Post by blueaid on Sept 18, 2008 18:42:13 GMT -8
((Pre-dates the fugue events.))
She knew the type. She braced herself for it. She was not disappointed.
But Rivaly found gems of enlightenment amid the futility of trying to dig-a-little-deeper with the likes of this particular weyrling bronzerider. What he didn't know, wouldn't know was that she did her research before bringing them to meet her, found out what she could by the subtle application of questions, rumors, and hidework. She knew, for example, that he'd walked away from a lengthy and fruitless apprenticeship to accept candidacy, that he felt a little awkward being turns older than the other weyrlings, and that he insisted on the portrayal of flippancy despite the demands laid upon him. And she knew that he and his dragon seldom saw eye-to-eye with regards to those demands.
She watched Z'dayi through the first questions. His reaction to her would have thrilled most girls; he was taken aback, a momentarily startled expression catching him off-guard when they shook hands, and he realized that she was pretty-enough. He was clever enough not to flirt with her, but she caught his airs throughout the conversation: that he sat with a deliberate slouch, that he spoke with a drawl that occasionally lightened when he got onto a subject that he didn't hold as guardedly, that he tried to steer the conversation like he stood a chance of pulling the wool over Rivaly's eyes.
Only a few of his remarks really rang true.
"Tell me about Tremaith, about your bond."
He was hesitant, reluctant to try to vocalize what there was between him and the bronze. But she was patient, and she had made that plain by this point; either he would answer, or they would sit there in awkward silence with those clear green eyes picking out every betraying nuance when he made the mistake of fidgeting. "He's-- Tremaith's different, ambitious'n proud. He wants me to be something I ain't, and we go rounds about it."
"What are you if it's not what he wants?"
He twitched, the corner of his lips turned. "I'm-- shells, shouldn't you be tellin' me what I am? You're the brain-cracker."
"I'd rather hear it from you."
His fingers drummed. He smiled tolerantly across at her, getting frustrated with the game. "I ain't ambitious. I'm happy kinda being-- just being left alone. And I don't wanna be important or anything."
"I think the word you're looking for is 'mediocre.'"
She saw it, in a moment, that he wanted to get mad at her for that turn-of-phrase, that he didn't like being labeled as mediocre even while he strove for mediocrity. The rest of the interview unraveled after that while he sought to keep a tighter lid on things, purposefully built walls to keep her from getting in where he didn't want her.
Finally, Rivaly let him leave before it dissolved into small-talk uselessness. She knew that he felt like he'd won, like he'd revealed little of himself. But she'd gotten what she wanted, a glimpse of a man-- not a boy-- struggling with a position he felt unready for, unfit for. It proved something: A rider could resent his dragon, even while he loved and cherished that dragon, and that was going to be a fascinating aspect to her research.
She knew the type. She braced herself for it. She was not disappointed.
But Rivaly found gems of enlightenment amid the futility of trying to dig-a-little-deeper with the likes of this particular weyrling bronzerider. What he didn't know, wouldn't know was that she did her research before bringing them to meet her, found out what she could by the subtle application of questions, rumors, and hidework. She knew, for example, that he'd walked away from a lengthy and fruitless apprenticeship to accept candidacy, that he felt a little awkward being turns older than the other weyrlings, and that he insisted on the portrayal of flippancy despite the demands laid upon him. And she knew that he and his dragon seldom saw eye-to-eye with regards to those demands.
She watched Z'dayi through the first questions. His reaction to her would have thrilled most girls; he was taken aback, a momentarily startled expression catching him off-guard when they shook hands, and he realized that she was pretty-enough. He was clever enough not to flirt with her, but she caught his airs throughout the conversation: that he sat with a deliberate slouch, that he spoke with a drawl that occasionally lightened when he got onto a subject that he didn't hold as guardedly, that he tried to steer the conversation like he stood a chance of pulling the wool over Rivaly's eyes.
Only a few of his remarks really rang true.
"Tell me about Tremaith, about your bond."
He was hesitant, reluctant to try to vocalize what there was between him and the bronze. But she was patient, and she had made that plain by this point; either he would answer, or they would sit there in awkward silence with those clear green eyes picking out every betraying nuance when he made the mistake of fidgeting. "He's-- Tremaith's different, ambitious'n proud. He wants me to be something I ain't, and we go rounds about it."
"What are you if it's not what he wants?"
He twitched, the corner of his lips turned. "I'm-- shells, shouldn't you be tellin' me what I am? You're the brain-cracker."
"I'd rather hear it from you."
His fingers drummed. He smiled tolerantly across at her, getting frustrated with the game. "I ain't ambitious. I'm happy kinda being-- just being left alone. And I don't wanna be important or anything."
"I think the word you're looking for is 'mediocre.'"
She saw it, in a moment, that he wanted to get mad at her for that turn-of-phrase, that he didn't like being labeled as mediocre even while he strove for mediocrity. The rest of the interview unraveled after that while he sought to keep a tighter lid on things, purposefully built walls to keep her from getting in where he didn't want her.
Finally, Rivaly let him leave before it dissolved into small-talk uselessness. She knew that he felt like he'd won, like he'd revealed little of himself. But she'd gotten what she wanted, a glimpse of a man-- not a boy-- struggling with a position he felt unready for, unfit for. It proved something: A rider could resent his dragon, even while he loved and cherished that dragon, and that was going to be a fascinating aspect to her research.