Logs:A Perfect Storm of Circumstance
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| RL Date: 16 September, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Beastcraft Hall, Ista Weyr |
| Type: Vignette |
| What: Faryn's got plenty of balls in the air -- she just didn't expect them to all fall at once, at such inconvenient angles. |
| When: Months 9-10, Turn 38, Interval 10 |
| Mentions: Fadra/Mentions, Farideh/Mentions, Hanson/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, Jo/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Kierna/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions, T'mic/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Let me know if changes are needed! |
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| Day 17, Month 9 Fadra was in the Reaches on business, or so she'd have everyone believe. Nobody had any reason to question her, at any rate. She wasn't familiar to anyone but the junior weyrwoman's assistant, with few exceptions, and so was left alone when she propped up the wall near the weyrleader's complex, all pint-sized bravado and knowing looks, wearing that smug little grin that was, for Faryn, like looking into a mirror. If she had any right to be there, she most assuredly shouldn't have had the gall to wait there, sipping from a flask and critically eyeing all the passing residents so intently many grew uncomfortable under her stare. It didn't matter; she wasn't waiting for them. When Faryn finally came jogging down the steps, hauling her bag and still shrugging into a handsome brown-bronze flight jacket, there was no official greeting; it was just, "Catch," and something silver catching what little sunlight remained in the autumn afternoon, sloshing as it twisted through the air. Faryn's reaction was reflexive, her fingers touching the cool steel, and of course it was a second flask. Of course, when she thumbed it open, it wafted the strong scent of Tillekien spiced whiskey. Of course, Faryn capped it and took the last few steps down until she was on a level with the brownrider. "Mum." "Came t'see how y'were farin', now the herders aren't letting th'weyrs Search." Fadra's drawl was Ista, of course, but it was Tillek too. The marriage was rough and familiar, and Faryn might lean into its dropped vowels and rolled consonants like a cat if given half the chance. She didn't, rather rocking back on her heels and away as Fadra continued. "Thought maybe y'might like something t'pick up your spirits. Nice jacket. In bed with a bronzerider?" "Blue," corrected Faryn, like it mattered, but there were enough loose ends for her to ignore the rest of her mother's discourse. "It was a gift." From a bronzerider, she does not add. And then, since they both already knew -- Fadra was staring at the peek of Faryn's knot beneath said jacket, and she'd been waiting here, not in the stables or near the apprentice dorms, and for all the alcohol she was still so very calculating -- she added dutifully, "As soon as Niahvth clutches, I've been promised a knot. By Quinlys." Fadra's mouth twitched, almost into one of her deeper frowns, but then it reversed into a smile. Faryn wanted to bolt. "How much're y'paying for your maybe, Faryn?" "Nothing. The craft didn't charge me." Yet. "And it's not a maybe." Fadra's scoff was a more refined version of Faryn's own, the kind one earns through trial and perfects after turns. "A maybe dragon," she specifies, sounding a little disgusted. "Y'quit ten shardin' turns for a silly dream y'had from a babe and t'be a glorified messenger for a junior goldrider. And if'n y'can't have th'life y'want, y'break it instead, for everyone else?" She tipped her flask back again and held it out like some courtesy; the conversation was not meant to be a sober one. "Can't say y'don't get this bullshit honestly, but I hoped your da would make it manageable." Faryn's anger was suddenly seething and she didn't know when she'd crossed her arms or she'd started glaring, sullenly, like a teenager. Her fury met Fadra's surprisingly lucid gaze and that infuriating smile. "Faranth forbid I do what you did. I didn't think--" "Of fuckin course, y'didn't, Faryn. Y'never fuckin think." Fadra wasn't deterred that Faryn flinched back when she lifted a hand, and her rap of knuckles between the eyes wasn't gentle. "I made my mistakes, and I told y'so y'wouldn't have t'make 'em yourself. If you're too fuckin stupid t'realize that, then hell with ya." It hurt. Not just the rap of knuckles, but all of it. Faryn stood there, vibrating with the barely contained tirade she carried for her mother everywhere, always. Just when she thought it might slip out, words like bile in the back of her throat, she felt Fadra's arm slide over her shoulders companionably. Not a hug. They both balked from that, but this was as close as it would get, them shoulder to shoulder and pointing to a point on the compass. Across the bowl, Sulizath's craggy, mountainous bulk was easy to spot, and Fadra steered them that way; Faryn watched the ground. "C'mon. We'll take ya t'your business, then t'the Sandbar." Faryn, for once, didn't protest, though her skin crawled under the touch. She was too busy thinking, contrary to popular belief, because it was impossible for her to stop. She couldn't explain she'd thought this all through. That it had blown up in her face was a different matter entirely. Day 25, Month 9 T'mic told her to leave, and her mistakes spent the week resurfacing like old bruises. She'd slept in the stables the first night, where some of her comforts still lived. The runner in the third stall from the heavy doors never did sleep well, and had greeted her like an old friend. She'd stood there, her head pressed against the mare's wide forehead, grateful for the contact until it struck her as deeply perverse, that she could draw that comfort from a beast, but not with a person. She'd left them too, when they became too demanding, asked for a larger piece of her identity than she was willing to part with. Disengaging was easier than it had ever been with T'mic; nothing had taken root, and the runner's affections would always stay the same for anyone who was warm and kept sugar in their pockets, and sometimes the first was optional. She was grateful for the privacy at least. It had been so long, engaged, interacting, smiling for them. Feigning happy. Convincing herself she could do what they wanted, be what they needed. When the impossibility of it all unraveled, it started at the corners of her mouth, where the last remnant of that ritual smile fell off, then moved through the rest of her. Across strong, slender shoulders; down each tripping vertebrae of her spine; rattling around her ribcage in a sigh as she leaned against her familiar bale of hay in the loft and pushed her satchel into place as a pillow. She dozed to the sound of the rain beating on the doors, begging to be let in, and the sweet scent of wet hay, and remembered at just the last moment that Jorrth would need a new bale soon. It didn't linger for her dreams, and she woke the next morning feeling oddly hollow, which was better than feeling guilty. Day 8, Month 10 It had been easy to forget, with the weyr on hypersexual edge and the two resultant goldflights, that there were bigger things. There were always bigger things. She could be forgiven for wanting to focus on the good things, while the bad slipped off to the wayside. Good. She wouldn't worry about her opportunities with two clutches on the Sands. Good. She would Stand again before she aged out. Good. She would move on with her life without a niggling doubt for what could be, whether it held a lifemate or a loan from one suspicious bluerider for a stable somewhere sunny. Good. There was still no letter attached to an itemized bill from the Crafthall, just one that told her the terms of her disengagement. No blame, no threats. Just a promise. She would not be welcome back in the craft after this. She'd ducked the wire that they placed out after she left. Despite the letter, she did the math based on estimations of what she thought her education would cost. Her guilt blossomed like an ink-stain in the flood of relief she felt, knowing the request wouldn't come. It took an off-hand mention of K'del to make her remember that a bill wasn't the biggest issue. It had been easy to pretend there were no problems when the golds were glowing, even given the dire circumstances of the first, but now that it was all over she could plainly recall a promise made, even if it was informal. Make it seem okay. Figure out a way that Hanson -- and the other craftmasters by extension, before they got any ideas -- could view Search of their apprentices in rosy light. She thought it might be easier to convince a dragon to eat her alive. Day 22, Month 10 Her letter to the Craftmaster and her erstwhile 'second was penned briefly and succinctly; she didn't expect it to go terribly far, maybe not even to its intended recipients before being intercepted and replied to by a journeyman or a different master, but it didn't matter. It didn't contain an apology, because she wasn't sorry. It also, despite her inclinations, did not contain any insults, swears, or accusations. It did contain a request to speak with them, if they could spare the time. She wanted to explain, and more importantly, she needed to understand why before she could ever form a reason for why not. It was the only letter that day she didn't deliver herself. |
Comments
Squishy (01:37, 17 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
This, was fantastic to read.
Jo (11:48, 17 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
Loved all of this. Fadra is someone I think Jo would enjoy meeting.
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