how sick people should /stay in their own rooms/. If Quinlys is listening, she's not paying much heed; a moment more, and she's slinging herself into a now-empty seat on one of the couches, huddling her knees up towards her chest for warmth. As there is little choice of seating, what remaining being a small chair near to the sneezing weyrling, Kesil gingerly plants himself into in, leaning slightly towards the fire. He pulls a small hide from a pouch on his belt and tries, somewhat unsucessfully, to lay it out on his knees. This attempt is soon hampered further by an involuntary shudder crossing his weakened frame, the young man's shoulders slumping as his resigns his feeble limbs to the meagre cushioning of the chair. The noises of the weyrling haven't been forgotten, as the newest one gets a sideways glance from the man, voice soft as he asks hesitantly, "Are you sick? Or just cold?" The answer seems likely to decide which way he leans in the seat. "/Sick/," says Quinlys, with obvious disgust; she glances up from her own miseries to give Kesil an interested and even intrigued look. Her voice is muffled by her illness, but still relatively understandable. "Stupid cold, you know? And then we had drills outside, and now I'm probably /worse/. Olly says I should just go home to bed, but it's probably freezing up in my weyr, so-- not yet." She seems perfectly comfortable just chattering about herself, though it doesn't stop her expression from being consideringly thoughtful. "I'll forgive you, if you want to stay away. You don't look-- I mean, you don't look all that well, either?" Kesil leans back from the weyrling, trying to be as unobvious as possible while doing so. His charade is quickly ended as the arm on the far side creaks ominously with the added weight, the young man offering an apologetic smile. Many of the words directed his way from the weyrling mean very little, and the multitude of them seems to add only more to an ever higher creeping brow on the young man. "I'm not trying to get away or anything, just playing it safe." He offers a friendly grin, "I was right out of it for the last two sevendays, or so the healers claimed. I wanted to leave earlier, but they wouldn't let me." That last remark brings forth a grimace, this young man not looking one to be too fond of authority. Quinlys does not, at least, seem offended by the way Kesil moves away: presumably she's getting used to it, given the way everyone seems to be keeping away from her. She uses a handkerchief - a damp one, by the looks of it - to blow her nose, and then wipe it. Finally; "It's okay. I wouldn't want to get sick, either. Sounds like you were /really/ sick, though. Sucks. But you're feeling better, now? It sounds?" She settles back on the couch, pushing a strand of limp, wet hair away from her face. "I'll try not to breathe on you, or whatever." "Better enough," Kesil offers in explanation. "I'm not lying in a bed with an assistant healer leering over me at all times of the day, am I?" The warmth of the hearth seems to be doing good for the young man, a small sigh passing his lips as he slides down in the chair to a much more comfortable, albeit less dignified, position. The weyrlings last remark gets a guffaw from Kesil, quickly stifled as a weyrfolk glares angrily from the central table. Adopting a quick apologetic expression for their benefit, Kesil's reclined head is turned to the weyrling, "Don't go worrying about me, or whatever it is that act of charity is for. Worry about those healthy folk out there, it's too late for me!" Quinlys seems genuinely amused by the reaction of the weyrfolk, and grins outright at Kesil - no apology from her, certainly. "I guess," she allows. "But it'd suck if you got sick all over again. It does happen sometimes." The warmth hasn't quite thawed the weyrling out, yet, from the looks of it, though her cheeks are slowly beginning to gain color similar to what's already visible on her nose. "I'm Quinlys," she says, suddenly. "I don't think we've met before, right? I think I'd know you already, if you were a local-local." The introduction is sudden, Kesil's eyes snapping open fron their half droop in the rooms wonderful warmth. "I'm... err, Kesil. I came here right after the last hatching from Hi-, from my families hold." He gives a little chuckle the last comment, "What would make me a local-local? I've been here quite a while, or at least it feels like it." He pauses, an inquiring look on his face, "Does that make you a local-local, or just someone who would meet everyone who's been here long enough?" "Seven months is hardly a long time," says Quinlys, dismissive, but not without a smile. "I'm from here. Born and raised. You-- you might /eventually/ be a local-local, but you'll need to be here a lot longer than /that/. I mean, even the Weyrleaders aren't really locals, you know?" There's audible pride in her home in Quinlys' voice, evident even around the cotton-wool stuffing of her cold. "You like it here? It's good, isn't it?" "It feels like forever," Kesil responds, though whether this is a positive or negative thing is left to the weyrling. "The Weyrleaders aren't locals? Now that is something I didn't know. Seems that Weyrs are pretty different than Holds for who's in charge." He appears to be modulating his voice so that, yet again, it is impossible to do anything but guess whether that is a good or bad thing. He tilts his head at the question, thoughtful gaze pointed at the cavern ceiling as his answer escapes, "It's pretty good. I just have trouble feeling as if this is -home-." Maybe Quinlys would be more alert to these more subtle things if she was less sick; as it stands, for all her careful watching, she doesn't seem to be picking up much of anything. "I guess nothing is ever as good as home," she allows. "What brought you here in the first place?" Finally, her legs get stretched out, as though she's finally warm enough to relax a little. As she does so, she explains, "Tiriana's from Ierne, and she Impressed at Telgar. K'del Impressed here, but he's from Tillek, I think. Originally." "Oh you know..." Kesil lifts and drops an arm noncommitally, "I'm here to help out, get a job, get some experience. Stuff like that. My, uh, parents thought it best if I didn't get all my experience from our little hold." Lowering his voice in what could best be called mocked conspiracy, "Between you and me, I think they want me to make this my home and not come home." He gives a chuckle at that, the topic quickly changing to, "What's to make them do what's best for the Weyr than? Wouldn't their first priority be for their home?" He pauses a beat. "How many riders here were born here?" Quinlys has probably heard this kind of story often enough that she accepts Kesil's explanation without seeming to think about it. "I think that happens a lot. Particularly during Interval-- I mean, life is pretty good here, right? More luxuries than a lot of people get. More opportunity." Her smile is probably intended to be encouraging. Of the Weyrleaders, her answer is rather more firm. "No, their priorities are definitely for here. They've adopted the weyr as home, I think. I can't imagine Weyrleaders more dedicated-- honestly. It's different to holds, I guess, but... it works." Nose wrinkling, she adds, "I'm not sure on the ratio. Most were born here, I guess. Not /all/, but... lots." Kesil accepts the weyrling's explanation of his story with only a nod, not looking to want to continue that thread of conversation. With the firmness of the remark on the Weyrleaders, Kesil puts up his hands in a placating gesture, "I meant no offense. I'm just unfamiliar with the place one holds most dear being somewhere that adopted them, instead of where they always called home." He gives a little grin to try further to explain away his ignorance, "If most who ride here were born here, why didn't one of them become Weyrleader? Or am I just making a fool of myself? It is all so unfamiliar." "No, no," says Quinlys, hastily, smiling as she shakes her head. "I can see how it would be confusing. I think, for some people, it's easier to adopt a home. And, I mean-- once you Impress, for most people, it changes a lot of things. Places /become/ home, because this is a place you share with your dragon." She doesn't seem to have an immediate answer for the last question; it sets her to silence for a few seconds before, "I don't know. It just-- works out the way it does. For better or for worse. It's not like K'del's a /bad/ Weyrleader, you know? He grew into it. He's done good things." "That doesn't make me not a fool though," Kesil offers with a self deprecatory grimace. Quickly changing it to a grin to show the jest, he adds, "I really do seem to be putting my foot in my mouth right now. I know very little about the leaders here, and just as little about most of the Weyrfolk. I am questioning the system out of unfamiliarity, not ridicule." He lips the mug of klah to his lips, giving a small start upon seeing it empty. "It appears that this jaunt of mine has lasted longer than intended. I do think I should be getting back to my room soon, so as to not get sick again." The young man doesn't move, yet, gaze levelly on the weyrling. "It doesn't make you a /fool/, either," is Quinlys' opinion on the subject; she grins, too. "It's okay, I sort of can see that. And I don't mind-- I don't take offense. Just because I'm used to it doesn't mean it's the right way or the best way, or even completely obvious to anyone else." She sneezes again, after that, and looks disappointed, almost as though she'd hoped she was finished with that. At any rate, "I guess you probably should. Rest up, right? So that you don't relapse, or whatever." "Seems it's harder to take what's 'home' out of a person than to put a new one in." Kesil quips as he stands to his feet. He wavers a bit before steadying himself, the young man clearly with some time to go before he can call himself healthy. He raises a hand in farewell towards the weyrling, "Well met, Qiunlys, hopefully you get better sooner than I did. I'm sure I'll be seeing you around. This may just become my home too." Quinlys keeps a wary eye on Kesil's steadiness, but makes no remark on it. Instead, she lifts her head to meet his eye, smiling as she agrees, "I hope so. On both accounts. I'll see you around, sure." She probably won't be too far behind him, though /she/ has to make it out through the awful weather outside before she can make it safely home to bed. Oh well. |
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