Logs:For Family
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| RL Date: 6 February, 2016 |
| Who: Olivya, Quint |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, Fort Hold, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quint accepts Olivya's offer for his sister to stand at Fort Weyr. |
| Where: Gather Grounds, Fort Hold |
| When: Day 11, Month 13, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: N'rov/Mentions, Mirinda/Mentions |
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Down in the intersection of the Hall and Hold roads, the great beaten
square of earth that houses most of Fort's gathers stands, free of any
encroaching greenery. Meticulously maintained by Fort's groundskeepers,
the area is devoid of structures when there isn't a gather on, only the
brown of the hold's soil shows where festivities often take place. When
the Lord has called a gather though, the wooden stalls are wheeled out
from storage and set up in neat rows that make an aisle around the
perimeter of the square. Strings of brightly colored lights are hung
between the stalls and the harper dais is set up at the head of the
dancing square along with a scattering of trestle tables and sturdy wooden
stools.
To the northwest, the shape of the hold looms in the cliff while nearly
due west the craft halls stand watch over the road. More cotholds pepper
the fields beyond the gather grounds as far as the eye can see to the
south and southeast. It's not the best sort of weather for a gather -- cold and drizzling most of the day -- but that certainly hasn't stopped the arrival of many at Fort Hold. The previous evening, Olivya received a written letter, delivered via a borrowed firelizard, indicating he'd be attending the morrow's gather, and if she'd be inclined to meet, he'd be waiting for her at a specific time, over by one of the weavercraft stalls. And there he is -- in his harper blue -- and the reason for Quint's choice of meeting location is clear -- it's about as far from the dance floor and the music as the gather will allow them. He's regarding some material with a determined interest that seems fixed, the owner of the stall watching him as if he's been there for some time, undaunted by the rain. Schedules are what they are for the Weyrlingmaster staff, even if you are the one that makes the schedule. So Olivya is late, still clad in her riding gear that draws more than a few eyes given the brightness of her red leather jacket as she makes her way through the gather's crowd. The only thing she seems to have done for a touch of dressed up is the equally red lips that she wears shamelessly. "Anything good?" is her informal greeting, fingers brushing against a soft fabric subconsciously as she draws into the stall. "I'm afraid fashion is more my sister's speed. Choosing material is easy for me," Quint replies with a smile as he looks up, lifting one corner of his harper blue tunic for demonstration purposes. His gaze flickers over the Fortian rider quickly, lips twitching, before his gaze turns to see which fabric garners her interest. "Thank you for coming, Weyrlingmaster. I imagine you must be busy, what with one batch of weyrlings in hand and another due shortly." While his tone is formal there's an easy warmth about his tone which makes it seem slightly less so. It is a black, velvety thing, but Olivya's fingers only linger against it a moment longer before she draws closer still to examine the material that Quint was looking at. "I hope that you don't limit yourself to a whole wardrobe of Harper blue, darling," is her light admonishment as her own iced blue eyes sweep over the man and his tunic at the gesture. "I'm sure your sister has more flattering colors for you. How is she, speaking of?" The rest is dismissed with the subtle shake of her head, adding, "All the more reason to take advantage of every second before those eighteen eggs hatch. After, well, I couldn't guarantee I could spare the time." It's nothing special, really -- a pale, non-harper blue material more suited to summer than the current weather. "Oh, no. But I only bring out my non-Harper clothes on special occasions." Apparently gathers don't count as special -- that or Quint considers them work rather than play. "That's," he clears his throat, glances at the stall's owner, and reaches to slip his arm through Olivya's with the intent of drawing her away, "Actually what I'd like to talk to you about. Do you -- want a drink?" He gives a little grimace of sympathy for her lack of time. "Well, I'd best make the most of the time we do have, then." "I'd love a drink," Olivya answers with the hint of deeper humor. That there's concern over his reaction to the simple question, that her gaze sharpens in a subtle study of the harper-- It is a quick enough reaction that he might miss it as he slips his arm through hers and her fingers curve against his forearm as an ingrained reaction to maintain proper form. Her gaze slides back to the stall, the materials, and the stall owner briefly, before she abandons them to follow his lead. She doesn't pursue the topic of his sister yet, letting him guide the conversation, so instead she'll add conversationally, "Yes, you should. Though, it does mean the next time I see you with two weyrling classes, I expect you to treat it like a special occasion." With her acceptance, Quint steers her expertly towards the drinks tents -- he's not in any hurry, unbothered by the rain -- though he does his best to keep them undercover as they walk. "While I may be here often enough," the harper gestures to the Hold and perhaps more specifically towards the Hall; "It's ordinarily on official business, so it'd be strange for me to not be in my Harper blue. Are you saying I should bring a change of clothes specifically for you?" A beat, "What would be in it for me?" "I think the more appropriate question, darling, is what you wouldn't get," counters Olivya with the quick response of one used to debating, her brow drawing upwards and the hint of a smile held in those red lips. "Because I am afraid I couldn't grace you with my delightful company if you weren't prepared to be appropriately appreciative of my limited time." She doesn't seem to mind the pace nor the rain, even when it catches in her hair or slicks off her riding jacket. She adds in a mused thought as she allows him to lead, "Though, I suppose then one would argue that I would have to ensure my company is worth it by entertaining you with all of the best gossip from Fort and being, well, delightful." Quint gives a thoughtful noise in response, lips twitching as he steers them out of the rain and into the wine tent. He takes a moment to get his bearings, while he answers her: "It is a fairly all-encompassing responsibility," he agrees, "Certainly something to be... mm, considered," he counters. "Did you want to find somewhere to sit while I get us drinks? Red?" he guesses, of her preference of wine. "Whiskey, if they have it," is probably not meant to be contradictory even given their location, given the slight twitch of Olivya's lips in a self-deprecating smile of her own. "But red is fine." Her fingers trail against his arm only briefly while she pulls away, a silent agreement to the plan. And he'll find that she's managed to get quite the table, a small thing for two in the corner of the tent that's been overlooked by many of the bigger gather groups. "I'll find some," the harper promises, like he can make it materialize even if they don't. Perhaps fortunately for Quint, he doesn't need to pull off any magic trick; a quick discussion later sees him secure a glass of whisky for her, and a glass of red for himself. It takes him a moment to locate the table she's secured, eyes nearly flicking past her before drawing back, a smile flickering as he walks towards her. He sets her glass down first, then his, before sinking into the seat with a slow exhale. "To," he pauses, reaching for his glass, "To having time," with a quizzical smile, as if seeing whether she'll agree with the toast. Olivya repeats the toast in a murmur even as she lifts her glass, holding it only briefly before she takes a slow, careful sip of the whiskey. Once she's set it down, and with the harper sitting across from her, her earlier study only becomes less subtle and more focused. And finally, she broaches the subject that he invited her here to discuss whether he is ready or not, suggesting to him simply, "Tell me about your sister." Quint looks like he's savoring the wine just as much as the rider savors her drink, lowering his glass after but not setting it down. "I asked her about your... proposition." About standing. "She'd like to do it, if you're still willing. I told her -- she was too old, but..." he trails off, frustration and reluctant acceptance both audible in his voice. "She said she wanted... needed to try." "And you don't want her to," seeks Olivya with the hint of a question, curious but not judging as she studies her companion. "Would it be easier for you if she was too old?" A pause, before she continues in a careful murmur, "I can speak to Mirinda and N'rov to wave the age restriction for her. I would make it possible for her to Stand. But--," a pause, "What do you need, Quint?" There's a pause, and in Quint's silence, the greenrider's question is likely answered. "I... I think she's searching for something, since she lost her fiance. And I don't blame her, but I don't think standing -- and not impressing -- will help her find it. But she's determined," and despite his reluctance, there's a fondness from the harper's voice. "I was hoping -- you could speak with her. Give her the real story about what being a rider entails. She thinks it's the thing that will solve all her problems. If she's... if she's going into it, I want her to do it knowing what it means." A beat, as his face twists, momentarily, "And if she... does happen to change her mind before, I think that would be best for everyone." Olivya's fingernails tap softly against her glass, even as she offers a small nod of agreement. "I don't want any candidates that do not know what they are getting themselves into, fully, if they impress. If she still thinks this is her path after I talk with her, however-- Well, I am not going to turn her away," she warns the harper, not completely without sympathy. But she adds challengingly, "But her changing her mind might not be the best for everyone. What if there is a dragon on the sands waiting for her?" "I think we both know the more likely outcome is that she's left alone -- again -- and that someone will have to deal with helping her put herself together again." And by Quint's tone, he's well aware who that person will be. His unvoiced sigh is visible nonetheless in his expression, muted only by the steady drink from his glass, before he speaks again, "Thank you, Olivya." "Do we?" doesn't very much sound like that is what Olivya would say, her brow quirking upwards in a silent expression. "Darling, I appreciate your sentiment, but you've never been on those sands," she assumes. "What is likely and what you want or what you think will happen-- It all washes away in a moment. It is lives changed and broken and rebuilt all in the span of an egg cracking. Counting on anything to be likely... Well, I wouldn't do it." But there's a softness to her expression as she speaks of it, memories of her own taking her distantly away for a moment as she exhales a soft sound of her own. The moment is dismissed with a soft shake of her head before she refocuses on Quint with renewed interest. "No thanks necessary, Quint. It is, after all, part of my job to educate on what it means to be a rider." "She is old enough to not be Searched by a dragon -- a tradition honed over centuries of selection. I think that speaks to her chances as much as anything else," replies Quint, certain despite her words. He's silent after she speaks, in that pause, blue eyes studying her in that distance. "But it is not part of your job to go out of the way for a woman you've met once, or a harper you've met..." he pauses to tally it up, a smile creeping up, "Several times. Really. Thank you," he repeats, stretching out a hand to cover hers. There is a breath of what might be a laugh, something teasing in Olivya's agreement as she answers, "Mm, yes, and if it's a tradition, it must be what is best for the Weyr." But then her hand is warm under his as he repeats his thanks, and it pulls the Weyrlingmaster back to something more serious again. She twists her hand to catch fingers against his in a squeeze, accepting, "You're welcome, really. I will watch after Gisele for you for as long as she is at Fort." "I would appreciate that. It'd hard not to feel protective of her, even if she's an adult." Quint's lips twist, his fingers curled against hers, not attempting to break that contact yet. "I wonder if that's part of why she wants to escape?" the musing his brief, and shaken away with a turn of his head. "I'm due for a set in half an hour or so, but -- until then, you have my complete attention. Perhaps you'd like to dance?" he invites, with a smile. "It may be. Hard to feel like your own person when you're living under the weight of an older brother who cares, yet still--," Olivya agrees quietly, more thoughtful than anything else as she considers it. "Harder still to feel like your own person when you're a candidate, though, and she'll learn that quickly. Or when you are bonded to a baby dragon." It's meant to be a reassurance, with the curve of a smile on the Weyrlingmaster's part that only lingers at the invitation. "If only I'd taken the time to change into a flowing skirt," might be a yes, especially as she finishes her drink with one last draining swallow. "There will be other opportunities, I'm sure," Quint seems fairly sure of that, smiling as he rises, his hand still in hers. He doesn't finish his drink -- an inch or two left in the glass -- as he seeks to guide them out of the tent, "At the next Fort hatching, at the very least?" "You can be sure that yours will be the first name on my card," replies Olivya, that smile catching and softening even her tone as she allows herself to be led again even if this time is only into a dance. The tunes are bright and catchy -- in contrast to the gloom of the day -- and Quint is an excellent dancer. By the time they part ways -- with a bow and a murmured thanks on the part of the harper -- there might even be a bit of sweat on his brow from the exercise. He heads towards the dais, mingling with his fellow harpers before he's takes on the next set, seated with his guitar, foot tapping in time to the fast paced beat. |
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