Logs:Life Sucks: Redux
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| RL Date: 19 April, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, Quinlys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quinlys helps Faryn work through the unresolved feelings a few days after the hatching. Nobody cries. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 7, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions |
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The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former
weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its
convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from
the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor,
and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick
and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.
Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth
tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a
low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery
and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light
colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm
autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter
the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools
stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window
to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear
view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light
of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Faryn F 22 5'4" lean, brown hair, brown eyes 0s
Quinlys F 31 5'4" soft, dark red hair, blue eyes 9m It's probably unfair to say that Faryn's been a staple in the Snowasis lately, because she is still certainly doing her duties; but she's here more often than ever, in the same stool she's in now, drinking the same drink that smells strongly of bourbon, squinting into the glass when she's not actively going at it. "You probably shouldn't have another," the bartender is telling her. "What's that, three?" Faryn's response is just to shrug, shoving the empty glass at him. "Please," she says, pressing. "Last one." "Let her have it," comes Quinlys' voice from behind the beastcrafter. The bluerider looks tired-- unsurprisingly, really, given the seventeen pairs now occupying her barracks-- but still, truly, cheerful enough. "And put it on my tab, at that. Better pour me one, too." Having said this, she slides into a stool alongside the younger woman, giving her an appraising side-on glance as she does. Faryn's a little drunk, apparently, because she is squinting when she turns towards the affirming voice and finds Quinlys. Her mouth quirks into a smile that lacks particular humor, following the weyrlingmaster's movements to the stool. "Thanks," she says after a moment, "I lost most of my marks on the eggs." Her glass is gone, off to be refilled, so she left to look at either her hands or Quinlys, and figures the first is safest. "I thought saying, 'I told you so' would feel right, when I saw you next." But apparently it doesn't, if her frown is any indication. Quinlys' nod, seen or not, affirms the thanks. It's the latter remark that she actually answers, her voice quiet, but managing not to sound condescendingly sympathetic. "It's a shitty feeling, I know," she says. "I mean, I was confident, the first time, so it was different. It felt like the rug had been pulled out from beneath my feet. Still. It's shitty, and I'm sorry." Faryn huffs a little, in lieu of a laugh. "I was telling myself not to get my hopes up," she admits, "but I guess it's just contagious." She finally looks at the bluerider, her fingers still twiddling. "You Stood more than once?" "I think it's hard not to. There's so much... expectation around you. Excitement. I guess because it's something you can't control; you can't study harder or learn more or do anything." The corners of Quinlys' mouth turn up, just faintly. "Twice," she confirms, then, with a sigh. "I was pretty young the first time, and it really threw me. And then there was a clutch I didn't stand for-- I would've, but my mother told me not to. Long story. Anyway, the second time? Everyone knew I'd stand, but I waited until the end to declare it. It felt... easier, to keep myself separate." That gives Faryn some pause, though she waits to answer, because the bartender is back with their drinks, and she would really like something to do with her hands. "I thought I did," she admits, "but it wasn't long enough. And now my friends are your weyrlings, and I'm back to where I thought I might be." She is swirling the glass, not drinking yet, still squinty. "I'm not very young. There might not be another chance, even if I wanted to. There might, but you know. They're dragons. In an interval." Quinlys turns her attention from Faryn just briefly, in order to flash a winning smile at the bartender. Then, hands wrapping around the glass, she turns to listen once more. "There'll be another chance," she says, confidently. "You're... twenty-one, twenty-two? The new queen-- Farideh's queen-- she'll rise at about two turns, maybe two and a half. If you want to try again, you'll get the chance." Faryn's brows raise while she drinks, dark eyes following the bartender's departure in stark contrast to Quinlys' smile. "Two years. By then I might be a Journeyman, if I work for it. Or jockeying in Bitra, or Ista. And most of my friends will be different. You'll teach them that, and their dragons." Her expression is turning pained, behind that glass. "This sucks, Quinlys. It feels less like I didn't get something, and more like I lost them." Quinlys sucks an unhappy breath in through her teeth, eyes fluttering closed, and then, carefully, open again. "I know," she says. "It fucking sucks. And there's nothing I can say or do to make it any better; I know that too." She lifts her glass, as if to make a toast. "They're going to change. Not going to lie. Doesn't mean you can't still be friends, though. You can be the one normal thing in their lives; the one thing that hasn't changed like that. It's not like they're going to completely forget about you, I promise." Faryn's holding it together admirably, if not easily. Her expression is closing, mouth pinching, brows knitting, breaths coming a bit deeper; she's not crying, because she doesn't do that, it's stupid. Still, there is a tremble that says she might, and she averts her gaze, putting her forehead directly on the top of the glass, so she doesn't have to look at anything beyond the countertop. "So that's what you did," is muffled, since she says it to the table. "You were normal for them?" She might sneer 'normal', but then again, that could be the way the sound bounces from the wood. "No." Quinlys lets that hang, averting her gaze so as not to invade Faryn's privacy in this moment of vulnerability. "I ranted and railed and gave them all wistful stares and made everything so uncomfortable we all drifted apart. It sucked, and I wish I'd done it differently." The herder's turn for a sharp inhalation, one released moments later shakily but with increasing steadiness. Another, for good measure. No tears on the countertop. Hanging, tight silence. Eventually, still muffled, sounding resigned, Faryn says, "Okay." She takes another pair of breaths, straightens, and pulls the cuff of her sleeve down on the heel of her hand, all the better to wipe at her eyes, because there's dust in them. "Okay," she says again. "I'll - try." And Quinlys, Quinlys who is really not good with tears despite the amount of time she spends working with teenagers, reaches out to press her hand to Faryn's shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze (unless, of course, she's pushed away). "Good," is what she says. "I don't suppose you know anything about butchering? I could get you in to give lessons." Faryn doesn't push. "I can try that, too," is her dry response, but she's at least smiling a little. "I might like it." There's hesitation, then, "Thanks," and almost too quickly as a follow-up, "For the drink." And a vague gesture, meant to indicate everything else, too. "Good," says Quinlys, taking her hand back and nodding approvingly. "There's always a few who act like they've never seen a knife before, let alone uncooked meat. It's pretty funny." For the rest, her nod precedes her, "You're welcome. Seriously. And if there's anything I can do?" Another nod. "It's the blood, that always gets most people," Faryn muses a bit, but, "I guess, let me know when you need me? I'm gonna...finish this. Get some rest, maybe." Quinlys' chuckle is low. "Yeah," she agrees. "The blood is a problem. You get used to it, I guess. Anyway-- I will. Go... look after yourself. Get that rest." Another firm, sharp nod. |
Comments
Edyis (02:46, 20 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
Poor poor Faryn. :(
Roz (09:38, 20 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
I really, really liked this! And that line about losing them and not getting something. So good. <3
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