Logs:Hangover and Humility
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| RL Date: 30 December, 2015 |
| Who: Kh'tyr, Quinlys, Mograith |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quinlys sends Kh'tyr home after he chickens out of going to see Irianke, after talking with Jo. |
| Where: Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 10, Month 9, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Olivya/Mentions |
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>---< Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr >--------------------------------------<
Ringed by rough granite walls to all sides but one, this end of the huge
bowl narrows from the even broader plain to the west, continuing the ever
so slight downward slope toward the blue and green of the Weyr's lake and
surrounding foliage. More open to sun and wind than the western bowl, but
less frequented when there aren't weyrlings in residence, the bowl's
grassy tufts keep the topsoil in place and thicken into a bloodstained
meadow within the feeding pens that adjoin the lake.
At the base of the surrounding cliffs lie entrances to several caverns,
including the dragon infirmary and the weyrling barracks: the former to
the northwest near where the spires begin, the latter opposite to the
southwest. Both archways are large and dark enough for any dragon to pass
through, but it's the infirmary's that is haunted by faint smells of
redwort and numbweed, as though over generations they have seeped into the
very stone. To the southeast, between the weyrling area and the lake,
there are a handful of structures built into the floor of the bowl,
standing out amidst otherwise an empty space.
A layer of gray clouds covers the sky. The air feels cool and damp, but
there is no rainfall today.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Kh'tyr M 33 5'9 solid, dk. brown hair, dk. brown eyes 0s
Quinlys F 33 5'4" soft, dark red hair, blue eyes 1m Kh'tyr looks like shit. Now, here among strangers, no one would know that it's only marginally worse than his daily haphazard appearance, but sleeping against the wall of the bowl on a night when there's been the occasional drizzle doesn't do kind things to a man's appearance. He's only barely managed to sit up against the wall, eyes barely slits against the hateful dawn - even with cloud cover lingering, it's not a happy state of affairs to wake up in a foreign Weyr, hungover, damp and dirty, unshaven and facing not only the unpleasant light of day but a smugly amused brown settled close enough that he could have extended a wing, but maybe he felt that making sure Kh'tyr didn't catch his death of cold (even with early autumn temperatures) was enough effort from him. Quinlys' two groups of weyrlings are due to commence their calisthenics soon, but not quite yet; for now, the blueriding weyrlingmaster can be seen crossing the bowl alone, her red hair a beacon against the dulled, cloud-covered light. Truthfully, she doesn't look that much better than Kh'tyr, her face pale and peaked, though that's quickly lost as she gets close enough to see the bedraggled brownrider and his dragon in any detail, at which point hands go to her hips. "Excuse me?" Her tongue falls short of poisonous, but it is sharp. "Not so loud," is only just barely a request. Mograith shifts so he can have a better view from the front row. Kh'tyr squints at the speaker a moment, "Shells, redheads are the worst first thing in the morning. Catches all that sun and bores it into your skull." There's a gesture that, were he more awake and less hungover would probably be spectacularly expressive, but now is little more than a wave of his hand in the air. "Weyrlingmaster," he accords her that much with a grudging respect. "I'll be as loud as I like," replies the bluerider, grumpily, though she's quieter this time; bark and bite are two different things. "And shine my hair wherever I damn well please, too, just for the record. What are you doing reclining upon my wall, brownrider?" The possessive note to that suggests, just quietly, that she might have an inkling who he is; either that, or all brownriders are the devil and should be sent packing from the High Reaches bowl. The squinting goes on, Kh'tyr managing to open his eyes just a little wider for a moment before wincing the obvious: that was a terrible idea. It's possible things are taking a little longer to process than usual. "Waking up," he tries, which is honest. "Coming to terms with your clear superiority," slightly less so but not wholly a lie. "Wondering how much liquor, by volume, it would take to drown a man my size. If I were going to throw my life away, I'd rather it be with flare." He doesn't try to move yet, wisely. "Why do you want to throw your life away?" Quinlys makes a face at that; whatever mood she's in, whatever she's so plainly feeling, that idea plainly doesn't appeal. "Shells, why drink that much in the first place? Who are you trying to impress, brownrider? I don't think it's working." "Oh, shell if I know," as if Kh'tyr is supposed to. "It all made more sense in the midst last night." Another little hand wave before he lets his head drop forward. Perhaps that will help with the whole light thing. "Never fear, Mograith would never let it happen." The hand flicks toward the brown who... looks like he couldn't care less. "In any case, I wasn't trying to impress anyone. I was looking for my balls. Seem to have lost them somewhere. I won't darken your doorstep long; just long enough to be sure I'm not leaving you anything personal behind." This time he means vomit not his balls, but either way, it's a gift Quinlys probably wouldn't want. Quinlys wrinkles her nose. "Gross," she tells the brownrider, which does seem to suggest that she's followed his train of thought (more or less). But she doesn't leave, either; one hand still on her hip, she casts him an appraising glance. "Why'd you come to High Reaches?" The shrug Kh'tyr has says 'yep, some things in life are.' His head comes up and he reaches up to scratch his scruffy cheek. "Came to ask for your job," clearly that didn't work out. "Sleeping on the floor of the bowl probably disqualifies me even if obvious other things didn't already." At least he seems resigned to that much. Quinlys makes an involuntary sound; a growl, really. But she relents, the ball of her fist uncurling as she fixes the brownrider with a dismissive glance. "You realise how pathetic that makes you sound, don't you," isn't a question. "Go ask Olivya to make you an assistant. She won't turn you down. But clean yourself up first. Stop feeling sorry for yourself." "I have been exceptionally pathetic since that whole plague thing," Kh'tyr observes almost offhandedly, but still acknowledging her statement. "What does a man have when he can't keep to his word? Is he worth anything then?" He wonders this aloud in answer to her suggestion, but at least he's moving, with effort to get his feet under him and stand up, using the wall of the bowl for support. "He's a man willing to change his mind as events change circumstances," is Quinlys' immediate answer; whatever else is going on inside her head, that peaked, pale look still obvious, she's not lost her quick mind. "He's a man willing to admit when he was wrong. And that," to Quinlys, at least, "is worth something." Kh'tyr's brown gaze is less squinty now, and he's looking at her more soberly than when he was first awake, though surely he must have lingering effects of his rough, rough night. His look still manages to be shrewd, and shrewdly, he inclines his head a little to accept her answer before saying, "Do you ever notice, Weyrlingmaster, that life has a way of offering you the same lessons again and again in different forms until you learn them and handle yourself differently? Not sure humility is ever going to take." How many times must a man like this have faced that lesson by now? "Humility," Quinlys begins, by way of answer, "Sucks. No, honestly. It's not something I've ever properly learned, either, and believe me, I really ought've." One corner of her mouth twists up, a smile that's more rueful than anything else. "But a good chunk of eating crow is good for anyone, every so often. Just as long as it isn't too often, right?" Beat. "And for me... the weyrlings were always worth it. Once you know what you want, you take the knocks." "They are," Kh'tyr agrees, dramatically aggrieved, "those tiny helpless assholes." The ones his tone is so helplessly fond of. He takes a deep breath and lets it out. "I'll remind you of that the next time it's your turn." To eat crow. Quinlys did want to be sure she'd get his delightful company again someday, didn't she? He pushes off the wall to move (to his credit, unstaggeringly) toward his dragon, offering a humble, "Thank you, Weyrlingmaster," in a near sing-song, as if he might be one of her youngest weyrlings repeating the appreciation from rote. Really, if he bothered to say it at all, it probably means something, no matter how it comes out. Quinlys makes a face-- eating crow is clearly not her favourite activity, despite her words-- but it's a short-lived thing. "Good luck," is what she says, instead. And, to Mograith: "Don't let him die on the way home, hey? It'd look bad, and my pep talk would be for nothing." But then she's waving them off: time to go. Her weyrlings are arriving. |
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