Logs:History In The Making
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| RL Date: 28 February, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Devaki |
| Involves: High Reaches Hold, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Farideh and Devaki have a falling out. |
| Where: High Reaches Hold |
| When: Day 18, Month 2, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Snow. Everywhere. |
| Mentions: Issedi/Mentions, Raum/Mentions, Wulfan/Mentions, Daroda/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions |
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Isolated on its westward-jutting peninsula, from the landward side High
Reaches Hold appears burrowed deep into the mountain, with only a few
shuttered windows overlooking the rows of cotholds that line the river
road. Its double courtyards appear designed more for transportation or
defense than for welcoming visitors. From the seaward side, the slant of
the windows overlooking the fine deep bay attempts to ward off the sea
winds, the higher stories evading the less pleasant odors prevalent at low
tide.
However cold and bleak the Hold's setting may be, inside, its colors of
dark blue and tan act as neutrals for the warmer, brighter hues of its
llama-wool tapestries and rugs. Below the Hold, oval caverns house lengths
of seasoned wood for its shipbuilders, and to its outskirts are several
minor Crafthalls including a glass-smith's shop.
Though the Hold's main access is by sea, the river road leads to its Weyr
and the rest of Pern, while minor roads lead to a few outlying Holds and
the distant lighthouse.
The snowfall is light and intermittent throughout the day until it tapers
off completely into a frigid night. The ground is damp, though very little
sticks. The day has been marked by near constant snowfall, which on any other day would keep High Reaches Hold's occupants indoors. However, with a snow-building contest in the offering, the thick fall proves a boon, set just outside the courtyard itself. Hot drinks are offered for onlookers and spectators, those participating spending most of the morning building their particular designs, with the contest to be judged late afternoon. For now, however, people wander around, admiring the various creations -- some obvious, like ships, firelizards, and llamas -- others far more obscure and requiring explaination by their enthusiastic builders. Devaki is marked as much by the fact that he's approached and greeted reservedly by people as for the fact that he doesn't wear a coat, despite the continuing snowfall, as he walks around, pausing to inspect each piece with care. Where there are games and contests, there are smug teenagers who think they can best everyone else, and incidentally, quite a few have entered High Reaches Hold's snow-building event. They've brought their friends, whom linger on the sidelines, snickering and pushing each other out of line; there's even a chase as one lanky lad goes sprinting off a girl with short red curls. It's in the midst of these youths that Farideh's been quietly standing, one of the lot, but ultimately independent of their horseplay. She's not wearing that obnoxiously large jacket of hers, and has traded her dark velvets for a trim white dress under a well-worn cloak that doesn't look like it could provide much warmth for the weather. One of the snow builders stands back and gestures proudly to his slumpy looking snow sculpture, and his friends given obligatory remarks about how magnificent it is and how he's totally going to win. Farideh, however, scrunches up her nose and puts her arms akimbo. "That doesn't even look like Lord Devaki," she accusers the other teen. Clearly, he's affronted, and there's a proper glare off. "I'll be the judge of that," says the Lord himself, as he steps closer. He's had far too much practice for his facial expression to give him away, and there's the air of the politician-at-play when he gives a thoughtful, "Hmm," and then: "Does my nose really look like that?" Devaki asks Farideh's companion, with a furrowing of brow. His gaze flickers towards Farideh, and there's recognition there, too, judging by the twist of lips. He looks tired, more drawn, older somehow, than the last time they met, a fixed-ness in his expression that has the suggestion of a mask now too comfortable to shed. Put on the spot, by the Lord Devaki himself no less, makes the snow builder color spectacularly, all the way to the tips of his ears. "Uh- uh- er- that is.." His confusion earns a smug smile from the shorter girl, who then turns to address the worn-looking man with less of that and more fortitude. "No. It's less," crooking her finger in front of her nose, "and more--" Farideh hesitates and decides to primly clasp her hands behind her back instead; best not to insult High Reaches' Lord. "I wouldn't take it literally, or personally. I've seen him butcher a drawing of an egg." "Well, then," Devaki's shoulders shift as he regards his own snow-ified face once more. "I should count myself lucky I have a nose at all. I'll leave you to it," is said towards the builder, and yet his: "I see you remember our conversation. Would you like a drink?" to Farideh is plain, as he gestures towards the warmed tents that house the hot drinks. "I could do with a break from the cold." Which is probably true, given he lacks a coat. His red-headed guard Captain, until now otherwise invisible, shifts his position just so that he's in Farideh's line of sight, with a knowing smirk. The boy flushes darker, fiddling with his fleece-edged hat, and turns to contemplate his sculpture now that it's been criticized by both Farideh and Devaki. Hiding a giggle behind her hand, Farideh inclines her head slightly in a nod, her eyes incapable of hiding the sparkle of amusement that lingers there. It's an emotion that wavers when a motion out of the side of her eye captures her attention, her gaze redirecting to Raum and his smirk. Trying on a smile that stretches the boundaries of genuine, she steps closer in such a way as to use Devaki's form to block the red-headed guard's face from view. "That would be lovely, if it's not taking you away from your role," as judge, presumably. "The judging doesn't start until later. I figured it was best to take a first look now, in case, say, my nose melts in the meantime," Devaki's saying, with a brief twitch of lips. He seems unaware of Raum's presence, as if he's too used to it, and when Farideh draws near, gestures towards the tent as he begins walking in that direction. "Lady Daroda thought it would be a nice idea, and," he glances over his shoulder, "I have to concede, it is nice to hear the sounds of children laughing, and parents enjoying that." With the snow and the added complication of a dress, it's not as easy to keep up with Devaki as it might have been otherwise, but Farideh tries. Not that that stops her from glancing behind, to Raum, with a glare at the ready in return for his smirk. "There's not much to enjoy of the snow, and I think they are," Farideh supplies helpfully, returning her focus to Devaki. "Are your children gone?" She asks it while trying to pick her skirts up the right height so as not to skim the ground but at the same, not indecently. It's an innocent statement. Habit makes Devaki match his pace to Farideh's, setting an easy one to navigate, snow and dress or no. He, too, offers an arm by habit, though whether or not she takes it he's glancing at her thoughtfully, sidelong. "You don't like snow?" he sounds surprised, if anything. "I thought it would be... new enough to be novel, still, to an Igenite." There's a moment of hesitation, at that question, a myriad of emotions visible briefly in his expression, before he replies, well-practiced: "No, they're still here. I'll be taking them on a vacation soon, after the spring planting has begun." Brief reluctance surfaces when Devaki offers his arm, but Farideh will take it, lightly, with her fingers barely settling. "Snow? No," the brunette says, wrinkling her nose in dislike. "I much, much prefer the sand and the heat. It's predictable. Snow-- and ice-- it's not fun when it gets in your clothes, or melts, or stops travelling by road." Farideh could go on and on about all of the fallacies of winter, but she stops herself with self-deprecating smile. "I'm still adjusting." Her eyes cut to him, perhaps noting the changes of expression, though she's wise enough not to mention them. "Will they be joining in the festivities?" which is pointed. "You'd prefer sand in your hair, in your eyes, in your underthings?" Devaki's laughing, briefly, "Isse always complains about it whenever we--" he stops dead, mouth pressing into a thin line. It's an awkward moment, and one he clearly tries to push past, as they reach the tent: "Hot chocolate?" He suggests, to her, "Or cider?" There's just the slightest shakes of his head at her latter question, and his, "Perhaps later," is probably more hopeful than realistic. That he follows that up with a question is clearly designed to shift the topic away: "I'd heard there was a goldflight at the Weyr? If you see Irianke, do give my regards to her." "That's why the weavers have created veils and snoods and all of the head gear Igenites are so terribly partial too." It's probably his mention of underthings that sets off her blush, but his follow up about the deceased Issedi furthers it, though she ends up looking embarrassed for him. Politely, Farideh doesn't mention his slip up, and instead extricates her hand from his arm. She's looking at him rather like he's fragile and could fall apart at any minute, with even a touch. "Cider would be fantastic," she says with mild enthusiasm, glancing around the tent with feigned interest; better than addressing the elephant in the room. "Oh, yes. It was-- something," with the return of her pink cheeks and bright eyes, "I'll be sure. Everyone is abuzz with anticipation. Of course, there's always naysayers." Always. Devaki, too, is quite happy to ignore that elephant, leaning towards the server and ordering two ciders. He keeps his gaze on the woman serving them until she passes over two full mugs, handing one carefully to Farideh, before he gestures towards the seats scattered around the tent, as if indicating she should pick one. It's definitely warmer in here, enough to melt any lingering snow. "Naysayers?" he echoes, with a tilt of head, an obvious bid for more detail. "I'd thought a clutch was always cause for celebration for the Weyr?" The mug is taken up by the laundress just as carefully, fingers wrapping around both sides to keep it secure while she moves towards one set of vacant seating. "I doubt you are so far removed from Weyr politics that you don't know Nimae's reputation." Farideh pauses in speaking to concentrate on sitting down and not spilling her drink - for what would be the second time in front of Lord Devaki - in doing so. She sighs, satisfied, and takes a tentative sip of her cider, before lifting distracted eyes to the man. "And, not too long ago, Nimae did ban riders from High Reaches from visiting. It's a tricky situation, isn't it? Of course, I can only guess," she says brightly; much, much too brightly. "I've heard some, from Wulfan," Devaki says, with a slight frown. "Do people think her reputation so fearsome that she turns out juniors that will... do what?" he's curious, considering her as he sinks down in a chair opposite her. He attentively leans forward a shade, obviously interested in her guess. Devaki's reference to the former Lord Igen is met with a stilted smile and a nod, but no other visible blanching, as she hides her face behind a curtain of dark curls, in leaning forward to sip her drink. "I think they don't know what to expect. What is this woman like that Nimae has willingly provided? Does she have ulterior motives? Will she cause problems?" Finally, tucking her hair behind an ear, and giving Lord Devaki a sideways glance, Farideh lifts one shoulder in an unknowing shrug. "I've heard that they intend to remove some of the weyrlings, once they've graduated, back to Igen." "We've met, you know. Irianke and I. She attended the festival the first day." Devaki's frowning in thought, and it's a moment before he speaks, "She struck me as someone very politically aware of her situation." He shakes his head, as if that's news to him, pausing to sip his cider for a moment. "It makes sense, though. It's smart. It's not unlike what we do -- foster our children to other Holds, to give them exposure to other places, other ways of thinking, to create ties. It benefits both areas." "Have you?" and this seems to delight Farideh, who lowers her mug into her lap, forgotten for now. "I think she is a gift. She's refreshing and keen and--" She stops, and simply smiles to fill in the blanks. "Wouldn't she have to be? It's not like they're born into it like," pause, "you." Absent-mindedly sweeping the tent with another brief scrutiny, the brunette sighs little by little, and wobbles her head back and forth. "Except," she points out, "they're adults and it's not like it's for-- marriage or--" Her thought process comes to an end and she frowns. "I don't like the idea of comparing riders to Blood, because they're different'. Right?" "Even those born into it don't always have a gift for it," Devaki counters, but he's smiling as he does, leaning close for a moment as he lowers his voice, conspiratorially: "The way Vinny fights with his sisters, sometimes I worry for the future of the Hold." He's grinning, however, as he straightens, adjusting his grip on his mug. "Yes," the Lord says, after a moment, surprise in his features as his head tips for a moment to regard her, "They are different." "No," is the gentle reply, her expression reflecting her contemplation of the subject. Lips curving into a minor smile, Farideh suggests, "You could foster him, like you said. Perhaps somewhere with other boys his age? That should put things into perspective." She lifts her mug then, and takes another slight sip while watching Devaki over the rim. His regard of her brings back the high color in her cheeks and she's quickly looking away. "You never know just how much, until you've lived at both." Then, suddenly, "I think Irianke will be good for High Reaches." It's a confident statement, her eyes coming back to Devaki, to gauge his reaction. "I will," Devaki says, after a beat. "But... not now. In a few Turns. I've already had words with Edeline and Tevrane." While she looks away, he adds, easily, "I lived at the Weyr for long enough to know that it wasn't the life for me, or my people." With a quick smile, in a way that is simultaneously casual and honest for all that: "There'd be a place for you here, too, if you wanted." He gives a nod of his head at her assertion, saying, "I imagine time will tell." For a minute, Farideh looks as though she's holding back in saying something, and then it's gone, replaced by her luminous smile. "It's not for everyone," she confirms, and just after, her smile falters in light of his offer. "Oh, no. No. No-- no. It's just-- no. I'm sorry. Thank you, but-- no." If she could add some more no's in there, she probably would, but she hurriedly sticks her nose in her cider, glancing away again. Devaki's silent for a moment after that refusal, setting his mug down. Finally, he says, "Isse's former assistant, Hana, travelled with us when we went to stay at the Weyr some Turns ago. She loved working with my wife, but she was concerned, as her parents were pressuring her to marry, and that wasn't something she wanted to do. I arranged for her to stay on at the Weyr after we left. We correspond, now and then. I think she's happier there, in some ways," he hesitates, taking a breath. "I know that some people view marriage as a trap. As a thing to be feared. But it isn't always like that, and there are always options." His gaze settles on Farideh, giving a tiny smile as he says, "The... freedoms... of the Weyr aren't always so free." The sudden blankness of Farideh's expression is completely contrived, from the vacantness of her eyes to the blandness of her lightly compressed lips. A flicker of emotion, something intangible, shows first in her eyes, and then in the way she's looking at Devaki like he's sprouted horns out of his head. "That must have been-- taxing, on her, and it was kind of you to arrange such a situation for her benefit," except she doesn't sound particularly impressed. "I'm not sure exactly what you mean." She is, again, absolutely dispassionate in the face of his advice. "Some seek the Weyr hoping to Impress, to win a sense of freedom. But a dragon ties you, inextricably, to the Weyr, forever, and the Weyr's hierarchy. It makes you... different," that word is said with feeling, with a kind of sadness and regret, like he speaks from personal experience. Undoubtedly, Devaki's noticed Farideh's reaction, and yet he seems to persist in telling the truth as far as he sees it. "When we were first brought to the Weyr, they did not allow us to leave, to either return to our Island or seek our own future. Many of my people were lead to believe Impression was the only way out. That they could have their freedom back -- return to our Island. It wasn't like that, at all, and it wasn't a decision that could be undone." "What's wrong with being different?" the girl asks defensively. There's no sympathy in either the look she's giving him or her tone, and she holds herself rigidly aloof, even sitting right next to Devaki. "Didn't they ask? Didn't they see that dragons live at Weyrs?" Farideh says it like an accusation, like they should have known and it's completely their fault in not. "Do you suspect them not to be happy? Is that because you aren't? From what I've heard, riders wouldn't trade what they have for anything else, not even their past, not even--" Inscrutable. "An ideal." Her expression switches from annoyed to slightly apologetic, but it's hard to put a finger on. "I'm sorry, but I can't believe them tricked." "We'd been exiled for over eighty Turns. We didn't even know dragons existed. They were... a fairy tale. A myth, to us. None of us really comprehended what it meant." Devaki's gaze goes distant, frowning at the memories of that time. It's the tone that makes him focus on Farideh again, with a little grimace and a slow release of breath. "Did you know the Weyr accepted payment from Lord Rynien to keep the exiles at the Weyr, at any cost? I could show you the books, if you wanted," he says, anger creeping into his voice, moderated by the breath that follows. "History is a funny thing to hear, when it's been rewritten to avoid the truth. I apologize. It's hard for me to let go of what happened to us, even after so long." "That," with thin patience, "doesn't mean you can claim ignorance. Did you and yours not know how to read? Or see?" Farideh's still giving him that dirty look, clearly disbelieving and boggling at the same time, and it's only because he's being so free with his words that she returns the gesture. "That is truly unfortunate, but what does it change? Would they have been content to simply stay on their Island? Would you? Would they have been content anywhere else? At least," spreading one hand, "they have a chance at fulfilling some higher purpose, being a rider, saving lives potentially and being bonded." Her expression briefly hardens, her usually animated eyes stony as they come to bear on Devaki. "Lord Devaki, it's your duty not to live in the past, but to live in the present and think of your people here." As in, High Reaches Hold. "I think you forget yourself," has all the markings of a scandalized lady. "We wanted to return to our Island. It had become our home," Devaki says, simply. He keeps his gaze on Farideh throughout her speech, but he looks unmoved -- at least until her last words. He's mindful that they're not alone, and his words are low, despite the heated anger that fuels them: "You think I can forget the past, when it got my wife murdered?" He takes a slow, deliberate breath, jaw clenched. His eyes flicker past her, and he rises to his feet. "If you'll excuse me," and he's walking past her, towards the exit, posture tense with the effort of keeping his demeanor from cracking. Lord Devaki's anger is met with irritation, and when he stands to leave, despite his actual word, Farideh doesn't look wholly surprised. She does stay seated in his wake and sets aside her cider, staring reflectively towards the tent exit where he just left. It's a while yet - in which she sits silently, hands clasped in lap - before she takes her leave, and that, to join the remainder of her party back at the snow contest. |
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