Logs:Never Talk Politics On The First Meeting
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| RL Date: 11 October, 2014 |
| Who: Rafevan, Rh'mis |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Rhey meets someone from home. It goes well, until it doesn't. |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 13, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Rone/Mentions |
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| Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life. Late evening finds those who missed the main meal drifting through the nighthearth for stew, and Rafevan seems to be one of those. He has a bowl of it on the table beside him, though it's not steaming any more; he's too busy hunched over the tiny script of some professional treatise. Now, he takes a break to stretch, back cracking as he straightens and twists it out, then rubs at tired eyes. Late evening also finds those who prefer to avoid the main meal drifting in here; Rhey's one of them, too-thin, with the sunken features of someone who has been recently very ill, moving on almost-silent feet. The brownrider - knotless, and largely unidentifiable beneath his heavy hooded jacket - crosses towards the hearth without seeming to pay much mind to anyone else. As he gets to the hearth, he pauses, grabbing hold of a nearby chair to support himself for several long seconds. While others have surely been ignored as Rafe stakes out his place, the newest earns his attention for a moment when he wobbles and holds on to the chair. Rafevan's eyes track Rh'mis curiously, before he asks, "Are you dying imminently?" Rh'mis freezes in place, fingers tightening around the back of the chair until his knuckles are white, as if, by standing still, he might make himself invisible. There's a faint rattle to the intake of breath that follows; then, abruptly, he turns his head, blue eyes seeking blue eyes. "No," he answers, shortly, but not unpleasantly. "I'm fine." To prove it, he releases the chair. Rafevan does not look convinced, and his expression says enough of it in one archly lifted brow. "Just curious," he answers, voice bland as he regards the standing man. Is he going to fall now, if he lets go? Under the wanness of Rhey's cheeks, he flushes, chin lifting sharply. "I don't have leprosy, either," has a note of teenage exasperation to it, too. There's no immediate explanation of that comment; instead, he takes a couple of careful steps forward, until he's actually standing in front of the hearth. Look ma; no hands! "Was that likely?" Now the other brow goes up to join the first, as Rafe regards Rh'mis still. "I wasn't warned of a colony here, but I suppose that's not something you'd care to mention to prospective postings. Even lepers need crafters?" He finally reaches over to pick up his own stew, stirring it around and then taking a bite--and immediately grimacing. Long cold. "No," answers Rhey, shortly. Another person might laugh, or try and make a witty comment on the subject; he doesn't seem to even try. Perhaps he's focusing too hard on trying to keep his hands from shaking as he claims his bowl. For a moment, it looks as though he's simply about to leave, but then he stops, blue-eyed gaze turning back to the crafter. "You're new." Beat. "And Nabolese." There might be a question in there, though it's definitely not about Rafe's origins. "Yes," says Rafevan, head cocking with more interest; his accent's not strong but there for one with the ears to hear it. "And yes, of a sort. Rafevan, of the Smiths for the last decade, at least. And you are...?" Rh'mis' voice holds not a hint of Nabol in it... and not a hint of anything else, either. He nods, though, when Rafevan confirms his statements, and there's something in his expression, and the line of his shoulders, that suggests approval. "Rhey," is his answer. And then, "Nabolese refugee." Sort of. "Good to meet you," Rafe says to Rhey, polite in that though his curiosity clearly holds with the other man's latter confession. "I believe I was absent for most of the--upheaval?" Obviously, if he hasn't been there in ten turns. He leans forward, hovering over his paperwork again; a Weyr refugee is clearly more interesting for time being. If Rhey is unnerved at being the subject of someone's focus like this, he manages not to show it too much; perhaps it's just in the way he grips his bowl, and that could have something to do with whatever ails him. "Of course," he agrees. "You would have been. But your family? Did they support the pretender?" Rafevan is nothing if not intense, studious in his regard of the other man. "Which one is that?" Silence. Rhey's expression is not inclined towards the expressive, and yet there's still a sense of it, now: first bewilderment, and then, just quietly, disapproval. "Hm," he says, not answering the question. "You abandoned your people, then. Your home. What good are you?" He scowls, now, dumping his bowl down on the nearest table. "Excuse me." "Partisanship is not a virtue," says Rafevan, sounding unperturbed as he watches Rhey. "But of course, good to meet you all the same. Good evening, Rhey." "Home is all there is," is Rhey's answer to that, snapped out as he storms for the caverns, legs wobbling all the way. |
Comments
Tiriana (22:27, 11 October 2014 (EDT)) said...
I still don't know who the imposter is.
Roz (22:29, 11 October 2014 (EDT)) said...
He's just not having a good day, at all. :x
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