Logs:Drinks, Dragons, and (no) Dancing
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| RL Date: 31 January, 2015 |
| Who: Quinlys, V'ros |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quinlys and V'ros run across each other at the High Reaches Hold gather. |
| Where: High Reaches Hold |
| When: Day 22, Month 12, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: A'rist/Mentions, Ali/Mentions, Azaylia/Mentions, F'rain/Mentions, H'vier/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, K'zin/Mentions, Nimae/Mentions, Telavi/Mentions |
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| The traditional beat of drums and twang of strings, accompanied by a warm baritone, fills the gather air, and stirs the masses to a jaunty dance between the stalls. Snow falls intermittently all day long, and even in the early hours of evening, winter's chill sticks. Sweaters, layered over wool, layered under leather doesn't keep the cold away, nor does the woolen cap V'ros has pulled low over his brow. Two bright spots of color mark his cheeks where the blustery wind have chafed and his eyes have the lethargic quality of someone well within their cups. One of his wingmates slaps him on the shoulder after a particularly length yawn. "Nah, none of that. Let's get the kid a drink, 'fore he falls face-first in the grittle," the bluerider crows to their table of fellows. It's in a tent offering finger foods that they've sought sanctuary from the snow, filling their table with cups, pitchers, and small plates filled with greasy looking foods. Someone's prattling on about the Istan whorehouses in the background, while another is trying to coax the serving girl onto his lap, while she stands by, leaning over much too far to pour their drinks. "Another?" V'ros queries speculatively, but he don't forgo the replenished cup. Despite Quinlys' insistence that her preference for her 'vacation time' is 'sun and sand,' it's hard to go past a local gather; High Reaches Hold's are usually good fun. Melting snow plasters the bluerider's curls to the fine wool of the sweater she wears, and the leather jacket as well, though none of this has removed the smile from her face, or the apple-blossoms of her (admittedly chilled) cheeks. "Shells," she says, as she hoists herself up onto the table just beside V'ros and his companions, sliding a mostly-empty plate of food out of her way before doing so. "It's messy out there. Who's giving me a drink?" Blue eyes flick up towards the low-leaning serving girl, but relatively promptly move on. "V'ros!" The brownrider's watery eyes lift, albeit slowly, from his newly filled cup to the familiar red curls. "Huh?" is V'ros' initial response, but then he's moving his mug - and sloshing its contents over his hand - to offer it up to Quinlys. "This one's fresh. Girl's slow," he mutters, eyeing the serving wench, who's dodging pawing hands with a throaty laugh that sounds less disinterested than she's been otherwise saying. "You just got here?" His eyes flick back to Quinlys, and he sniffles. "No, no, I've been--" Quinlys waves an airy hand out towards the gather grounds, while the other reaches down to take the mug from V'ros. "Girl's distracted," she adds, as her gaze sweeps back over that particular grouping of people. "Thank you, V'ros. You doing all right? You're all sniffly. It's cold out there!" An eager bob precedes V'ros' response. "We've been here.. uh.. some.. time." His eyebrows knit over puzzled brown eyes as he tries to recall the exact length of time. Giving up, with a shrug, he relaxes back into the chair, slouching down, and stifles another yawn. "Distracted.. overwhelmed.. thoughts on other things," he mutters, kicking listlessly at the leg of the chair next to his; its occupant is too inebriated to notice the consistent 'thunk-thunk-thunk'. "Yeah, fine. Just cold.. could be a cold? I dunno. How're you?" Quinlys turns her newly-claimed mug in her hand, idly swishing the liquid before she goes in to sip it. The glance she aims back at V'ros shows some hint of concern, those blue eyes eyeing him up as if she might easily determine his state of wellness through looks alone. "If it is a cold, don't let yourself get too cold, mm? You're no use to anyone if you get sick. I'm good. Relaxed. Cold, too." Which is an admission she makes with a wrinkle of her nose. "What's got you so distracted and overwhelmed?" "Yeah, yeah.. yeah." Typical foolhardy rider who doesn't want to admit he can get sick or is infallible; everything's all alright. "I'll be fine. I grew up around here.. used to the bloody cold." V'ros shifts, but continues kick-kick-kicking the other chair. His eyes lift, squint, then shoot across the table to the serving girl, who's now sitting in someone's lap. "Not me." Jerks his chin. "Her." He blinks at the scene of the woman and his wingmate, but exhales and looks back at Quinlys. "Haven't seen you around in a while. What's keeping you.. busy?" Quinlys' only reaction to those first comments is to roll her eyes, but the gesture is cheerful enough despite that; V'ros will be V'ros. "Oh," she says, glancing back at the serving girl. "Oh, right. Well. You've got to forgive me for the confusion; seems like distracted and overwhelmed isn't an entirely uncommon thing for you. I'm glad it's not the case, then." Her smile, as she says this, is bright enough. "Travelling. Wandering. This and that. There've been plenty of southern places to visit, and greens for Olly to chase, and drinks to buy pretty girls and boys. Work, too. Lesson plans and adjustments." "Hey now." V'ros frowns, and his foot, for a short moment, stops. "I'm not.. always.. I'm just.." But he doesn't finish, sighing as his eyes pull to the right, to two of the Snowdrift riders who're trying to start up an arm wrestling match. "You get to have all the fun?" he asks, eyebrows quirking up. "What lessons? You don't have any.. weyrlings. Or.. in advance? Do you.. think?" And that possibility causes the brownrider to frown again. "I know you're not; I'm just teasing you," promises Quinlys, with another of those bright, warm smiles. "Do I think...? Oh. No. No. I mean, it's nearly two turns since Hraedhyth's last flight, so she could? But as far as I know, there've been no signs. No, I'm just being prepared. The easiest time to make changes to the program is when there are no eggs in sight. There's no... pressure. Anyway, sure I get my fun now, but once there are weyrlings again, well." V'ros looks relieved with Quinlys' assurances. "You don't have any fun with weyrlings in tow? Can't say I'm not.. surprised. Seemed like.. you enjoyed our pain, sometimes," he murmurs quietly, keeping those watery, if direct, eyes on the bluerider. "Not once? C'mon. Don't believe you." He grabs the drink of the guy sitting next to him - he's busy trying to prove his upper arm strength, remember - and takes a drawn-out drink. That makes Quinlys laugh; a merry sound. "No, you're absolutely right," she agrees - admits? - as she lifts her glass in toast. "I love my job; and yes, sometimes I even enjoyed your pain, too. Just a little. It's a different kind of fun, though, that's all. There a reason you don't want Hraedhyth rising?" The other rider doesn't share her amusement. "How much of it? All of it? Do you.. and Telavi.. go in your office and laugh about it?" Someone's still got their weyrlinghood fresh in their mind. "Huh? Ah.. uh.." V'ros shrugs, uncomfortably, and gives the chair he's had his foot on a solid kick; the greenrider does notice and shoots him a glare. "I don't.. I don't want to be around when she does. Wouldn't make a good Weyrleader. K'del can have it," he affirms with a nod. "What? Shells, V'ros. No. No." Quinlys shoots him a startled look this time, shaking her head vehemently, red curls - slowly beginning to dry - bobbing limply about her shoulders. "It's not like that. It's... different." Evidently at a loss on how to explain it, she focuses, instead, on that other side of the conversation. "Ah," she says. "Mm. I'm pretty sure gold flights are more fun for those of us on the ground, that's for sure. Well, there's usually plenty of warning. You just... leave early. Stay away until it's all over with." "I wouldn't blame you.. if you did.. for some of it. We were.. I was.. shit, still not good at it. Never going to catch up to diplomacy, but.. at least Zmeyth is good at finding things." V'ros' frown turns a bit contrite, and he scoots up in his seat. "Yeah.. hope it does. He didn't care when Iesaryth did, but haven't, since. Greens are.. different." His eyes shift about, before, "You think it'll be.. K'del? Again? What if it's someone like.. H'vier?" That motion his shoulders make, that could be a shudder, but the way he's positioned, it's hard to tell. "You're fine, V'ros," promises Quinlys, after taking another sip from her mug. The mug gets set down on the table, her feet swinging idly, as she considers the rest. "Seems like Cadejoth can't help himself with the golds, sometimes. I mean, shells, he caught Ysavaeth when he and Tiriana were still Weyrleaders together." Plainly, the bluerider disapproves. "But I dunno. He nearly didn't win, last time. No reason why someone else couldn't get in. There's probably good marks on K'del, but that doesn't mean he'll win forever. H'vier, sure. Maybe." She doesn't seem super thrilled either. But then... she's a woman. "Did he? Can.. he? I didn't think that was.. allowed." V'ros looks mildly bewildered, but drowns his worries in the rest of that drink. He sets the glass back down and pushes it away with two fingers, like he didn't just down someone else's beverage. "I wonder why.. Tiriana didn't.. y'know.. try to kick him out? Before he.." He doesn't need to say what they both know. "I dunno. I think.. A'rist wants it. Don't know why anyone would, but he.. I'd bet on him. Lythronath is.." But, again, they both know the truth to those words without explanation. Quinlys' expression turns plainly perturbed by the possibility of Weyrleader A'rist; dubiousness reigns when she says, finally, "He's still pretty young. I'd rather see him grow into himself first, you know?" More interesting, perhaps - and less disturbing - is her frankly gleeful, "Oh, Tiriana broke his arm after he did that. That's what started the whole thing, I think. She tried to fire him, he refused to be fired, she broke his arm, and... it ended up in conclave. I mean, it was for more than just that, but still." "Can't a Weyrwoman fire her Weyrleader? What.. what stopped her? Weyrleader is a.. easy to replace.. position, but a Weyrwoman.. can't." V'ros is trying to wrap his mind around this whole concept, but looks startled by Quinlys' lack of support for his bro. "You'd rather see.. H'vier? Than.. A'rist? A'rist's not a dick, like.." His lips compress and he sniffles, again. "Better to keep K'del where he is.. might be.. better.. for all of us, then." But, he's frowning in obvious disagreement. "The Weyrleader is the person whose dragon caught the senior queen," says Quinlys, promptly. "I suspect that's the arugment he used. If it were that simple to get rid of a Weyrleader, every Weyrwoman would just fire the ones they didn't like and pick their own, and the whole system would devolve. Now, that might be a good thing, but still." Of A'rist, she twists her mouth, and then shrugs. "A'rist is young. I mean, shells, so was K'del, and that wasn't a great thing either. There's nothing wrong with A'rist, but a teenage boy, leading my Weyr? Fuck no. I'm not saying I like H'vier either, mind. I'd rather see people promoted on merit." "Yeah, but.." V'ros wouldn't be talking about all of this if he wasn't drinking, surely, and so it's only a single hesitation before he plunges in with: "Any bronze or.. brownrider.. could run the Weyr, right? You could.. probably run the Weyr.. the wings." He scratches the side of his head and doesn't seem to have any more to say on it; giving it over to the expert is probably best. "You need another drink? I think she's.." as he's looking at the serving girl, making out with one of his wingmates, "busy. Can get you something?" Quinlys answers that last question with a shake of her head, though she pauses first to smirk in the direction of the serving girl and her lip-locker. "I wouldn't want to get between them," she says, amused. "And anyway, no, I'm fine. I don't think a person needs a bronze dragon to be able to lead a Weyr. Not even a brown dragon. It's not about any brown or bronzerider; it's about someone with the right skills and experience." She sounds strident in this. "But for the moment, that's the way it works. For better or for worse. Mostly," she allows, then, "worse." "I'm getting you a drink anyway," V'ros mutters and half-stands, eyes flicking between the redhead and the lip-locked lovers. "No. Guess not. Long as it isn't me." He stands the rest of the way and braces himself, with fingers on the table edge, as if he were unsteady on his feet. "Requests?" he says, narrowing his eyes; despite the bluerider saying she is fine. "It's a damn good gather. Cold or not. Cold or.." He pauses and frowns. "Forgot." Drunkest. Quinlys raises one finely plucked eyebrow, plainly dubious. "I'm not sure you need another drink," she says, sliding down off of her perch to stand alongside the brownrider. "Why don't we go find some klah, instead? Something warm. I'm freezing." "I'm not a weyrling," V'ros points out, and while his attention vacillates towards the vendor selling small sausages and alcohol, in the end they flick to the opening of the tent. "We'll have to get out in the snow, again." He tugs his jacket closer, preemptively, and turns bleary eyes on Quinlys. "Why haven't you moved to.. Southern or.. Monaco, yet, if you like it?" quite out of no where. Quinlys' shrug allows that, yes, V'ros is not a weyrling. Even so. She adjusts her own jacket, turning up the collar, then takes a half step away from the table and towards the tent's opening. "Ha," she says. "Have you seen my skin?" Granted, there's not a lot of it on show at the moment, but surely it's not so hard to imagine. "I burn like nothing you've ever seen. I like escaping to the warm, but High Reaches is home. Born and bred. Trying to get rid of me?" His eyes fall on the redhead, his fingers busily buttoning up his jacket in preparation for the cold outside. "You don't wish.. for anything else? Not Southern? Not Benden? Just.. here?" And then Vros snorts, trying to "bump" into her arm as he moves to the exit. His hand pulls the flap aside and he stares, balefully, at the white wonderland outside. "Would be shooting off my own foot. You've noticed I don't.. talk like this with everyone.. just you, and Telavi, sometimes R'hin, the wing.." He shrugs, and holds the flap open for Quinlys. "Just here," agrees Quinlys, placidly, as she deliberately bumps right back into V'ros, leading the way out into the snowy evening. "Doens't mean there aren't things I'd change about High Reaches, but... just here." Shoving her hands into her pockets, she glances sidelong at the other rider, the corners of her mouth turning upwards. "Mm. I've noticed. It's good you've found some people you can talk to; and I'm glad that I'm one of the people you've managed to feel comfortable with." V'ros follows with his hands buried in his pockets, shoulders hunched up around his neck. "Summer's nice," he notes, sniffling a couple times now that they're out in the cold. "It's still.. hard, but Zmeyth pushes for it." He gets quiet for a few steps and then looks at Quinlys from the side. "I don't.. think I've ever asked. How'd Olveraeth change.. you? Or.. didn't he?" Visibly, Quinlys' attention is focused on navigating between stalls, and not tripping over any of the snow - though countless footsteps have certainly done quite a bit to stamp it into submission. Nonetheless, she's plainly paying attention, because her answer comes promptly. "He made me more than I was. People expected me to Impress Ysavaeth, but Olly... he knew me. All the way through. And that helped me work out what I wanted, where I wanted to be." "I can't see you.. as a goldrider." To V'ros' credit, he doesn't laugh or smile, though he does appear to giving it a little more thought than it's warranted. "I can't.. think of having anything else.. I would make the worst bronzerider, y'know?" He puffs out a breath, and it comes out a small cloud of white in the frigid air. "Could've been though. Either of us.. any of us.. could have Impressed different." Drinking makes him philosophical or something. Quinlys, in contrast, does: an honest laugh, followed promptly by a shake of her head. "Me either," she says. "I'd hate it. Olly is exactly what I needed. But," she pauses, coming to a halt in front of a stall that sells hot non-alcoholic cider, and begins rummaging around for some small coinage. "You're right. None of us know how a dragon decides. If I hadn't been on the sands that day, Olly would've gone to someone else, and maybe I'd've Impressed a green, or a brown, or... who knows. We say we can't imagine not being with our dragons, but that doesn't mean they're the one and only dragon who could ever have chosen us." "You really think that? That.. it could have been different? A different dragon? Or maybe no dragon at all?" V'ros is still squinting down at the redhead, lips compressed, but when she starts digging around for the marks to pay, he pulls enough for the both of them out of his jacket pocket. "I got it," he mutters, slipping the vendor the money, and ordering two ciders without first consulting Quinlys. "I never thought about it.. that way." His fingers drum carelessly on the counter top. "I don't know.. where I'd be.. what I'd be doing." "Thanks," says Quinlys, genuinely, as she reaches to take her mug of cider between both gloved hands, held high to let the steam waft up towards her partially exposed face. She turns, glancing out of the gather grounds, before answering. "Maybe," she says. "It's impossible to know, I guess, but it seems... if every dragon only had one possible rider, more've them'd die on the sands." Happy thoughts indeed. She glances back at the brownrider. "Who knows where any of us would be. Or what in history might've changed, if one person had Impressed over another. It's fascinating, really. Alternate history." Fascinating to Quinlis makes V'ros sour. "Yeah. Sure. I don't.. know." But he never knows anything, so that's not saying much. He takes his mug and takes an unthinking sip, and immediately pulls back, his mouth pinched; hot. "Do they.. settle?" he says quietly, obvious distressed by this new possibility. "What happens if we doubled our.. candidate numbers.. what if.." His inhale is shaky, and he tries, more successfully, to drink his cider. Quinlys, who had just started walking again, presumably towards one of the big bonfires, stops short to turn her attention back towards V'ros. "What?" she seems genuinely surprised; it takes her a few seconds to work through to a conclusion on what V'ros' means before, "Oh, shells no. No. It's not a matter of settling, I'd think. Just that... they're looking for a possible match. It's not 'well, I can't find anyone better, so you'll do.' If anything, I expect they choose the first possible 'right' person. It's not like a comparison or anything. You were right for Zmeyth. Just because if you hadn't been there, someone else might've been... that doesn't mean that you weren't." "Stop trying to.. make me feel better," V'ros accuses, scowling. "Some days.. I think he picked me.. because.. I'm me. That.. doesn't make sense. Because.. who else could he.. bully? Make to do.. tell to do.. no, that doesn't.." With a sigh and a negative shake of his head, the brownrider takes the strides necessary to get to the nearest bonfire. He doesn't look to make sure she's following; she picked this path after all. Frowning, Quinlys hastens her own stride to catch up. "I'm not," she insists. "Shells, no. Fuck no. I don't know why he picked you, and I don't know why anyone ever does get picked. But they need us as much as we need them, and you can't just dismiss that. He needs you. And if you don't want to let him bully you, then stop letting him." Her voice has raised, just slightly. Given the amount of people around, it's inevitable that someone will note it. "Don't be mad at me because you're mad at him." "I'm not mad at you. Why would I be mad at you?" Except now, V'ros is shouting, and as soon as he notices people staring, he quietens down. "That's.. not what I meant. I don't know what I.. mean. And I don't let him, but sometimes, he still, gets in my head, and I don't think that's ever going to change. No matter how much.. you tell me to." The shouting doesn't seem to bother Quinlys; she stands her ground, quiet, until V'ros, too, has quietened down. "I think that's normal, you know," she says. "I bet it still happens to K'zin. To... lots of people, who have strong, not always synergetic bonds. Me'n'Olly, we've been lucky from the first. But that doesn't make us normal and right, and you abnormal and wrong. Every bond is different. Shells, like and your A'rist." V'ros is quiet for a long time after that, perhaps mulling over the topic, but his eventual response might be unexpected. "How's things been down south?" And so, he's avoiding the subject, trying to lean towards more pleasant things, as he sips his cider and stares at the fire with rapt attention. Unexpected, and, by Quinlys' expression, not necessarily appreciated. Still, in an effort to keep the peace - and not make more of a scene for the locals - she gives an easy shrug, and breaths in some more of her cider. "Warm," she offers. "Igen's weyrlings are still adorably cute. Not that I seek out work, mind. Southern's weyrwoman is all pregnant and huge again. I found a delightful little river to laze on a bit further inland." The younger rider doesn't comment on Quinlys expression, but goes the course he's chosen with adamancy. "Went to Igen? Seen how.. F'rain, is doing?" V'ros takes a couple more sips of his cider, before flicking eyes towards the bluerider. "Could've stayed. Not sure why'd you come back to this," and that, being the snow, though his mouth is partially quirked in a smirk. "And Telavi? Haven't seen her since.. Nerat." "F'rain," says Quinlys, dismissively. "Another delightful example of how well the Weyr system works, don't you think? I bet he cowers in front of Nimae." She's warming to her topic, at least (as much as she's warming her hands with her cider), her face turned towards the bonfire. "Igen's not my style, in the end. The desert... yuck. And Southern..." she shrugs. "Telavi's well. We see a fair amount of each other." Her smile curves; smug. Rightly or wrongly, she could be implying more than just 'hanging out' between friends. "Of course, she keeps herself busy working with R'hin between clutches. I think he'd like to steal her off me permanently, but... no. I refuse." "I heard he was.. alright." But from Quinlys' shining review, V'ros looks like he's doubting his own sources on the Igen Weyrleader. "Think A'rist'd do better than him," he mutters, bringing up that earlier discussion. "No, I'd.. I like the cold better. Better than sand and.." He, too, is pretty pale in comparison to the bronzed complexions and sun tans of the warmer Weyrs. "She works.. with R'hin?" he asks, legitimately surprised. "I didn't know that she was.. interested.. in his kind of.. work." Which he doesn't elaborate on, but they both probably can guess at. "A'rist would only have Azaylia to deal with, not Nimae," allows Quinlys. "But can you imagine A'rist doing diplomacy? Managing the wings? Making sure we don't starve. It's worse, even, with F'rain, because he's a foreigner to Igen, so he doesn't even know the area. Sucks for him; sucks worse for Igen." Of Telavi, she gives a shrug. "Sure. I don't know what she does, but she seems to enjoy it. And who am I to judge on that front?" Beat. "How're you feeling? Not too cold out here?" "I don't.. think we'd starve," V'ros says gently, and that's the only part he's latched onto. "I think.. you need to give him more of a.. chance. More credit." He looks down at his mug of cider, then back up at Quinlys. "Good. You trying to get rid of me.. now? If you're.. we can go back. It was pretty warm.. in there, and plenty company," he says, lowering his chin. Equally gently, "I'm only saying that he has no experience. Anyone would struggle, without experience. That's all." But Quinlys is already moving on, abandoning Weyrleaders and A'rist to consider the brownrider over the rim of her mug. "Nope," she tells him, firmly. "Just making sure I'm not contributing to your cold, if it is one. But sure, we can go back inside, if you like. Or-- come on, we could dance. Do you dance? It'd be fun." Contemplative the whole while she speaks, V'ros is startled out of his reverie when she suggests dancing. "Dance? I.. uh.. I'm not.. good, at it. Your feet," he says, looking down, and lifting his shoulders in a neutral shrug. "I've never.. learned. I've watched. People have.. tried, but I.. I've never been good. At it." He seems pained, but he also doesn't say no, explicitly. Explicit or not, Quinlys sighs, dramatically, and shakes her head. "Come on," she says. "We'll go on inside. Next time, though." Sunnily - despite the weather - she leads the way back. She can be nice! To say V'ros looks relieved is a serious understatement, but he just nods his head, holds his mug of cider close, and follows. "Next time," he murmurs under his breath. If there is a next time. |
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