Logs:Methods of Teaching
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| RL Date: 23 January, 2016 |
| Who: Kh'tyr, Ninwayzan, Olivya |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Olivya and Kh'tyr discuss methods of teaching before Olivya abandons a lost Ninwayzan to Kh'tyr's kind attentions. |
| Where: Training Room, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 11, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Taylor/Mentions, W'leri/Mentions |
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>---< Training Room, Fort Weyr >---------------------------------------------< Roughly rectangular in shape, this spacious room is often littered with exercise equipment which people have failed to return to the large storage units in its north-east corner. Next to these wooden storage units, a notice board is hung on the wall beneath a glowbasket, various notes and reminders and messages pinned or stuck to it, some dating back months. Tall wooden screens sit at various points throughout the room, some folded and stacked against the walls, available for those who would rather exercise in some privacy. For this particular cavern, brightness is the key word, for there look to be more glows than anything else, maintaining the high level of light and visibility needed for sports and activities that require precision. -----------------------------< Active Players >----------------------------- Kh'tyr M 33 5'9 solid, dk. brown hair, dk. brown eyes 0s Ninwayza M 15 5'3" stocky, blonde hair, emerald green eyes 1m Olivya F 31 5'8 firm, blonde hair, blue eyes 1m Few things in life are as rewarding as getting to train with Kh'tyr. Certainly, his naturally charming personality helps motivate and inspire when the sparring gloves are on. They're only just now coming on for this lunchtime practice and as Kh'tyr settles the laces on his first hand, he looks over his opponent in all her firm-framed glory. "Get more sleep last night?" is a question to assess her state of mind. With weyrling dragons now two-headed-for-three months old, there's a little more peace overnight and last night, in particular, nothing Kh'tyr and Mograith couldn't handle during their shift. He still looks tired, but he no doubt spent the morning sleeping to make up for the previous night's lack. The clothing that Liv wears is dark compared to her usual boldness, black wrapping her frame simply even as she bounces slightly from foot to foot, already warming up long limbs as she settles her hands into the fit of her gloves. "I got enough," is what she tosses back carelessly. She doesn't ask how his night went, a measure of trust there to let him share or not share what he thinks is relevant. "Enough to be a challenge this time, I promise." As opposed to last, where a bad night and an unfocused mind was enough to make it a short and sweet defeat of the Weyrlingmaster. "You know, when people take shifts that might otherwise be yours," since she makes the schedule and all that, Kh'tyr drawls the words slowly, "you might take care to get sleep and make it all worthwhile," as if anything other than sleep wouldn't make it worthwhile. "You're going to get less and less still in a few months. Best to get in what you can now." He's ceases from prattling more by the fact that he has to used his teeth to help get the laces settled on his other hand before he's onto his feet and stretching a little more. "You act like you're ever a challenge, my sweet." He always brings out the terms of endearment around now. He's a man who, by necessity, is good with self-defense. If he were poorer at it, he would never have survived this long. "Believe me, I did get in what I could." Olivya's bed companions haven't stopped with weyrlings in the barracks, but it certainly has become a quieter thing, with less nights of them. Her smile, though, only appears briefly on those words that she shares before it fades away into the suggestion added lightly, "That shift was all yours, darling. But if you want less overnights-- I can look at spreading more onto the other assistants." As to the last, she only draws a brow upwards in a curve that serves as her rejoinder. She won't ever admit she's not as good as him, especially with her disadvantage of weight, but a challenge-- Well, she is usually a fierce fighter, never one to surrender even when losing. And she is good, if not at his level. "Don't you even-" Kh'tyr's eyes narrow as if offended by the threat-slash-suggestion. "Who in their right minds would want to spend more time with those brats when they're conscious enough to do more than stumble to get the shovels or oil." Not Kh'tyr who's obviously very sound of mind. He even has the good sense to let her win sometimes when it's been a good spar and to only offer her pointers about dealing with bigger, beefier opponents like himself on days when she's gotten enough sleep. "You do," replies Olivya, brushing away his offense by ignoring it, even as she closes suddenly to make the first swing in a hope that he's not ready yet for the fight to begin. "Because you have more to teach them than watching over them in their beds. I am serious; I can let D'mar and Pasna take care of that and give you more class time and lessons. If that's what you want." But even as she offers it, she'll press her attack further, elbows and fists flying in quick, sharp jabs, though they lack the weight of commitment to leave her free to retreat. Kh'tyr rolls his eyes, which leaves the opportunity for a pair of those attacks to slip through his well-maintained guard and there are gratifying grunts as he stumbles back and then recovers himself, blocking what next comes his way. "'How To Shovel Shit' is fairly self-explanatory, and do you really want me giving them the lectures on thick-tail and other youthful dangers?" Nevermind that the time for those lectures is past. That he chooses those examples almost certainly means he's only resisting Because and not for any good or truthful reason. He doesn't really believe in making things easy though, so he'll feint and then throw a punch for her midsection to go along with his casual, habitual resistance to what's the smart thing to do. Still early, still full of energy, Olivya is able to bounce back and away from that punch before it ever connects, though she offers as she does, "And what about the other things, darling? The things that we've talked about?" She stays back, waiting for him to come to her this time as she studies Kh'tyr's every movement. "You're better off leaving me on the night shift where I can whisper things to them while they're sleeping," because that's not creepy. Kh'tyr's expression, though, doesn't reveal anything of it he's serious or not. "I suppose they're more susceptible to suggestions when they're too tired to think straight," he allows, giving her a little ground both verbally and physically, letting her come back to him with her next, though his feet don't stop moving: good footwork is key, but not too busy, of course, just the right amount. "And here I thought the idea was to not have them follow anything blindly," counters Olivya, tossing her head even as a stray blonde lock falls into her face before she can glare across the distance at Kh'tyr. But a small, sharp smile is folded into the corners of her mouth, and he likely can see the telegraphed movements from a mile away where she attempts again to use her speed to press a quick attack on him again. "I want them questioning the world around them, holding up looking glasses and tearing apart assumptions. Don't you?" "Trusting them to deviate from the standard path so early on without a little blind leading to where they might find questions of their own is a gamble," Kh'tyr returns, "even if teenagers think they're the greatest deviants of them all." There's amusement there for his double-entendre. The former harper does fiercely love to play with language. "How do you propose to achieve that if you give them freedom of thought when they're too tired to think at all? And beyond?" What's her plan? Given that the training room is largely empty what with other sensible people eating lunch now, it's probably as good a time and place to discuss it as any. Olivya doesn't even look around as she continues the subject, having already scoped out the room and trusting her other senses to pick up whether any of it changes. She answers quietly, however, "I think you are underestimating them. Planting the seeds now, encouraging the thoughts is the plan. Getting them to trust us." She falls back, only briefly, to add, "If we lead them now-- later when they aren't too tired, they will balk at it." It's probably only for the benefit of their now semi-private conversation that Kh'tyr mixes an attempt to grapple her in, meaning to catch and pull, stepping behind to pin her to his chest for all the more intimate a chat. "'Getting them to trust us' from the woman who says to teach them to think for themselves. Can you imagine any of them trusting me of their own volition?" It's a valid question, even if his track record with weyrlings says emphatically 'yes.' (Clearly, they're all idiots.) "I trust you," is the simple answer that Olivya tosses back, clearly also an idiot. "And I am a lot harder to win over than a confused group of teenagers." It doesn't stop her from attempting to hook her foot against his, to try to sweep it out and bring him down with her pinning him for the moment. "We need to make a lasting impact. Two clutches, the next generation for Fort--. This is our time, Kh'tyr love." Clearly. "My point." The brownrider responds as soon as he's gotten his breath back from hitting the mat, shortly using his superior size and strength to try to reverse their positions. Kh'tyr gives her a long look and then sighs the sigh of the much put-upon. "Well, we all know how good I am at saying no to you." Which is not at all, excepting in any sexual advances (he's remarkably resilient in denial of those). Olivya struggles to resist, to keep her position of power and the bar of her arm slips briefly to his neck in the attempt. But then she's flipped onto her back, a huff of her own breath more in annoyance than anything else. "If I didn't enjoy the struggle, I would suggest you stop trying," she murmurs in turn, even as she attempts to bring her knee up between his legs to dislodge him. Her words are a dry, amused joke when she adds, "But you know, every time you say no, I just want you more." There are some things a man doesn't risk in a sparring match. Anything getting between his legs is one of those things for Kh'tyr (probably too many bad experiences), so it sends him skittering back off of her and pressing onto his feet. "Watch it, woman. You wouldn't like me without the fight." He gives her that look, the one that says 'and we both know it.' "We're getting to know each other too well if you're going to cheat like that." Kh'tyr points out, his eyes scanning the room as if to grab some poor unsuspecting sod to trouble, his stance indicating the bout over, his surrender, of course. It takes longer for Olivya to drag herself to her feet, only a moment's buried smirk for the obvious surrender even as she reaches up to twist her escaping curls back into the ponytail that she wears. "There's no cheating when it comes to a fight. Not this one, or the other one," she tells him simply, not even feeling shameless for that bad move. "I'll switch the schedules tomorrow; but, I am going to have the others report to you if anything happens in the middle of the night, since you enjoy it so much." The Weyrlingmaster stands with only a slight sheen of sweat in the training room, still gloved and lacking a knot in the curve fitting black that she wears to train with him. Her assistant, Kh'tyr, has put some space between them rather quickly despite being similarly gloved. Kh'tyr rolls his eyes at the blonde who bears no knot here in this place dedicated to strength and ease of movement, but who is still definitely the brownrider's boss. "Women never think it's cheating, even when it is." When it definitely is, says his tone. The way his narrowed gaze is directed at her says that the schedule switching with its brand new caveat is cheating too, though he doesn't say so aloud. Lunchtime doesn't last too long, so the one bout looks like it might just have to do for his teeth are tearing at the glove's laces at his wrist starting the process of removing it. A short figure strides purposely into the training room though several paces in Ninwayzan stops dead in his tracks. He's an interesting sight to see for he has flour ( and other spices and seasonings) all in his air and over his clothes. He's even tracked some in on his boots. Looking about he scowls inwardly. "I think I made a wrong turn." is muttered to himself but clearly loud enough to be head by the other occupants in here. He peers about trying to figure out which room exactly he is in since he's not seen this one and in the process spies Kh'try as well as Olivya. "And men only think that because they can't take advantage of it themselves. If the position were reversed--." But Olivya's teasing is left off for that entrance of the young man, her blue gaze sweeping away and over Ninwayzan. She's the one that will answer him, a mark of her rank and the way she holds herself like a Lady, even dressed as she is, "Yes, you most certainly did." She tips her chin towards the newcomer and then towards the gloves that she extends to Ninwayzan. "Come help me with these," so she doesn't end up biting at them like Kh'tyr. "You're in the training room. Were you looking to go back to the kitchen?" "If the positions were reversed, you'd never think that target were valid in anything less than a life-threatening situation," Kh'tyr grumbles, the words a little slurred as he talks around the knot that finally comes loose on his last word. Tugging the glove off, he frees his hand so he can use fingers to deal with the other laces. His brown eyes cast toward the newest arrival and his floured-and-other-spiced appearance. "Or you could run," he advises the young man, "Away. As fast as your feet can carry you." The words are dramatic enough that the casual, deadpan delivery makes it seem not nearly so important as all that. "Blondes. Beautiful ones. Dangerous." Wise words, if only the teen would heed them. Ninwayzan head swivels this way and that to discover that yes, this does look like a training room. Swiveling his gaze back to Olivya with a snap he stares a moment before her order sinks into his flour covered brain. "More like the baths actually." his tone is amused as he steps forward to aid with the gloves. "If I go back there I might have to help clean up." might being the operative word. It's a good chance that will is the better descriptive on his needing to clean. Kh'tyr's words of advice come moments too late though for he's already committed to approached the blonde vixen. He's blond himself though hardly beautiful or dangerous. Or perhaps that only applies to females. Reaching for one gloved hand he works on figuring out the laces to get it off said hand. Olivya is patient with Ninwayzan figuring out the laces, for all that her gaze is a sharper, amused thing when it flicks to Kh'tyr. "Don't worry, sweetie; the only thing that I am a danger to in this room is too busy pouting at being beat," she assures the younger man easily instead. She even smiles, a light thing that only transforms her face for an instant as she returns her attention to Ninwayzan again. "If you're looking for the baths, you are just going to...." She explains the directions simply, using guiding marks that must still help her get around. That she explains by adding, "I am relatively new to Fort myself, and not used to stone Weyrs. But you'll adjust." Ninwayzan does get them figured out somehow even as he listens to the directions given. From the nod about halfway through it's clear he's realized where he made his wrong turn or turns to end up here. He matches her brief smile with one of his own as one glove gets unlaced enough now to be removed. Hardly knowing what exactly to say in regards to dangers in this room or dangerous blonds in baths, or even the pining remark, he simply gives Kh'tyr a tentative grin and a reply. "Ninwayzan, sir. Apprentice Baker to Journeyman Taylor." "Is that what happened to you when you were young to make you the way you are, Kh'tyr?" suggests Olivya in turn, a familiar weight to the way her words are tossed back to the other man without even a hint of hesitation. But it's Ninwayzan's introduction that receives most of her attention, a thoughtful brush of her soft blue eyes over the young man without so much as a noise of approval or otherwise. Instead, she'll introduce for them both rather than leaving it to guessing or games, "That is Kh'tyr, assistant weyrlingmaster and rider to brown Mograith. I am Olivya, green Ivraeth's and Weyrlingmaster here at Fort. Pleasure to meet you, Ninwayzan." "Do you really suppose it could be just one thing that has made me so delightful?" Where Kh'tyr chooses 'delightful' as an adjective, many (many) others would have chosen words like 'eccentric', 'offensive' or 'obnoxious.' Still, brown eyes are eerily focused on the young man now, the brownrider's look shrewd. "Your journeyman replaced that one that died," he observes callously. "How are you finding the Weyr? Aside from the whole not finding things in the Weyr," he adds as an after thought with a little dismissive gesture in the air with his second de-gloved hand. Ninwayzan winces a little inwardly at Kh'tyr's callous description of how the new Journeyman Baker came to be. "Aye, Taylor is the replacement." along with a Holder turned apprentice in the form of Ninwayzan. If he seems surprised at the way the two weyrlingmaster's talk to each other he tries not to let it show too much in his expression. Tugging off the one glove he arches his brow a bit in wordless question on wiether or not she needs assistance with the second gloved hand. "I'm slowly getting used to the weyr bit by bit." he admits. "With the exception of W'leri everyone seems to be learning my name." a smirk appears at that. He says nothing about not finding things 'in' the weyr. Olivya waves off the help, hooking her fingers against the laces of the freed glove to pull it gently from Ninwayzan before she sets her focus on undoing her next glove without help. Her brow quirks up slightly at the mention of the absent brownrider, but she doesn't interject into the boys' conversation, leaving Kh'tyr to question him. "I make no promises." Kh'tyr answers the matter of learning Ninwayzan's name. "It's awfully long." His tone is bored as he looks at the younger man, perhaps deciding if he's worthy of that commitment of Kh'tyr's memory. He looks to the greenrider then, arching a judgmental brow, "Aren't you late to be somewhere?" It's needling, of course, maybe he just wants privacy to needle the apprentice more. "Where'd you come from, apprentice?" Ninwayzan steps back a pace from Olivya once the gloves are off. He looks to Kh'tyr with a slightly nervous look. Maybe the brown rider will call him Chad too? "I'm from Igen Hold." "Darling, are you applying for the position of my secretary now?" suggests Olivya back, but she does not deny the allegation. Indeed, a breath slips from her lips before she tosses the gloves in Kh'tyr's direction. She casts one last glance over Ninwayzan, adding in a simple murmur, "Welcome to Fort, young man," before the Weyrlingmaster turns to stride away from the training room with long legs eating up space before she's gone. The gloves from Olivya are caught without much in the way of effort and tucked under his arm. "Of course you are," Kh'tyr replies to the younger man as if he knew, or should have known, wrapping the laces around the cuff of one glove and then the next. He only casts a brief glance after his departing boss, one that doesn't linger before shifting back to the younger man. "The desert's a little different than here. Have they outfitted you for the snow and cold?" Ninwayzan runs a hand through his short, blond and floury hair. "It's pretty different indeed. I never actually visited Igen..." he looks around himself a bit. "Oh I've a pretty good coat my mom sent with me. And gloves." no hat is mentioned though. "You'll want to stop by the stores for a hat and scarf and maybe some extra sweaters," Kh'tyr tells him, eyes switching between studying the boy and the gloves which he takes to a bag off to one side and starts tucking away. "Did you travel much other places before coming here?" He asks, glancing back at the apprentice, lest he think he's able to escape so soon. Ninwayzan tilts his head in contemplation a moment. "Scarf and extra sweaters..?" he makes mental notes. "And a hot...hat, I mean." scuffling his feet he dares a glance towards the exit but remains standing where he is. "I traveled to some of the smaller holdings with my Grandpa sometimes but..." he shrugs to indicate he's never really traveled outside the Igen area. So snow is a brand new thing to him among other things. "Did you ever go to the Weyr there?" The brownrider follows up, though it's hard to say if Kh'tyr took in the full measure of Ninwayzan's answer of if he only heard what he was waiting to hear. "It's a big change to make," he observes, though he doesn't sound impressed, "Why did you do it? Surely, when your journeyman came, you could've stayed behind...?" "It was more of a...challenge for me to come along. My studies aren't far enough along yet. I'm not yet Sr. Apprentice." he rambles a bit and reins it in some. "My grandfather didn't think it was a good idea so.." again he shrugs. Perhaps he came just to prove he could hang with the big dawgs here. "No, I never did visit the weyr but the one time and I was pretty young. I really don't remember it." he lifts a hand briefly. "All this is very different." "It's very different from the Weyr there, too," Kh'tyr remarks, almost idly. "So you're a man who likes a challenge and to balk your grandfather's expectations. Did he raise you, this grandfather?" The brownrider inquires as he cinches up his bag and shoulders it, rising from his crouch and turning his full attention back on the teenager. Ninwayzan smirks faintly before schooling his expression quickly. "He helped raise me when my father wasn't around." which from his tone wasn't often. "I'm a lot like him in some ways and very different in others." like his love for cooking. Absently he twists his shoulder knot around a bit, fidgeting with it. "Are you from here originally too or from out-weyr? Seems quite a few riders I've met are from somewhere else." "In what ways? Alike and different." Go. If Ninwayzan was unsure that Kh'tyr was actually some variety of teacher, this question with its cool expectation of answer probably does a little to add to the notion that it could be true. "From elsewhere," doesn't provide much from the brownrider in the way of descriptive answer, but probably he's more keen to hear the baker's story than divulge his own history. Ninwayzan's hand shifts from twisting his shoulder knot to awkwardly scratching the back of his reddening, flour-covered, neck. "I don't know..." he hedges. "Some of his believes I do follow but others seem kinda...I dunno...old. Like men cooking. I'm a good apprentice in the Baker craft and he doesn't approve. He also doesn't approve of me staying in a weyr. Says I'll get loose morals or something." "Likely. Loose morals are more fun than tight ones." Kh'tyr's manner is dismissive, as if it shouldn't matter one way or the other. "So boys shouldn't cook, your grandfather says. Shouldn't live in a Weyr your grandfather says," he sums up. "How are you alike then? You said you were alike some ways." In case he's forgotten or would like to pretend he's forgotten to get out of answering; probably the latter occurs a lot with this man's students. Ninwayzan seems puzzled by the depth of the questions but it is pretty engrained in the young man to answer questions put forth to him. Managing to lower his hand from the back of his neck he shoves it in a pocket to hopefully prevent any further fidgeting while he ponders the latest, harder question. "I dunno..." he does hedge a bit despite the fact he's clearly going to answer. "Grandfather wanted me to go into politics which is something I never liked. I learned 'em anyway but I'd rather not play that kind of game. I just want to cook and be me." which isn't fully answering the question. He pauses and goes at it from another angle. "Grandfather's view of woman and their jobs." he starts off. "Women shouldn't have major jobs like holding or um..teaching." like Olivya's job apparently springs to mind. "I'm not him though!" he says in sudden frustration at the questions. "Does it matter what I do and don't like about him?" he asks heatedly. "What you don't like about him? No, it doesn't matter at all," Kh'tyr has no problem admitting, only to follow it up with, "because that's not what I asked. What parts of you do you wish were different? Things from your home, your upbringing, your old life that you wish you could shake but can't. Those matter." He steps toward the young man as he finishes his explanation, emphatically. "You don't have to answer me. It's not me it matters for, kid." He wiggles his eyebrows a little and the smile that comes along with it might just be a little mad. If he's mad though, he might also be just a little brilliant. "Good luck finding the baths," long-named apprentice. And off the brownrider goes, step a little jaunty. Oh there are plenty of things about 'him' that he would change if given the chance but little will he be revealing to someone he just met. That's plain to read on his expression. Ninwayzan, aka Chad, aka that long named apprentice watches Kh'tyr with some disbelieve in his gaze. "I think I need a hot soak and a drink." in no particular order. With that muttered sentence he follows in the wake of the jaunty-stepped brown rider. Hopefully the directions he received earlier are fresh in his mind still! |
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