Logs:Grayer
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| RL Date: 11 May, 2016 |
| Who: Catling, D'vro, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A couple of wingleaders scope out the weyrlings. Flame is involved. Then, introductions... and evaluations. |
| Where: Southern Bowl, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 16, Month 10, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Although the clouds are patchy with glimpses of sky in the early morning, they turn gray but rainless around the time the sun comes up. The overcast weather, with a hint of humidity, carries throughout the day with early evening winds starting to break up the cloud-layer. |
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| The weyrlings are finishing the last of their flaming drills, dragons taking wing one by one, flaming a designatedd spot, flying past that spot avoiding char, and then landing once again. The theory behind this is to prevent the inexperienced weyrlings, riders and dragons both, from flaming each other. While waiting their turns, some of the weyrlings are chatting while dragonback. From the disgruntled expressions on some of their faces, this drill have been going on for quite some time and is getting tedious. Catling is listening to some of the discussion, but she shakes her head and looks at Riyoth. "No, I'll try giving you the firestone once we're aloft. Just because we're in an Interval, it doesn't mean we shouldn't try to become just as good as those who fought Thread. And we both need the practice." This gets her a few sullen looks from her weyrmates, but she appears to ignore this. A couple of the waiting-around dragons are larger than the rest, and not just because they're bronze; N'rov's been eyeing the weyrlings off and on, and now he says to D'vro, "What do you think? Are they going to burn all the way through before we turn gray, and surprise a poor drudge on the other side?" not at all sotto voce. Colsoth seems rather interested in the young dragons, watching curiously as they flame but leaving any commentary to himself. Even if the men nearby aren't being quite so polite. "I think I'm already turning gray," D'vro answers in a similar tone of voice, arms crossed over his chest while he observes the dragons and weyrlings in their drills. Catling turns her head at the sound of the familiar voice, and she flushes slightly, then offers a salute despite the embrrassment. One of the other weyrlings tosses up a firestone bag mid-salute, and she has to scramble to catch it. Despite her size, though, she manages, and secures it as Riyoth leaps into the air. His takeoff is steep and corkscrewing, due to his larger size, perhaps, or maybe it is his preferred method. The girl presses herself against him, feeding him firestone, and after the first couple stones, in time with his wingbeats. "Grayer," N'rov offers in lieu, his drawl distinctly deadpan. "Like ancient ice, grimed with the dust of yet more ancient crags. Think you'll have your pair whipped into shape by the time these are ready for the same?" He winces at the near-casualty, muttering something about salutes during lessons, and tilts a look to watch the pair's ascent; in the next moment he absently thumbs up his collar against the clamminess of the air. That gray makes D'vro turn his eyes briefly on N'rov, though he doesn't comment on whatever crosses his mind before his attention has returned to Riyoth. "They're doing well. I can always make room for improving another pair." Probably also room for improvements in general, but no use saying that where weyrlings can hear him. "Have your eye on any of them?" Climb to the right height. Check. Catling nods her head, then speaks softly to Riyoth. From her expression, they have a brief disagreement before she shrugs and nods, grinning. Of the two patterns that they have been flying, he chooses the one taking them closer to the cliff, his wings coming close, then closer to it. Yet there is nothing show-offish about his demeanor; his eyes are whirling in intense concentration. Nearing the target, he enthusiastically flames it. Maybe too enthusiastically, for the flame also hits the cliffside and washes back, and some of the flaming target breaks free. He tucks one wing very close, diving away from the flames and after the remnants of the target. He just manages a second burst of flame to finish it off. He pulls up sharply, and his landing, while controlled, is hard and fast to avoid hitting others, and rather rough on his tiny rider, who is pressed against him, her arms around his neck. "At the moment..." N'rov gives considering silence to that moment, and then a second, but not a third. "You could say I'm holding my opportunity in abeyance. There's something to be said for waiting until one of you has had your way with them, much as I might like molding them in my image." That's dry too, but positive; he starts to speak, but then, alerted, loosens hands tightened by that near miss. "Familiar with that pair there?" Slate's wingleader watches the pair with a certain professional intensity, but that doesn't keep him from either listening to N'rov, or answering his questions. "That doesn't surprise me," grins D'vro, briefly and without quite taking his eyes off of the brown, in the Weyrleader's direction. "Only from a distance. I appreciate their dedication. What appears to be dedication, anyway." Appearances can be deceiving, after all. Once the brown has stopped beating his wings, Catling begins an inspection of Riyoth, first from his back and then jumping down. She calls a question to the assistant weyrlingmaster, then takes her dragon off to the side to check him for any burns. Only when she is fully satisfied does she take off his straps. She leans against him, closing her eyes and brushing bits of ash from her flight jacket. "Possibly to excess, if such a thing can exist," and N'rov's tone suggests that it might; possibly even that D'vro himself might be conversant with such a thing. "It's more that, I'm led to believe, if there's more than one way to attempt an exercise, they'll attempt the more difficult version and inform their classmates of how they could do it better. They look to be about done; why don't you let me introduce you." An elbow-nudge later, he's already in motion. Judging by the sound D'vro produces from his throat, an excess of dedication simply does not exist in his world. "Something to be said for that," he's saying just before he glances over sharply at the elbow only to have N'rov already leading the way. So he follows, arms dropping as he walks, and eyes studying the length of the brown as they approach. "No," Catling is saying to Riyoth as the two riders approach, "I know you weren't trying to kill me. But be glad I don't get airsick." She still has her eyes closed, and Riyoth's attention is wholly focused on her. "And yes, I agree, but if we're going to test backwash angles, we'll want to make sure we get that approved. I'll ask about wind, too, though I'd guess we'll be practicing different wind conditions...." She shakes herself. "Once we're dismissed, yes, go sun yourself." She lets out a deep breath. Surely it's out of politeness that N'rov refrains from interrupting the girl, though his eyes are dancing when she stops and, stepping right into the breach, he clears his throat. "Riyoth, good afternoon," the Weyrleader says gravely. "D'vro, meet Riyoth's Catling. Weyrling Catling, I hereby introduce you to the master of Slate, he who determines destinies. At least, certain destinies. Killing is rarely involved." "Riyoth. Catling," D'vro offers his terse greetings to the pair of them, eyeing the girl's face for a pensive moment. N'rov earns a sidelong look for his method of introduction, however, sparing the weyrling his initial commentary. "Only herdbeasts, wherries and the occasional Weyrleader," is a deadpan, overly serious continuation on matters of violence. And then right into, "You were sloppy." He tells this to the weyrling and her brown in a similiar fashion that another person might point out that she's wearing boots. "Weyrleader. Wingleader." Catling jerks to rigid, if startled, attention, sketching a surprised, but proper, salute. And though the mentions of killing herdbeasts, wherries, and Weyrleaders, oh my! bring a faint smile, it quickly fades at the criticism. But there is no defensiveness, no protest. "Yes sir. We were. We made too many variations, however slight, from our last run. We should have left more leeway for correcting errors. We were too confident that success on the easier route would also mean success on the harder route. Though we learned a lot from what we did do, we pushed our limits farther than was wise for our experience." She has her hands clasped behind her back, and she speaks with frank honesty, her tone half-apologetic, and half-dispassionate, giving a critique of her own performance. N'rov has a slow grin for D'vro, a slight inclination of his head playing along with the point; he listens, then, to what the weyrling has to say but with an eye for the wingleader's reaction as well. The wingleader, and any assistants or otherwise who might take exception to one of the weyrleader's sporadic visits now that he has others in tow. "We learn most deeply from our failures." While failure might be an exaggeration of the drill, the way D'vro says it is more reassuring than it is critical, no doubt in part because of the thorough critique from the weyrling herself. "You'll want to see a healer, perhaps," is added, D'vro lifting a hand to gesture briefly at his own sharp cheek for reference. For a brief moment Catling bites her lip at the mention of failure, but then she relaxes at the reassuring tone. "And it's better to understand how mistakes are made and methods to handle them.... during the relative safety of weyrling exercises. "Because everyone makes mistakes. But if we learn how to see early that we're making them and how to compensate and correct, it's going to be a lot easier to cope with than if we're out in a wing and never really learned. And..." She pauses, blinking. "A healer?" She touches her cheek, then winces. Still N'rov watches; still he doesn't intercede. Not until he gauges a Flint wingsecond as approaching, perhaps keeping an eye on Slate; then, "Wash, at the very least," is N'rov's agreement. "Cool water," nothing she shouldn't know before he moves away to intercept with easy words and subtly inexorable direction. Others may have their turn: other weyrlings, certainly, and other wings... in time. Until then, there's always the meal line. "Wash, at the very least," is N'rov's agreement. He steps aside then; a Flint wingsecond has started to approach, perhaps keeping an eye on Slate, and it's the least he can do to intercept. |
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