Logs:Rotten Strawberries
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| RL Date: 8 June, 2013 |
| Who: I'zech, Quinlys |
| Type: Log |
| What: With all the weyrlings out of the barracks, I'zech and Quinlys share a moment of downtime. Don't tell Meara about the whisky. |
| Where: Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 4, Month 13, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: C'wlin/Mentions, I'daur/Mentions, Meara/Mentions, N'gan/Mentions, N'hax/Mentions, Quielle/Mentions, Sabella/Mentions |
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| Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
What it does have, however, are several colorful murals: on one wall, a detailed diagram of a dragon's anatomy; opposite, next to a creaky wooden door, a number of painted and labeled wing formations. Near the entrance is a large-scale version of the Weyr's badge, while the back wall, by the barracks, features a detailed map of the continent. The latter area's also home to one big, beat-up couch, black or maybe blue -- the thing's so old and filthy it's hard to tell, though it's certainly comfortable.
Quinlys traipses in some time after I'zech does, having spent the intervening time assigning duties to those weyrlings who can't, for one reason or another, join the others on wing-shadowing. She's quietly disgruntled, showing that plain as day: it's in the way she stomps, the way she shakes snow out of her hair, and in the grumpy lines of her expression. And there it is again when, a moment later, she catches sight of I'zech and promptly scowls. "Don't you have something better to do?" I'zech watches her arrival, the stomping and shaking and pouty-face. He gives a sniff. "Probably. But I thought I'd 'make myself available for weyrlings' instead." His gaze lingers somewhere around her waist for a beat and then he spreads a sharp, empty smile as his glance lifts to hers. "What's your problem?" It's not so much accusation, really, just an obnoxious way to inquire after her warm, fuzzy mood. He takes another drink of his nice warm klah. "Unless you're going to beat them into pulp for me," and there's no point in offering three guesses as to who she's referring to there, "You're probably off the hook as far as waiting around goes. Go file some paperwork or something. Or figure out what you're going to do once we don't have weyrlings, and you get thrown back to the wings again." There's something accusatory in her tone, biting in an unfocused kind of way. She turns, shucking off her damp jacket to hang it up on one of the hooks near the door. His question? Ignored. "Which ones?" he asks, as if there are certain 'thems' he'll happily pummel, even though there's been none of that in anyone's recent memory. As for her suggestions, "Always with the tempting options," he drolls at her instead. "Maybe that's exactly what I'm doing." His tongue passes over his teeth, thoughtful for a beat, then wry again. "You mean you don't want to keep me on?" Since Quinlys is the only thing happening at the moment, she's where I'zech's gaze rests, tracking her movements and the shucking of her jacket. He still wears his. Quinlys gives I'zech a look over her shoulder, blue eyes rolling (though it's hard to tell exactly which bit she's rolling them for). "We don't keep any assistants on when there are no weyrlings," she points out. "If you're really lucky, one of the queens will go up, and we'll keep people on. If we decide to keep you on." If. She stretches, rolling her shoulders back once, twice, and then a third time, relaxing them, finally, as she turns to stride towards him. "Maybe you should just beat up all the weyrlings for me. It'd save time." "They'll keep you, with nothing to do," I'zech points out without any particular feeling, an idle glance slipping back toward the entrance as some thunder booms outside. "If, if, if." He doesn't seem disturbed. She heads towards him and the bronzerider moves a knee, not that it's actually necessary for him to make space on the couch, but it's an invitation anyway. "What would my position be then? If I beat up all the weyrlings for you?" Or perhaps, more importantly. "What are the hours?" Because this whole weyrlingmaster thing has definitely been a bit too early for his liking. Another look follows, as Quinlys swings her legs onto the couch, sitting on the opposite armrest; she does put her feet on the cushions, apparently unrepentant about it. "We'll probably join drills in one of the wings, if we need to. Keep up our skills. There's no point any of us sitting around completely idle." She grips at the armrest, one hand on either side of her knees, and smirks. Evidently, this conversation is doing wonders for her mood. "Casual hours. Weyrlingmaster's bully boy. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? I could just call you in when I need you." "I do prefer a... flexible schedule," I'zech 'admits', enough suggestion in his voice to add a new layer of impropriety to the already fanciful discussion. "I'm not sure anyone is really giving me a pick of wings when this is over. Someone will make some snap decision and land us somewhere and life will continues on. Same old shit. Keeping up the skills and watching while everyone loses their heads over the latest bit of nothing." He punctuates the dreary thought with another drink, then frowns in the cup a bit when he remembers it's just klah instead of being spiked with something more suited to such pointless musings. "I bet you do," smirks Quinlys, scratching at the leather of her trousers just above the knee. "You really don't see anything going on as being important?" It's abruptly a more serious question, matched by a genuinely interested look-- she's curious. Also: "Do you want to stay a weyrlingmaster? Or are you going to sink back into the wings until they get pissed off at you again, and actually make good on the whole icy wastes watchrider duty bit?" "I see a lot of people overreacting and having no idea what the fuck they hope to get out of it." That's I'zech's world-view in a nutshell. And since Quinlys isn't taking a seat on the couch, and her boots aren't shy about wetting the cushions, he stretches a leg out toward her, his own boot bumping hers. "Not sure it matters what I want. That's the trade off, isn't it? Big, fancy dragon, all the freedom in the world, only to have no future. You, you're a weyrlingmaster. You're... twenty five? What are you doing with the rest of your life? Just this? Rinse and repeat?" He shrugs a shoulder. "But there are shittier things to do." And so, with a slower sip, perhaps that his answer to her latter questions. Quinlys' mouth opens, like she intends to argue what I'zech has said - but evidently she changes her mind, shaking her head instead. Her gaze drops to consider his boot, nudging hers against his (at least they haven't gotten so far as knocking boots), and then she says, instead, "Nearly twenty-six. But, I mean, isn't it the same for most people? If I'd Apprenticed, I'd be a Journeyman now, doing basically the same thing forever. What else is there? That's kind of how it goes. Seriously, though, if you could do anything? You're my age. Do you just want to float around doing as little as possible forever?" "Work to get your Master's knot, change your focus and start building crazy machines instead of laying gems in knife handles, throw it all off and become a gardener or start raising runners..." Apparently, if Quinlys apprenticed, she'd have been a smith in this scenerio. "I suppose it feels like a rider's ability to do any of those things depends on how little else he's doing." And with that, I'zech peels himself up from the couch to get a refill on the klah. "I have a real passion for gardening," said so dryly it can't possibly be true. In the midst of pouring, he glances back at her, a brow cocked and cup lifted, silently asking if she wants any. "So what's your wing of choice when it's time to practice your skills again?" Quinlys snorts with laughter, pressing her hands into her thighs as if she intends to launch herself off the couch at any moment - though she doesn't. She answers his silent query with a nod, and follows it up with, "There's a bottle of whisky in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet in the office." Beat. "Don't tell Meara. Anyway, I think you're full of shit. If I wanted to, I could pay the Smiths to train me in stuff, and pick it up as a hobby. Make money, even. Or I could plant garden beds on my ledge, or-- anything I want to. I choose to be Weyrlingmaster. If I get bored of it, well, I'll do something else. Maybe Snowdrift." It's a seamless transition from one topic to the next. "I kind of like the idea of the whole search and rescue thing. But we'll see. I used to fly with Icicle." The bottle of whiskey has him breaking a darker grin in her direction, hazel eyes conspiring momentarily over his shoulder as he pours a second mug. "Everyone is full of shit," I'zech tosses off, letting her go ahead and make whatever assumptions she likes about him. "What can I say, I just don't feel real inspired by flying drills all the time and watching someone get all puffed up because they get to lead the song and dance." There's a sneer in his words. "And you would." That part is for the search and rescue. "If someone makes a little club of burning shit down, you let me know." He leaves the mugs where they are and starts off toward the office. "What would Meara do if she found out about your stash?" he asks as he leaves. Maybe she can yell her answer for him to hear, or maybe she'll have to get up. Or maybe she'll stay right where she is until he gets back, holding her tongue. Everything else involves far too much effort. Finally, "She'd give me that disapproving look - you know the one. Shells, it's not like I'm an alcoholic, and hey, even if I were? People still talk about I'daur as being a great Weyrlingmaster." Her arms wrap around her shoulders, now: it's not actually that warm in here, and she did take her coat off. But, "Burning shit down, check. Still, though. Doesn't it get wearying, being down on everything? The whole, everything is useless, who cares bit?" As I'zech returns for her words, it's with Meara's disapproving look on his face. So yes, he knows the face. As the for the rest, as he uncaps the bottle and lets a few glugs fall into each cup, he says, "I was born weary, sunshine." The bottle is left out by the pot, at least for now, and he returns to the couch to hand off her drink, steaming in the not-warm air of the cavern. "It's a good bit. Keeps expectations low." Though his eyes narrow at her. "Usually." Quinlys makes a face for that disapproving look, and then follows it up with a stuck-out tongue: so there. She reaches out to take the mug, nodding her thanks rather than verbalising it, and says, as she wraps both hands around it, and draws it up towards her face so the steam can warm her, "I can't help it. I have certain expectations of my staff. And it shits me, I'zech, I won't lie. You could be gold-damned good at this, if you pulled your socks up and tried." It shits her? Oh, that makes I'zech grin, standing there in front of Quinlys with a great big smug smile brewing. He was going to take a drink, but now he has to hold off to let out a low laugh. And then he opts to take a seat again, beside her this time rather than on the other end of the couch. And as he lowers himself carefully so as not to spill that hot klah all down his front, he smirks at her. "Sweetheart, I am gold-damned good at this." Only after all of that can he take his drink. "Don't let my socks fool you." His grin obviously annoys her, to some degree, but whether it's the angel on her shoulder (thank you, Olveraeth) or just some hard-won self-control, she manages to bite it back. "It'd be easier to see it if you bothered to dress yourself in the morning. I wonder, would you try any harder if I moved your starting times? Or would you just swan in later than ever, still beer-encrusted and hungover?" "Have you ever seen me look any different?" I'zech wonders, cocking a brow over at her. Okay, so maybe he does clean up a little bit now and then. There's certainly the benefit of being freshly bathed at times, or one shirt being slightly less worn out than another, and sometimes he's bothered to shave or properly tie his boots or... But anyway. "What does it matter? You think maybe we should chop your hair real short so that everyone thinks you're a hard-ass bull dyke they shouldn't fuck with?" He smirks again, but it quickly turns into a heavy, thoughtful sigh. "I guess, maybe if things started a bit later..." He's committing to nothing, though, and a skeptical eye flicks aside at her like he half expect this to be a trap. "Like anything I did could turn me into a hard-ass bull dyke people shouldn't fuck with," retorts Quinlys, around the edge of her mug; she's amused. "Soft and cute forever; that's me." She doesn't directly answer his first question; instead, her gaze narrows and she considers I'zech. "We could trial it," she says. "But you'd have to be on call more evenings. To make up for it." Beat. "Think about it." I'zech wrinkles his nose. "Busy in the evenings," he points out, though that much should be obvious. "Beer-encrusted and hungover forever. That's me." Hey, if she gets to be soft and cute... He sits back, crosses an ankle over his knee and is what he is. "How many classes is this for you?" He probably could have asked sometime in the preceding months. "And honestly, what's the deal with Meara? They just don't think you can hack it on your own or what?" "And I just love having my evenings interrupted by needy teenagers," retorts Quinlys, though she acknowledges I'zech's remark, otherwise, with a dubious roll of the eyes. "Two as assistant, and now this one as co-weyrlingmaster. Meara's still here because she hasn't decided to retire yet, but thought twenty-four was too many for one person. I get this feeling she won't retire for turns, though, because she can't deal with seeing me put my fingerprints on everything. Even though it feels like Isath can barely fly, and she can barely walk." There's something about that retort that has I'zech starting to grin again, a dry curve on his mouth as he slants another glance at her. But then she's off talking about Meara and his gaze wanders around the cavern. It's so quiet these days, without kids and baby dragons crawling all over the place. 'Kids' since a good chunk of the weyrlings are barely 5 turns their junior. "You gonna just call her an assistant next time? Make her sit back and watch while you put your hands all over everyone?" He just happens to adjust his seat there. It's not, like, commentary that he lifts his hips up a bit. Really. "Just give her the evening hours. Not like she's got anything else to do with them anyway. Stick a rocker by the fire." And some of them are barely their junior at all. "I wish I could. Until she retires - or is encouraged to retire by the Weyrleaders - it's co-weyrlingmasters to the end. I mean, it's not like I don't like or respect her." But it's pretty obvious that Quin is just itching to take over fully. And equally obvious that her gaze slides from his face to his hips (it's not her fault the movement caught her eye), if only for a moment. She seems smugly amused for it, too. "It's like... as long as she's still here, she's the one people assume is in charge. Some of them. Even when she's taking time off because of her joints." It might just be implied on Quinlys' part; I'zech just goes ahead and says it. "But you want to put your hands all over everyone. Leave your sticky candy fingerprints, stamp 'em with a strawberry and send them out into the world as 'trained by Quinlys'. And not give two shits who knows there's whiskey stashed in your bottom drawer because it's all yours." All of it, the barracks, gestured to with a little shift of his mug. "Co-weyrlingmaster? Makes it sound like you're still 'in training' yourself." Quinlys is silent as I'zech sums it all up - but her smile is broadening and broadening until it's as smug as any she's ever had... before abruptly fading again into something more like a scowl. "Right," she agrees, vehemently. "All of that. Except I'd have to lock the bottom drawer so none of the weyrlings could get into the booze. Meara wanted someone else. She had someone lined up to transfer from Telgar, to be groomed as her successor, but it all fell through. Which is to my benefit, obviously, but... damn it, I'm ready." Now is clearly not the time for showing any uncertainty she might have. "Oh that's nice," I'zech drips sarcastically for this lined up transfer. "Did you object when they said 'co' or did you just grab your ankles and take it?" Maybe it's the image that has him breathing a chuckle across the top of his mug before he drinks again. "Too bad I wasn't there to see it," he quips to himself, apparently assuming the latter. "Think you can say anything now or are you gonna wade through another class with your chaperone and hope it's her last one?" Breezily, "You just wish you could get a view of my ass like that." Quinlys' smugness is present again, even if she's using it to attempt to cover her own discontent (and not very well, at that). "If I turned it down, someone else would take it, and they wouldn't be as good as me," she adds. "Mostly, it depends on who ends up leading this place, by the time the next clutch comes around. If I think I can convince them... but I don't want to be known as the backstabbing type who attempts to get her own colleague put out to pasture." "Yeah, you'd look like an asshole if you ran around telling everyone who'll listen that you want Meara bumped down the ladder. And I hear you, it's not like she's a problem." Aside from some of the looks I'zech has gotten about his clothes or his questionable language with the 'young', impressionable minds. "Hey, we've kept 'em alive so far." We now, is it? "Even if they fucked like rabbits and fell off their dragons and ran around a Hold like a pair of vigilantes or whatever. That's gotta be worth something." Perhaps not much, since he says it with a snort. "Exactly." Quin's smirking again, albeit towards her klah, which she finally remembers to take a sip from. It's the last, though, that makes her laugh-- and it's not entirely a happy laugh. "I have never seen a class get into as much trouble as this one. I mean, sure, it's a big group, but not that much bigger that some in the past, and... I don't know. They're all troublemakers. Beat 'em up." Beat. "But sure, they're all alive. That's a good start. Maybe some of them will even turn into decent riders, one day." Maybe. Maybe it's meant to soothe whatever troubles he might imagine in her laugh, or maybe it's just because she's sitting close enough and he wants to, but I'zech lays a hand on her thigh, sliding a squeeze toward her knee, casual and sure as if he were gripping his own leg instead of Quinlys' slim, leatherclad one. "Some fingerprints," he teases her, letting his fingers press firm. "What a group of rotten strawberries." And then the hand is gone again, inert in his lap. "Maybe waiting is a good idea so they can forget just how awesomely these ones have turned out. But hey, they're all alive. And we started with twenty-four and now we have twenty-four and a half." He tips his head toward the barracks where old preggo may or may not actually be at the moment. Good work all around. Quinlys' gaze drops to I'zech's hand, but she doesn't comment on the gesture; she smirks, instead, and one of her feet nudges at his leg, though without any obvious message to it. Not bothered, no. Amused? Oh yes. That amusement turns to outright laughter at his comment on the half weyrling-- she laughs and laughs and laughs. "Multiplying weyrlings! We're doing well. At this rate, we'll have thirty by the time they graduate," slight exaggeration, "And maybe the queens will never need to rise again." "So basically, we could still lose half a weyrling and come out even. Kind of." He might not laugh as much as she does (it was his own joke, after all, and laughing at your own jokes is generally considered kind of lame) but he does start to laugh a bit at her laughing. "That sounds like a goal," thirty by graduation. "Let me know if I can help," he smirks lewdly. Oh sure, now he's offering to help. With one last chuckle, I'zech lets his head rock back against the couch, his hand coming up to scratch through his dark hair. "So how long do we have to keep those asshats in the barracks anyway? Not the one-and-a-half. The other ones." Quinlys drains the rest of her klah, and nearly chokes on it in the process: that's for the helping comment. "You are not sleeping with any of my weyrlings," she retorts, once she's recovered the ability to breathe. "No more weyrling babies." Because any others? Just wouldn't count. She shifts her mug from one hand to the other, and then rolls her eyes. "How long is a piece of string? How long do you think it'll be before they count as responsible, reasonable adults who can be trusted to do anything without supervision?" In other words: not any time soon. Maybe that low laugh I'zech has isn't all that encouraging. But then, somewhat miraculously, there haven't actually been any rumors of the bronzerider schtupping any weyrlings. "It probably would have all been fine if they didn't get caught. Maybe we need to add some more classes to the schedule for next time. 'How not to fuck up the tithes' or 'When to lie about who you are'." Perhaps the ambitious weyrlingmaster won't be too terribly disturbed. "You leaving them here while everyone else goes camping?" Thankfully, Quinlys has had enough time to cool down about the stupidity of certain weyrlings that she can laugh over those suggestions. Even so, "Not being stupid one-oh-one would be an even better idea. Who the shell thinks that they're going to just waltz in and get away with something like that? Or even thinks it's a good idea in the first place? They're stupid, and it reflects badly on us." Beat. "Well, on me, anyway. And Meara. I havne't decided if they'll come with us. I don't know I want to leave them unsupervised, though." "Well, Meara can babysit them, then. From her rocking chair." In other words, don't go looking at the handsome bronzerider to sit home with the troublemakers while everyone else goes camping. Plus, seriously, does anyone think I'zech is going to make them behave? Now he pushes himself up from the couch, arms high and bent as he stretches through his shoulders and spine with a few good cracks and clicks. "This was good," he says, lifting the mug to appear to mean the addition of whiskey to the interlude. He offers a hand out for her, as if expecting her to be ready to stand now too. "Where are you thinking of going?" Quinlys' bark of laughter is an amused one. "We'll see," is her answer. "But don't worry, you're definitely coming. I'm thinking somewhere warm." But no, she hasn't decided yet. She takes his hand, though, and stretches out her own shoulders and spine, though her spine doesn't crack or click. "We should do it more often. Good to catch up, right? But I suppose I'd better get back to the paperwork." With or without another fortifying drink. |
Comments
Aishani (Brieli (talk)) left a comment on Mon, 10 Jun 2013 03:58:55 GMT.
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I really enjoyed this. I forgot to mention, and have little else to say but that, but yeah. :D
Zian (Zian (talk)) left a comment on Tue, 11 Jun 2013 05:15:39 GMT.
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<3 this
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