Logs:Making Friends Isn't Easy
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| RL Date: 10 September, 2014 |
| Who: Farideh, Lycinea |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Fari and Lycinea work(?) at becoming friends. |
| Where: Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 9, Month 10, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: A'ban/Mentions, Anatolia/Mentions, Azaylia/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Korek/Mentions, Mishal/Mentions, Pavrol/Mentions, Szarga/Mentions, Taltya/Mentions, Telavi/Mentions, Teoma/Mentions, Zalmai/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Back-dated. |
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| Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr Just off of the main passageway lies the small cavern that forms the hub of the residents' quarters, kept immaculately clean by the headwoman's staff and warmed in cold weather by a stone hearth to the left and well back from the entrance. Comfortable chairs and a plush fur arrayed before the hearth make an inviting spot to curl up with a book or handicraft, or just to sit and chat. Beyond, additional chairs stand in clusters throughout the room, some upholstered with age-softened hide, some plain wood. At the widest point of the cavern, a round table gleams with polish, though its surface is nicked and scarred from Turns of use. Beyond the table, the very back of the cavern often lies in shadow unless the glowbaskets there are unlidded to cast cozy pools of light. The commingled scents of klah, smoke and polish permeate the air along with the sweetness of rosemary and lavender. Tapestries hang across the entrances to dormitories and more private quarters as well as the exit to the outer hall, colorful protections from drafts.
Presumptuousness, thy name is Farideh. She simply plants herself on the fur, next to Lycinea, without any preamble. "Hey," she greets, somewhat too-cheerfully, crossing her legs much like the other girl's. "What are you doing?" Inquisitive eyes fall on the tin, her head angling to take in the contents; it's just buttons and those are boring, so it's with a pout and a sigh that she slumps back into indian-style. "What are you doing with all those buttons? Making a shirt?" "No," Lycinea answers readily enough from the start that had her jumping a little at Farideh's unheard approach. "Just... picking some buttons." The glance over her shoulder is hardly subtle. Has anyone else noticed Lya with the tin of buttons that almost certainly aren't hers? "What are you doing?" She turns the question back on Farideh, probably hoping it will take them to a whole new topic. Amusement lights up the brunette's eyes. "What, did you steal those?" Rather than condemning, Farideh stifles a laugh and moves her crossed legs up so she can wrap her arms around her knees, one hand grasping the opposite wrist. "I was looking for someone, but, walking around aimlessly trying to find someone in this place is about as interesting as watching the weyrlings haul firestone." "Shh!!" Yes. Yes. Yes. Lya's eyes are wide and she's giving Farideh a ferocious lip pucker. "The last time she caught me with her buttons I ended up with a tunnelsnake in my pillowcase." The horror, although she doesn't seem exactly afraid, more annoyed. She shifts the tin closer to her legs so perhaps passerbys will be less likely to see. "Ugh, weyrlings." The blonde rolls her eyes. "I hope the new batch is less sucky than the ones from Hraedhyth's hatching. They're all so-- ugh." She wrinkles her nose. "Who were you looking for?" She asks, though not pressing, just curious. "A tunnelsnake?" Farideh sounds impressed. "Who is she and why aren't you friends? You can gain more from someone who can catch one of those. Better than being enemies." She has a relaxed smile at the end, allowing her brown eyes to graze the blonde before returning to the leaping flames in the hearth front-and-center. Bypassing the talk about weyrlings - because, being honest, she's of the opinion that they all suck: "Taltya? That's her name, I think. She's supposed to have a letter for me. She's been having that letter for a sevenday and if I don't get it soon--" she heaves a sigh, "she'll be the one with a tunnelsnake in her pillowcase." "Szarga," Lycinea says the name with distaste. "We grew up together. She's always hated me, and now she has the seamstresses mostly on her side," likely being one herself, "So I'm having to learn to patch my own clothes." And having enemies among the seamstress camp might just explain why the patch jobs on Lya's clothes to date are never nice colors that blend and instead seem to make her look ratty by design. "If I need a tunnelsnake, I'll catch it myself. She's not the kind one would want to be real friends with at any rate. Stab you in the back as fast as look at you." It's said with a little venom, so maybe there's more story there that Lya's just not telling. "A letter sounds important," well, it would to she who probably has never gotten one in her life. "Do you know who it's from?" Rather than comment on Szarga and her contingent of loyal seamstresses, Farideh rests her surprised gaze on Lycinea. "You don't know how to sew?" She nips at one corner of her lip and simply "mm"s for a bit, chewing on that bit of news. "I can show you," she says at last, hugging her knees to her chest tighter, "I'm not as much a fan of patching, but, we can work with what you have." Her estimation of the seamstress's disposition earns a giggle, but Farideh keeps her thoughts to herself on that score. Only about Taltya-- "It's a letter from my sister's husband, I think. I wrote them about the leprosy scare, just to make sure everyone is okay. I hadn't heard back and then there's this letter." She purses her lips in thought. "Could just as easily be from someone else though." "There's a greenrider teaching me, but I can really use all the help I can get." Lycinea answers the matter of sewing with some earnest gratitude for the offer. "I'm trying to learn to tailor things. So my things don't fit as funny." She tugs at her nearly too-tight shirt, as though suddenly reminded that it's uncomfortable by the reference alone. "Do you miss them?" She asks quietly, a moment later. "Your family." "Sewing can be hard to learn at first, but it is relaxing." Amused hazel eyes flick to Lycinea, watching her pluck unnecessarily at the shirt. Farideh rests her chin on one of her knees, canting her head to the side. "I do. I miss them terribly. It's different going from being in a warm, loving home to someplace as big as this and knowing no one. Not that I can't rise to the challenge--" and no one suggested you couldn't, Farideh, "but it gets lonely. I wish I could have taken them all with me. That would have defeated the purpose though." Lycinea's silence is thoughtful as she puts the lid back in the button tin and then shifts to slip it into a pocket on the apron tied around her waist. "In a way," she says quietly, "I guess it's easier to have no one to miss." A hand moves to tuck a few tresses that have escaped her messy bun behind her ear. "Tell me about them?" She requests, looking to the slightly older girl. She doesn't, at least immediately, ask about the purpose, but she can't have missed mention of it. With the fire crackling in the hearth and the familiar buzz of voices in the residential caverns in the background, it's quite drowsy. Farideh has a flicker of a rueful smile, before launching into her best description of her hodgepodge family. "Uncle tries to be harsh, and present to the world a cold face, but he's soft and sweet. Father, he gave up trying long ago," she says, laughingly, "He's always been the one to comfort us when we were sad, or sing to us when we wanted a song. Mother is," with a sigh, "unmoveable, strict. She says she wants what's best for us, but.. she never takes into account our opinions. And Teoma, my sister, she's my best friend. We can always tell each other anything. She's kind of snobby though, but--" She speaks in a rush of words and when she finishes, exhales softly. "Her husband is just an asshole." The younger girl listens with the sort of rapt attention that comes with having little relatable experience beyond her imaginings. "They sound... nice. Except maybe your mother." Of the last, Lycinea sounds dubious. "I always thought it would be nice to have a sister, even if she was awful. It sounds like yours isn't. Why would she marry an asshole?" The girl's brows raise at the brunette. Startled from her reverie, Farideh picks her head up and purses her lips. "Duty? Sacrifice? Love? I don't know. I told her time and time again not to. He is known for sleeping with every woman that side of Big Bay, but she wouldn't listen." She waves her hand about flippantly, dismissive of her sister's intolerable reasoning. "And what men aren't assholes? I've yet to meet a single one. A single one, Lycinea. Or, A'ban isn't, but he hardly counts." It's a dramatic swoon that takes Lycinea down onto her back, the back of her fingertips touched to her forehead. "Sounds dreamy." The brother-in-law, so very tongue in cheek. "Did she think she could change him?" This is a little less dramatic, but not much as she rolls onto her stomach, bringing her to where she can bump Fari in a playful sort of way. Then she considers. "Zalmai was alright," don't mind the little blush, "But he was only thirteen when I knew him last, so that probably doesn't count. "I suppose the Weyrleader isn't an asshole, or I haven't heard people say he is, much. But then, I suppose people in power aren't supposed to be, are they?" Of this, of power, of status on the whole and its being an indicator of personality, she seems uncertain. Lycinea's theatrics gain an eyeroll from Farideh. "There is nothing dreamy about marrying and getting pregnant by some idiot who is too busy thinking with his man parts to think about your feelings. I feel sorry for her, too." Her family aside, she dips her chin down to stare at the blonde's pinkening cheeks. "Zalmai? Who's that? Your crush or something?" But her widening grin is wiped away by mention of yet another asshole on her ever-growing list of Reaches' Biggest Assholes. "Him? He's the biggest, and he looks like he's twelve. I don't understand how anyone can take him seriously with hair like that." "What? No." Lycinea denies too quickly, the blush only rising. "He was my friend. He went away to apprentice." She pauses, "We write, sometimes. But he's just my friend," defensively. "Very nearly the only one I've got. I wouldn't risk that for a stupid crush." Because feelings listen do what you want, right? There are giggles for Farideh's assessment of K'del's looks, and wide, currently guileless eyes to look up at her and ask in almost a whisper and with a sense of wonder, "What did he do?" Because surely, K'del must have done something. Isn't it always his fault? "Mm," the small sound is made in response to Lycinea's protests that Zalmai is just a friend. "You only have one friend? We should definitely remedy that. Life isn't fun without people to enjoy it with." Farideh unfolds her arms from around her knees and lets the latter drop into cross-legged style. She combs her fingers through her hair and shrugs, affecting a nonchalant demeanor about the whole thing. "Besides getting me in trouble with Giorda, he's just like the rest of them. Tells you what to do. Doesn't want to help. You know the type." "I'm working on it," Lya responds, half-plaintive and half-defensive then she adds, "I'm talking to you, aren't I?" Her tongue flashes out in a show of playful maturity. "And anyway, it's not easy to make friends," or it hasn't been so far in her experience. Then she has to make other sorts of faces, sympathetic and disgusted faces. "What an asshole," she'll agree of K'del without ever having met him herself. It's what friends do, right? One long-suffering sigh encompasses all of Farideh's feelings. "I think I want to wash my hair. Want to come?" Without waiting for the answer, the laundress is already standing and brushing off her pants, looking down at Lycinea with an amused smile. "Or would you rather play with buttons?" The younger girl glances to the button tin once, but rises, tucking it into a pocket, "Sure." Hair, buttons, the one provides more company than the other so it makes it an obvious choice, even if one of Lycinea's hands must rise to tug self-consciously at her own locks on the way to the door. Making friends isn't easy. |
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