Logs:Holey Fort
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| RL Date: 5 December, 2015 |
| Who: N'rov, Olivya |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'rov and Olivya do not see eye to eye. |
| Where: The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 6, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: A little muggy, the sun is bright and puffy white clouds cruise by. |
| Mentions: Mirinda/Mentions, M'kris/Mentions |
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Despite its subterranean locale, the creamy wall paint, pale woods, and
frosted glass give the cavern a light, airy feel. Oil lamps reflect softly
in the polished wood of high-backed booths, glimmering through the opaque
glass dividers that help lend intimacy to the seating arrangements;
round-backed booths carved from stone, lined with deep, terra-cotta
colored padding and the addition of strategic, lyric shapes painted in a
subtle red shade. The sweeping, half-circle shaped bar with its top of
smooth stone, backed by cut-glass-fronted cabinetry flows gracefully into
the soft lines and mellow colors that dominate the Glass Fountain.
All the atmosphere aside, the main attractions of the room are clearly the
massive, multi-pronged chandelier that hangs from multiple chains from the
ceiling and the re-worked leak - which no longer resembles a leak at all,
having been channeled through glass to become a beautiful piece of art. A
curving wave and a series of glass bubbles guide the water past a bank of
glows, allowing the light to shine through the water and turn it into a
sparkling fountain. From its dark, dim, shabby history, the Glass Fountain
has become an elegant place with lattice-stands to hold the menus with
their selection ranging from typical 'bar food' to high-end dishes and
fancy desserts. As the plague seems to, cautiously, be retreating at Fort Weyr, there are more bodies to be found each night in the Glass Fountain. It isn't crowded by any means, especially given recent events, but there are quite a few residents and riders to be found here this evening. Olivya sits at the bar, talking to a female bluerider over a whiskey. Her bright, bold jacket is the same as the one she arrived in despite the weather outside, that red leather and wild, blonde curls marking her presence easily. Living bodies, it must be said. For all that N'rov doesn't favor the Fountain, he frequents it when needs must, whether with his onetime wingleader or on some other mission. He's been making the rounds, talking here and there over the beer that's only half-gone after all this time, half-gone and yet now he strolls up to the bar anyway. On Olivya's other side, but it's her companion's eye he makes to catch rather than greenrider or bartender's, his baritone inflected with Boll and Southern and humor. "Evening." Olivya hasn't been oblivious to the Weyrleader's presence, that soft, blue gaze lifting to track him on occasion. As he approaches the bar, there's a trace of her gaze over him, but she doesn't shift when he moves to her other side. Her attention falls back to the bluerider as well, the hint of a smile on red lips. "Weyrleader, evenin'," the bluerider greets, perhaps for them both, straightening away from the subtle lean that joined the greenrider and her in conversation. "I'd like to borrow your companion," N'rov says easily, confidentially, for all that they're right there in the Fountain with the bartender and people and, let's not forget, the greenrider herself. He slides a look at said greenrider, she of the red lips he doesn't seem to notice; "Are you borrow-able, Olivya?" It's not to N'rov that Olivya answers but to the bluerider where she tips her chin in a subtle gesture, before the woman herself straightens further and retreats with a salute to the Weyrleader and a quick smile to the greenrider. Only after does she finally turn in her seat to lift those blue eyes to N'rov, even as she catches up her glass of whiskey to bring to her lips. She replies with her own dry humor, "That depends. What do you need me for?" "Work," N'rov says succinctly. To the bluerider he'd given, "My thanks," and a disarming smile that suggests he didn't mind if she stays; for, after his own draught, he sets the beer mug on the bar and nods toward the exit. "Let's go, Olivya. Bring your jacket." His quick smile marks the one she's wearing. Olivya's brow curves upwards in something that could be a challenge for the order given, but the greenrider only drains her whiskey and sets the glass back on the bar before rising in one smooth movement. "You lead the way, Weyrleader," she offers to N'rov, sans smile. N'rov does so, obligingly; perhaps he's stolen her smile, perhaps that's what's lurking about his mouth. His is an easy walk, unhurried, and once they're out of the Fountan, he makes room for her to walk beside. As they pass through the tunnels of the inner caverns, "What do you make of Fort?" he inquires. There is a certain way that Olivya carries herself even when simply following, an exacting angle of her jaw and the perfect line of her shoulders, that throws back to her holder roots. But her gaze lingers on N'rov in a weighted study, and again she lifts a single brow at the question. "It is resilient," she says easily. "What do you make of Fort?" "I'm looking," N'rov says, "for more details. Specifics, if you will." That smile's in his voice, a passing thing; he doesn't hurry, doesn't hurry her, keeps his stride easy for her to match. But seriousness, that's there too. "Then you're going to have to give me a more specific question," counters Olivya, her own seriousness etched in the weight of her gaze and the hint of a frown at her lips as she flicks a look over N'rov. His mouth pulls slightly: disappointment, perhaps. His gray gaze roams over what's ahead of them, the arch of the tunnel, the worker with his mending, the couple helping a pair of aunties off to bed. "What do you value about Fort," N'rov gives her. "Specifically. Not glibly. What would you change, too, though I'm afraid," there's a shadow-smile there, "the stone of our weyrs is not an option." If Olivya cares about that slight hint of disappointment, it doesn't show in the way the greenrider holds herself. "Both are hard to say, are they not? I've only been at Fort for so long, and the duration of it hasn't been Fort," answers Olivya slowly, carefully. "It has been a plagued Weyr, a recovering Weyr. So my answer on its resilience still stands." A pause, before she challenges, "What I would change? Fort needs strong leadership, now. It needs routine again and stability. And every hand needs something to do and somewhere to be." This time, there's not that giveaway. Just, "How is Healer, then? What do you make of that?" N'rov pauses to reclaim a jacket off a hook (his jacket, his knot), but that pause is brief; he keeps walking, back to the main hall, as much a short diversion as the topic of their conversation. Unless that's purposeful, too. "I've answered your question and you still haven't answered mine," is Olivya's response to that, her gaze drawing over N'rov as he stops to reclaim the jacket. "No, I haven't." There's no regret in N'rov's tone, nor in his gaze when he finds her. "We're getting there. Or, at least, we will be if you continue. If not..." he has a quick half-smile, one that sees how she'll fill in the blank. Olivya only meets that gaze with a hint of amusement in her blue eyes, catching barely in the corners of her lips. "Then answer another one for me," she challenges. "What do you make of Mirinda?" "I believe she'd be disappointed if we didn't come to some sort of understanding," N'rov says easily, unrepentantly. "Likely," agrees Olivya, her brow quirking yet again as she levels a look on him. "She also tells me," N'rov says, "that there's a particular job you want. Right now, Olivya," his shrug is a slow roll of his shoulders, "you aren't convincing me." "N'rov, let me stop you right there," Olivya replies carefully, even as she physically stops. "It isn't my job to convince you of anything. I am not required to go through some mysterious interview process and answer whatever question that you have simply because you are the Weyrleader." She pauses, waiting only a moment for him before she continues, "Your job is to make the choices that you think are right for your Weyr. It doesn't give you free reign for whatever you want." N'rov glances at her, but continues walking a pace or two before he turns back; from that distance, with a lift of his brows and a smile that's very chancy indeed, "How is that question invasive in any way at all?" "I didn't say your questions were invasive," explains Olivya. "I said this whole process is mysterious and vague." Well, she added the vague now, but there it is. The angle of her chin is stubborn, her gaze meeting his without shame or hesitation. "And if you aren't going to answer any of my questions, well then-- I know everything that I need to know." "You may recall," N'rov notes patiently, "My saying that we were getting there. Not to mention the one about Mirinda. If it bothers you that much, you could say," and here he doesn't raise his pitch but his accent is a fair mimic of hers, "'N'rov, I understand that you are asking me what I make of this new area I've moved into, because caring for impressionable weyrlings is a difficult and sensitive job that is critical to the future of this Weyr, and thus requires a certain level of understanding and, dare I say," dare he say? "trust. I will answer forthrightly but request that you explan why questions are relevant and also answer questions of your own because...'" he tilts hs brows in question, "'It makes me feel better.' 'I'm not used to it.' 'I'm not used to here.' Whatever." Olivya only points out, "Trust is a thing that is established between two people, N'rov. I recall your answers to my questions, but they've done very little to inspire any trust for me, either." Her gaze narrows for a moment over the bronzerider, considering him before she adds dryly, "I have already served a Weyrleader who must have everything his way, even words. I will not do it again." "'Everything.'" N'rov scans her, curls to toes, though yet again, hs gaze doesn't pause upon red. "You'd have me believing rumors I'd been assured weren't true," though there's a momentary flicker in gray eyes as though considering wording. It passes. "Even if they were, I'm not sure how much that would matter. What matters in this moment is your willingness to explain how well you would work in Fort's name and to, as we're being frank, an agenda that's not wholly your own. I won't buy a porcine in a poke. And I don't appreciate your conflating me with a man who," he stops. Tightly, "Doesn't deserve to have her for a daughter." "I wasn't conflating; I was warning," Olivya corrects easily, those red lips only pressing into a firmer line at the Weyrleader's words. But, whatever that is is brushed aside as she answers instead, "My agenda is to support Mirinda. Fort's agenda is wholly my own, N'rov. Your weyrling program needs something new and that is what I would provide. It needs someone who is willing to merge different views, to try something different." A pause, before she adds, "And you need someone who will tell you the truth, who will give you their frank opinion." One brow crooks wth N'rov's sudden, unholy amusement. But he shrugs his hands in his pockets, and bites back that and answers, all those other unhelpful things. Rather, "I also need specifics," he tells her. "Of the people being considered, of frankness there's no shortage." "First, specifically, we need to find Candidates," Olivya replies, her brow curving upwards. "And relying on a traditional Search with our own caverns in the state they currently are would be disastrous. We don't have the number of Weyrbred Candidates to support only dragon chosen Candidate. We need to recruit." "Yes," N'rov confirms, briefly quizzical but not at all with surprise. "The crafts would likely be open to recruitment, in exchange for our help in other ways," Olivya continues, giving away little in turn to his quizzical expression. "And better than taking from the nurseries of other Weyrs, ending with weyrlings whose loyalties are first to their own home. Most crafters have already left their own homes." "And made a deeper commitment which, yes, could be useful to us." N'rov waits. There is nothing else, no matter how long N'rov waits. Only those soft blue eyes and the challenge that they hold when Olivya's gaze meets his. It's not long: only a moment, then two, before N'rov says carefully, "We've thought of that, yes." It's not so far off gentle, as though he's seen that would-be challenge, and yet. "What ideas do you have regarding the weyrlings, is what we're looking for," he explains. "Monaco's skies are very different from Fort's," as are Igen's. "Winds vary; techniques vary. For someone outside to come in and teach, they'll need to identify what really does work for Fort, the Weyr and the areas it protects. Fresh ideas are valuable, consciously chosen to mesh with the whole. If they're valuable enough, they might be moved up into the wings themselves. Think about it, Olivya." His tone is serious, steady. "Go flying throughout our region and see for yourself what it's like, and perhaps we'll talk again." "Candidtes fall into the Weyrlingmaster's jurisdiction as well," Olivya points out. "And for the rest, I need the time to be in your program and see what and why they currently teach before I give you answers. I know my techniques, but working with what is there and identifying what works is what I already told you." There is a sharp edge that bleeds through from the woman's usual reserve, and she finally adds, "Don't bother; I don't think we need to," before she moves to step away and head back the way she came. "Not at Fort," is N'rov's quiet, regretful correction. In the end, he chooses not to address the rest, only inclines his head and lets her go. |
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