Logs:Cribbage & Change
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| RL Date: 29 March, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, Tomic |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A game of cribbage becomes a serious conversation about the nature of change. |
| Where: Stables, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 20, Month 5, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Quinlys/Mentions |
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| he runners have been asleep for hours. They paw occasionally, snuffle, stamp their hooves in the grips of whatever runner-dreams they might have, but to say it is quiet this time of night, with the sun long gone and the evening air sneaking between the cracks, is not a stretch. Though the hour for constant attendance has passed, there is a glow in the hay loft, and a snatch of yellow color from a blanket makes it certain someone is still there, whether or not their presence is entirely necessary. That quiet speaks also to the absence of weyrbrats; of the one who has twice come to help, and talked in his sleep both time (though he denies it), or the one who tosses and turns all night, or the one who just refuses to sleep at all. This time, it's just Tomic, who's not trying overmuch to be quiet, but isn't being all that loud either. He's got a bag slung over his shoulder, that he adjusts as he makes his way to the stables, footfalls audible but not obnoxious. He waits, lets himself remember the layout and track that glow. "Hey, Faryn?" warns of his approach, when he starts that way. "Here," comes the agreeable and unsurprised reply. There is more shuffling, the cast of the glow moving as its receptacle is lifted, and presently her head peeks over the edge of the loft. "Hi, Tomic. Come on up." It's all he gets, and she shuffles away from the ledge again, taking the light with her. Eventually, she settles against a bale of hay, the yellow blanket across her lap and a pallet laid out across the hay. Acknowledgement, by his name at that, has Tomic breaking into a broad grin. The bag is let fall from his shoulder to one of those big hands, where he holds it as if by the scruff, and sets to climbing other-handed. "It's quiet in here!" is a whisper, as he crab-walks forward, still crouched from coming off the ladder, and deposits that bag just near the pallet. The drawstring is pulled open. "Kind of peaceful, huh, without the kids?" Behold! A deck of cards, tied with string to keep them together. That pack is set down for the herder. "Shhh," she scolds, playfully. If he were whispering any quieter, he'd be silent. Faryn grins, though, and reaches for the cards when they're placed in front of her, and her fingers are always nimble with a deck in hand. Her shuffles are afterthought, done with ease and a fancy cut here and flicked card there. "It's nice, yeah. I think they like it too." They is the runners, and if it's unclear she will tilt her head in their general direction. "The kids are fun, though. They'll be card sharps, yet. What are we playing?" "I'll tell their parents. There's this one guy - a dragonrider," which still manages to sound a bit impressed, no matter he's been in this Weyr for ample time to have become accustomed to these things, "- who would probably like that. Some of the others..." He shrugs, the grin fading out into a simple and content look only now. "This," answers her question, a cribbage board, old and dinged up on the edges, but nonetheless recognisable (and probably serviceable) is withdrawn from the bag, and he sets it down with what might almost seem like dramatic effect, then settles himself, crossing his legs beneath him. "There's pegs underneath, in a little slot." But his hands go immobile on his knees, waiting for her inspection. Faryn stops shuffling, sets the cards in her lap, and reaches for the board to inspect it. "I'll deny it," she says adamantly, "especially if they're mad. Kids can pick those skills up anywhere." Flipping the board over, she finds the catch for the slot and draws it open, dumping the pegs into her hands. "I haven't played this since I was in Tillek. I don't know if I remember." At the very least, though, she seems to remember the set-up. "I'm red," she claims as she places them. Tomic's hands come off his knees then, rubbing together in a sort of excited way, although the motion itself is a bit slow. "Good. I like blue." His enthusiasm is unhindered by the fact that only one peg is blue, and the other is some makeshift whittled thing. "Well... okay, first we have to cut, and whoever gets the low card deals. 'Cause it's a gentleman's game, my dad always says. It's gonna have to be six cards each, 'cause there's only two of us... umm... fifteens and runs of three or more, remember?" And only once he's reaching to cut his section of the deck does he think to ask, with head tilting and shoulders starting to follow suit, "What about if they're like that one dragonrider, and like it?" Faryn shakes her head, asserting, "Nope. If one can be traced back to me, they can all be traced back to me. I would live my life in terror." She's joking though, toying with the whittled piece a bit before finally putting it in its peg. "Whose board is this," she wants to know, surrendering the deck so he can cut it, chewing her lower lip contemplatively as he explains. "It'll come back, probably. Or I'll lose, and then I'll have to kill you so nobody knows." Her smile is easy when she reaches to cut the deck herself. "Actually," he nods, "that's pretty smart, isn't it? They probably talk. Like girls." Which has him looking up, and quickly ammending, "Other girls, I mean." Oh look, when he turns over his chunk of cards, "Four." It's said with confidence, perhaps even a bit of victory in his voice. That might be what makes him laugh at the death threat. "I don't go down easy, though. I've got two older brothers. And I'm big." "Two!" Faryn crows, delighted when she flips her card. She does a small shimmy that is meant to suffice as a victory dance and takes the deck back again. Six she can deal, at the very least, and she fans hers in her hand before delivering a contemplative look. "Dragonriders are worse than most girls," she decides, though shows no particular offense and doesn't seem to feel the need to acknowledge his correction with more than a nod. "My mom," she says, "was small as me. She used to beat up guys your size. The bigger they are, etc, etc." With the cards settled to each, she says, "Now...do we discard?" Tomic waits for all his cards to have arrived before picking them up, and fanning them out in turn. This time, they get arranged. He purses his lips a little while considering them, though breaks from his own deliberations to point with his free hand, while the fan goes face-down against one of his knees. "Two cards, each. You dealt, so it's your crib, so you want to throw things that will give you points. Fifteens or pairs or the start of a run or something. And I want to throw you garbage." The fan pops back up. "Was your mom a guard or something? Or just feisty? Or just know lots of guys who weren't nice?" *re* Faryn evaluates, makes a contemplative sound, then picks two cards and sets them out face down. "Got it," she says, segues to, "Dragonrider. Drunk." Her chin goes to her hand, her elbow to her knees, her fan held loosely in front of her. "She was a sailor, too. My dad, as well. Lots of swearing and card games, you can probably imagine. She didn't come around too much, but we were of a height. I once saw her hit a guy your size so hard he went straight unconscious." She shakes her head, her expression wan before she makes it brighten, warning, "So you should watch out, big boy." Two cards are separated out with only a little sideways twitch of his mouth, and Tomic lays them down carefully overtop of Faryn's. The move to cut the deck is second nature. "Wow," is the immediate response for her family. The awe sticks there, and the fan of cards drops a bit toward groin level. "Where did she hit him?" Only once he's able to replace the top of the deck does he pull out a first card, and toss it with the declaration of, "Ten." Faryn's grimace is sympathetic, if distanced, while she squints at her hand. "Two," sounds displeased, but it is her play of choice. With the card laid, she taps her temple. "They were sitting at the bar. She stood up on the stool and hit him, and I'm not sure we ever found out why." She scratches the side of her nose, and there is no pride in the recounting of the story. "She...did a lot of that, I hear." Her attempt to change the subject is transparent, but comes still, "What about your parents? Were they smiths? Is that why you're so big?" The absurdity isn't lost on her; she chuckles at the suggestion. "Twelve," the mostly-nanny corrects her, tapping to the card he's laid down, and then pointing over to hers. "Make it seventeen, now," when he adds his own five to the pile before him, from the fanned cards that have drifted back up to belly-button level since hearing this poor guy was hit in the head, and not, well, elsewhere. "Nah. My dad's a just a gardener. And my mom cooks in the kitchens, at the hold. Benden," quickly clarified. "But I've got an aunt who's real tall, and my grandpa was pretty big, too." An afterthought, "We used to play lots of cards, but got in trouble for swearing. With this board here, sometimes." Probably it's just conversation, and not recollection of her earlier question. Faryn's tongue pokes out tritely, but she echoes, "Twelve, then," and seems to remember how to keep track, and how to do the math. "Why the weyr, then?" she asks. "I mean, Benden's nice, right? And I liked Tillek, as well, until the storm drove so many people out. "Twenty-two. And...fifteen for two." She looks cautious as she counts, certain of the first math but not the second, though it doesn't sound so much like a question as much an uncertainty. "No, no," but it's a gentle sort of tone, with one of those patient smiles like the weyrbrats are wont to see off him, "you gotta get fifteen right when we're counting. So when I started, and you had the five, then you would've played it. But if you got it in your hand, then at the end you count those up. But that's a pair. So twenty-two for two, 'cause of the fives." He gestures from his to hers. And from there, an eight goes down. "Thirty. So a one or less. And the Weyr 'cause my uncle Klous needed help moving and said, why don't I come see something different, if I don't want to be a gardener like dad? So... yeah. Benden is nice, though." Homesick Tomic is no longer smiling, now looking contemplatively at his last card. Her nose wrinkles up. "I remember now," she says, "that I was always terrible at this." There's color high on her cheeks, likely from embarrassment. Though, his explanation helps enough for her to pull a card out - an ace - and put it down. Her hand lingers on it, and when she pulls it away she squints at him to fill in the gap she's leaving for her turn. Maybe she can't bear to mess it up one more time. Instead of counting, she says, "Ah. I see," at least regarding holds and homesickness. "The Reaches is nice, too," she doesn't hesitate to say, noting his sad expression. "And you're very well liked. You seem to have found a life here." "Thirty-one!" With a little quirk of a smile, as Tomic at least temporarily shelves the homesickness, and forgets, it seems, that Faryn is supposed to be his competition in all this. "Two points for you again. And," tossing down a final jack, "ten, to start over." Those big hands fold together in his lap, with nothing left to hold. "I like the Weyr well enough, I do. Especially the kids and all? I don't know, though. Maybe this is just an adventure. Don't know if I want to stay here forever. Maybe rather raise my kids in a hold some day, you know?" His smile is contagious. Faryn can't help but grin back at him at his declaration, moving her peg again. The board is easy, at least. Her brows hike as she places her last card, a two, in the pile and murmurs, "Twelve." Her ever-mobile eyebrows raise, though. "You could go back," she says, chewing her lower lip again, "couldn't you?" There's a bit of hesitation before she says, "I was thinking they might let me back to Tillek, or something, soon, but." But. She doesn't finish directly, instead asking, "Would you Stand for the clutch, if they asked?" "And one for last card," Tomic reminds, big hands going to gather up his own cards, and spread them out a bit more neatly before him, his two jacks grouped together, five near them, eight off to the side by itself. "I could," comes as he's sorting those cards. "Want to at least go back for a visit. Don't know most any riders, really, except by their kids, but some of them might give me a lift." Brown eyes raise to her for a moment, and he says, "I don't know. I don't know much about dragons, really. Don't much figure anyone's going to ask." The counting of his hand seems to have been put on hold, even with it all nicely spread out. "You know, you're the second person's asked me about that." "There's always messages to go," Faryn notes, "even if you don't know the rider. They're usually pretty amenable, I think. I haven't tried, but if they're leaving anyways...?" Her shoulder hitches in a shrug before she moves her peg again. She follows his lead, gathers her cards, and does the same, although her stack is not of much quality: ace, two, three, five. "I made a mistake," she says, presumably of the cards, before saying, "It seems a valid question, right? I think everyone is wondering which of their friends might be dragonriders, come the time." "I guess... But no one's asked me to stand. There are others who have been. I've seen them show up in the nursery already." Now he does turn to his cards, for a quick count: "Fifteen two, fifteen four," five with each jack, "and a pair for six. You did okay, see? One and three and five and the six," the deck is tapped, "is fifteen for two, and then the run, that makes five. And then you've still got the crib." Where he threw an ace and a three. Settling back, and gathering his cards again, this time to turn them slowly between his hands, "Would you? If you were asked." "Not bad," she allows, but she's turned her focus on their conversation, for now, even though she seems relatively pleased when she moves her peg again, for ten, and reaches for the crib. "Quinlys asked me," she admits, "but I told her I'd think about it..." She's focusing very intently on the crib, which she's fanned in front of her, where another ace and a two waits. She doesn't set them down. "It's...just a really big decision, I guess. I know there's an obligation there, that I should say yes - everyone else did, and hell, even Farideh was basically begging - but I like things the way they are. Mostly." She counts quickly, "Pair for two, pair for four, pair for six," of the three remaining aces. "Run. How much for those?" "Quinlys." He speaks the name with some familiarity, though his face crunches up trying to place it. "She's the..." Whatever it was he knows he should know, it gets shunted aside, in favour of a tilted head, a slight lean forward. "What don't you like, about how things are now?" And then she's started counting, and he's started shaking his head, and saying, "Just the crib, not-" and finally waving a hand, and leaning forward the more, to cover the board with one hand, and as many cards in front of her as he can with the other. "Okay, important talking first. Then this." There's a laugh behind the words, shaking them around a bit. "Shit," Faryn mutters, subtracting, "four, then." But then his hands are over the cards and the board alike - and wow, jeez, how does someone have hands that big? - and she leans back into her hay bale a little bit more, arranging her blanket so she has something to do with her hands. "Weyrlingmaster. She's the weyrlingmaster," is provided. "It's not much. I love the runners and I like the weyr, but they've got me on the beasts half the time now." She gesticulates vaguely towards the big doors, indicating out there, likely the feeding grounds. "I should be a journeywoman. But who knows when that will happen. I just get bored." "Hmm," says Tomic, still keeping those mitts of his over the game as best he can. "So what would change if you were a journeyman? Woman, I mean." A blink to her, and then at his hands. "Journeywoman. That would make it so you wouldn't get bored?" "Nothing, probably," Faryn admits, resigned. "I guess, maybe, I'd feel like I'm actually worth what I'm doing. In Tillek, I was racing. Nobody here for that, though. You're all so sharding tall." Another shrug, petulant, almost childish. That makes him laugh a little, and lean back enough that most of her cards come uncovered, and part of the board. His fingertips are just resting, now, slightly on some stuff. "Yeah. Hah. Can you imagine some runner trying to move fast with me on her back?" Another shift, and he's back to his original position, even bringing his hands into his lap. "Why'd you leave Tillek, anyway? You just get posted here with someone or something?" Now that her cards are uncovered, Faryn doesn't seem too keen on picking them back up. "No, no. After the storm, I came. I think they wanted me here, just so I would be out of their hair while they helped rebuild. One less person to worry about, maybe. It might have been a punishment if the timing was different." "Well... I guess it's good that you don't think of it as punishment. Being here." Tomic takes the opportunity to study her a moment, now that cards are on hold, and it's late enough that some of those manners may have fallen by the wayside. "So would you go back to Tillek? Or anywhere else?" His question gives her pause. She studies her hands, which have folded on her blanket, and is quiet for a few long moments. "Maybe. But all I have there is the Beastcraft, too. Maybe Bitra," she suggests. "Or, I don't know, maybe I should Stand. It's," here, a harsh bark of laughter that causes at least one horse, down below, to snort awake and stamp its hoof against the stall door a few times - keep it down, you damned kids - "something to do." Something about that makes the big young man almost look sad. "Maybe," is at a whisper again, the original volume on entry, from before his voice had risen to a more natural talking level, "but if it's not what you want... Even I know dragons are pretty much forever." And then he's getting up, using fingertips to push off the floor of the hayloft, and stepping with excessive care over the cards and board, to ease himself down right next to Faryn. Where he keeps whispering. "If you could do anything at all, do you know what it would be?" His presence is welcome, if the way she leans against him slightly is any indication. "I have no idea," she says. "Maybe I would race. I never really gave it too much thought. I'm a crafter. There's not much thought beyond that, usually. Even if you don't like it, you put years and years into it, until it's too late to change." Faryn ticks off on her fingers. "Eight years, now." "I dunno about too late," Tomic shrugs, shifting his shoulders back and forth against the hay bale, and Faryn in turn. "How come you became a beastcrafter anyway? Instead-" and he draws one leg up, raising his knee up high so he can cross both arms and rest them on it. And from there, his cheek on his arms. At least he manages to mostly suppress a yawn, "Instead of a sailor?" "I get seasick," Faryn says, and half-yawn or full, it's contagious. She doesn't bother stifling hers; it's late, after all. "They tried and tried, since they'd taught me since I was little, but every time I'd barf on someone's shoes. Glad they stopped trying." Tomic laughs again, this time rocking a little, back and forth, with his knee and shoulders. "I bet so were the people who were wearing the shoes you kept hitting." The rocking stops eventually, and he brings his head back up, and presses his hair into the hay. It might well be because he's more leanable that way. Might well. "So why beastcraft? And not the other ones?" "Because it was the first thing I could really do that seemed worthwhile. I liked runners a lot. I was fourteen." She laughs a little. "Probably not the best reason to choose a craft, but I was kind of desperate. Which," she's quick to amend, "isn't me even saying I don't like my craft. I love the runners, I really do. I even like the responsibility, now they've given me any. I just didn't think I'd ever have to think about it in these terms." "I came to the Weyr because my uncle needed someone who could carry a lot of stuff," Tomic offers with a bit of a sheepish grin. "The reason why's not always what's important, I guess, is it? Even if I don't know it's what I want to do forever, it's not... it's not like I regret coming here or anything." Fingertips resting on the elbow pointing at Faryn flick. "Would you keep up with your craft duties if you did Stand? Or would you wind up in the nurseries like the others do sometimes? And all that." "If they'd let me, probably. But then, what is the difference between now and then, if I'm doing the same thing? Without Thread," she sounds uncomfortable saying it, but apparently must, "what is the point of Standing? I mean, I know it'll come back, but in the meantime, you've just got this big dragon, and if I'm still crafting, then it's just one more beast." "Well... that's what I'm trying to figure out." The difference. Tomic brings one hand up, tilting his head forward to push his fingers through his hair. "Because if it would be a change, then maybe it would be worth it. But it can't be the same either, can it? With a dragon, to be crafting. Or else they'd... I don't know. The riders still seem different, don't they? It's not just me?" "Maybe it would change," Faryn says, sounding sleepy. "Maybe I'll talk to a rider, or..." Shrug, but this time when her shoulders come down, she nestles down further beneath her blanket, just a little. "Maybe they are. They're still just people, though." "Riders are probably the best ones," Tomic nods at last. This time, the yawn isn't at all suppressed, and he takes his arms off his knee, the better to tuck them in tight against his sides, and curl a bit more where he is, as he is. "More so if they're just people." He falls quiet after that, thoughtful... and blinking slowly. Very slowly. "Mmmm," is Faryn's noncommittal, clearly exhausted response. She watches him sleep into sleep, though, in what seems like seconds. It's a good enough reason for her to really curl up herself, drawing her pillow up and hugging it close. "Night, Tomic," she whispers, and shortly after, she's sleeping. |
Comments
Sky (13:41, 2 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
Cribbage! We should set up a three person game some time.
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