LOG: That Means You Belong
Date: Day 8, Month 8, Turn 26
Location: Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: Jaques and Quinlys talk about names, exiles and Impression.
Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
All the furniture here has been pushed to one side of the room to allow a large pathway opposite: room enough to let weyrling dragons pass from the bowl's archway to the cavernous barracks at the back. None of the furniture matches, either: it varies from big cushioned, claw-footed chairs to those of plain wood, while the most seating is at the two stone tables ringed by low and equally hard stone benches. Without the tapestries that decorate many of the Weyr's other interior spaces, the room always echoes with noise, no matter how few are there.
What it does have, however, are several colorful murals: on one wall, a detailed diagram of a dragon's anatomy; opposite, next to a creaky wooden door, a number of painted and labeled wing formations. Near the entrance is a large-scale version of the Weyr's badge, while the back wall, by the barracks, features a detailed map of the continent. The latter area's also home to one big, beat-up couch, black or maybe blue -- the thing's so old and filthy it's hard to tell, though it's certainly comfortable.
In the evening, the barracks grow quiet, as the dragons sleep after a busy day and the weyrlings take care of their own needs. For Jaques, this means trying to study over lessons again, though just at this moment he's rubbing at his eyes while flipping through the stack of papers he has left to go through.
Quinlys is not one of those weyrlings with major shortcomings in the academics department; surprise, surprise. Nor, thankfully, is she one of those people who studies extra 'just for fun'. Still, she /is/ one of the few weyrlings hanging around in the training cavern, this evening, though she's sucking at her pen rather than actually writing on the bit of paper in front of her, expression vacant as though she's utterly lost in thought - or in Olveraeth.
This is about as close as Jaques gets to a temper: he sets his pen down sharply and pushes back all his painstaking, not-really-legible notes in one huffed breath. "I think," he decides, "I feel stupider every time I try to read it again."
Blink. Blink. Owlish blink. Torn from her own thoughts, Quinlys' blue eyes flick towards the other weyrling, her ink-stained mouth quirking awkwardly as she pulls the pen away. "Do you need a hand?" she asks, helpfully pleasant, her head tipping towards the pages. "Sometimes, it helps to talk things out, rather than write them. Or so /I/ find, anyway."
Jaques, glancing up at Quinlys as she replies, Jaques seems almost surprised to find her, or maybe just her interest, there. His eyes quickly settle on her inky mouth, though, and he gestures to his own, helpfully. "You have--" he tries to explain. As for their studies, he shrugs, offering a wry smile. "Maybe later; I think I've done all I can for the minute at least."
That gesture towards his mouth, and the attempt to explain, draws, at first, a quizzical stare from the bluerider - before finally, she seems to realise, and starts wiping vaguely at the area with the back of her hand. "I didn't even realise I was doing it," she remarks, sounding half-surprised, though her smile doesn't abate. "Mm. I know that feeling, anyway. Sometimes things get easier, later. After a break. Are you really, truly not changing your name, Jaques?" The question bubbles out as though it's been sitting there for weeks… which, come to think of it, it probably has.
The efforts to get rid of the ink only make the brownrider's smile broaden, though he half-hides it behind a hand. The mention of his name makes his relaxed posture stiffen, some of the ease leaving him as he sits up that much straighter. "I--What would I change it to?" he says, like he's never heard this one before.
Quinlys clearly doesn't miss that smile, half-hidden though it is, and after a few moments more, gives up the cleaning exercise entirely. Ink-mouth, whatever. She seems surprised, however, by his reaction her question, tipping her head curiously to one side as she regards him. "I-- I don't know. You could change the letters, or something. J'es? J'que." Jess. J'kee. Shrugging, she adds, "I don't suppose it really matters. It's just - strange. I've never met a male dragonrider without one, that's all."
"I don't know," Jaques says, with an uncomfortable lift of his shoulders. "That's just--not my name, I guess," is the eventual confession. "I can't imagine answering to something else, after my parents and my family and my wife and everyone have always known me as Jaques." Wryly, "I suppose my parents should have planned before for this day."
'Wife' makes Quinly's mouth twist again, though surely, that's not news to her, either. She laughs, anyway, unselfconscious in her amusement as she agrees, "Clearly, they should have. Well - I don't suppose it really matters. It's Greshaith that makes you a rider, right? Not your name. I don't think I'd especially want to change /my/ name, either."
"I suppose so," Jaques agrees with that much, shaking his head. Then, "No? You don't want to be Quin? Or maybe Lys, instead. Emme did, but then, I think we all called her that mostly anyway, unless she were in trouble."
Nose wrinkling. Quinlys shakes her head, firmly. "I don't mind nicknames," she explains, "but I've always /been/ Quinlys. Anyway, it feels like if I abandoned half of my name, I'd be abandoning half of my heritage, because the 'Quin' comes from my father, and the 'Lys' from my mother."
"Ah," says Jaques in understanding. "Yes. That--weyrbred. Thing. Mine, at least, doesn't have that. I think I was named for some great-uncle or some such, but with the Blood I guessthey weren't really worried about how it would shorten even then. --There's always Inly, I suppose."
"Inly," repeats Quinlys, trying the name out, though she can't keep a straight face for it: no, no, no, says her amused shake of the head. "Ah, a family name? That's interesting. We don't really… /do/ that. I mean, my family doesn't. Some of them do, even with the whole name combination thing. What-- what's your wife's name again? Will you take up our tradition, if you have children with her, later?"
Her smile brings out his own again, briefly. Right up until she mentions his wife. "Evie," he supplies. "We... we haven't really talked about it. We didn't make it that far, before--." That's a sentence that's left unfinished. "Maybe a family name, again. My brother--" Something else not to finish. "Sorry. When did this get so depressing?"
Quinlys repeats the name, just under her breath and barely audible, though her expression has turned instantly and awkwardly apologetic. Her cheeks turn faintly pink as, hurriedly, "I'm sorry. That was my fault. I think I ask too many questions, sometimes… but then I see Iolene, and remember that I don't really. Still. Too many."
"No, no," Jaques hastens to assure Quinlys, though he can't hide that little bit of relief that she abstains from heading further down that path of questioning. "You know what's funny?" he speaks instead of Iolene. "Back home, she asked just as many questions, and we knew what we were doing--what everybody /else/ was doing--already there."
For that, Quinlys /has/ to laugh: genuinely, her amusement visible in the creases about her mouth and eyes, her dimples. "Did she really? She's an interesting girl, Iolene. She's going to drive Tiriana /crazy/." That last is said with the confidence of one who may never have actually had a conversation with the Weyrwoman… but knows this weyr all too well nonetheless. "She's sweet, though. I don't mind her questions."
"She's--my little sister, in a lot of ways," Jaques notes. "Well, all ways, except Blood, I expect. Is that so difficult?" A beat, as he shifts topics and then seems to realize that maybe a little more explanation is required. "The Weyrwoman. The Weyrleaders, in general."
"I understand," says Quinlys. "A lot of the children I played with growing up were like my siblings, too. I imagine all of you boys just wanted to protect her, right?" She seems to find it sweet - or so her expression suggests, amidst the amusement that hasn't quite departed. It's all followed by a furrow of brows, however, and a: "Mm? Do you mean… is it so difficult to drive the Weyrleaders crazy? Maybe not, I guess."
"I just--haven't really spoken to either," admits Jaques, frowning now. "The Weyrleader seemed--decent, when I spoke with him, but after what... what happened--. And the Weyrwoman, I've not spoken to her at all yet."
Quinlys admits, cheerfully, "I've never really had a proper conversation with either of them, either. I mean, I've /met/ them, but really just as one of a crowd. It's-- Tiriana's, um, mercurial, I guess? She can be a real bitch, but she loves this weyr, and I think she really does mean well. As long as you fit in with what she wants. K'del tries to be fair, but I think he worries too much. Takes everything too personal, or something. Anyway: you're all part of the weyr, now. That means you belong."
"So we are." Jaques does not, however, look comforted by this thought. "That's... sweet of you to say, though I don't doubt some feel otherwise," he finally decides. "I hope we don't embarrass ourselves too much in lessons, at any rate."
Glancing sidelong at Jaques, Quinlys draws her mouth together. Whatever she's thinking, however, she doesn't say it, opting, instead, for a, "I'm sure you'll be fine. The lessons that /really/ matter, anyway, are new to all of us. You know - formations, flying, Between. So we'll all be learning together."
It's enough to bring a hint of a relieved smile to Jaques' mouth, and he agrees, "True enough. Maybe we'll impress you yet, with our natural prowess. How is Olveraeth, by the way?"
"The finest riders High Reaches has ever seen," teases Quinlys, grinning. "Olly? He's good. Roaming the bowl again, for now; he's crazy-obsessed with the stars. With everything, I guess, but them in particular. It's a bit like having my brother in my head, sometimes - my brother being a starcrafter and all. How's Greshaith?"
"Oh, good, good," says Jaques of his brown. "Baking under this heat, he says, but he's--stoic, about it. He's had me and Iovniath both telling him stories of snow, apparently; she must be as much a cold-weather dragon as he is, even if he's yet to really feel it." There's a beat, and he leans forward in his chair, earnestness in the gesture. "Did you know, before?" he asks, without really explaining.
"She has a reputation for that," says Quinlys, laughing. "I guess some of them really do get something of their parents - like we do. It's fascinating." His earnestness ensures her smile remains, and she doesn't need to think, not even for a moment, before she shakes her head. "What it's like? No. I don't-- I don't think it's really possible to understand, until-- I never expected anything like Olly."
"I expected... a pet," confesses the brownrider. Jaques shakes his head. "Like one of you dogs, or a particularly intelligent runner, maybe. Not--" Greshaith. He shrugs again, lips pursing. "I thought it must seem so--normal, to you, though.
Quinlys' eyes go very wide: clearly, this is not the confession she expected. "I-- I knew more than that," she allows. "My parents are riders. Most of my family. It's hard to really understand the depth of it, though, until… does it bother you? That it's not at all what you expected? I'm sorry we didn't manage to convey it clearly enough."
There's a long quiet then, stretching out between them as Jaques, who's been fairly conversation until now, lapses into one of his pensive silences. "I don't know," he finally admits. "I don't know that I would have agreed to stand, if I had known."
During that silence, Quinlys' blue-eyed gaze lingers on the brownrider. Her mouth tightens at his admission, but all she can do is nod. "But you don't regret it, now." It's not a question. Half a beat later, less certain: "Do you?"
Jaques's silence is just a little too long on this end, too. "No. No," he finally concedes, though he's also standing up, gathering his things. "I think we're going to take a walk around the lake for a bit before bed. I need to /do/ something after all that studying. I'll see you tomorrow?"
There's a line across Quinlys' face again, and she looks-- troubled. But she nods, aiming for a cheerful enough smile, even if it doesn't actually reach her eyes. "Of course, Jaques. Have a good evening."
Location: Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: Jaques and Quinlys talk about names, exiles and Impression.
Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
All the furniture here has been pushed to one side of the room to allow a large pathway opposite: room enough to let weyrling dragons pass from the bowl's archway to the cavernous barracks at the back. None of the furniture matches, either: it varies from big cushioned, claw-footed chairs to those of plain wood, while the most seating is at the two stone tables ringed by low and equally hard stone benches. Without the tapestries that decorate many of the Weyr's other interior spaces, the room always echoes with noise, no matter how few are there.
What it does have, however, are several colorful murals: on one wall, a detailed diagram of a dragon's anatomy; opposite, next to a creaky wooden door, a number of painted and labeled wing formations. Near the entrance is a large-scale version of the Weyr's badge, while the back wall, by the barracks, features a detailed map of the continent. The latter area's also home to one big, beat-up couch, black or maybe blue -- the thing's so old and filthy it's hard to tell, though it's certainly comfortable.
In the evening, the barracks grow quiet, as the dragons sleep after a busy day and the weyrlings take care of their own needs. For Jaques, this means trying to study over lessons again, though just at this moment he's rubbing at his eyes while flipping through the stack of papers he has left to go through.
Quinlys is not one of those weyrlings with major shortcomings in the academics department; surprise, surprise. Nor, thankfully, is she one of those people who studies extra 'just for fun'. Still, she /is/ one of the few weyrlings hanging around in the training cavern, this evening, though she's sucking at her pen rather than actually writing on the bit of paper in front of her, expression vacant as though she's utterly lost in thought - or in Olveraeth.
This is about as close as Jaques gets to a temper: he sets his pen down sharply and pushes back all his painstaking, not-really-legible notes in one huffed breath. "I think," he decides, "I feel stupider every time I try to read it again."
Blink. Blink. Owlish blink. Torn from her own thoughts, Quinlys' blue eyes flick towards the other weyrling, her ink-stained mouth quirking awkwardly as she pulls the pen away. "Do you need a hand?" she asks, helpfully pleasant, her head tipping towards the pages. "Sometimes, it helps to talk things out, rather than write them. Or so /I/ find, anyway."
Jaques, glancing up at Quinlys as she replies, Jaques seems almost surprised to find her, or maybe just her interest, there. His eyes quickly settle on her inky mouth, though, and he gestures to his own, helpfully. "You have--" he tries to explain. As for their studies, he shrugs, offering a wry smile. "Maybe later; I think I've done all I can for the minute at least."
That gesture towards his mouth, and the attempt to explain, draws, at first, a quizzical stare from the bluerider - before finally, she seems to realise, and starts wiping vaguely at the area with the back of her hand. "I didn't even realise I was doing it," she remarks, sounding half-surprised, though her smile doesn't abate. "Mm. I know that feeling, anyway. Sometimes things get easier, later. After a break. Are you really, truly not changing your name, Jaques?" The question bubbles out as though it's been sitting there for weeks… which, come to think of it, it probably has.
The efforts to get rid of the ink only make the brownrider's smile broaden, though he half-hides it behind a hand. The mention of his name makes his relaxed posture stiffen, some of the ease leaving him as he sits up that much straighter. "I--What would I change it to?" he says, like he's never heard this one before.
Quinlys clearly doesn't miss that smile, half-hidden though it is, and after a few moments more, gives up the cleaning exercise entirely. Ink-mouth, whatever. She seems surprised, however, by his reaction her question, tipping her head curiously to one side as she regards him. "I-- I don't know. You could change the letters, or something. J'es? J'que." Jess. J'kee. Shrugging, she adds, "I don't suppose it really matters. It's just - strange. I've never met a male dragonrider without one, that's all."
"I don't know," Jaques says, with an uncomfortable lift of his shoulders. "That's just--not my name, I guess," is the eventual confession. "I can't imagine answering to something else, after my parents and my family and my wife and everyone have always known me as Jaques." Wryly, "I suppose my parents should have planned before for this day."
'Wife' makes Quinly's mouth twist again, though surely, that's not news to her, either. She laughs, anyway, unselfconscious in her amusement as she agrees, "Clearly, they should have. Well - I don't suppose it really matters. It's Greshaith that makes you a rider, right? Not your name. I don't think I'd especially want to change /my/ name, either."
"I suppose so," Jaques agrees with that much, shaking his head. Then, "No? You don't want to be Quin? Or maybe Lys, instead. Emme did, but then, I think we all called her that mostly anyway, unless she were in trouble."
Nose wrinkling. Quinlys shakes her head, firmly. "I don't mind nicknames," she explains, "but I've always /been/ Quinlys. Anyway, it feels like if I abandoned half of my name, I'd be abandoning half of my heritage, because the 'Quin' comes from my father, and the 'Lys' from my mother."
"Ah," says Jaques in understanding. "Yes. That--weyrbred. Thing. Mine, at least, doesn't have that. I think I was named for some great-uncle or some such, but with the Blood I guessthey weren't really worried about how it would shorten even then. --There's always Inly, I suppose."
"Inly," repeats Quinlys, trying the name out, though she can't keep a straight face for it: no, no, no, says her amused shake of the head. "Ah, a family name? That's interesting. We don't really… /do/ that. I mean, my family doesn't. Some of them do, even with the whole name combination thing. What-- what's your wife's name again? Will you take up our tradition, if you have children with her, later?"
Her smile brings out his own again, briefly. Right up until she mentions his wife. "Evie," he supplies. "We... we haven't really talked about it. We didn't make it that far, before--." That's a sentence that's left unfinished. "Maybe a family name, again. My brother--" Something else not to finish. "Sorry. When did this get so depressing?"
Quinlys repeats the name, just under her breath and barely audible, though her expression has turned instantly and awkwardly apologetic. Her cheeks turn faintly pink as, hurriedly, "I'm sorry. That was my fault. I think I ask too many questions, sometimes… but then I see Iolene, and remember that I don't really. Still. Too many."
"No, no," Jaques hastens to assure Quinlys, though he can't hide that little bit of relief that she abstains from heading further down that path of questioning. "You know what's funny?" he speaks instead of Iolene. "Back home, she asked just as many questions, and we knew what we were doing--what everybody /else/ was doing--already there."
For that, Quinlys /has/ to laugh: genuinely, her amusement visible in the creases about her mouth and eyes, her dimples. "Did she really? She's an interesting girl, Iolene. She's going to drive Tiriana /crazy/." That last is said with the confidence of one who may never have actually had a conversation with the Weyrwoman… but knows this weyr all too well nonetheless. "She's sweet, though. I don't mind her questions."
"She's--my little sister, in a lot of ways," Jaques notes. "Well, all ways, except Blood, I expect. Is that so difficult?" A beat, as he shifts topics and then seems to realize that maybe a little more explanation is required. "The Weyrwoman. The Weyrleaders, in general."
"I understand," says Quinlys. "A lot of the children I played with growing up were like my siblings, too. I imagine all of you boys just wanted to protect her, right?" She seems to find it sweet - or so her expression suggests, amidst the amusement that hasn't quite departed. It's all followed by a furrow of brows, however, and a: "Mm? Do you mean… is it so difficult to drive the Weyrleaders crazy? Maybe not, I guess."
"I just--haven't really spoken to either," admits Jaques, frowning now. "The Weyrleader seemed--decent, when I spoke with him, but after what... what happened--. And the Weyrwoman, I've not spoken to her at all yet."
Quinlys admits, cheerfully, "I've never really had a proper conversation with either of them, either. I mean, I've /met/ them, but really just as one of a crowd. It's-- Tiriana's, um, mercurial, I guess? She can be a real bitch, but she loves this weyr, and I think she really does mean well. As long as you fit in with what she wants. K'del tries to be fair, but I think he worries too much. Takes everything too personal, or something. Anyway: you're all part of the weyr, now. That means you belong."
"So we are." Jaques does not, however, look comforted by this thought. "That's... sweet of you to say, though I don't doubt some feel otherwise," he finally decides. "I hope we don't embarrass ourselves too much in lessons, at any rate."
Glancing sidelong at Jaques, Quinlys draws her mouth together. Whatever she's thinking, however, she doesn't say it, opting, instead, for a, "I'm sure you'll be fine. The lessons that /really/ matter, anyway, are new to all of us. You know - formations, flying, Between. So we'll all be learning together."
It's enough to bring a hint of a relieved smile to Jaques' mouth, and he agrees, "True enough. Maybe we'll impress you yet, with our natural prowess. How is Olveraeth, by the way?"
"The finest riders High Reaches has ever seen," teases Quinlys, grinning. "Olly? He's good. Roaming the bowl again, for now; he's crazy-obsessed with the stars. With everything, I guess, but them in particular. It's a bit like having my brother in my head, sometimes - my brother being a starcrafter and all. How's Greshaith?"
"Oh, good, good," says Jaques of his brown. "Baking under this heat, he says, but he's--stoic, about it. He's had me and Iovniath both telling him stories of snow, apparently; she must be as much a cold-weather dragon as he is, even if he's yet to really feel it." There's a beat, and he leans forward in his chair, earnestness in the gesture. "Did you know, before?" he asks, without really explaining.
"She has a reputation for that," says Quinlys, laughing. "I guess some of them really do get something of their parents - like we do. It's fascinating." His earnestness ensures her smile remains, and she doesn't need to think, not even for a moment, before she shakes her head. "What it's like? No. I don't-- I don't think it's really possible to understand, until-- I never expected anything like Olly."
"I expected... a pet," confesses the brownrider. Jaques shakes his head. "Like one of you dogs, or a particularly intelligent runner, maybe. Not--" Greshaith. He shrugs again, lips pursing. "I thought it must seem so--normal, to you, though.
Quinlys' eyes go very wide: clearly, this is not the confession she expected. "I-- I knew more than that," she allows. "My parents are riders. Most of my family. It's hard to really understand the depth of it, though, until… does it bother you? That it's not at all what you expected? I'm sorry we didn't manage to convey it clearly enough."
There's a long quiet then, stretching out between them as Jaques, who's been fairly conversation until now, lapses into one of his pensive silences. "I don't know," he finally admits. "I don't know that I would have agreed to stand, if I had known."
During that silence, Quinlys' blue-eyed gaze lingers on the brownrider. Her mouth tightens at his admission, but all she can do is nod. "But you don't regret it, now." It's not a question. Half a beat later, less certain: "Do you?"
Jaques's silence is just a little too long on this end, too. "No. No," he finally concedes, though he's also standing up, gathering his things. "I think we're going to take a walk around the lake for a bit before bed. I need to /do/ something after all that studying. I'll see you tomorrow?"
There's a line across Quinlys' face again, and she looks-- troubled. But she nods, aiming for a cheerful enough smile, even if it doesn't actually reach her eyes. "Of course, Jaques. Have a good evening."