Logs:Current Weyrlingmaster, Former Assistant
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| RL Date: 11 February, 2013 |
| Who: Leova, Quinlys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Leova vists the weyrlingmasters. Quinlys is there, and willing to chat. |
| Where: Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 17, Month 13, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Azaylia/Mentions, Brieli/Mentions, H'kon/Mentions, I'kris/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, Kinory/Mentions, Lujayn/Mentions, Riorde/Mentions, Taikrin/Mentions, W'jar/Mentions |
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| Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr Tucked off the back of the training room, the barracks are a huge, high cavern that stretches far back into the stone of the Weyr. Both of the longer walls are lined with couches for the dragons, enough for a couple of Pass-sized clutches at once, each matched with a cot and press for the weyrling dragonrider. In this day and age, however, the couches in the back have been allowed to grow dusty with long disuse. Hearths are spaced between every few couches to heat the big room. For decoration, there are a number of tapestries on the walls, looking almost as beat-up as the couches out in the training room, but scattered flower pots with their bright blooming contents provide a cheery touch. Additionally, some of the couches have had graffiti scratched into them over the Turns that were never quite cleaned off: smears of chalk messages or even rough pictures, some not fit for young eyes. In many cases names and dates have been painstakingly carved into the rock, a record of those that once made their home here. High upon the Spires, it's late afternoon, the sun glittering off long-layered snow and ice and the dark bones of the mountains. Down here in the caldera, shadow already casts pale bue-gray across the shallower drifts, and slicks the trodden trails with ice. The weyrlings are senior weyrlings. None of them are injured. There's no real reason for Leova to walk down one of those frozen and re-frozen paths, hands in her pockets, glance downturned to where her studded boots land. At least, until she comes to the barracks proper. There, she looks up. Seven weyrlings can be seen high above the bowl, drilling in their little wing, N'qui's blue at the front of the 'v' formation. They've practiced this often enough that weyrlingmasters aren't even really needed for supervision, though J'vain and Quarizath are keeping half an eye on them anyway. Olveraeth's watching, too, from his position near the entrance to the barracks, his wings furled tightly around him against the chill of the wind. His head turns as Leova approaches; he acknowledges her with a low nod of sorts, and a huff of warm air. Inside, there's the sound of humming, and the scraping of furniture across the floor. There's a nod for the pair. Another for the blue, with a low-voiced, "Hey." It's greeting, not complaint, and Leova enters without further distraction: just a wide-swung glance to take it all in, how it's the same, how it's different all echo-y with the weyrlings gone, how that furniture's moved. Quinlys' hair is hidden under the kerchief she wears, and there's dust all through her shirt: she's evidently right in the middle of reorganising, with that battered couch now halfway across the room from where it always used to sit. She's evidently had some warning of Leova's approach, because her, "Afternoon, Leova," comes without her so much as glancing around. "Need something?" "Not so much." What the greenrider doesn't do is ask if Meara's around. What she does do is take another gander around, and then wander toward that couch in its new spot, and sit on it anyway: towards the edge, feet tucked in and forearms leaning on her thighs, looking out. Quinlys stretches, wiping (dusty) hands on (equally dusty) trousers; she fixes her hands to her hips, turning now so that she can look at Leova properly, following the greenrider to the couch. "Do you think it works, there? I was thinking-- I don't know, it's about time for a change, isn't it? Not all change is fraught." Her promotion, for one, though she doesn't specify it. "We won't have much time between classes, I guess. And two to come, this time." "Might get in the way of the," Leova's gesture is an angled lift of her chin, "flow. But why not? Worst a weyrling can do is tromple muck on it." Then, "'Healthy and strong,' here's hoping... Do you think the seniors will still meet with each other, after graduation? Or will they all," and here her fingers not only lift but flare, shaking themselves out as though into the world. "Flow," repeats Quinlys, and then she laughs. "We'll see. We can always move it back. Flow can change. Rivers change their paths all the time... eventually." Her gaze slides away from Leova and towards the doorway out into the bowl. "Some of them, maybe. Small group, it's easier to be close. But it kind of feels like they're superficially close? I think most of them talk less already." 'Philosophical.' It's shaped on Leova's lips, though it goes unsaid. "Mm. Not surprised. Wings ahead, and all, their whole future." Their whole past to outrun. "If we were to get a weyrling. For Glacier. Which would you recommend?" More wryly, her hands curling against each other now, "'Death is not an option.'" Quinlys backs up towards the table, eventually hoisting herself up on top of it. "Mm," she agrees. "It's hard, at the end of Weyrlinghood, to really be aware of what you're going to miss. I miss it, sometimes. That level of camaraderie. I watch it in the weyrlings all the time, and it's hard not to feel nostalgic." Her legs swing, idly, a motion she surely doesn't let herself fall into when she's talking to her charges. "No death? Damn. Not N'qui. Not Kinory. Della, maybe. S'char. Honestly, though, I'm not sure if any of them would really fit. Who'll get to do the picking this time, anyway? Usually the Weyrleader..." "Do you look up yours? Clutchmates." Still and all, as Quinlys goes on, it's as though Leova's mouth can't quite make up its mind: one corner turning up, the other tightening. "Just as well," she says. "Some tricky, bumpy new drills Glacier's trying: reckon they couldn't hack it. Nothing against their training, just the instinct. As for choosing... for all I know they'd draw lots. One for you, one for me. H'kon doesn't seem the sort to gamble it out." It's Quinlys' turn to tighten her mouth. "Iolene," she says, in a quiet, wry tone. Quickly, as if to cover up for that, she adds, "I see a bit of Riorde." Sometimes a lot of Riorde, naturally. "And some of the others. Ch'vaz, sometimes. But I'm busy, these days." Her brow furrows at mention of those drills, with a stiffening of her shoulders that relaxes briefly afterwards: not the training. It's not personal, then. "No, he doesn't," she allows. "Huh. I guess Mea-- I'll have to send them a note, find out what's what." "Yes, well." Leova's knees slide together, her fingers curving over their joints, cushioning. "It happens." Then, "Some of the oldsters come in, talk about their classes, hang together even though they were decimated. Maybe because of that... thinking about including the weyrwomen, or just leaving it at those two?" "Maybe," agrees Quinlys, her expression turning distracted and thoughtful at the thought of it. "I sort of wished that we'd've gotten together, after Io died. Our group. But everyone went their own ways-- I guess circumstances made that strange. You're still close to some people from your clutch, right?" Her gaze lifts, head canted slightly to the right as she considers the greenrider. "To the weyrwomen, too. I think it makes sense to." "Think it's too late? Perhaps not for that," and for the still-close, the greenrider agrees with a nod. "A few in particular. Rest... more a matter of keeping track." She tilts her head in the opposite direction, just as slightly, just to see. "Reckon so. If they'd decide, might be another story." "It's-- I don't know. It feels different." Quinlys' face shuts down on her emotions, now, as though she's intending to wipe it all clean, start again. "Keeping track. Right. That's not so bad." Now, she seems faintly embarrassed by the head tilting - she straightens hers, then glances down at the floor. "Mm. It's hard to know. Uncertain. But we'll sort it all, one way or another. It'll be fine. What's up with Glacier's drills, anyway? Is Taikrin just... pushing her weight around?" Leova waits her out, quizzical, then relents with a half-smile. "Thinking positively, that's the way to go," and if that's parroted from weyrling instructions, it's tongue in cheek. "As to this, hm. It's early days. But it seems like she's got a vision, a plan, and I reckon it's better to focus on building something than not, hm? Burns off some of that ill temper, besides. And Vrianth loves it." That makes Quinlys laugh: weyrling instructions, to the (co-) Weyrlingmaster herself. "Oh? Good. I don't know how I feel about Taikrin was Weyrleader, but I bet she'd be an interesting Wingleader. I like her. I--" She manages not to blush, but there's definitely something pregnant about her expression; something she hasn't quite let out yet. "Well. If running interesting drills is her niche, I'm all for that. Especially if the dragons like it." "Hm?" It's that pause, that breaking-off point, that has Leova looking at her so expectantly. Quinlys', "Taikrin and I have a good relationship," is not really an answer, but the bluerider is blase about it, quite as though it is the full answer to that question. And Leova picks it up with, "How do you feel about her being under H'kon?" "She's not, is she?" That answer is pretty quick. Too quick, maybe. "They're sharing the duties. Anyway, from what I hear, it's not like H'kon is making friends with any of them." "Mm." Leova tips up a shoulder, gives Quinlys a considering look that gradually brings a smile's light to her eyes. "I rather wonder if H'kon has set out to make any friend since, hm. Before he was Searched, let's say." Something in Quinlys' expression suggests she's not entirely sure why the greenrider is smiling. All the same, she offers one in return. "H'kon's... just H'kon, I guess. I don't know him well. He probably means well." "Reckon he does," Leova says, if after a moment: perhaps all that studying of the other woman has distracted her. "Just not, hm, the most flexible. Yet. His brown's a piece of work," said with appreciation right before she adds, "Like Szadath, in that they both have energy. Not like the Monaco brown. Do you see it? Or is it just me." Quinlys presses her hands into the fabric of her trousers, leaning forward slightly. "Cadejoth and Iovniath's line. Both of them, same parents. I think there's something in that, anyway. They haven't produced many... placid dragons. Whereas Svissath and Iesaryth-- they're different." She seems pleased by the comparison. "It'll be interesting to see how these pairs do. Hraedhyth and Szadath - now that is a pairing I'm fascinated with." "No." Leova can't help but laugh, though she contains it in the rock of her shoulders, in her throat. "Not placid at all. I imagine that lot will be into everything, aside from one or two who got all the sense that was being given, hm?" and thus, by her tone, might be just a little boring. Circling back to the other group, "Me, I wonder how much of the Monaco dragons is their dam. Sire's 'Reaches bred, of course, but... quieter, not so far off from Iesaryth, I suppose. Didn't act up particularly in weyrlinghood, that one." That hint of a smile's shown up again, not quite in hiding. "Rielsath's group have been interesting," offers Quinlys. "Some of them definitely have her playful mischief, but there's some of Svissath in a lot of them, too. I think they're an easier class, in general, to what the next one will be, and I'm not just talking size." Her smile, by now, is intense: this is a topic she's passionate about, even in her limited experience. "I can't much imagine a combination of Iesaryth and Arekoth. It'll be interesting, no doubt. We can't lure you back in to a ringside seat, can we?" "Do they, now? Glad to get another clutch out of her before she left," only for all that Leova starts out saying it lightly, a pang crosses her features and nearly cracks her voice. Her lips firm. "Never know, that brown could sire a bronze and continue their line. As for the rest, won't say you and Meara couldn't be alluring, the pair of you, but she knows," and now Quinlys does too, "I'm no good without my sleep." The greenrider hesitates. "And then there's Vrianth." "I wonder how Kinory would manage with that," says the bluerider, with a rueful note to her voice. "Poor thing. Not sure if people wouldn't worry about 'bad blood' forever, though. Svissath--" She breaks off, backs up from that subject in order to consider Leova all over again. "Well, I suppose that's reason enough. If you're happy in Glacier-- we're going to need more helpers, though, that much is clear. If you think of anyone you think might be good?" "Give her a decade," Leova suggests: she can talk in such a timeframe, now. And, dryly, "Glad you approve." She lets it sit a beat. "We will be on call from the infirmary, I can say that much. So there's that. What Glacier's doing... we'll just have to see." This time the pause is only due to a reflective, outward glance. "If you can handle it, if he can: you know W'jar? Marckilth can glide again. He's settled some, W'jar has, though there's that bitter streak. Might do him good to take care of someone, instead of the other way around." For Quinlys, a decade is still a long time; it's enough to make her pause, almost squinty-eyed, before she nods. "It's something," she agrees. "It's good to have those skills on staff, but having you on call is probably enough." It's so generous of her. "W'jar? Oh - I remember." Her expression turns crooked, and a little stiff, as though she's working her way through that possibility. "We'll talk to him. It's not a bad idea, reminding them of what can happen. Not that any of them will ever see thread." As if she even remembers it in detail. There's a particular tilt to Leova's brows which... well, Quinlys just might be too young to read it. "If the comet doesn't come back," she agrees with that much, stretching her arms forward into thin air as her center of gravity shifts forward, and she stands. She swings her arms, now, before letting them fall to her sides. "You might look up," and she's got another couple of names to mention but neither of them is the newest dragonhealer, after all: that one she keeps to herself. "Anyhow, I'd best be off. Evening, Quinlys." "It better not," says Quinlys, abruptly firm, but then there's that note of yearning-- as though she'd do anything to prove herself against the age-old enemy she was never old enough to fight. She accepts more names, one by one, and then smiles. "Evening, Leova. Thanks." |
Comments
Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Tue, 12 Feb 2013 09:46:08 GMT.
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Durn Quinlys, so friggin' cute. I mean, she's a big tough Weyrlingmaster. Yes. :D
Leova's always great, though. X3
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