LOG: Easy
Date: Day 20?, Month 6, Turn 26
Location: Weyrlingmaster's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: Leova has reservations. Meara does not.
Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr(#398RLs)
Under the tenure of a new master, the changes to the weyrlingmaster's office are marked. A fitted, new door that smells of fresh wood has taken the place of the warped battered one and is a little thicker, a little more insulated in keeping the noises of without out. Instead of an imposing desk with its many drawers and definitive sides, a round one has claimed much of the space in the center of the room with five chairs spaced around its edges. Beneath it is a square rug pieced together with twisted rags, it would seem, that stretches from wall to wall wall to long bookshelves and filing cabinets. The tapestry of the Weyr's badge has been freshly cleaned and carries with it the faint scent of lemon bleach while new decorations have emerged with a freshly potted, and alive plant, as well as a tea cart pushed into the far corner of the room. The new doctor is in.
Isath isn't going to be disturbed by Vrianth, or at least not by this. Not that it's so difficult for Leova to track down Meara all on her own, hands shoved in the pockets of her cutoffs, ducking under the cavern's lintel even though it's far above her head. At least... it can't be so difficult for Leova to /locate/ her sometime mentor. Actually going to her? Another story.
Those eggs are getting harder and harder out there, and Meara's been hard at work on preparations: the barracks are newly scrubbed, the couches decked out and ready, supplies neatly organised. Well. /Mostly/ neatly organised: there's still some work to be done. She's making plenty of noise from the floor in the office, bent down in front of the desk drawers until she's nearly out of sight - but not so much noise that the sound of footsteps doesn't draw her attention up, up, and-- she rises, stepping away from the desk, out towards her visitor. And; "Leova."
Reporting early? In the steps required to cross the barracks, Leova's posture has straightened between one beat and the next, her hands settled just as methodically to her sides, those amber eyes placidly receptive rather than revealing. It lasts long enough to take her into that office and fully into it, no lingering by the safety of the door for her, and then she drops it. The eyes, at least. "It's short notice," she says. And: "I /know/." And: "I'm not ready. Not to do you justice."
"To do me justice? Leova." Meara's not just casually repeating things, though the question in her voice is not so well defined as to require a specific answer. The weyrlingmaster hoists herself onto the desk, letting her legs dangle off the edge as her arms cross in front of her. "Why? Why not?"
Even for Meara, Leova won't fidget. Or, perhaps, especially for Meara. "They /want/ things," she says. "They want so much." Vrianth wanted more, and got it. "I wrote out a list. There's the sleep." Its lack. "I get cranky. Maybe you don't remember, from before. It only gets to be good, really good, when they're flying, and I don't know if /things/ will go well but if they do, I shouldn't /between/, and have to be /careful/." She says it like a dirty word. "And... and they disobey and act up and I want to smack them /down/ and you should know." Her eyes plead.
They're good reasons, every one, and it shows: each gets a short nod from the weyrlingmaster, her fingers idly scrubbing at the faded denim of her trousers. "Leova," she says again, finally, her tone encouraging quiet for a moment, though there's no force to it. "If you want things to go well, I would have thought not flying with Glacier would be a good start." But it's a casual remark, not intended to convince either way: she considers Leova, quietly. "If you really don't want to do it, Leova, I'm not going to force you to do anything. But I will miss you. It helps, having a dragonhealer." And a friend, but that's more… implied.
Glacier. Leova's jaw tightens before she speaks. "I can handle my wing." Can fly with the big boys. Not that it's Meara she has to prove it to. "I... I've thought about it: you can call me in, anytime," by way of trade. The younger greenrider moves the single step to the weyrlingmaster's desk, one hand clamping about its edge, keeping that hand busy. "Just, I don't have as much patience as you /should/ have, in a body that's helping you out. It's not... natural. To me. Don't want something to happen, don't want you to get..." mad? Something. She makes her mouth turn up, even if it's only one corner, in lieu of finishing the sentence. "You know I wouldn't talk to F'rint like this. You said before it's all right, you want me to. But. Still." Not the way she does things, not when she can man up and bear it instead.
Of course she can handle Glacier: Meara nods. Her gaze follows Leova, her own hands stilling upon her thighs as she listens to what the younger greenrider has to say. "I need my assistants to talk to me like this," she says, quietly. "I need to know their fears. I'm not F'rint." And this is not Glacier. A low breath is blown out of her cheeks before she says, "I do wish you'd consider it. Further. I think we're our own worst critics; I've never had a problem with your work. But," and she's raising a hand now. "You know I won't pressure you. You don't want me to try and convince you otherwise, though? I /can/ make puppydog eyes with the best of them."
"Not before. But this is... it's different. /Shouldn't/ be. Wish it weren't." Leova hesitates for longer this time. Says, very quietly, "If I did. Lose my temper." She looks at Meara. Her mouth moves, but no syllable makes it out.
Meara is, for several long seconds, equally quiet. "You wouldn't be the first to lose your temper, Leova. Under normal circumstances or not. We all-- none of us are perfect." Her mouth purses in, and she tilts her head thoughtfully to the side as, still, she considers the greenrider. "Well. Leova. This one, this time; it's up to you. I'd like you on my team, but it won't work if you're not comfortable doing it. You've a little more time to think, I suspect."
"Should try to be." It could have been silent, this is Meara, so it's under her breath. "/Are/ you ever tempted?" Leova asks, where she could have been deciding, where she could have been walking in or out. "To let loose? To just... do it. Make sure they'll never do it again."
A low breath. Then: "Yes." She even laughs, head shaking easily as she does so. "All the time. I'm human, Leova; I try and control my emotions, and after all these turns, I guess I've gotten pretty good at it. But they get to me, too. Of course they do."
"You make it look easy," Leova admits. She turns away, then, turns toward where a dead plant used to be, and then away from that too. "It's hard to lock just some of it down." And: "Don't /want/ to, except for the part where I do." And, again, later, "Don't want to leave you in the lurch, either. If you really think it would be worth it. Maybe, if I could have... breathers. Maybe. Beyond spending part time in the infirmary," /infirmary/, as though the human infirmary were the exception. "I know we don't, usually." Special privileges. Unfairness.
Meara seems amused, somehow, by it looking so easy when she does it-- she shakes her head, but doesn't say anything on that /front/, holding her silence until: "If that would make it work for you, I'd be willing to consider that as an option. It's not as though the others have your dual role to begin with." Which makes it easy to wave away any potential unfairness.
"Canny," and in her strained-smoke voice it's a compliment. "All right." Vrianth's rider glances back over her shoulder, somehow shy. "All right. In that case. Tell me what more you need, to help."
Meara's eyes gleam, somehow. "Where to start--"
Location: Weyrlingmaster's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: Leova has reservations. Meara does not.
Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr(#398RLs)
Under the tenure of a new master, the changes to the weyrlingmaster's office are marked. A fitted, new door that smells of fresh wood has taken the place of the warped battered one and is a little thicker, a little more insulated in keeping the noises of without out. Instead of an imposing desk with its many drawers and definitive sides, a round one has claimed much of the space in the center of the room with five chairs spaced around its edges. Beneath it is a square rug pieced together with twisted rags, it would seem, that stretches from wall to wall wall to long bookshelves and filing cabinets. The tapestry of the Weyr's badge has been freshly cleaned and carries with it the faint scent of lemon bleach while new decorations have emerged with a freshly potted, and alive plant, as well as a tea cart pushed into the far corner of the room. The new doctor is in.
Isath isn't going to be disturbed by Vrianth, or at least not by this. Not that it's so difficult for Leova to track down Meara all on her own, hands shoved in the pockets of her cutoffs, ducking under the cavern's lintel even though it's far above her head. At least... it can't be so difficult for Leova to /locate/ her sometime mentor. Actually going to her? Another story.
Those eggs are getting harder and harder out there, and Meara's been hard at work on preparations: the barracks are newly scrubbed, the couches decked out and ready, supplies neatly organised. Well. /Mostly/ neatly organised: there's still some work to be done. She's making plenty of noise from the floor in the office, bent down in front of the desk drawers until she's nearly out of sight - but not so much noise that the sound of footsteps doesn't draw her attention up, up, and-- she rises, stepping away from the desk, out towards her visitor. And; "Leova."
Reporting early? In the steps required to cross the barracks, Leova's posture has straightened between one beat and the next, her hands settled just as methodically to her sides, those amber eyes placidly receptive rather than revealing. It lasts long enough to take her into that office and fully into it, no lingering by the safety of the door for her, and then she drops it. The eyes, at least. "It's short notice," she says. And: "I /know/." And: "I'm not ready. Not to do you justice."
"To do me justice? Leova." Meara's not just casually repeating things, though the question in her voice is not so well defined as to require a specific answer. The weyrlingmaster hoists herself onto the desk, letting her legs dangle off the edge as her arms cross in front of her. "Why? Why not?"
Even for Meara, Leova won't fidget. Or, perhaps, especially for Meara. "They /want/ things," she says. "They want so much." Vrianth wanted more, and got it. "I wrote out a list. There's the sleep." Its lack. "I get cranky. Maybe you don't remember, from before. It only gets to be good, really good, when they're flying, and I don't know if /things/ will go well but if they do, I shouldn't /between/, and have to be /careful/." She says it like a dirty word. "And... and they disobey and act up and I want to smack them /down/ and you should know." Her eyes plead.
They're good reasons, every one, and it shows: each gets a short nod from the weyrlingmaster, her fingers idly scrubbing at the faded denim of her trousers. "Leova," she says again, finally, her tone encouraging quiet for a moment, though there's no force to it. "If you want things to go well, I would have thought not flying with Glacier would be a good start." But it's a casual remark, not intended to convince either way: she considers Leova, quietly. "If you really don't want to do it, Leova, I'm not going to force you to do anything. But I will miss you. It helps, having a dragonhealer." And a friend, but that's more… implied.
Glacier. Leova's jaw tightens before she speaks. "I can handle my wing." Can fly with the big boys. Not that it's Meara she has to prove it to. "I... I've thought about it: you can call me in, anytime," by way of trade. The younger greenrider moves the single step to the weyrlingmaster's desk, one hand clamping about its edge, keeping that hand busy. "Just, I don't have as much patience as you /should/ have, in a body that's helping you out. It's not... natural. To me. Don't want something to happen, don't want you to get..." mad? Something. She makes her mouth turn up, even if it's only one corner, in lieu of finishing the sentence. "You know I wouldn't talk to F'rint like this. You said before it's all right, you want me to. But. Still." Not the way she does things, not when she can man up and bear it instead.
Of course she can handle Glacier: Meara nods. Her gaze follows Leova, her own hands stilling upon her thighs as she listens to what the younger greenrider has to say. "I need my assistants to talk to me like this," she says, quietly. "I need to know their fears. I'm not F'rint." And this is not Glacier. A low breath is blown out of her cheeks before she says, "I do wish you'd consider it. Further. I think we're our own worst critics; I've never had a problem with your work. But," and she's raising a hand now. "You know I won't pressure you. You don't want me to try and convince you otherwise, though? I /can/ make puppydog eyes with the best of them."
"Not before. But this is... it's different. /Shouldn't/ be. Wish it weren't." Leova hesitates for longer this time. Says, very quietly, "If I did. Lose my temper." She looks at Meara. Her mouth moves, but no syllable makes it out.
Meara is, for several long seconds, equally quiet. "You wouldn't be the first to lose your temper, Leova. Under normal circumstances or not. We all-- none of us are perfect." Her mouth purses in, and she tilts her head thoughtfully to the side as, still, she considers the greenrider. "Well. Leova. This one, this time; it's up to you. I'd like you on my team, but it won't work if you're not comfortable doing it. You've a little more time to think, I suspect."
"Should try to be." It could have been silent, this is Meara, so it's under her breath. "/Are/ you ever tempted?" Leova asks, where she could have been deciding, where she could have been walking in or out. "To let loose? To just... do it. Make sure they'll never do it again."
A low breath. Then: "Yes." She even laughs, head shaking easily as she does so. "All the time. I'm human, Leova; I try and control my emotions, and after all these turns, I guess I've gotten pretty good at it. But they get to me, too. Of course they do."
"You make it look easy," Leova admits. She turns away, then, turns toward where a dead plant used to be, and then away from that too. "It's hard to lock just some of it down." And: "Don't /want/ to, except for the part where I do." And, again, later, "Don't want to leave you in the lurch, either. If you really think it would be worth it. Maybe, if I could have... breathers. Maybe. Beyond spending part time in the infirmary," /infirmary/, as though the human infirmary were the exception. "I know we don't, usually." Special privileges. Unfairness.
Meara seems amused, somehow, by it looking so easy when she does it-- she shakes her head, but doesn't say anything on that /front/, holding her silence until: "If that would make it work for you, I'd be willing to consider that as an option. It's not as though the others have your dual role to begin with." Which makes it easy to wave away any potential unfairness.
"Canny," and in her strained-smoke voice it's a compliment. "All right." Vrianth's rider glances back over her shoulder, somehow shy. "All right. In that case. Tell me what more you need, to help."
Meara's eyes gleam, somehow. "Where to start--"