Logs:Almost
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| RL Date: 26 November, 2014 |
| Who: Farideh, Weylaughn |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Late night wine drinking and revelations. |
| Where: Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 16, Month 5, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Damp, cool. |
| Mentions: Yewlani/Mentions, Anatolia/Mentions, Lycinea/Mentions, Edyis/Mentions |
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>---< Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr(#378RJs) >---------------------<
Just off of the main passageway lies the small cavern that forms the hub
of the residents' quarters, kept immaculately clean by the headwoman's
staff and warmed in cold weather by a stone hearth to the left and well
back from the entrance. Comfortable chairs and a plush fur arrayed before
the hearth make an inviting spot to curl up with a book or handicraft, or
just to sit and chat. Beyond, additional chairs stand in clusters
throughout the room, some upholstered with age-softened hide, some plain
wood. At the widest point of the cavern, a round table gleams with polish,
though its surface is nicked and scarred from Turns of use. Beyond the
table, the very back of the cavern often lies in shadow unless the
glowbaskets there are unlidded to cast cozy pools of light. The commingled
scents of klah, smoke and polish permeate the air along with the sweetness
of rosemary and lavender.
Tapestries hang across the entrances to dormitories and more private
quarters as well as the exit to the outer hall, colorful protections from
drafts.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Farideh F 18 5'5 Skinny, Brown hair, Hazel eyes 0s
Weylaugh M 19 6' Athletic, Black hair, Gray eyes 1s
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Private Rooms Resident Quarters Candidate Quarters Headwoman's Office
Nursery Classroom Inner Caverns
>------------------------------------------< 16D 5M 36T I10, spring dusk >---< Timor and Belior are alight in the midnight sky high above the Reaches. It is such a time, of a late hour, that most residents are snuggled up in their beds. Flames are kept crackling in the hearth of the commons room for insomniacs and those with nighttime duties, and it is in front of that staple warmth that Farideh sits. She's got her legs curled up, her chin resting on her knees, a blanket pulled over her shoulders and her toes peeking out of the bottom. Her hair is tossed into a messy bun on the top of her head, and underneath the blanket, she's wearing her work clothes. Lukewarm klah, in a chipped and warped mug, sits on the rug next to her. She's staring, but not quite seeing, at the fire. Silence hangs around her, much like the blanket, broken only by the odd snore or giggles from the series of caverns that branch off the commons. It's late enough that three children are asleep in their shared dorm - and due to be joined by the fourth and eldest. But sleep has been elusive for Weylaughn and he's taken to chasing it down with a bottle (or two) of wine. Work has been a curious burden for the Holder-lad, even if it's not so different than what he did before, and the weariness of it - of everything - has finally started to drag his shoulders down. He's wholly oblivious of the world as he passes through the commons, a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other, and a world-weary cast to his features. Pale eyes briefly flick toward the fire and the chairs there, but it's a passing thing, something that elicits only a blink before he moves a little further on to claim a chair that's just a bit further away. Better to see the fire, see? And better to keep the wine relatively cool. The laundress is in a similar boat, and it takes Weylaughn sitting down in a chair to drag her sleepy hazel eyes from the fire. Surprise stirs her previously flat expression, but recognition warms her eyes, her lips curling in a lazy smile. "Can't sleep?" Her voice sounds as tired as her hooded eyes suggest, and yet, carries a pleased quality. "It's still strange seeing you here. In here." Farideh must mean in the commons, where all the residents live, and not in a paid room or away, at his home Hold. He's in the midst of pouring a glass of wine - still a fine Benden red, if not a particularly prestigious year - when her words make impact. Wey stops, bottle held above the glass in his hand, and hesitates for only a moment before setting the bottle down. "Sleep," he muses, "is a slippery thing for me of late. And all I can hope to do is catch it in a glass or two of this." He pushes to his feet and crosses to where she's bundled up, only to offer her the glass; he'll keep the bottle. His mouth twists a little to one side at her latter words and he makes a vague, noncommittal noise. "More me and mine than for you, I'm sure. Though they seem to be settling in well enough, the brats." Pure affection, that. "How have you been?" Fingers dig firmly into the fabric, pulling the blanket snug around her shoulders, just so Farideh can reach out and accept the glass of wine he offers her. "You're not afraid of becoming addicted?" with her mouth hovering at the rim of the glass, eyes watchful in spite of her about-to-drink status. It is after she takes a generous sip and sets the glass to the side, where it joins her unfinished mug of klah, that she warrants a sigh. "It's hard at first. It's still hard, now, for me, but it gets better." She tucks her toes under the hem of the patchwork throw and wrinkle her nose. "I've been well. Doubting my ability to wash laundry for the rest of my days, but I have a full belly and no leprosy. Who am I to complain?" Her eyes, brimming with amusement, come back to rest on Weylaughn. He settles on the floor next to her, knees drawn up and bottle resting ready at his far hip. For the moment, though, it remains untouched; Wey just wraps his arms loosely around his knees and folds up, head tilted to rest his cheek on his knees. "I can stop any time," he reassures with a tilted smile. "And I will. Once I'm able to get some sleep. All the noise- it's still, ah. Still too much." The snoring. The snorting. The shuffling. It's all fairly overwhelming for him still, even if his siblings seem to be fine. His mouth pulls a bit further to the side at her admissions and, in the end, he lifts his head to study the fire. "I suppose that's the healthy way to think of things," he concedes with a sigh. "I just- I hardly know what to do with myself these days. Work, of course, but then- what? I'm sure you, at least, have something to do when the laundry's done. Something to look forward to. Don't you?" "Mm, the noise." The sound she makes is a sympathetic one, like she knows all too well the problem with the noise in the caverns at night. "You might not for a long time get a true moment of silence, but once you're used to it, silence is strange." Farideh listens wordlessly, opting to lend an ear while he needs it. When he's finished speaking, she dips her chin farther, her cheeks brushing the edges of the blanket, though it may be to hide their rosy tint than anything else. "I don't know. I find things to do. I have a couple friends - Lycinea, Edyis. I spend time with them when our schedules aren't conflicting, but the nature of their jobs are different than mine. I've picked up needlework again, and.. I try make new friends when I can." A half-hearted shrug follows. "There's... a difference," Weylaughn replies. "Seven Echoes was never silent. But the sounds were muted. Familiar, you see?" His nose wrinkles and, finally, he takes a pull off of his bottle. A long one. "Though, outside, there were places that were silent. Utterly silent." A beat. Two. Then: "I couldn't stand those places. They bothered me." He shifts a little in place, which inevitably brings him just a bit closer to the chin-dipping Farideh. It's his turn to make some soft sound or another in acknowledgment, little more than a 'hm' with a bit of weight to it. He sucks his teeth thoughtfully for a moment or two, only to murmur, "I'd like to see the needlework sometime, if I may. I'm always fascinated by things like that - and the people that do them." He glances askance at her, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth before they're tugged into a slight frown. "Friends." That's a funny word, isn't it. Nothing follows the thought, unless one counts a bit of silent inner cheek-chewing.
He continues to study the flickering flames, either oblivious or simply uncaring of the scrutiny. He's lived with a greater weight his entire life, after all; it's hardly noticeable now. Weylaughn releases his bite-hold on his cheek and releases a breath through his teeth in a soundless hiss. Is he even listening? The gloss of his eyes might say otherwise - and, yet: "I suppose that's the difference, then; you wanted to hear your thoughts." There are some other suspicions, a slight tightening of his brow, but nothing further; just a fleeting notion that clearly doesn't take root. "Utterly the opposite. And yet." He continues no further with that thought, either, opting to drown his tongue temporarily with another long hit of wine straight from the bottle. He remains still for some time after, his proximity comfortably close - if only for himself. It's the 'friend' thing that elicits a dull, "Friends? No. Acquaintances by the dozen, drinking partners by scores. But friends?" There's a slight shake of his head, then a tilt, which lands her squarely in the corner of his sight. "I've one - two at most - and that's if they'll even have me as that. I've hardly done them any favors by knowing them, at least before all of this." "Why wouldn't I?" Shifting a bit, just to get more comfortable, Farideh slants Weylaughn another one of her bemused looks. "How can you think when everyone else is talking? Do this, wear that, don't say that, go here, stop that." Her eyebrows rise and fall with her words, mimicking someone - or someones - throughout the course of her speech. She exhales softly at the end, but her eyes stay, lingering, not willing to unleash their hold on the man's face yet. It's in the little facial nuances that she can get a better understanding of the things he doesn't say. "That's unfortunate. You'll make more, I'm sure. '"We can work on being friends?" Rather than wait for his acceptance, the girl takes up her wine glass and holds it up, waiting for him to touch it with his wine bottle; a cheers. "That would be something," with a smile teasing the corners of her mouth. Yet, Weylaughn seems to have difficulty maintaining steady attention on her face. The topic troubles him just enough that his next round of shifting subtly draws him away even while she attempts to get more comfortable. The contents of the bottle are regarded with weary eyes, as if assessing whether another might be necessary to see this night through. Eventually, he mutters, "My thoughts were never mine, Farideh. And as much as I loved my Mother, her voice- what she wanted-" he grimaces. "It was too much. Entirely too much. The less I heard her in my head, the better." He wants to shrug the topic off and does so, at least physically. Silence is allowed to unspool his part while she continues her scrutiny. Her next words are perhaps more troubling, in some way, but it's hard to define and she'll be left only with the unreadable distortion of his features to suggest something isn't quite meshing right in his mind. Still. The glass is lifted and the bottle lifted in kind, glass brought together to utter a companionable clinking sound. "If that's how you'd like it," he replies, a sidelong look and lopsided smile coupling with the words. "Though goodness only knows why you'd want to, after everything else." It's a bit of a tease and he tries to underline that fact with a friendly nudge of his shoulder to hers. Obliviousness is in high demand tonight. Though she is full on staring at him, and she realizes his mood isn't what it should be, she's not connecting any of the dots. Farideh doesn't even seem bothered with his subtle moving away or his lack of determination in being her friend. She purses her lips thoughtfully and swirls the contents of her glass after they're toasted - to what? "My mother," she begins with an exhaustive sigh, "was much the same, but I didn't let her control me. I wouldn't be here if I did. It's one thing to let them shove you into a dress, another to choose the pants you wear." If that makes any sense. "What do you mean if that's how I'd like it? And after what? I was horrid to you a few times and you have been nothing but kind. What would you have me do, take you for an enemy? No, I have enough of those." Then, she drinks. It's for the better, in the end. Even as Farideh continues to speak, Weylaughn's mood slips ever further into the strange, dark place he's inexorably found. "Without her, I wouldn't be here." And that's a troubling thought of the worst order. Does he understand what she's saying? Maybe. Possibly. If he's even hearing the words, which is unlikely at this point. The glazing of his eyes is less 'thoughtful distance' and more 'mild inebriation' - though the difference between the two is still a fine one. She drinks. He finishes his bottle. "Doesn't matter now," he finally says while he gathers his feet under himself in preparation to stand. "You- I'm glad that you want to be my friend, Farideh." The words are slow, but clear; conscious in their utterance even if he's started on the slide that will eventually land in slurring and slumber. "But you shouldn't trust me or my kindness." Hunkered into a crouch on the balls of his feet, he properly looks at her this time, his expression somber. "Because none of it was given for the sake of just being friends." That thought is one the laundress hasn't have the forethought to think about. It draws a frown and a tempered mien. Farideh's eyes steal to the now-empty bottle, her fingers clutching her glass's stem lightly, and then to the former Holder. "It doesn't-" Her voice catches on a sigh, her eyes level on his, her lips transforming into a light-hearted smile for his benefit. "Weylau-" And finally, her smile freezes and her mouth falls, her grin disappearing in favor of a little 'o' shape. Color blossoms in the apples of her cheeks in the face of this newest understanding, and she does in fact understand what he's getting at. "You.. like.. me?" Not her most charismatic moment, or the smoothest of words, but she doesn't hedge the subject or trying to move, at least. The other topic is effectively shunted aside in favor of this one, one that has Weylaughn caught between standing his ground to see it through - and fleeing. The hesitation is plainly there, writ in the furrow of his brow and the sucking of his teeth. But it's only at her seeming confusion - and the fact that she's not the one fleeing or throwing the glass at him or anything like that - which cements his decision. His free hand, the one closest to her, lifts in an attempt to brush his knuckles along her temple toward her cheek. It's a featherlight touch, there and gone in a matter of seconds - just long enough for him to say, "I do. As I'm sure so many other do. You're more than just pretty; you're smart and cunning and... and..." The verbal flailing ends in a hard swallow and a sidelong look to his bottle then to her glass. Embarrassment colors his features as he breathes, "Sorry, sorry, I- I hope it's not too much of a shock. I should have saved you a glass or two for this. I can, ah- I can get more, if you'd care for it," but he's not about to move without her blessing. Not now. Any signs that were there weren't seen, evidentially, because the girl's surprise is real and palpable. Rosy-red cheeks are hard to miss, along with the over-bright eyes. It's his caress that has her sucking in a quiet breath and holding it, her lips parting in a silent exhale that doesn't happen until his hand is gone. "I don't think I'm terribly smart," but she won't deny pretty, vanity being her strong suit. Playing coy at such a time might be moot, or an overreach, and still, Farideh lowers her eyes and lets the hand holding her blanket relax so it can loosen. "I didn't know. I just thought that.." Her forehead creases and her eyes flick back up to his. "You're the kind of guy I'm supposed to be with." Maybe she's just stating the obvious, or thinking out loud is more like it. "Weylaughn," she almost touches his knee, but her fingers hover there, in the air instead, "you don't have to. You're tired already. Don't overexert yourself for me." But it's not admonishing, it strangely has the quality of concern to it. "You are," Weylaughn reassures with fervence. "You are all of that, even if you can't see it." Or won't admit to it, of course. The loosening of her blanket is met with a concerned look of his own and he reaches again, this time to try to tuck the fabric over her near shoulder securely. And if his fingers end up resting at her neck, so be it; they'll remain there until he needs to move again or she swats them away. "And you're almost the kind of woman I'm supposed to be with," he replies. Then his smile manifests, boyish and a little goofy. "Except you aren't obedient and quiet and dull. ... and I like you all the more for it." Her near-touch is still felt and anticipation threads tightly through him until it becomes clear that contact will not come to fruition. "... are you certain?" And concern is countered with the same, though he doesn't settle from his ready crouch. "Because I truly would, if you wanted." Even if he'd rather not move at all, not now. The flattery is met with a winsome smile, in contrast to the continued flush in her cheeks. Words of thanks are needless - it's written on Farideh's face. She lets him readjust her blanket and makes no fuss about where his hand lingers, or doesn't. Her smile wobbles a bit at his suggestion that she's somehow not perfect, but the latter words rectify the situation. "I'm fine. I was already tired and didn't need the wine, but now.." Cutting her eyes to the side, she gives a small, effortless shrug. "Thank you though." She manages a quickly glance at him from underneath her eyelashes, battling the surge to giggle nervously by chewing on the inside of her bottom lip. "Alright," he says with a slight dip of his chin in acquiescence. Wey shifts his posture again, easily settling into a proper kneel beside her. Better that way, considering the crouch was going to get terribly wobbly if he was to stay that way for much longer. And, of course, now that he's in exactly no position to get up and move quickly, he offers, "Do you want an escort back to your quarters? I'd hate for you to fall asleep here," even if, honestly, the warmth is definitely appealing. And, yes, his fingers do linger at the side of her neck, with nary a bit of pressure from his shifting stance. Those fingers idly caress and stroke, unconsciously making their way to the back of her neck and settling into a gentle kneading there. And so what if he's leaning in just a bit, eyes fixed on her face as they are. The lip-chewing, though, that's worth a troubled wrinkling of his forehead. "Are you well, Farideh?" There are moments in life and then there are moments - and Weylaughn, the poor sod, is clearly oblivious to either kind. "Would you?" Farideh queries, sounding hopeful that he will, though there is far less to be afraid of walking in the glow-bolstered hallways of the resident quarters. "If it isn't too much trouble," and no, she won't bat her eyelashes this time, letting sentiment steer the wheel. Her flush turns a couple shades darker with all of the attention - both physical and conversational - and she fidgets with both hands, the one on her wineglass and the other one pulled back from Weylaughn's leg. She almost goes cross-eyed when he pulls in near, but whispers a poignant, "very well" just in time to her eyes closing and chin lifting, her lips offered up in sacrifice. Shut up, Weylaughn, and kiss the girl! "Of course," is his near-incredulous response. As if he wouldn't! The very thought is distressing - or would be, under any other circumstances. Weylaughn opens his mouth to add something further but those words are quickly swallowed when Farideh lifts her chin and shuts her eyes and does that thing that many a man has yearned for. The fingers at her neck secure their grip a little further down, fingers resting just under her jaw and palm spread over the back of her neck. There's an obvious reluctance to his movements, as if wary of the sacrifice being laid out. Understandably wary, perhaps, but wary all the same. He wets his lips and goes half-lidded as he leans in, a kiss aimed for her lips - if a little off-center. It doesn't help that his free hand is awkwardly resting on his knee, but he'll figure it out. Maybe. One could be kissed in worse ways than this, with less patience and little finesse. It might take him more than what would be appropriate to come in for the physical contact, but Farideh doesn't have a timer going. She hasn't moved from her lip-puckered stance the whole time and even once their lips are pressed together, she's still. Her usual position of demanding, lead role has been waived in favor of Weylaughn handling the proper measures - if he can figure it out. It just takes a moment and Weylaughn finally comes back online, as it were. Any trepidation must have been linked to an uncertainty about her and, once that's assuaged, the Holder presses into things a bit more fervently - but without an overpowering sense of urgency. His lamely flopping hand finally sorts things out enough to seek out the glass in Farideh's hand and attempt to set it aside without breaking it. And, if he can manage that, then he'll move one step further and steal that same hand to lace his fingers with hers. The kiss itself stays fairly chaste on his part, with only a suggestion of parted lips as he steps it up, just so. Farideh makes a tiny sound when he removes her wine glass - didn't need it, eh? - and fearlessly laces her fingers with his in lieu of said glass. Her own insistence is subtle, and as such, their kiss stays delightfully chaste and sweet, as far as kisses go. She's the first to pull away, only to separate their contact and rest her forehead against his with her eyes still closed. "I should go to bed," she says quietly, a ripple of tension running through her words - the good kind. It's only when she moves back a fraction that she tries to meet his gaze and smile shyly. His fingers tighten just the barest bit in the moments before the kiss is broken - but he doesn't fight to continue when she pulls away. Instead, his forehead presses to hers, eyes half-lidded, and his fingers remain loosely knotted with hers. "As should I," he admits, voice gone a bit rough at some point. "I'll see you to your quarters, if you'll allow it." And, when she does pull back, he momentarily goes cross-eyed until everything sorts itself out. Her shy smile is met with a tilted, boyish one of his own - a terribly earnest smile, just at the edge of giddiness. "Thank you," he adds a breath later, just before lifting his head enough to angle a kiss to her forehead. They could spend all night sitting in front of the fire and chatting, but a girl's got to play hard to get to some extent. "For?" Farideh asks innocently, untangling her fingers long enough to brace herself with her palm as she struggles to get to her feet; clutching a blanket with the one hand and trying not to bump into any wine glasses, bottles, or Weylaughn, is hard. Despite the lingering fuzziness, Wey's able to push himself to his feet with some semblence of fluid grace. A hand is offered to help her up, if she's inclined to take it. Her question momentarily puts him off-balance - as if he wasn't expecting any inquiry at all. All the same, his reply comes quickly, practically blurted out: "For not slapping me and- ah, for letting me..." and he can't even muster the words 'kiss you'. His cheeks pick up a bit of color and he looks away, but for only a moment. Whenever she's ready to leave, he'll go with her - and the worst he'll do is hope for another quick kiss before he slips off to a night full of not sleeping. |
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