Logs:Mr. R'hyinagi
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 8 May, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Ista Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: R'hin takes Faryn to an Istan gather to try and shake out what she's good at. (Hint: It's not dancing.) |
| Where: Bowl - High Reaches Weyr, Ista Hold |
| When: Day 1, Month 10, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Fadra/Mentions |
  |
Lush tropical foliage and extensive coastlines comprise the main areas around Ista Hold, from the Lord Holder's prize citrus trees to the white, sandy beaches stretching to the south and east. Glittering shades of green and blue cradle the sands, with the ample docks jutting out to the south providing easy access to ships for both transportation and delivery of goods. The hold itself is rather large, built into a seaside cliff that overlooks marshlands, jungles, and water alike. The courtyard that leads to the entrance of the Hold is made from slabs of light grey limestone. A layer of gravel has been laid as a mortar for the large, irregular slabs. Moss and other trample-hardy plants grow between the slabs, spilling green onto the stark rock and creating a constant headache for gardeners trying to keep the green away from the Hold. Herb and flower gardens sit on raised beds and simple benches and tables litter the courtyard. Inside, the great hall is lined with tables made of a hardwood specific to the Istan jungles, the decor reminiscent somewhat of a ship with carvings and bright, tropical colors. The hold extends several floors up with rooms and offices for its inhabitants, while the lower level is occupied by the Ista Harper Hall. It's late afternoon, just at that twilight point after the day's work has done but dinner hasn't quite yet started. There's a handful of riders chatting in High Reaches' bowl, jostling and joking about the results of a greenflight earlier in the day, exchanging marks; some are gathered near the lake shore to watch the weyrlings' lesson wrap up, and others -- like R'hin -- are oh-so-casually loitering near the entrance to the caverns, the Savannah rider leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Waiting. Greenflights always mean more work for the herders. It means someone's got to deal with the blooded carcasses quickly, clean up the pens, resupply for actual feeding, butcher what they can for miscellaneous purposes. It's made the day and most of the early evening productive, at the very least, and Faryn looks a little tired as she crosses the bowl for what must be the hundredth time, wiping at a smear of grime on her cheek as she makes her way towards the caverns entrance. The loitering riders are ignored, her gaze dropping so as not to invite anyone into conversation as she passes. R'hin doesn't seem interested in Faryn; at least not at first. Not until after she's passed him, and he steps, near-soundlessly, to match her pace for one, two, three steps, then: "Headed for the baths?" and with barely a pause to allow an answer, snakes out a hand for the middle of her back, seeking to guide her away from the entrance, voice amused: "No time for that now." She's fastidious about not paying attention to him, even when he falls into pace beside her. There's nothing but a sidelong, impatient look and a small frown for him, for his question, and even while her mouth opens to answer the first question he's trying to steer her away. Bewilderment wins over annoyance. "What?" It's likely deliberate, the way R'hin takes advantage of that bewilderment, steering them towards the dark, still shape of Leiventh, who is not watching them at all. "It will have to do," the bronzerider says, as if this is somehow more illuminating. "Greenriders. Always so demanding and always about them and their flights, hm?" That is probably the distraction, or more of it. Faryn plants her feet when she spots Leiventh, craning her head back towards the caverns entrance, then back to the waiting bronze. His distraction this time is a less effective, now that she's had a whole second to get her wits. "Wait, wait. What are you doing? What will have to do?" When she comes to a halt, R'hin does, too, head cocking as he grins at her. "What you're wearing, of course," he says, resuming the few steps to take him to Leiventh's side, reaching into one of the saddlebags and offering her the flight jacket he pulls out. "This ought to fit you, I think," he judges, with a nod, holding it out expectantly towards her. "I'm sorry," Faryn says, and doesn't sound sorry at all. She crosses her arms. "What makes you think I'm going anywhere with you?" "Because I'm handsome and charismatic and you can't resist me," R'hin says, with a low-throated amusement that continues as he speaks: "Because you want to know. Because you want to find out what you are meant to do. Because you want to be great." He spreads the hand that that is not holding out the jacket to her, "Pick one." "Who do you think you're kidding?" is equally low-throated in return, sounding annoyed. She gives him an expressive eye-roll. "Stop mocking me. It wasn't funny the first time, and it's going to only get less the more you do it." And yet. She doesn't take so much as snatch the jacket from him, jerking it on. "I'm not here to pat your head and make you love me," the bronzerider replies with an easy shift of shoulders, amusement glimmering in pale eyes as she, inevitably, takes the jacket. "Not today, anyway," R'hin clarifies, with a laugh. Turning, he steps up neatly, climbing up Leiventh's side and settling in with the familiarity of long turns. He regards her, offering a hand but no other guidance -- she is the daughter of a rider, after all, and there's an assumption there she needs it not. Daughter of a rider, indeed. Faryn gives him a tortured expression, shaking her head, and takes his proffered hand. She's not lost the ability to get up there on her own, and indeed finds herself nestled betweens Leiventh's ridges with only a little difficulty, probably born of navigating unfamiliar straps and dragon. Some things just stay with you. "At least tell me where we're going?" "That would spoil the fun," R'hin says, almost scolding, if it weren't for the amusement threading his voice. He doesn't, in the same way he didn't guide her, assist her with the straps, though he does look to make sure she tends to them before Leiventh leaps aloft. Only two beats of his great wings are taken, barely level with the lowest weyrs of the bowl, before the cold of between grips them. One, two, three heatbeats, and then the welcome warmth of a familiar climate surrounds them. Here, it is earlier in the day, the sun high and bright, colorful pennants snapping in the winds over the palisades of Ista Hold as they angle in from the sea-ward side. Beneath, there is plenty of activity -- a gather, or a racing festival, or both, to judge by the crowds, undaunted by the heat of the mid-day Istan weather. "...thinks he's so mysterious," is perhaps all R'hin will hear, if anything, as they take wing, Faryn's grumblings meant to be more private despite having company. Then it's between, always surreal, and then such sudden warmth that she immediately leans to the side, trusting the straps, to look down below and squint to make out the details. "Ista?" Obviously. She twists in her seat as best she can to look at him. Sweetly then, "Jeez, if you'd wanted to take me to a gather, you only had to ask." And abruptly dry, "I would have told you to kick rocks." Low laughter spills from the Savannah Wingleader at his passenger's words, though R'hin doesn't retort just yet. Leiventh takes a low path towards the flattened area at the gather's edge, landing smoothly. "Perhaps that's why I didn't ask," he finally says, unbuckling his straps, sliding down. Again, he seems to assume Faryn needs little help, though he does stand near just in case she requires a steadying hand on the way down. "Ah." It's a sound of faux understanding, like it all suddenly makes sense, but then Faryn works at her straps with a little more difficulty than she had fastening them, thanks to the lingering coldness of her fingertips. Soon enough, she's got them sorted and is sliding down as well, not quite sticking the landing but recovering by virtue of sheer pride when her misstep moves her towards R'hin. She'll be damned. "Kidnapping is always the best option," agrees the herder, thick with sarcasm. She shields her eyes from the sun, looking around mildly. "I guess the booth that sells knowledge, meaning, and greatness is this way." Off she steps, in some random direction. If he notices... well, let's face it, he does, and it's the pride more than the misstep that amuses the old bronzerider, lighting his gaze, even if he puts no voice to it. He takes the time to strip out of his flight jacket, lingering with Leiventh for a moment, before long strides catch him up to the herder. "Just so. Why," with a touch of hand to his chest, "It's as if you can see the future, Faryn," he chuckles. Her direction may be aimless; his less so -- he reaches a hand to settle into the small of her back again, guiding her this way and that, until they stop in front of an apple seller's stall. The old man inside appears to be dozing, and business appears to be rather slack. R'hin looks at her, oddly. Expectantly. Faryn, for some reason, is less resistant to being steered as they move. Her eyes graze the stalls, the people, the decorations. She's stopped taking his bait, too, almost entirely. All he gets from her is a sigh, right up until they stop in front of a booth wordlessly. She looks critically at the half-asleep vender, at R'hin, at the goods, back at R'hin. "Um. Those are apples." "Yes," R'hin says, in that sort of indulgent tone you might use on a young one who correctly identified a dragon. "And you're going to sell a dozen of them." "If you want to spend all day tomorrow doing the same thing, and the day after that, and next seven, next Turn, the rest of your life, then by all means," R'hin's hands spread, "Walk away." "And if I sell your sharding apples?" Faryn demands, whirling back on him. "Then what? I spend all day tomorrow selling apples and the day after that, the next seven, the next Turn, the rest of my Life? Instead of cleaning up after silly greens or stupid runners?" Her eyes are blazing. "I told you to stop mocking me. I'm not here to be some...some stupid joke you can poke whenever you're bored." "No," and there's that familiar amusement, that seems as much a part of R'hin, and less so a mocking of her, pale eyes on the herder as she whirls around; "Just twelve apples. And then something else. Something new. Until we find what you are good at; what you could be great at." Faryn takes a deep breath, straightening, evaluating him and his bearing for disingenuity. It's a few moments, really digging, before she straightens. "It's not apples," she clips, glaring at the poor, innocent old man in the stall, like this must be his fault. "But I'll humor you. Since you're my ride home." And no other reason. "Maybe not. But since you don't seem to have a clue where to start," yeah, that laugh is definitely at her, "Then apples it shall be." R'hin gives her a last grin, then retreats off through the crowd. The old man stirs briefly, snorts, then falls still. Inside the stall, there's another chair. The apples are relatively good quality, crisp and fresh -- the problem is, most people walk past it without giving it a second glance. Children race for the bubbly pie stall next to hers -- the crowd there much more impressive -- and adults trail in their wake. Faryn stands there, watching him go, and it's not until she's sure he's gone that she breaks her rigid posture and makes her way back to the stall. "You're not even trying," she says critically of the sleeping man, sounding annoyed, slinking defeated inside and looking around. She picks one of the apples up, tossing it in the air and catching it a few times, watching the progression of people, where they go. It doesn't take long. "Nobody is going to want apples over pies," she says to nobody. "Shit, I don't even want them." And even so, she says, "Oi, kid!" to a passing child, just to say she tried. "You want to buy an apple? Your mum would appreciate it." Her words must stir the old man; he shifts his position, blows out a snort, then settles back down. The kid that she calls out to sticks his tongue out at her, then runs away laughing. He's not the last, either, even if he's the first; some glance at her curiously then look away, pretending like they haven't heard her; others are just plain rude and ignore her. A girl finally approaches and looks like she's interested, but all she does is leave the wrapping of her bubbly pie on the stall and run away, to the giggling amusement of her circle of friends. Faryn's mouth is twisted down into a disapproving line by the time the girl comes around and leaves her rubbish behind. It looks very much like she's going to fast pitch the apple at the back of the girl's head. She refrains somehow, hissing, "Disrespectful brat." She begins rolling the apple between her palms instead, considering. To the next kid that comes by with a pie, she wants to know, "Hey, what's in that bubbly?" The kid, face already stuffed full of half the pie, squints at her, and shrugs his shoulders, wordlessly making the noise that universally signifies 'I-don't-know'. "Apples?" is maybe a little hopeful, coming from Faryn. At this point, one sale would be a small victory. The boy frowns, squints at what he can see of the contents of the pie, then gives her another puzzled look while he stuffs another mouthful in. "Think so," he says, but he doesn't sound all that sure. Triumph. "Definitely apples," Faryn says, smiling. Her body language has changed, gentling, as she leans over to hold the apple out for him. "You know," her voice is conspiratorial, "I'll tell you a secret. Don't tell anyone else. That pie is filled with apples from this cart." Who cares if it's a lie? "If you bought...six apples here - for a lot cheaper than that one pie - you could have like...twelve of those pies fresh at home." How does apple become pie? She's not telling him. "Twelve?" The boy's eyes practically light up as he wipes the remnants of the pie from his mouth with his sleeve. "Ain't got, um," he digs into his pouch, and comes up with a smattering of small coins. "This do?" he asks, trustingly looking up at Faryn. "Let's see 'em," Faryn says patiently, counting out the coins. There's a sympathetic look on her face when she's done. She's ostensibly sympathetic when she decides, "Not quite." And it looks like she's going to milk him for more, somehow, until she catches his gaze. She sighs. "Not quite," again, "but I'll give you a special discount. All you have to do, kiddo, is tell your friends we have the best apples at the gather. And tell them to tell their mums." She counts out the apples, looks for a sack - they're buried from disuse, but she finds them eventually - and stuffs them in, handing them over. "Deal?" "Deal!" the kid agrees happily. Certainly, he seems to think he's getting a deal, clutching at the sack, while muttering to himself, "Twelve!" with a certain amount of delight. "Well, we know you can lie well enough. Even in the face of innocence. Though whether that's a good or bad thing," R'hin's chuckling, as he appears at the edge of the stall; he can't have been too far since he clearly heard what happened. "And you seem to deal with frustration as well as any man... or woman." Pale eyes flicker up and down, as he sets down the amount of coin needed for another six. "Let the old man get the rest. Dance?" he cocks his head at her, inquisitively. Faryn looks slightly offended at his assessment. "Did you see his face?" she asks. "Probably not, since you were lurking. I don't like disappointing kids. At worst, he finds out his mum doesn't make pies, he eats apples, his diet's better for a seven." She's quite content to acquiesce and exit the booth, though, but his next request is met with as much resistance as the first, if less explosive. "I don't really dance," she says shortly. "Not unironically." "Well, then. All the more reason to do so. Try different things, is the nature of the day," R'hin waits until she comes around, then extends a hand towards her. "Did you hate my mother?" Faryn asks, sounding half-serious. "Are you torturing me in some form of displaced revenge?" But she takes his hand to belie it. "Different things, indeed. From herder to professional dancer?" "Your mother was Istan," R'hin replies, as if this should be enlightening in some way that he doesn't quite explain. "Herder, to expert apple seller, to professional dancer," he corrects her. It isn't hard to find the dance square, what with the sounds of the harper's instruments to draw them in. Perhaps it's a coincidence that a fast jig is playing; perhaps not -- either way, the bronzerider seems prepared to dive right in, pulling Faryn along into the thick of the crowd. He's an adept dancer -- perhaps enough that his guiding of her might well make it enjoyable. However she's meant to take it, Faryn has no objection to that assessment, and she's smiling slightly for it. "Adequate, filthy liar of an apple seller," comes the correction. "And warning, I'm a terrible dan--" He probably gets the gist, but bronzeriders are fearless, or something like that. It might be enjoyable, if she'd relax a little bit. But Faryn is instead rigid and wary, and very very loathe to let him lead as is proper. So, no, not enjoyable; and his feet might not think so either. "Okay, this is stupid," she manages in between trying to catch up, each time she trips up. "I'm not a professional dancer." "No one's asking you to be. Just relax," R'hin exhorts. "Listen to the beat of the drum, let it guide your steps." If he's pained by her lack of ability, physically or otherwise, he hides it well behind coaxing tones of encouragement. "Let me guide," he adds, leaning close as he murmurs, "You and I are no one here, not a herder or a rider or an apple seller. It's ok to let go." Faryn looks like she has something to say about who they are here - or anywhere - but she bites her tongue, tries to, bless her, listen. Anything has to be better than how awkward it feels now, after all. It takes a few tries to segue. When she finally manages, it's met with a short, incredulous laugh and nothing else. There's concentration involved in relaxing, or so it would seem. He doesn't push it, but he does enjoy it while it lasts, that transition, with approving glimmer of pale gaze -- R'hin even sneaking in a bit of a spin for her near the end of the dance. When the song ends and everyone claps the harpers, the bronzerider leads them off the floor, not intending for them to continue, it would seem. When they reach the edge, his, "One more thing to end the day?" sounds almost like a teasing challenge. Laughter or not, it seems Faryn's perfectly content to not keep down that particular path. She'd be happy to stop overall, though, and that's clear with her counter: "Two more. You interrupted me on the way to dinner. You owe me that much, and I've worked for it." "Two then," R'hin agrees, with a surprised chuckle. It's plain he already has the next in mind; he's leading the way out past the stalls, to the flats where several runner races are being conducted. With an amused glance at Faryn, he steps up to talk to a man in Keroonian colors; they exchange words (and some coin), and then R'hin's gesturing towards Faryn. "You're up next." He gestures towards the runner in question as it's brought up. "I hear you need no assistance in this venture, so I'm going to choose somewhere comfortable to watch from." The Keroonian squints at her. "He says you know how to ride, girl? Be careful with her, she's gets a little agitated around other runners, might try and nip 'em if you're not careful. But she'll go if you give her her head." Faryn's posture betrays her as they make it closer, a herder's sense making her peek at the nearest runners, assessing, watching the process with a notably enviable eye for a few. She isn't quizzical this time; his plans are apparent enough that by the time he returns, she's hardly listening to him, jittering slightly in anticipation. "Okay," is all he gets, even as Faryn holds a hand out for the runner, making gentle clicking sounds against her front teeth. She squints right back at the man. "Yeah, I do," she suffices, reaching the soft muzzle with her hand. "Hello, love," is for the mare, "We'll be fine, yeah?" There's a bit more chatting her up, shushing and patting, letting the horse sniff and mouth at her hair, before she finally decides to mount up. "I'll be careful with her," she assures as she takes her to the line, one hand gently soothing at the soft neck in front of her, keeping her close in hand while close to the competition. That assessive gaze can probably quickly determine that all but the few of the other racers are contenders, the nearest -- a stallion -- shifting nearer and flicking his tail towards the mare. His rider's grinning, like he's encouraging it with the slight nudges of his knee. There's not much more time for jostling, however, as the announcer gets the crowd to cheering, before turning to the racers: "Ready? Set? GO!" The stallion pulls quickly out in front, followed by a second, and another mare. It's a straight, sprinter's face, the finish line visible even from the start. Faryn's mount is antsier by the second, her ears flattened to her head and her feet moving with anxious energy. And atop her, the herder is soothing, ever soothing, even so far as to warn, low, "If you bring him one step closer, I'll see that you lose more than a race." She has no time to see if her threat elicits a reaction, because everything explodes into action and the stallion is gone. The Keroonian beast is off next, quick on her own even before Faryn lets her have her head, in testing increments; it's not long enough a race to hold her back. The herder is high in the stirrups, low across the sleek neck, and when she loosens that last fraction of hold on the mare's head they fly, all that anxious energy fueling them. The pair quickly overcomes the nearest runner, and gains on the one behind that before passing as well. It is, of course, the stallion who will be the problem, but they gain. They gain, and they inch closer, but the stallion holds her off, his powerful strides keeping him just ahead, tantalizingly out of reach. The rider even gives her a knowing look over his shoulder as they cross the finish line, perhaps half a head in front. "Guess she wasn't all that," the stallion's rider calls, pumping his fist jubilantly into the air, as people approach him to congratulate him, and the crowd exchanges bets. The Keroonian is there, too, brow furrowed. "Did well, little lady. Almost had him. Another few feet and he'd've been yours. You ever want to ride again, don't need coin to do it." Past him, over his shoulder, R'hin's watching, amused as ever, waiting for her. Faryn pulls her up, ignoring the jibe from the stallion's rider. Instead, she leans forward again to say in the mare's ear, "That was all me, love. I should have let you have your head in the beginning, just like he said." It's apologetic, but not disappointed, not at all, especially when the Keroonian appears. "Thanks," she says. "I was too cautious, but...thanks. For letting me ride her, too. She's a fine thing." And down she comes, a much swifter and effective dismount than from a dragon, smoothing her hand down the mare's forehead before handing her over and making her way again to R'hin, with one bitter glance backwards at the stallion and his rider. "Not a fantastic jockey, either," she notes, though she's smiling. "Second place." "Second place on an unknown runner on an unknown track. Seems to me your problem is all in the sales pitch," R'hin says, with a keen eye and twitch of lips. "Which gives me an idea for your last event of the evening." He gestures for the herder to proceed him, though he'll quickly step to her side even if she does. Faryn scoffs quietly for that, shaking her head. "I suppose you're right. And I thought the last event was dinner. You can't change the deal now," she warns, slipping her hands into her pockets and turning to amble that-a-way. "Was it?" R'hin pretends to have misunderstood, though he doesn't look overly consternated at it. He leads them to the edges of the gather, where low tents are slung, holding up the tent flap for her to proceed him. Inside, there's a table and chair, a pair of wine glasses, and what looks like a fresh plate of sauteed fish, a mixture of vegetables and potatoes. Also, too, on the table, is a pair of hides and writing implements. Faryn sticks her tongue out at him. "You know it was." She's nevertheless willing to follow, to duck into the tent, to exclaim, "Excellent," at the layout, even before she notes the entirety of it. "I was getting concerned you'd starve me out," she admits, and doesn't need direction to pick one of the chairs beeline for it. "I'd thought on it. Hunger makes the mind sharper," R'hin replies, easily, chosen the chair left over, sliding into it. He reaches for the glass, first, takes a deep drought of the contents. "One last thing, then," with a gesture to the hides, "Think on it while you eat. Words. Thoughts. A poem, something. About you. What makes you tick. And," with a low-throated laugh, "To show I'm not all heartless, I'll do the same. An exchange, if you will." "Hunger just makes me moody and bitter," Faryn says, food her first agenda, the wine second. She's quick to serve herself, to pop a potato in her mouth and squint at the parchment. No immediate objections, per se, only, "And then a mindhealer, to show up and tell us what the true meanings of our word choices are." "And that outburst earlier...?" R'hin's teasing, everything from the pale glimmer of eyes to the amused twist of lips. "It is good, at least, to be aware of one's mood, and what effects it." He spears some of the fish, tasting it, and nodding his silent approval, before brows flicker upwards, and a scoffing laugh follows. "No," he promises, with dark certainty. "No mindhealers. Just you and I." "Oh, that? That was just me being mad. I bet you don't know how frustrating and terrible you can be, or can seem. It's because you don't have to talk to yourself. So take it from me." She looks at him pointedly, aiming the tines of her fork at him for emphasis. "You are frustrating and terrible." It's not without it's hint of...something else. Not quite fondness really, but something close cousin. "I'm still waiting for the other boot to drop, actually." "I am? Frustrating and terrible? Oh, my," R'hin, clearly, knows exactly how he comes across, if his low-throated laugh is anything to judge by. "Thank you for your honesty," he adds, oddly sincere, as he chews another mouthful of the fish, watching her for a moment, brows flickering upwards at her latter statement. "Like... what? Are you expecting someone to burst into the tent and yell surprise, and drag you off to the mines? A secret rendezvous with your mother, perhaps?" A beat, "I would never be that cruel," is added, with a little self-directed scoff. "Food, and words. That's all I ask." Faryn's smile is quick, "Welcome," and then she's looking at her plate. There's a shudder. "Oh, thank Faranth. I don't know if I could have event five, deal with your drunk mother. I'm tired." She pokes at her fish without much enthusiasm. "I just don't understand why you did all this. This," a vague wave around, "is not happenstance." "No, it's not," R'hin agrees with her guess, but neither does he elaborate; instead, he eats. Faryn's forehead wrinkles in consternation. "Fine, don't tell me," she says, like he needed her permission. She eats too, thoughtful, and eventually reaches for the parchment, all the better to...stare a hole in it, or try her damnedest. But eventually, she puts her fork down and takes up one of the pencils, all the better to scribble something that is most certainly not a poem, from its brevity. The bronzerider's low-throated chuckle suffices for an answer, taking his time with his meal, in imbibing the contents of the glass, before he, too, reaches for the hide. R'hin's gaze goes past her, thoughtful, as he considers, then writes, then considers, then writes, with little rework. Something about Faryn's own writings are not as confident as his own. She puts another bite in her mouth, makes a dissatisfied sound, and scribbles out what she's already written with fervor. This time she waits, thinks while she chews, and when she decides to write again it's with a little more certainty less hesitation. "There," she says, and shoves the paper at him. "Take it, before I overthink it like everything else and take it back. And I swear," she warns, self-conscious, her hand still on the page like she still plans on snatching it away, "if you're nasty, I'll never forgive you." R'hin finishes before her, setting everything down, leaning back to watch her write, amusement ever-present in his gaze. His brows go up at her threat, such that it is, and while he doesn't promise, he does pass across his own hide, with the intent of a simultaneous exchange. Faryn waits for a response, or at least lets the seriousness of her words settle in. "It's a silly thing anyways," she says, deflecting her anxiety. "Putting these things on paper, it's...minimizing. People are more than that." But she finally lifts her fingers, if only to take his paper. She doesn't immediately look at it: she's staring at him, tense. The top of the page is what she scribbled out, apparently some word cloud: smaller words like 'sailing' and 'Tillek' and even something that might be 'Ista' can still be seen on the edges of what she scratched out; the rest is almost entirely gone. And below that is what she apparently painstakingly thought about, what she's so reluctant to show him. Her writing is timid. Even if it's foolish and impractical, I deserve the life I crave. I'm willing and capable to work for it, when I find it. I'm scared of becoming my mother, of not (underlined) becoming my mother, of being trapped, of disappointing. I don't want to choose the wrong life. "Of course they are," R'hin agrees, pale gaze evenly meeting hers. "But it's not about minimizing. It's about how you view yourself. The you, that is you, rather than the you, you play to. That others see you as." When she finally releases the paper, it earns a smile, easy rather than anything else, relinquishing his own paper into her care. His gaze drops, and he studies it; in depth, with an intentess and a twisting of the paper to better see the words that might be scratched out. There's a thoughtfulness and measured regard in the way he nods, finally, exhaling a breath, apparently satisfied with her answer. As for his? There's a care, even in the way he's written the words, clear and deliberate: Liberal of heart and mind, Traditions, hard fought, Faryn doesn't even bother glancing down at his page, not until he's done evaluating it. When no criticism is forthcoming, she relaxes very slightly, at least enough to take his paper up. A small smile twitches the corners of her mouth up. She isn't judging when she says, "You never struck me as a poet," but then she reads as well. There's less criticism in her gaze, a tilt of the head, and then she sets it back down quietly. It looks like she's fishing for wording before she says, using his own phrasing, "Do you like the...uh, the you that is you, then?" He lays her paper down, leaning back, watching while she digests his writing. "Not often," R'hin admits, with a rather bland honesty. "But I am what I need to be." There's an air of what might be considered at first to be contentment in his tone, although perhaps acceptance is closer to the mark. With a gesture towards hers: "Your problem is clear." "Mmm. But you're very good at it. Everyone knows that." It's as close to a compliment as Faryn will give with her limited knowledge, but at least its also an observation that seems apparent from the outside looking in. "They thought I'd just join the Seacraft, but I get seasick. I can't do it. So instead, the Beastcraft. And maybe it's worse now because I Stood," she admits. Her smile is humourless. "It's easier to make no decisions than make bad ones. One's that fall through." "Do they?" R'hin is amused by the compliment, and whether he takes it as one or not isn't clear, to judge by the shake of head, and sudden push to his feet. Movement punctuates his words, casting occasional glances at her as he steps around the small space of the tent. "You could be a rider. But there'd be no guarantees of you being a great rider, and it's not a choice you could undo." He snaps his fingers. "Problem is; right now you fear too much about what others think. Fix that; maybe the rest will become clear. So," he stops, regards her. "Dancing, I think. You are stymied by fearing what others think of you. I want you to go learn. Go to every gather and dance like an idiot. When you can laugh when they laugh at you, perhaps you'll get a clearer picture of who Faryn is, rather than what she is framed by." "If they didn't, nobody would look enviously at your wing. People like Edyis wouldn't hold it, and you by extension, in such high regard. Nobody would let you keep charge of it." This is logical to her, whether or not it's really the case. Faryn watches him pace the tent, twisting in her chair to follow when he gets out of sight, frowning as he speaks, opening her mouth in objection. "And if Roszadyth or Niahvth don't rise before I'm too old? If I don't I--" and she stops, because he says she's fearful and she's proving him right. She bites her lip. "Dancing." It's a bland echo of his words. "Well. This one's still going, yet. And I'm well-fed, now. Would you like to dance one more time, before we go?" "People envy what they don't understand," R'hin replies easily enough, "And loyalty is..." he trails off, moves towards the table, and taps fingers onto the hide, lips twitching, his thoughts on that already laid bare. "There are other Weyrs, if that's what you want. But I don't think it's what you should aim for, Faryn." Her latter comment earns a pleased sort of laugh. "Yes," he assents, gesturing towards the exit. "You said she gets her hooks in you, I remember that. I guess I'm hooked. I don't want to go to another weyr," Faryn agrees, gathering up their papers; Faranth forbid someone else find her fears written down and left behind. She folds them into squares and stuffs them in a pocket. She'll not rush for the exit - she's not that excited - but she's also not hesitating. So it's a start. Faryn doesn't try to block his hand when he snags the paper, but she'll gladly keep the one he lets her have without further comment or objection. Objection only comes when he abandons her on the dance floor, mostly because she was focused enough in their goal that she only notices when she turns to face him. "You shit!" She doesn't quite shout at him, but she doesn't have time to stalk to him and demand his presence - someone bumps her into place, bows and smiles, offers their hand. Her argument will have to wait, it seems, even though she still prefaces to her poor partner, "Sorry. I'm a terrible dancer," before they commence. She might well catch the low-throated laugh from R'hin's direction before the crowd -- and her new partner -- blocks it. There's people on the sidelines, some of whom are waiting to catch their breath, or just enjoy the music without the dancing. They all get a good view of Faryn's dancing, such as it is, and there might be a few comments here and there sheltered under the beat of the harper's drums. Her partner bears up well enough, or at least is kindly enough to feign it, though he's rather quick to excuse himself once the song's done, limping off. R'hin, meanwhile, has found a seat and a glass of wine, and lounges somewhere he couldn't possibly watch the dancing from. "Sorry, sorry." Faryn's profuse apologies are genuine and a near-constant stream when the man excuses himself, and she's red with embarrassment. Enough so that she will slink towards the edge of the square, eyes down, a perfect parallel to her attempt to divert conversation earlier in the evening before their jaunt to the gather. She only looks up long enough to scope for R'hin on the way, to weave between a few people in her search, and to ultimately end up beside him and say, "I almost crippled a man. I'm ready to go home." "Already?" Amused, or disappointed? Possibly more of the latter, but then, her confession is burning a hole in his pocket and he's undoubtedly well aware of the effect it must have on her. With a sigh, R'hin drains his glass, stands ever so slowly, and pats down his pockets while he wavers on his feet for a moment. That done, he steps over to join Faryn, settling a hand in the curve of her back again while he guides her towards the edge of the gather, where Leiventh awaits to take them home. |
Leave A Comment