Logs:Key To Forgiveness
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| RL Date: 18 July, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Drex |
| Involves: High Reaches Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: Surprising revelations! Farideh meets Drex's lightskirt and there isn't fireworks. |
| Where: Lighthouse Deck, High Reaches Hold |
| When: Day 18, Month 4, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Devaki/Mentions, Itsy/Mentions |
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| The weather hasn't gotten noticeably warmer since the start of spring, though the snow's at least started to dissipate, leaving only cold rain that's thankfully faded away by afternoon. Drex has been camped out at a table right at the edge since... oh, probably a long time, given how many empty glasses are starting to stack up. There's not too many people braving the cool weather just for the view today, but he's certainly not the only one, trying to take advantage of the quietness. "Drinking already?" The remark is both affectionate and chiding, and a perfect match for the half-smile gracing Farideh's mouth when she stops in front of Drex's table. She's dressed in an actual dress instead of her riding gear, even though her hair looks a little windblown and her shoulders dampened from prior drizzling rain. "It's hardly past noon. Tell me you're at least celebrating something. Good weather? Calm seas?" Laughter warms her voice and brightens her face, and if it wasn't for that obvious amusement, she might look agitated, standing as she is, with hands on her waist, looking down at him. "Aint much else to do. Gotta keep warm," Drex replies, unapologetically, though he does stand when she arrives, grin splitting his features as his gaze travels up and down, taking in that dress with a sharp exhale. Moving toward her, he pulls her in towards him, lips seeking hers in a rather enthusiastic greeting. He tastes like beer, but at least it's decent sort of beer. "Weather's starting to turn. Couple of sevens, we think, could be out there again." He can't -- doesn't try -- to hide the longing in his voice, the anticipation, as his glance slides towards the ship that can be seen in the docks, towards the sea. "I would argue that being outside negates that, but--" Farideh's eyes are full of merriment, even when she readily accepts his embrace and returns the kiss; and she's quite reluctant to let go when it comes to an unavoidable end. "Couple of sevens? Are you prepared?" It's a frivolous question -- likely she knows that -- but one asked nonetheless as she follows his gaze out towards the water. "It will be here before you know it," she says, giving both of his arms a squeeze with her hands, and lifts her eyes to his face, where they stay for now. "And Itsy?" "What do you think we've been doing all winter?" Drex retorts, his umbrage at the question only partially faked. "Well -- besides drinking," is conceded, with a grin. Her mention of his Captain is met with an easy sort of expression: "She's whipping them into shape." The crew, presumably. He gestures towards the table, as if inviting her to sit (not well heeled enough to hold out her chair) -- then: "Drink?" "Drinking," Farideh confirms, with an actual laugh, but then she's sitting down in one of the vacant chairs and peering curiously at his beverage offering. "A little," indicating how small of a pour she expects with her forefinger and thumb. "I want to be able to stand up when I leave here. You might not be able to considering--" Realistically, considering how many empty cups are on the table. "And I don't think I can carry you," she quips, leaning her elbows on the table, propping her chin up with her hands; it just so happens that also leaves her bodice to gape open attractively, probably on purpose. Drex gives a belligerent sort of snort, as if offended by the suggestion. "I'm a sailor. This is," he sweeps a hand at the table, "Breakfast." Certainly, the sway of his posture before he seats himself opposite her could well be attributed to the natural sway of a sailor on dry land. He reaches over to pour her some beer, probably at least a third more than she asked for. "I'll bet you could carry me over your shoulder like a sack of sh--" whatever he was going to say is, understandably, distracted by the sight that's caught his gaze, going momentarily blank. "Should I be surprised if I hear your ship has run aground? If you drink that much. If Itsy drinks that much, it's amazing you still have a ship to sail at all," Farideh replies, still laughing at him without laughing aloud. Her eyes follow his movements, especially keen as he pours too much into her glass; resignedly, she pulls the glass closer. "Like a sack of what?" is questioned of Drex, saccharinely, and at the same time, while she undoubtedly notices where he's looking -- she did plant the seed -- instead of commenting on it, she simply looks a tad too smug. Somewhere in there, his brain kicks back in. Slowly, anyway. But Drex is still looking, because duh. "We aint sailing right now. Don't drink as much when we are, aint got enough cargo space for it." As if that's the only impediment. He reaches for his own glass, without looking, misses the first time, and is forced to look away from Farideh for long enough to claim it. As he's doing so, a pretty blonde strolls up, beaming at the pair of them. "Would you like something else, Drex?" The sailor glances up, only blanching slightly, before shaking his head. "Uh, no. I'm good. Fari?" "No?" Farideh sounds somewhat surprised by that, her glass suspending at her lips, but she doesn't have enough time to get out a proper answer before they are being interrupted by blonde-wig-with-legs. Her eyes lift from Drex, to the woman with one of those up-and-down stares, and almost immediately shift back to the sailor. "No, this will do for now," she says politely, her smile equally as courteous. The blonde gives Farideh a careful inspection, surprise in her gaze, back stiffening at the look she receives, before she spills another smile Drex's way and departs to check on another table. Drex looks, well -- he's burying his face in his glass for a reason, taking a hefty gulp of the contents. "Who," because he had to know it was coming, "was that?" Farideh watches the other girl departing when she asks, keeping her glass close and easing her other elbow off the table so she can sit up straighter. "Just some girl," Drex is mumbling into his glass. "I've drunk here loads. She knows all of the crew." He's trying hard to play it off, shifting his weight. "We should -- it's cold," he says, starting to stand. "Just some girl? She seemed awfully--" Farideh drags her eyes from the blonde and focuses them back on Drex, her eyebrows knitting together. "What's wrong with you? I just got here and you just said drinking makes you warm, but you want to--" There, her eyes narrow. "What? Are we leaving because of her?" "Fari," Drex's use of her name is both pleading and apologetic at once, reaching a hand out towards hers. "We just -- we weren't together," is what he says, "She didn't mean -- I stopped --" he makes a noise of frustration. "Words aint my thing. I'm sorry." About that, not about the words. Shoulders and expression tense, Farideh at least listens, if coolly. "What did you do?" she asks calmly, obviously unwilling to let I'm sorry settle it. Does she want him to describe it? Certainly, that's the expression momentarily painted on Drex's face, a kind of disbelieving, discomforted picture. "Fari, I don't... it aint worth it. It didn't mean nothin'." A beat. "It stopped long before you came back." "Who are you to decide if it's not worth it if it's you who did something wrong? Would you like me to ask her?" Farideh points in the direction the other woman walked, and sets her drink aside, shifting in her seat like she might just get up and chase her down. "I want to hear you say it, and if not you then it's going to be her," she says, still calm, but emotion roiling behind her words. Drex looks like he's considering, for a moment, suggesting her, as the easier option. But instead, he squares his shoulders. "We were sleeping together. She started talking about me coming back next winter to visit her." He grimaces. "She wasn't who I wanted to see, next winter. So I ended it." His face flickers up, trying to read Farideh's reaction, uncertain of how it'll be received. The rigid set of Farideh's shoulders doesn't ease the whole time Drex explains, nor does her expression betray anything other than stiffness; her hands, under the table, are busy smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her skirt. "It didn't take you very long, did it?" she asks, generically. "How tragic." Drex opens his mouth, then -- after a look at Farideh's posture -- subsides into a sullen silence, taking a gulp from his glass instead, shoulders hunched. "Aint proud. Never had a proper relationship before you. Can't say as I have any basis for what's right to do in that situation. Just happened." "Does that excuse you?" Farideh persists, without removing her steady gaze from the sailor. "Should we break up now and I can give it a whirl? That won't hurt your feelings?" She pauses only to take a breath. A proper relationship," is scoffed, and she's reaching for her glass, a wry twist to her lips, to finish off what's left. "No, it doesn't." Drex is smart enough to know this is probably the right answer. His expression tightens somewhat, but he persists, "I'm sorry, Fari." He watches her drink, in silence, waiting. "Good," Farideh returns, once she's finished off the contents of her glass and shoved it aside. "You should be." She combs agitated fingers through her hair, looking distracted while she does, and glances up at Drex when she's finished tediously, needlessly, preening. "I don't want to talk about it ever again, and--" Distaste flashes across her face and is quickly replaced by the earlier calm. "If you ever do that again--" But she stops, and just stares; point? And Drex watches her through it, the sailor visibly tense, her latter words earning an expression of relief that is quickly falters into assurances: "I promise," he says, vehemently, reaching across the table, trying to catch her hands if he can. The latter stare, as much as the words, has him hesitating only in reaction to it. "You're who I want," is what he says, firmly. "You're the one I'm going to be thinking of. Going to miss. Might even," an attempt at a smile, falteringly, "Try to learn to write." Farideh's hands are easily caught, but there's no warmth in her own interaction, yet to be thawed. "You promise?" is almost incredulous, until she catches herself and inhales sharply. She's still mad about it, studying his face with her brow deeply furrowed; his last comment startles her out of her apparent doldrums. "I thought you didn't want to," she replies gently, her fingers finally finding life in the faintest of squeezes. "Promise," the sailor adds, firmly. His fingers are rough against her smoother skin, pressing against hers. "Ought to try at least. Not sure how I can make 'saw fish fucking' exciting but," Drex lifts-and-drops a shoulder in his typical fashion, encouraged by that squeeze, tiny as it is. "I'll try." "Will Itsy help you? Do you need books? Paper? Writing instruments?" It's suddenly a far cry from her angry stage -- was she ever really mad at all?! Farideh looks thoughtful. "It will be easier to stay in touch if you could-- better than going through Itsy." Her fingers tug and then attempt to intertwine with his, while her mouth twitches in the start of a subdued smile. "You can write about how the places you go and the things you see, and how beautiful I am, and how much you miss me, among other things," she suggests. If Drex is bemused, well, he's probably used to her changing moods enough that he doesn't give it overly much thought, given he seems relieved that they've put it behind them. "Um," clearly his well-intentioned words weren't really accompanied by such logical plans as having writing implements, but, "Itsy's got all that, I think," but it's her burgeoning smile that makes him grin, all of a sudden. "Oh, is that all. Aint got a harper's head for words, but I'll do my best." "You're going to be sailing all over, doing whatever you want, and I get to be at home, working, going to meetings. The least you can do is tell me about the wonderful, free, adventures you go on, even if it's-- we ran into rocks, we were drunk." Farideh bites down on her lower lip to keep from laughing and only somewhat succeeds. "I'll miss you though. I always miss you when you're gone," nevermind that he's only ever been gone once. Drex actually looks affronted. "We would never crash the Pirate Queen II in rocks," he replies sharply, as if she's just impugned his honor. "More like, some other idiot wannabe-sailor sailed head-first into us. Or, some silly dragon tried to grab the mailsails." The latter, however, serves to soften his expression, grinning abruptly. "I will too. We aint going yet, though," he reminds. His gaze flickers towards her empty glass, then back to her. "Ought to find somewhere to warm up. There's some places in the Hold...?" "Dragons don't care about your silly ship," is clearly teasing him, however serious she manages to school her expression. "Are there?" Farideh gives Drex a mischievous glance, and disengages her hands from his long enough to push to her feet; more preening, hair fluffing, skirt smoothing ensues. "Lord Devaki won't disapprove?" she queries, slanting him a look from the corners of her eyes, as if they would ask his lordship's approval, ever. "Aint tellin' him. You?" Drex eyes Farideh, curiously, like he might expect her to say otherwise. Still, when she rises, he's quick to get to his feet, too, slipping an arm around Farideh's waist. The blonde, undoubtedly, notices, and she's not thrilled about it, though Drex isn't sticking around to find out just how not thrilled she might be. Instead of heading into the Hold through the great hall, they go in via the kitchens, and into a corridor. There's storage rooms along here, all locked, but further along there's servants quarters and other rooms, and it's to one of these that he finally leads her. It may be one of their last farewells, and the sailor intends to make the most of it. |
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