Logs:Forthright
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 7 July, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Faryn |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: During her rest day, Farideh invites Faryn over for a heart to heart (aka drinking wine in bed). |
| Where: Farideh and Roszadyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 3, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Azaylia/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, Satiet/Mentions, Anatolia/Mentions, Fadra/Mentions, Madilla/Mentions |
  |
| A note is sent to Faryn sometime in the late morning, requesting her presence in Farideh's weyr, in short form without any more details. It's quiet inside the goldrider's weyr, and tidy, but there's no evidence of her immediate presence initially. An empty bottle of wine sits on the low table in front of the hearth, along with an empty glass, and the fire crackles pleasantly in the fireplace. Faryn's already given her word, even if the timeline seems to be slightly advanced. The note finds her, surprise, in the stables, but that she arrives shortly after its delivery says...something. Certainly it does. The herder mounts the steps with unfamiliar caution, her hands shoved in her pockets as she finds the right one. That she lingers in the doorway betrays her feelings, just a little. "Farideh?" she calls. No sound follows the question, but then there's a squeak and a flurry of feet on the stone floor. "Good, you're here," Farideh says, peeking her head around the opening that sections off her bedroom from the sitting area. "Grab a bottle of wine and come in here, please." And then she ducks her head back in the room, to resume her position in the big bed, with the covers pulled up to her chin and an army of pillows surrounding her. There's even room for another person, on the other side of the bed, but she's got her own bottle of wine that she's drinking straight from the bottle; hence why she suggested Faryn grab her own. "Grab a bottle..." Faryn echoes, bemused, but since there's one there, she will, and a glass even, which will prove useful when she turns the corner of that wall to see Farideh in that state. "Uh," Faryn's eloquence astounds. She stands there with bottle and glass, tilting her head and taking in the scene. "What happened?" seems the obvious question as she moves closer, swinging the bottle from between two fingers, her eyes on how Farideh's handling the bottle already claimed. An unperturbed stare meets Faryn's. "I was told I need to rest and relax," Farideh answers, partially lifting the wine bottle for emphasis; relaxing. "Come sit down and tell me how your week has been, or tell me a funny story, or tell me a scary tale. I've been staring at these same walls since last night and all I have are my own thoughts for company." She takes a swig from the bottle. "No, Roszadyth's thoughts too," she tacks on at the end. The request meets a raise of Faryn's slender eyebrows and a thinning of lips, for all it's a perfecty reasonable request. "By who?" she says, clearly thinking through the list of people who might have the authority and coming up blank. She takes no guesses; just crosses the space between them and takes the vacant space Farideh's left for company; for her. She's decorked bottles before without an opener, and when she does it this time, deftly with her knife, it's probably not surprising. She does pour it, though, and sets it aside to study Farideh. "That doesn't sound relaxing." "Madilla," Farideh breathes, her eyes moving without having her whole face turn, to study Faryn. "She said I was going to make myself sick with worrying, stressing. She prescribed a break. It was nice not to have to wake up early, but I'm--" She licks her dry lips and tries to elbow Faryn. "Aren't you going to tell me a story? Some new gossip I missed out on today? Possibly, some titillating event in your own life? Anything?" It's strained, but then smooth, and she takes another long pull from her wine bottle. Faryn takes the elbow like a champ, or maybe it just grazes her. "I don't have any stories," she says, unsure of Farideh's demeanor. Unsure of it all, if her expression is any indication. She hangs her feet over the edge of the bed, saying, "You don't care about runners or Hall business or -- mmm." Pop-thump. Her boot comes off, and hits the floor; the other follows shortly. The mention of gossip twists her mouth slightly, about her personal life even moreso, but she doesn't see fit to elaborate on why for either. Without muddy boots, she's free to pull her legs in and under her on the bed, tilting her head. The questions on her lips are still obvious, but she gives them no voice; tact, temperance. "You know I don't gossip," she says after some time. "It's usually mean, and always exhausting. You'll have to teach me." "Who says I don't care about those things? True, I couldn't care about runners more than, say--" But Farideh doesn't get a chance to say, when the black feline that haunts her weyr hops onto the bed. "Lady Annoying," she mutters into the silky fur, and then sighs, slanting Faryn another glance. "What's going on at the Hall? Your promotion that hasn't come? Did Hanson fall into some sort of political sordidness?" She takes another drink of wine while the feline makes herself comfortable on the weyrling's chest, purring the whole time. "My mother," she starts, her mouth pulling wryly, "always has a way with gossip. She knows when to hold it close and when to let on, and when to share it so it has the most impact," where the last word is emphasized with widening eyes and a sarcastic lilt to her voice. "I've never been as good as her at-- conversation. Having double conversations. The one most people think you're having, and then the one you're having in between that one." Faryn laughs. "My promotion," Faryn says, knowingly, "is not coming at all. Trust me on this. And Hanson's too - sneaky to be caught in anything sordid, I think. She's as gentle as a bull." Twitch, go her lips. "It's alright though. I've been promised," she reminds, "gathers and travel and hobnobbing, so long as I keep my mouth closed. And, if you want gossip, I guess my ears open. From a really reliable source." The cat earns a look, and her fingers reach out to gently catch the tail close enough to her. It's nothing untoward; she just twines it loosely around and through her fingers in sequence while she listens to Farideh talk about her mother and her life, her talents. "I don't know how to do that at all," she provides, as some sort of assurance. "I find it's easier to be honest. Forthright, but," comes the caveat, "gentle, when you have to be. But my mom taught me that, not political double-speak and impact." She adopts something that's her voice, and also not: heavily accented, somewhere between Tillek and Ista, odd for it. "Y'wanna make an impact, use yer fist." "For as much time as you give those runners, I would think you'd be a master by now." Farideh fluffs the fur with her fingers and gives the ceiling a contemplative stare. "We'll be allowed to between by ourselves soon," she says, absentmindedly. "You should always keep your ears open-- not just for me-- but especially for me, now." Her focus shifts back to Faryn. "Anything you hear, I want to hear it too. Nothing as trivial as who got the night shift in the kitchen, but anything you hear that sounds like it might matter." After that, she takes another sip, and continues to keep the wine bottle close. "If only that was as appropriate. I can't-- be forthright, in general. I need to figure out how to-- well, Madilla said prioritize what I want. Succeed without losing myself. Be the weyrwoman the Weyr needs without becoming its dummy. I don't know if that's possible. What do you think?" Curious eyes settle on Faryn. Faryn's smile curves slowly. "The runners are easy. And honest. And I hobbled myself because I don't want to commit to a life with them under terms that aren't mine." She leans precariously over the edge of the bed to grab her bottle, abandoning the glass, since they're being ladies. One of the pillows is drawn closer, careful not to compromise Farideh's fort, and she rests her elbows on it with the bottle between her hands, listening. "And if the rumors are about you?" And for the rest, she bites the inside of her cheek while she ponders it. "It depends on who you're asking. Do you want me to answer as a friend? As a resident crafter? As your would-be assistant?" "Commit to a life under terms that aren't yours," Farideh repeats, her frown deepening. "That sounds--" But rather than voice her thoughts, she takes another drink and rubs her fingers over the feline's spine. "I want to hear those too. I want to hear all of them, even if you think they're going to make me cry. Even if they're-- no, I just want to hear them all." She turns her head, to watch Faryn, and inclines her head just barely. "Your first impression. What do you think? Don't give it too much thought, but-- and then, as a friend. I keep wracking my brain. I keep trying to decide how to proceed without-- more of these days. Being put on the backburner so I don't have an unsightly incident in public, or do something equally as rash, or who knows, go out of my mind and be shuffled off to the southern continent to recuperate." "If you insist," Faryn says reluctantly. Follow-up question: "When do you want me to start that?" The possibility that Farideh's missed the rumors about her, about the healer master, is unlikely; as unlikely as the goldrider stockpiling wine and keeping it in bed with her. "First impression? Shit. Not you, just...you're the last person I think I would put with a gold. Too young, too impulsive. Emotional, untried, impersonal. Selfish. Terrible at laundry." She catches herself; that's a long list of cons, and a moment is spared to gauge Farideh's reaction to it. "Struggling, clearly. It's not encouraging." A beat for those to settle, and to think, her eyes going to the ceiling. "As a friend... As a friend I worry about you. I worry you're pushing yourself too hard to fit into everybody's molds. It's possible, to be you and be a proper weyrwoman, but not if you're trying to be Farideh, and Irianke, and Satiet, and Azaylia and..." she trails off. "It's like trying to fit into your mum's dresses when you're little. You can get in them, but they're not comfortable, and you'll keep tripping. Maybe tear it. Then be in trouble." Surely Farideh did that. "Yesterday," comes the glib reply, and then she's listening without saying a word until the other woman is finished speaking. "Exactly that-- too young, too impulsive, emotional, selfish. That's what everyone else thinks, too, and--" Farideh takes a big breath and closes her eyes, her head dropping back against the pillows. "I don't know how to bridge that gap. I'm doing it wrong, but when I try, I'm doing too much. How do I make it right? How to I become the perfect medium? I could be like Irianke, or I could be like one of those perfect, polished Blooded girls, or I could just-- there doesn't seem to be a solution, or I can't find one. I don't know how Irianke does it, honestly," before she takes another drink from her wine bottle. Faryn scoffs. "Well, yes, but you're getting older, you're learning caution, you're--trying to be less emotional and selfish, but that's an uphill battle when you're born with a silver spoon. I think Irianke has to do it. And she's done it for a fair time longer than you've been learning." Faryn is neutral, taking a drink of her wine, drumming her fingers on it. "What do you think?" Faryn's query is gentle. "If you stop, and think, and look at your options, what do you see? What appeals to you the most? If you've been trying to suss them out, there must be some." "Are you sure? I never got reprimanded as much when I was just a laundress, and I wouldn't have made some of the same decisions. I always think I'm doing better, until I realize I'm not." Farideh hugs the bottle into her side, pursing her lips in the interim between her words and Faryn's. "What do I think? That I've made terrible decisions and I'll probably make plenty more. Right now, it's hard to see anything beyond my imminent failure and continued miserableness." Giving her head a shake, she glances at the herder askance. "Me? I've always said what I thought, and done what I wanted, and flaunted the proper ways, because it was fun and I got a thrill, and the look on my mother's face-- before, then, and here, I didn't have responsibility, except the responsibility to see myself happy. And now? I have so many things and I don't know how to begin. My options still stand as be me and continue to fail, be someone else and make people disappointed, or-- I guess there aren't any other options." "Then we're doomed. The holds will stop tithing, Thread will return, the weyr will crumble and burn. You should jump on Roszadyth's neck now, and run away like you did last time things got hard, and maybe this time they won't get harder when you land. I'll help you pack, it's my job." Faryn rocks her weight in such a way that suggests she's going to stand and do just that, but all she does is rock; she settles back into her seat and says more seriously, "No. That won't work either. Let's see." She rubs her hands together, squaring her shoulders to face Farideh, and sets them on her knees, the bottle balanced between her legs. "Right. First, stop thinking about your life like imminent failure. Take a drink. That will help." Probably. "Then - and I'm not a therapist, this might be the stupidest idea, you might fail spectacularly using it - think about being a weyrwoman in regards to how it can make you happy. Not how much shitty and unwanted responsibility you have, or how you might disappoint people. You'll do that whether you try or not. Think about -- mmm. Think about the look on everyone's face when you surprise them by doing a task right, and well, and think about how you'll feel knowing you've done it. It's the same thing, but you have to do it a different way." A wry stare follows Faryn's sarcasm. "No, I-- fine, I run away when things get hard, but you have to admit, I can't exactly run away from this. I think people would get suspicious when they saw my big, gold dragon." Farideh brings the bottle back to her lips, but doesn't take a sip, instead making a frustrated face. "I'm not doing it to try and impress people. I just want to do good by the title. I want to make Irianke proud. I want to be the kind of goldrider people respect and-" She heaves a beleaguered sigh, bringing the bottle up again. "It's nearly impossible. If only there was someone around here who could perform miracles, give guidance, and create the perfect politically neutral enigma. Wouldn't that be something?" "And that's working swimmingly for you," retorts Faryn at once. "I'll put it simply. You're going to suck until you know how to be happy. Yourself. With Roszadyth. Without relying on everyone else to validate you." She rolls her eyes, hard. "That would be something. But there isn't, and you said you can't run, so at least you've gotten smart enough to know that." There's no malice to what she's saying, or even to her tone. She's forgotten her wine. Her voice lowers, sarcasm forgotten so she can gentle, "Farideh, we can work on it. If holding your tongue in front of a foreign rider is the worst of your problems -- you should meet my mom, I swear. You're not so bad." "Yeah," Farideh says, absentmindedly. "I just-- I need to figure it out. It's not like it's easy with everything else going around," which she spins one finger over her head in a halo, "and having to learn all of these other things." Her mouth sets and her attention shifts internally; it's apparent by the way she doesn't exactly look like she's listening anymore. Waving a hand at Faryn, she sighs, "I'm supposed to be resting. Get out." It's abrupt, but despite how sudden it is, there's no callousness behind the words, and a slight curve to her mouth. "Take the wine with you. Faranth knows I don't need to drink anymore," as she moves, startling the cat, who jumps down and runs towards the seating area; once her feet are on the floor, she's beelining for the bathroom. Faryn's mouth twitches down into a frown at that abrupt change and she heaves a sigh. Her eyes follow the cat first, as Lady Annoying scampers off, then drift to Farideh's back as she retreats to the bathroom. "You'll just find more, if you want it," is of the wine, but she gathers what she can see easily; the front room will get the same treatment, save a single glass she leaves -- just in case. "Sorry I didn't have any stories," she says as an afterthought. "I'm more of a realist, anyways. Maybe you should find a harper." If that pretty black cat is there as she leaves, burdened with far too many bottles of wine, she'll stop to awkwardly lean down and pat her on the head on the way out, and whisper, "I guess we'll put up with that together, kit-cat." And louder, for Farideh, "Feel better," as she rounds the path out of the weyr. |
Leave A Comment