Logs:Hangovers and Hopes
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| RL Date: 3 October, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, Quinlys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quinlys is hungover following the clutching party. Faryn wants a knot. |
| Where: Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 23, Month 12, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions |
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| It's the day after the clutching party-- the clutching party at which Quinlys drank too much and eventually went home with someone wholly inappropriate. It's well and truly mid-morning before she manages to be functional enough to make it to the barracks, though at least without any current classes, there's no one to see it. Now, ensconced in her office with hot, strong klah, she at least looks a little less green, though it's wholly possible that she's actually falling asleep in her chair given the way her chin is drooping. The door is open; she's there for anyone to see. Short of being tricked into dancing with a skeeze, Faryn's presence at the clutching party was not quite so eventful, and today the only hangover she bears is the complex fishtail braid her hair was in the night before, which she apparently slept in. It's now loose at the intersections, but still presentable, as is she, and she's comparatively cheerful as she navigates the complex back to where she expects to find the Weyrlingmaster. If she hovers just against the entryway a moment, watching the older woman with a wry smile, who could blame her? Her knock on the frame is gentle, is her not-quite-greeting, "Twenty-eight." Quinlys' groan is the only answer she offers to Faryn, at least at first-- she's evidently awake enough to be able to open bloodshot eyes to stare at the other woman, blinking owlishly. "Twenty-fucking-eight," is what she manages next. "At least Roszadyth didn't take it into her head to clutch like it was a Pass or something, fuck. Don't gloat at me; it makes my head spin." "Oh, you look terrible." It's sympathetic, truly. Faryn takes the groan as acknowledgement and comes all the way into the room to take one of the chairs, her movements careful and as quiet as she can manage. "I theorized that if Roszadyth's flight was twice as high and long as Niahvth's, there would be at least thirty eggs. Basic math, yeah? Luckily, I was wrong. Do you need anything? One of those crazy hangover concoctions from the healers?" Quinlys attempts to shake her head, and then stops; that was clearly a bad idea. "No," she says, glumly, inhaling the steam of her klah. "My own damn fault, and I'll just have to deal. Shouldn't've had that last drink." Or possibly more than that. Quite possibly. Very possibly. "But-- yeah. You're right. Could've been a lot worse. It'll be fine." Faryn breathes a laugh at Quinlys, resting her elbows on the table. "It's always the last one. Quite a party, this time, and nobody got punched. The Reaches is mellowing in its old age." But more to the point, "And they all seem healthy, right? I mean, that they're all so dark...." She waves it off a bit. "I didn't come to bother you, much. Even less if you're feeling green. Just collecting on a promise." Reluctantly, Quinlys sets down her mug; she needs both hands to rub at her temples, and then massage the bridge of her nose. "Right," she says. "Right. Healthy, yes. Dark, sure. But-- you want to be a candidate. I remember. And you can; it's fine. It's done. But." Even in this state, she focuses her attention more intently upon the former herder. Faryn watches Quinlys' fingers, reading into the bluerider's body language well before she gets to the projected caveat. She sighs, prompting, "But?" One by one, Quinlys ticks points off on her fingers. "One, you have to move into the barracks immediately-- no semi-private rooms. Two, I'm not saying you can't keep helping Farideh, but... you're a candidate first. No special perks, no... you get what I'm trying to say?" She may not be at her most eloquent. "And three... no, wait, I don't think there is a three." "If you give me a knot now, I'll get a decent bed instead of the shitty leftovers once people are packed in like sardines," Faryn says plainly. "And I'll do whatever you ask me to do, Quinlys. When Farideh offered me the job it was on the understanding I was going to Stand again, if the cards fell right. If you want me to modify my duties to her, I will. I'm not going to cause you trouble. I promise." Quinlys gives her klah a longing glance, and then abruptly turns away from it, focusing instead upon Faryn. "Okay," she says. "Okay. I believe you. You can get your knot from the headwoman, and she and Farideh can work out what you'll keep working on." Beat. "Just-- no, that's it. Good luck, Faryn." "Thanks, Quinlys." Faryn's gratitude sounds slightly cagey, and her eyes are narrower as she studies the weyrlingmaster thoroughly. "If there's anything you want me to do - or don't - just tell me. I think I remember the rules well enough." She promised she wasnt here to pester, though, and that longing look at the klah mug isn't lost on Faryn. She stands, equally as quiet as when she sat. "You should really get some of that hangover stuff. It tastes like shit, but I can bring you some." Quinlys hesitates, as if there's something else she'd say, but-- no. No, she's too hungover for proper thought processes. "I-- guess so. Please. Thank you." |
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