Logs:Heads Will Roll
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| RL Date: 18 September, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Faryn |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After being bullied into delivering a gift for Roszadyth despite her better judgment, Faryn has to deal with Farideh -- and the blood in her weyr. |
| Where: Farideh's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 5, Month 11, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: A'rist/Mentions, Drex/Mentions, Fadra/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, T'mic/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Immediately follows this log. |
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| Presumably, the weighty, severed head of a rather large herdbeast is not for the junior weyrwoman. It's a big load, dripping blood in a broken trail and and already staining Faryn's nice tunic, and she's skirting anything valuable or difficult to clean with surprising grace as she treks for Roszadyth's ledge. It's not a quiet trek, by any means. There's a symphony of swears to accompany, marked by a crecendo of, "Fuck!" delivered sharply into the stiff fur when she trips on the incline to the ledge. And, perhaps because Roszadyth has always seemed more gentle than her lifemate to Faryn, there's a perfunctory, "Sorry," for her expletive as she orients herself to, well, drop the head so it rolls awkwardly away from her feet. "From Lythronath." The sounds -- those swears -- are what wake Farideh up from her slumber and cause her to roll over, making a frustrated sound, to give Drex's shoulder a light shake; when he doesn't rouse, she sighs and sits up, pushing wild hair out of her eyes and simultaneously trying to blink away the dregs of sleep. Roszadyth is already awake, already staring towards the tunnel that brings Faryn to her, with an air of anticipation. She is the more polite of the duo, and is inclined to nudge the head away, out of sight, when it's finally on the ground. Lucky Faryn, she gets a steady stare from those wide-set eyes, whirling deep blue; it only shifts when Farideh's, "Faryn?" Can be heard from the antechamber. "He made me trade her breakfast for it," Faryn notes pointedly as the gold moves the head out of sight. Which is to say, don't misplace it, or he'll stomp me. "I'll clean this up s--" And then Farideh's calling, so Roszadyth gets just an apologetic spreading of hands as she turns back down towards the weyr, surveying her bloody handiwork. "Don't worry," she's calling, "I'll get it cleaned up. Did you know Roszadyth's," she doesn't know what, exactly, so dangles the end of the sentence a moment before continuing, "He's guarding the entrance to your weyr. If you're feeling urky, stay in there, by the way." Probably should have started with that. "What?" The distance, and obstructions, keep Farideh from hearing her assistant, no matter how hard she strains. She slips a robe over her pajamas as she walks from the bedroom, eyeing the outer weyr with a skeptical eye until her eyes fall on the blood trail; she pales, appropriately, hands lifting to her mouth, whether in horror or to staunch the urge to throw up isn't clear. "Aw shit." Faryn's been sort of ambling, but her pace quickens when she spots Farideh and her movement around the couch, across the rug - where she leaves fading bloody bootprints, for all that care she took in the first place - and holds her hands up in a calming gesture. "Sorry, Farideh. I meant to bring breakfast, not..." For all of Faryn's well-meant gestures, there's no stopping the chain of reactions, and it's only a brief widening of Farideh's eyes as warning before she rushes to the sideboard, where a fancy vase will have to serve as her chamber pot; the retching sounds are violent and last. It's after she's finished dry heaving for a few minutes that she releases her tight hold on the object and lifts her head, breaths coming in harsh pants, to side eye the assistant with incredulity. "Not that." Faryn's finish is a lame one, but she knows her role in this, as well as anything else. Lucky, Farideh doesn't know exactly what caused that mess, otherwise she might object to her hair being combed up into Faryn's surprisingly clean hands, and held out of the way until her pique has passed. "Sorry," she murmurs, and realizes after the fact that she's covered in it too. Her red-stained blouse probably won't help either, and she turns away to pour Farideh a glass of water and offer it up. "Still sick," sounds remorseful, not a question. "Why," holds a tremor, "is there blood all over and why," cue short, hysterical laugh, "are you covered in it? What did you do?" Obviously, Roszadyth is too busy to bother filling her life mate in on the details. Farideh takes a steadily breath and wipes the back of her hand against her mouth, and then accepts the glass with a shaky hand. "Tisane said don't appear to be cure-alls," is her tart reply, after a dainty sip. "Well, I didn't murder anyone, that's for sure." Ha ha. Get it? It's just a jo--nevermind. "Anyways, why does it always have to be what I did? It's Lythronath. He had...well. Maybe don't go to the ledge, either, if you can help it, until I can get this sorted out." The short version, then: "He had something that I really hope is for Roszadyth, not you. But he made me leave your breakfast outside while I brought it in. I don't suppose you want breakfast now." "I am not so sure," Farideh returns, still eyeing Faryn askance, with better control over her hand and how it brings the glass of water to her lips. "Lythronath-- you let a dragon order you around? He can't do anything, and you're--" Her face is one of frustration, her free hand raking through her still-disheveled hair. "That stupid dragon." Turning away from the sideboard, and purposefully not looking at the mess on the floor, she blows out an agitated breath. "In the future-- don't. Get his rider, get their wingleader, or just-- go away, until he leaves. I don't care, but not that again." "Yeah, tell that to his teeth," Faryn says. "He can block me in. And did. He would have gotten it in here anyways, I think. It's not that bad," the mess, even if it'll take all her tricks to get those bootprints out, "and I'll have it back in order soon enough. Can't Roszadyth just make him leave? He's there all the time." And almost afterthought, "Can I borrow a shirt?" "You're going to let a dragon bully you?" Farideh sounds incredulous, turning to give Faryn another dubious stare. "No. Go find one of the assistant headwomen, have them send some people to clean this. You don't have time-- I don't have time-- for this. And no, she can't, that's her--" Her face screws up and she squeezes her eyes shut, making a strangled sound, before starting to move off towards the bedroom. "Just-- stay there. I'll get you one." "He's not my dragon, Farideh. And he's not like Roszadyth or Jorrth or even Sulizath." She puffs a sigh at the junior weyrwoman, but it's resigned with the acknowledgement. "I know you don't. This isn't how I meant to start your day." She's apparently done with apologies, but it's there in her voice at any rate. When Farideh goes, she stays, but talks to her anyways, "If you're hungry, I brought breakfast. Something light. I thought it might help." Just, "I'll have to go grab it, though. Some fruit, cereal. Toast." Belay that. "Maybe not the toast." "And? What if he chooses to do that every day?" Disappearing through the bedroom entrance, Farideh is silent on her end, though there's the occasional knocking or banging sound. She returns with two shirts thrown over her forearm, and a frown in place. "No. I'm not-- no, I'm just going to-- grab some of that tea they brought me from the infirmary. I'm not hungry. Not--" Her expression is strained. "Here," as she holds out the shirts, towards Faryn, "whichever one works for you. Keep it. And take your shirt down to the laundry." "If he does it everyday, I guess I'll sit outside and hope K'del shoos him before I get here." Faryn's still not much of a ma'amer, at least not with Farideh, for all it might be appropriate. Those surprisingly clean hands are gentle in taking the shirts, at odds with the tension in her jaw that may be the start of annoyance -- or possibly, if one moves higher up, concern that touches the corners of her eyes, "I wish you'd try to eat something," she notes, but leaves it at that as she picks the darkest of the two shirts, returning the second. "I'll get your tea before I go." "I doubt Cadejoth or K'del will make him move. If anyone does, it would be Niahvth," she says, frowning, but her tone might imply that she doesn't have high hopes of that. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me. I'm not going to fall over dead because of a little--" Farideh's cuts herself off and sighs, loudly, at Faryn. "I'll get it. I need to get dressed still, and Drex isn't up yet. I'd rather you go-- get someone to take care of this mess," as she turns, back towards the bedroom. "I'm fine," she throws over her shoulder. Faryn sighs back, just as put out. "Won't be the cold that kills you, anyways. It'll be the starvation." The recently violated vase gets another look with her dubious, "Whatever," but if Farideh's leaving, her assistant is going to strip out of that drying (and crisping) tunic for the new one, before anyone pokes their head in, or Drex pokes his head out. "I'll be back in a bit, if Lythronath isn't...whatever he is." And it's probably spite that lets her linger just long enough to put out all the makings for that tea, even if she doesn't set it to steeping. Or maybe it's concern. Who knows. |
Comments
Jo (15:33, 18 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
Dragon gifts are the BEST.
Alida (21:21, 18 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
Snickers at Jo. Lovely dragon gifts...like dragon crap on the ledge after they didn't quite fully make it Between to dump their night-long load. Or a mouthful of spiderclaws...that were thoughtfully crunched while *someone* was holding them inside their mouth...and they pinched. >.<
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