Logs:Babies for High Reaches
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| RL Date: 5 January, 2016 |
| Who: Farideh, Quinlys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Farideh is doing inventory. Quinlys asks her some questions. |
| Where: Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 9, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: C'ris/Mentions, Drex/Mentions, Ethran/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, Jocelyn/Mentions, Madilla/Mentions |
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| The afternoon is sunny and temperate, and as a result the infirmary is far more subdued than usual. Where normally a healer sits behind the desk that fronts the storage, it's Farideh, looking bored and sitting on a stool, that guards the immaculate desk. She's staring absently at an item checklist that's on the counter in front of her, while apprentices squabble near the shelves. Another day, another supply list to go over, it looks like. There's plenty of reasons for Quinlys to be entering the infirmary via the dragon infirmary: there was that minor accident with one of the weyrlings from Roszadyth's clutch, just yesterday, where a poorly aimed bout of flame singed someone's arm, and, too, there's the fact that the weyrlingmaster has been meeting with Master Madilla of late, planning some new addition to the curriculum. Whatever the reason, the weyrlingmaster plainly doesn't expect to find Farideh sitting where a healer usually might; she does a double-take, frowning. "Considering a career change?" she wonders, mildly, as she leans forward to rest both forearms upon the back of the desk, gaze dropping to the supply list. "Some people might consider my stitches tight enough to suit a surgeon, but I cannot countenance all of mess and the gore." Primly as a lady over tea, does Farideh reply, with her pert nose turn up in the air, but that's all for show. "What are you doing here?" she wants to know, with a smile that's much warmer. "Did someone have another accident? You know-- that one weyrling, the bluerider with the funny looking teeth-- I always expected him to do much more damage than he seems to have done. Clumsy since they plucked him from Nabol, or wherever he came from." "Mm," allows Quinlys, though her nose wrinkles at the prospect of mess and gore, and she straightens, abruptly. "Surprisingly, he's fine. And the other one is going to be fine, too, even if she is bemoaning the possibility that her arm will scar. Nasty smell, burnt flesh. It nearly made me lose my lunch." She lets her fingertips tap idly at the wooden surface beneath them, and adds, "But no, no more accidents. And the older group are getting stuck into the training exercises for between-- another sevenday, and I'll get them in the air, trying for real." At the storage shelves, one of the apprentices knocks over a jar of bandages, making a great deal of noise, but Farideh only glances back briefly before re-centering her attention on the bluerider; lack of concern for not-her-charges. "I would just be happy I'm alive with a scar, than-- flaming, nasty," she says, wrinkling her nose. Thankfully, it's only a flamethrower that she knows how to wield, oh joy. "Already? This has all gone by so fast. I brought Jocelyn to the weaver hall last sevenday to be fitted for more appropriate attire. It feels strange, when they were just candidates not too long ago, but I'm sure you feel that way all the time." Quinlys, too, barely reacts to the noise; no doubt she's used to it, instinctively knowing when something is worth paying attention to, and when something is... not. "I do," she agrees. "I've been training weyrlings for... well, quite some time now, and it's always unnerving. It takes time for people to stop being the candidates they once were, even after they're graduated and promoted and changing the world in whatever way." She hesitates, now, the wonders, "What are you doing here? Pregnant again?" Farideh leans forward, forearms on the desk, and lowers her voice for the weyrlingmaster's ears only. "Do you still see me that way? A skinny, silly candidate?" She tries not to smile, but fails at it miserably. "I think it was good for Jocelyn. Now that she can see-- maybe, it's becoming more real for her-- more than just being some assistant headwoman, slepping in the lower caverns," is accompanied by a dismissive wave. "Me? This," she replies, dropping a finger on the checklist. "Inventory. Nothing fun." "Not quite so much, now," promises Quinlys, her own voice lowered to match Farideh's own. "Though even that wasn't so very long ago." Of Jocelyn, she bobs her head, setting curls to shifting over her shoulders. "She's going to be fine," she predicts. "She's doing fine. Am I bothering you? Interrupting the inventory? I could leave." She could. The door's just there. Something that Quinlys says has the goldrider looking vaguely sullen. "I do hope so," Farideh tells her, concerning Jocelyn's future. "No. No-- it's just--they're going to be here all day." She makes a gesture with her thumb to the storage behind her and the apprentices scourging it. "Were you coming in to check on someone?" as she leans forward, peering around the desk, "--or are you sick?" Her nose scrunches up at that. Quinlys may be oblivious to the sullenness, or perhaps she's ignoring it. "Poor apprentices," she says instead. "And poor you. Mind you, I tend to quite enjoy the paperwork at the end of weyrlinghood-- getting everything filed away and tidied up before the next group. What will need to be replaced and all of that." She hesitates, slowly running her tongue over her lower lip. "No, I'm not sick." That's very careful. "I've been working with Master Madilla. We're going to be delivering a lecture on dragonriders and babies. To the weyrlings." The goldrider looks less than convinced. "Are you sure that's why you enjoy the end of weyrlinghood and not-- being rid of all the bickering, intolerable weyrlings?" Farideh gives her a narrowed look, which blossoms into wide-eyed surprise, but even that last part balances out with a couple minutes worth of silence and consideration. "Really? Do you think they're ready for that part? Most of them haven't even had sex, I would imagine." The blitheness of Quinlys' expression suggests Farideh's alternative may also be part of her enjoyment-- but she's not saying. Of the rest :"You had. I imagine most of them have. And no, they're probably not ready to have children... but it's not like we can give lectures to full riders about how important it is that they consider having children for High Reaches' future. It's more that we want them to be aware that there's support available. And of what the girls should do if they do end up pregnant." "Now," Farideh gives Quinlys a stern look, which just looks comical given it's-- Farideh, giving said look to Quinlys, "How did you know that?" It must mean of her non-existent virginity, in weyrlinghood. "I don't think lecturing full riders would be bad. It might help, but I see your point-- will you teach them about mating flight at the same time? And their options if they do get pregnant? Other than keeping it," she points out, helpfully. Quinlys' expression? All innocent. "I guessed," she tells the goldrider, sunnily. "Tell me I'm wrong. Anyway, the weyrlings have already had their mating flights lectures, but this'll be supplemental to that. And yes, of course they'll get to know about all of their options. It's not our job to force people into carrying babies for most of a turn." That would suck; it makes Quinlys' expression twist, darkly, as one hand slides down to her middle, and then to her side. "Did you consider... not having your kid?" There's no laughter in the sideways glance Farideh gives the bluerider, but she doesn't hold onto her irritation for long, instead flipflops her hand in the air again. "That's right. I forgot that they had. I suppose it's more illustrative, anyway. The consequences of frequent gold flights and, for the unlucky ones, gold flights," has a wry twist of a smile with it. "Ethran?" She must not see where Quinlys' hands settle. "I was--" She's self-conscious, hesitant even. "I might have thought about it in a split second. I knew Irianke probably would want me to keep it, when she found out and-- I love Drex. Of course I wanted to have his child, after I thought about it. I doubt it will be like that though, for many of them." Quinlys seems, perhaps surprisingly, intently interested in Farideh's answer. And yet, "No, I'm sure it won't be. My parents were in love, weyrmated, when they had my siblings and I, but how many weyrfolk can say that? How many were just dumped in the nurseries and raised by someone else, not that that is a problem, exactly, just..." The bluerider purses her lips. Abruptly: "I think I may be." Surprise widens Farideh's eyes again. "They were? I would have never thought-- well, time and time again I've been proven wrong. It's just not often that that happens. I suppose as often as a goldrider takes a handyman for weyrmate." She holds back a giggle with pursed lips, but it falls and she frowns. "No. It's not a problem. It's a reality. If I had time for Ethran--" Except, this is reality, not some fantasy or lie. "May be? Maybe be what?" "Had the comet pass not intervened, they may have done the majority of my raising, too," says Quinlys, only she's distracted, and now, shaking her head. "Nothing. Anyway, why shouldn't a goldrider have a handyman for a weyrmate? It's not like being a Lady Holder where the paternity of your children really matters, as far as succession goes." A moment of silence is given those who passed in the Comet Pass-- or, maybe she's thinking of baked pastries with icing. "I don't think it does, but everyone has their opinions and a lot of opinions hold that I should be with someone closer to my own rank. At least a bronzerider-- for their poor, injured egos," Farideh replies, rolling her eyes ceilingward. "Not nothing-- may be-- oh." Cue widening of eyes, unbelievably big. Quinlys regrets this. She regrets this a lot, okay? It's obvious in the flush in her cheeks, and in the way her gaze drops to the ground, and, yes, in the way her shoulders slump. "Don't look at me that way," she says, not much above a mutter. "I don't... I may not be. And I don't know what I'll do if I am, so... just." Just what? A more conscientious person would feel guilty for the flush and drooping of the bluerider's shoulders, but Farideh only stands and leans forward, so their conversation can be more hushed. "I'm only surprised. I didn't think you wanted children, but-- C'ris? He'll make a great father, if you choose to keep it. Just-- don't tell anyone until you decide-- you know, with the whole think of the Weyr thing. Congratulations?" Farideh says, attempting a grin at the end. "I don't," is, at least, honest. "Never have. But." There's a but. There's always a but. "I may be wrong. I have two classes of weyrlings, I've every reason to be tired, right? But..." she gives the floor an uneasy glance. "If I am, I'd be better off not finding out because I've accidentally aborted it teaching between. That would be bad, right?" "Are you just tired? All I did was throw up, smell weird things, and want to nap. I looked face screws up in displeasure, and then she pins on a smile for Quinlys' benefit. "I'd say waiting until you know before betweening, if you're not even sure you don't want it. It's an opportunity lost-- a baby." Quinlys shakes her head. No, that's not all she has... but frankly, clearly, Farideh's list of symptoms is making this whole thing sound even worse; gross. "Mm," she agrees. "Well... I guess I'll see. Don't tell C'ris, okay? I don't... I don't know, so he doesn't need to." Beat. "I should go. Leave you to this." A finger pressed to her lips, a signal of her silence, Farideh jerks her chin down in a nod. "I won't tell a soul. I'm around if you need someone to talk to about it, and-- you can always babysit Ethran," has twinges of mirth intermingled. "I guess." Glumly, she waves Quinlys off, and turns to assess the damage the apprentices are wreaking on the storage while they inventory the supplies. |
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