Logs:Hedonists
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| RL Date: 28 July, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Faryn |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Igen Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: Farideh and Faryn attend a gather at Katz Field Hold. |
| Where: Katz Field Hold |
| When: Day 20, Month 5, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, T'mic/Mentions, Z'kiel/Mentions, Drex/Mentions, R'sig/Mentions, A'mal/Mentions, E'kin/Mentions, H'vier/Mentions, K'zin/Mentions |
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| Spring has brought with it a respite from the icy conditions of winter at High Reaches, but it has nothing on the tropical climate that always grasps the Igen territory; and Katz Field is no exception. It is exceptionally beautiful as far as days go throughout the day of the spring gather at the minor Hold, and from early on there are visitors from near and far taking advantage of the weather, as well as sights. A sea of color moves through the stalls, though the main entertainments seem to be the harpers and dancers at the dancing square, and the requisite runner races farther out on the grassy plains. Since Roszadyth touched down in the downy green grasses, it's like Farideh has bloomed, into a happier, more carefree young woman, less interested in presenting her frigid faade and more concerned for the taste of every pastry, the delight of watching dancers move sinuously around the accompanying drummers, and especially, gleefully savoring the races. She's standing at the recently-painted fence near the track, leaning forward to see around a burly smith to their left. "Who did you bet on again?" she asks, laughingly, without looking at the girl to her side. She, in all of her gather finery of soft blue with slashed skirts and a wide-brimmed hat trimmed in ribbon to match, hasn't chosen to gamble today, but is purely enjoying the show for its value, a glass of wine in one hand. Long-suffering, Faryn is, as she points again to the runner she's selected. "That one," who admittedly looks much like his compatriots, buckskin and dressed in reds that have the number 11 emblazoned on both sides to match its rider. "Eleven. I think I've seen him, before." Faryn's learned a little something, in that she doesn't regale Farideh with the details of her choice; she just props herself on the fence, a stark contrast to the young goldrider in practical clothes that hold no candle to Farideh's finery. Her blouse is nice enough, yes, and her pants are not patched in a hundred places, but they're still not fine, by any stretch. Her own wine is absent, the glass empty and dangling from her fingertips as she steps onto the lowest rung of the fence to lean forward over it. She's got the remainder of some sweet in the other, but it doesn't have her attention either. Rather, she's smiling, Farideh's good mood contagious, though now and again older girl gives Farideh a wary sideways glance, like at any moment she might wilt instead. "You should have put money down; winning's easily the best feeling." The goldrider makes a humming sound and turns, putting her hip against the fence, to face Faryn. "Why did you choose eleven? Lucky number? Number of times you and T'mic have had sex?" Farideh takes a faux-innocent sip from her wine, but laughter is present in her eyes, which study the other girl's face avidly over the rim of her glass. "I don't know-- I've never been the gambling kind. I see everyone else lose and that's enough to keep me away." Her head turns so her eyes can follow the runners over the fence, but she's not exactly seeing them. "Besides, what good would it do the Weyr to have one of their goldriders bantered around as an addict to bets, as though they don't already think of High Reaches as the blight in the system." Less seriously, she points one finger on the hand gripping her wineglass, to a runner wearing green stripes. "He's lovely. Reminds me of that stablehand-- the one with--" She doesn't finish her sentence, instead laughing. "I've seen him before. He's fast, Keroon-bred. He has a strange gallop - like he's floating or something. It's too long." Faryn's answer is strictly business, her aim deftly avoiding any direct acknowledgement or answer to Farideh's question about T'mic. "Gambling has different levels of risk, though. This," she gestures to the runners and their jockeys as they line up, "is more about skill, short of any really bad luck. Dice and cards are dangerous - unless you cheat - and dragon eggs are just stupid. I've learned my lesson." Even though she still has that ledger, somewhere. If there is anything to be said about High Reaches' reputation, it's lost in Faryn's spluttered, "What stablehand?" She's trying to wrack her brain, staring intently at them, "You can't just say that and stop." "You assume I know anything about runners, except that they smell and they have long legs," Farideh returns, amiably, taking a few more sips of her wine. "I couldn't tell you the prize winner from the all-time-loser, and who says the best won't have an off day? That's a lot to risk your hard earned marks on." Her brows lift as her gaze returns to Faryn. "You know the one-- the guy with the long hair that all the kitchen girls flutter and flirt with-- they say he's--" She leans in to whisper to Faryn, so the people aren't them can't hear: "A one man wonder between the sheets." "I assume you're capable of learning, the turn you've been through," Faryn corrects gently, adding as an afterthought, "But I guess when you have a private weyr with your own bath, you don't need to aspire to much else." It's lightly, almost teasingly given, and she tears her eyes from the runners in question to regard Farideh. "Oh, shells," Faryn says, her nose wrinkling at once. "He looks like he's twelve, I don't see the appeal. I think they're going to give him my job," perhaps contributes to that, too, even if she doesn't sound entirely bitter. "They say all sorts of things, you shouldn't believe them. Half of what they say isn't true." "I don't particularly want to learn," the goldrider replies, sighing into her wineglass; petulant. "You don't think I aspire to anything else?" Farideh chokes on her latest mouthful, turning a beguiling shade of pink as she has the unnerving experience of trying breathe. "I might want to be The Greatest Weyrwoman In The History of Weyrwomen, or a wingleader, or-- anything, more than just-- having a private weyr and bath," she grouses, fidgeting with a tail of one of her hat ribbons. Her expression brightens again and her nose wrinkles up, laughter coming before words. "Twelve? Hardly. He is nineteen now, and all of that runner work has given him muscles almost as good as R'sig. They don't care as much about his looks, Faryn, as about what he can do--" Biting her lip, she holds in her continuing amusement, releasing it long enough to sigh, "Who? The kitchen girls?" Faryn is amused and dismissive of Farideh's blush and her affront. "I've shared a space with no less than seven people almost my entire life. Forgive me for setting my bar lower. What's the saying? Wish in one hand, shit in the other? We'll see which one fills up faster." She sighs, stepping off the lower rung of the fence and gesturing with her glass. "I thought you were setting your goals attainable too. Just, being a good weyrwoman, who makes Irianke proud. That seems noble enough." Of the stablehand she shakes her head. "His face looks twelve. Muscles do not a man make, and I could probably lay him flat given the right motivation." Which still doesn't address what he can or cannot do, such as it is. "Anyone you have to reference with an overarching 'they', I mean. But the kitchen girls are just low gossips. And jealous, to boot, most of the time. Listening to the yammer...." "You're always so crass, Faryn," the other girl sighs, holding her hat to her head with one hand when the breeze blows too strong. "I am setting my goals attainable. I can pretend to be happy to everyone-- use some of the skills my mother tried so desperately to ingrain in me-- and maybe I won't lose my mind again; it's certainly not effortless but with weyrling training ending-- I think my role might be a big more realistic from now on." She shrugs another dainty shoulder and takes a rather large swallows of wine. "Fight less, laugh more. Dance more," is returned with a bit more amiableness. "You don't have to have eyes for only T'mic, you know. He's not going to be mad that you noticed another man. Besides," she turns, setting her back against the fence, and tipping her head towards Faryn, "Why so cynical? It's just gossip and they're just girls." Faryn's hand flutters to her chest with a gasp, her head flipping back. It's less dramatic with that braid of hers, but the attempt is there, as is the gasp. "I'm not." But almost immediately, she laughs, conceding, "Okay, a little. I'm trying to cut back," like she's addicted to alcohol, or fellis, and kicking the habit is way too hard to do cold-turkey. She listens attentively, otherwise, chewing on her lower lip, less interested in the goings on of the track than she is in Farideh's words; ever the good listener. "That sounds like a good plan," she concedes gently, with a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth that tapers off into a flat-line. "I look," is all she says on that particular matter, and then, "and I know. I just think they're childish. You still don't? Even when they're talking about you?"
"He's not that bad, is he? Really? K'del's always seemed nice, and competent. I don't know why you butt heads so much." Faryn wouldn't, either; certainly there will be plenty of time for her to see those enigmatic interactions with her own two eyes, after which everything will be perfectly illuminated. "You can be a little," rude, and immature, likely, but she huffs a sigh towards her bangs and props an elbow on the fence in a deliberate thinking pose, chin on her fist. "Five," she echoes, the task apparently insurmountable. "K'zin," ticks off one finger. "And that bluerider, uh. Dragon has a funny name. C'ris?" That's two, and her lower lips are between her teeth while she thinks, filling the silence by addressing the last. "I guess, if that's your goal. It's obviously mine," sounds slightly dismayed, even if their arrangement isn't quite what the kitchen workers and caverns girls have. "H'vier," is admitted to ranks of attraction grudgingly, and then, "If I can't throw Z'kiel in there, then I don't have four, let alone five, because I have better things to do than spending my time looking at boys. Wait," a pause and a sly smile and a sidelong look. "Drex. When he's there." "Of course," Farideh avers in that soft, gratingly polite tone she's been adopting of late. "Our Weyrleader is a wonderful man and a great leader," and she stops there, with only a singular flick of her eyes sideways. "K'zin?" She looks like she's about to argument, but grudgingly has to admit, "Fine, I suppose he isn't the worst to look at, but-- C'ris? You think the stablehand looks twelve but not C'ris? Your attractiveness radar must be off." She makes a 'tsk'ing sound and drains the rest of her glass of wine, and then glances around for some errant worker to pawn it off on. "H'vier, naturally, and- no, Z'kiel doesn't count. A'mal? R'sig? E'kin? And that baker too with the--" Again, instead of finishing, she dissolves into laughter, as someone plucks the empty glass from her fingers and she can give Faryn all her attention again. "Yes, Drex is something to look at," has warmth to it, her smile broadening. "The stablehand does look twelve, C'ris looked at least...fourteen. Fifteen, maybe." Faryn's grinning, joke's on Farideh, and the older girl sees fit to add, "Also, I was pretty drunk, so maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he's a monstrosity and a twelve-year-old. Or maybe, and stick with me on this, I like people's personalities, and that makes them attractive." She's as much the help as the person who takes Farideh's glass, which contributes to her reaching out and nearly bludgeoning that someone's shoulder to take her empty glass, "before I drop it," sufficient in the way of encouragement. "Z'kiel should totally count," she grouses once that interaction is done. "It's all that having to balance while the floor moves. Engages the abs." "He does not look twelve!" Farideh is still laughing as she sets her hands on her waist. "I never said personalities weren't important. I wouldn't be with Drex if I didn't like who he was, but there's no harm in looking. It's certainly-- it's entertainment when you don't have anything else better to do. Like the baker," she says, linking her elbow through Faryn's, whether the other woman likes it or not, "he helps with the morning meal sometimes that I have to plan with the headwomen. It makes the waking up outrageously early a little more bearable." Once their arms are looped, she tries to steer Faryn away from the fence and out towards the rest of the gather. "Is it that hard? Walking around on a ship?" Faryn waves her hand to dismiss it, saying quickly, "Agree to disagree," even as her arm is claimed. She's not one for over-the-top gestures, as it were, and certainly has seen other girls engage the same way as they meander along - not her, but other girls - so perhaps it's not all that odd that she succumbs to it with little more than a sigh, and that might just be because they turn away before the runners are off their marks. "I'm not familiar," with the baker boy, and, "Fine, maybe I should look more. You'll make a hedonist of me, and victory will be yours." She shrugs one shoulder for the boats. "It is when you're sick, I'd say. I think there are a lot of little movements you either don't notice at all, or that you notice all the time and get sick over. That ship was huge, though. They probably don't notice unless there's a storm. But it sounded good, right? Better than working out all the time." "Faranth, no. Don't touch Faryn, just look, there's no hedon-anything." Farideh tucks in her head as they pass stalls and gather-goers, keeping on ear to Faryn and her eyes on the path ahead of them. "I don't know-- I've stood on a ship, and I've been to Drex's, when it was docked, but I've never been on a ship, like that. I always thought it would be one of the things I would do. My parents would never prove, but then-- I wanted to do everything they didn't want me to do. Now, it doesn't make any sense to travel by boat, does it?" Her lips twitch with repressed mirth, her eyes straying slightly to the side as they walk past one of the weaver booths. "I hope there's no storms. I'm looking forward to him coming back, not--" Shipwreck and death, presumably. Faryn's sigh is weighty, and she lolls her head back on her neck in exasperation. "What do you waaant," she whines dramatically, slowing her step and dragging like a tantrumed child...for a few steps, at least. It's a good thing Farideh's watching where they are going. "You have so many rules, you're like a weyrwoman or something." Her minor tantrum's not long enough to stop them, nor loud enough to draw much attention before she lengthens her step to catch up again. "There's the experience you could go for," she suggests eventually, . "And less risk, really, if you decide you don't like it or get sick, or just want to call the whole thing off, right? Just, pop, and there's Roszadyth, ready to pluck you out of the seas and take you home straight-away. "I think it'd take a hell of a storm," she starts, before tugging with their linked elbows and saying, "Weavers," like that's ever really grabbed her attention. "You can buy clothes." "You think I have demands now? What will you do when you're my assistant? All day long-- get this, go to that, talk to so-and-so. I don't ever have to talk to K'del, really, when you are his champion," Farideh replies, looking pleased with herself. Her smile falls somewhat, but then flickers back full-force, only a little lacking in brightness. "I'll have to think about it more, after-- oh, look," and she's pointing out something asinine to Faryn, steering her towards a proper distraction; something more frivolous and gather-y than runner races. |
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