Logs:Exposed
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| RL Date: 1 January, 2016 |
| Who: A'sran, Quint |
| Involves: Harper Hall, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A'sran and Quint meet in Harper Hall's courtyard. |
| Where: Courtyard, Harper Hall |
| When: Day 15, Month 9, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
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| It's late afternoon at the Harper Hall, and with afternoon classes not yet finished the courtyard is fairly sparsely populated at present. The autumn winds -- starting to grow chilly -- keep everyone that doesn't have business indoors, for the most part. Still, there's a pair of older Masters slowly crossing the courtyard, an apprentice darting across near the building as if hoping not to be seen, and Quint, whose blue tunic marks him as a harper just as clearly, seated on a bench nearer the entrance to the road. He looks like he's waiting for someone, or something, though fingers are tapping lightly at a pile of hides that have been tied carefully together, resting on the bench beside him. The dragonrider that steps into the courtyard from the east wing of the Hall - wearing his Fort knot and typical riding fare -- looks remarkably underwhelmed in the presence of so many of Pern's mediators, archivists and.. musicians. He smiles a pleased smile to everyone he passes, but for all of that, he looks like a man counting down the minutes until his departure. "Faranth," he mutters to himself, as he drops onto the vacant bench next to the one where Quint in presently seated. It takes him the length of that curse to assess his bench-neighbor with a leisurely glance, his countenance friendly and inquisitive for the man with the hides. "Fine day today," says the bronzerider aloud, despite weather that is seemingly the opposite. The rider, naturally, earns the bored harper's attention -- because being bored is a dangerous thing, and Quint needs the distraction. He takes in knot, demeanor, and that muttered curse with a twitch of lips. "Let me guess," the Journeyman muses aloud, "You were either trying to convince old Master Hestif to release a record from the archives -- in which case, don't feel bad, better men and women than you have tried -- or you've come off a meeting with the Masterharper, feeling like you exposed your soul to him -- he has that effect on everyone." Either way, he's smiling with a hint of sympathy. Mirth brightens the dragonrider's blue eyes and his smile grows. "I cannot say whom or what, but you are not far from the mark," A'sran replies. "You call it exposing your soul? I always feel that way when I come here, but it is more akin to being robbed of your sensibility. Something about it.." He blows out a disconcerted breath that does not diminish his grin in the least. "Given the choice, I would gladly stay far, far away, and yet I live just down the road," does not come without its own dryness. "Many people feel that way about healers as much as harpers. In fact," Quint gestures, widely, "I'm surprised anyone dares venture here that doesn't have a reason." He's clearly putting it on, lips twitching again, as fingers tap to some unheard rhythm. "Perhaps it is simply the law of numbers?" he suggests, with a tip of head as he regards the rider. "One might suspect a young journeyman might well feel the same when faced with the considerable number of riders at a Weyr, say." "Healers instill in my heart a different kind of fear. I never know if I should be overjoyed or terribly worried when one shows up," A'sran ruminates out loud, scratching the top of his head, mussing red-blonde curls. His grin turns sheepish. "One might," but, "riders tend to be an unintelligent, ignorant lot on the whole. Harpers.. all that knowledge rolling around in your heads," while he taps his temple with his forefinger. "It is enough to scare a simple minded man like myself. A'sran," follows, long legs stretching, now that he is getting comfortable, "bronze Leczuth's." "I think both is a reasonable reaction," suggests the harper, easily. "Mmm," is Quint's musing, thoughtful consideration of A'sran's descriptives. "No matter what stripe you are, you always fear the foreign, no? Some speculate it harkens back to our first days on Pern, but I think it's just easier to ignore the whimsical, weird, and disturbing features of one's friends and family far easier than it is a stranger's proclivities." When the rider introduces himself, he leans over, towards his bench, stretching his hand out for a shake, "Quintus, Journeyman Harper," he says, with a smile, as if it weren't obvious from his garb. "Fortian. A lot going on there of late." He doesn't mention the p word, and his roundabout way of referring to it is probably meant as a deliberate option to opt out on that part of the sometimes inevitable dialog when it comes to Fort. "I do find one's own familiarities at times more frightening," is less helpful than it would seem, a backsliding from the forward progress of the topic at hand. "I had a friend when I was young whose mother would chase him around their cothold with a broom when he skipped his chores. With a mother like that, I would welcome strangers with open arms." A'sran angles himself to the side to return the handshake, and then returns to his casual posture, legs stretch and hands flattened on the bench at his sides. "Well met, Journeyman Quintus. Fortian? Shells, how is that? Meeting another Fortian here," is dry, again, for obvious reasons. "There is, both good things and bad things. I am extremely impressed by Mirinda and N'rov." "Better a broom than a book. Those edges hurt, and contrary to popular belief, you can't knock knowledge into people," is Quint's easy reply. He straightens once he's released the rider's hand, his own hands going up, "Oh, not me, I meant you. I'm -- well, from all over. My family was in Boll until--" a brief grimace, "Recently." He doesn't seem inclined to linger on that, however. "That's good to hear, given the weyrwoman's foreign. I spoke to one of the other Monacoans who transferred recently with her -- Olivya?" with a tip of head, as if wondering if A'sran knows the greenrider. [Dragon] Mirinda rides gold Zaisavyth at Fort Weyr, Citrine Weyrwoman. Bring up the plague, without really bringing it up, still.. elicits sympathy from the dragonrider, whose, "my condolences" seems genuine and effortless. It is sobering, pulling some of the humor from his face, and the further conversation even more so. "Monacoan, Telgari, Igenite.. does it matter? She is our weyrwoman. Leczuth looks to Zaisavyth as the senior queen. It does not need to keep being brought into question. Do you share the sentiment?" His eyes come to rest on the harper awaiting the reply in earnest. "Olivya?" gets a laugh, returning lightness to his ruddy complexion. "Aye, I know her." Quint gives a brief nod, to acknowledge the words, but doesn't linger. He takes some time in responding, fingers tapping thoughtfully at the hides at his side before he says, slowly: "Whether Harper's Craftmaster was a Telgari or Istan or Neratian wouldn't much matter to me, but it seems to matter to a great deal of riders," the harper answers, by way of a non-answer. "Having never been a rider, I'm afraid I only have an outsider's perspective, though it's heartening to hear it isn't a one-size-fits-all mentality when it comes to loyalty." A'sran can wait as he happens to be a patient fellow, however much he stares unwaveringly at his target until he does come up with the words. "It might be.. how would you say it.. ingrained in the minds of weyrfolk to protect bloodlines. I would rather see a Fort-shelled rider be the weyrwoman, but that does not negate the legitimacy of Mirinda's claim. She is the Weyrwoman now. She matters as much as any goldrider of Fortian stock would. Pigheaded riders, one that do not assimilate well to situations as they change, are the ones still crying over it," he tells the harper, continuing to look at ease regardless of the seriousness of their discussion. "I hope you were not disappointed." If the harper is in any way disquieted by the unwavering stare of the rider, it doesn't show -- Quint seems to take it in stride. "The world is made up of many types, some pigheaded, some otherwise. I'd imagine, in a different world, a different time -- like Thread -- being pigheaded would've been seen as a boon, not a drawback. And you, perhaps, would've been the outcast, the outsider, the one with all the newfangled ideals of change," a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, though it fades soon enough. His head tilts, affecting surprise. "Disappointed?" he echoes, as a means of query. "I have no doubt that it would have been exactly thus." A'sran smiles again in a way that suggests he is not concerned with how it would have been, could have been; now is now. "It would be beneficial during Threadfall, but is outdated in practice.. in the present. Mirinda is a wonderful woman, and we are lucky to have her. Just as we are lucky to have Dahlia and before them, Hattie, Lilah, Elise." His shoulders flex and relax, in a lazy half-shrug that is not meant to be. "Disappointed to find out weyrfolk are backwards, disappointed to find not all of us are," with a widening of his grin. Quint nods, accepting of the rider's point of view. "With so many of Fort's Weyrwomen fleeing south, I suppose it's only fair that a southern Weyrwoman comes north, no?" When A'sran clarifies his meaning, the harper chuckles, though it's an easy, heartening thing. "All people are many things, and while riders often like to think of themselves as different -- the truth is, we were all once just people, with the same hopes and dreams and prejudices and flaws. Though," he taps his nose, "If anyone asks, I'll swear that riders are so evolved they don't even have to pee anymore." "You had better keep that opinion to yourself, Journeyman Quintus." A'sran only smiles a little at his organic quip. "Fairness does not go far." His eyes lift to the sky, lingering overlong on a bank of clouds, and consecutively drop back to the harper. "I would normally agree with you on that score, but.. I always dreamed of being a rider and the glory it brings, not of tomes and instruments and.." He shifts to lift one of his hands, gesturing expressively to the courtyard and everything around them. "Did you always dream of this? Harper blue and near excessive rules." "Fair is a Harper's bread and butter," Quint counters, with a brief chuckle all the same. Still, he seems to concede the advice with a lift of his hands, before they drop back into his lap. With a shake of his head, he answers, "Not in the least." Though the latter earns a flicker of brows upwards, surprised: "Near excessive rules?" he echoes, surprised. The bronzerider looks sheepish again, pressing a thumb against his forehead. "Pardon. It has been a long and taxing day. I misspoke." A'sran explains in a much more amused tone of voice, "My brother is a smith apprentice and in his letters speaks of the strictures, and what affronts he faces, and.." It is obvious he thinks the whole ordeal is over exaggerated. "I can only make the assumption that crafts are much the same. Do you have a different representation?" and that is invitation to elaborate. The surprise doesn't quite fade away, as Quint considers the question carefully. "I imagine it depends on whether one's perspective is that the rules are there to be discovered and stretched and strained, or whether they are reasonable requirement of the education one is being given. I'd imagine being a smith, the work would involve dangerous items, so it seems natural that there would be rules to protect apprentices." He leans forward, "Do you mean to imply riders are laissez-faire?" His head turns as a Reachian blue descends into the courtyard, and he pushes to his feet after tucking the hides under his arm, a reluctant case to his expression suggesting a moment's disappointment at the conversation being interrupted. "It seems my ride's here." Though he has argued his case, and given reasoning, A'sran remains shamefaced throughout the harper's words. "By comparison," is all he whips up in the space that follows the journeyman's spiel, his expression lightening enough to conjure a smile in place of all that guilt. "Journeyman Quintus." In deference, he stands, putting his long legs to work, but his eyes are on the blue and his rider. "I do hope we shall meet again." Quint's free hand spreads, as if to answer touche to A'sran's response. "Perhaps we shall, A'sran. It's been a pleasure. Send my regards to Olivya, would you?" with an easy smile. Making sure he still has the hides secured firmly, he gives a nod of farewell to the bronzerider, before walking towards the blue and his rider. There's a brief conversation before the harper climbs up, straps himself in, and minutes later, the pair take off and vanish between. |
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