Logs:Our Home
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| RL Date: 31 January, 2013 |
| Who: Suireh, Z'ian |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Suireh and Z'ian are meeting for the first time, sort of. With name introductions and everything. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 12, Month 12, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Light snow. |
| Mentions: Riahla/Mentions |
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| Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr(#555RJ)
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.
He's not usually a part of card games, Z'ian has a thing for keeping his money. But on occasion it's possible to talk him into it, after enough beers. Tonight there were enough beers. Not enough to win however. So when he does inevitably lose, the bar ends up being his next go to destination. When a seat opens up next Suireh, he doesn't so much as blink an eye when he settles down next to her. After ordering drink number whatever, he takes a moment to discreetly glance at his bar companions and check to see if any of them are interesting enough to talk to. Certainly he recognizes her, but he has the manners to not be obnoxious about it or ogle. "Hey, evening." He begins, flashing her an easy, friendly smile. The skinny-turned-slender teenager passes one more circle about the rim of her mug of steaming drink, not quite hiding that smile that emerges as that spider sense so many girls have at the arrival of male so near. Not that she was tracking him from the card game -- no, Suireh's gray eyes lingered on the card game alone, at least enough that she can feign having to pull her attention away from it to smile bemusedly at Z'ian. "Are you really a bronzerider with that kind of suaveness?" is her low spoken tease. With the newly received beer just a few mere inches from his lips, he laughs quiet and low before committing to taking a sip. He glances to the side and towards the card game he was just at before focusing his attention onto her again. "I'm really a bronzerider." He returns, equally teasing on the one fact but noncommittal on the other. Is he suave? Who knows? Eye of the beholder or something. His lips curve and he shifts on the bar stool, turning his back more or less on the other person besides him. "Z'ian. Tsanth's." Sure, he probably knows what her name is. But when he extends his hand to her, he politely leaves the space empty for her to supply it. When your intention is to Impress due to your familial legacy, you make it a habit to learn the names of all would-be local suitors to your would-be gold. It's just common sense, particularly for someone who likes the orderly neatness of making lists and writing endless names over and over again and considering how it might sound as Weyrleader pairs. When you might be younger. Suireh, not being young now, sucks in a hiss of a breath and releases it slowly, giving no indication of her youthful fantasies, or the fact she already knows Z'ian's name. She studies that hand he extends and then the pause that results and lifts a slow brow, creating a charmingly dubious look. Seriously? Humoring him, and pretty obvious about it, she breaks one hand free of her mug long enough to pass hers over his, trailing finger tips into his palms before returning it around her mug. "Suireh." A beat passes before she states, matter-of-factly, "But you already knew that, I hope." Z'ian doesn't try anything cute or weird during the handshake, it's just a quick and easy grasp of her hand. After all, that's his drinking hand and it requires his beer to be held within it. Fingers circling around the neck of the glass, he quirks one eyebrow at her response. There's something gently amused there in his expression but he'll answer her. "Sure." He has an honest face, not one practiced at being deceptive so it should be easy for just about anyone to read it most days and times. "You hope?" He asks, curiosity laced through his tone as he brings that drink up to his mouth again. "Please," says the young woman, that dubious glint still bright in her slate eyes, "If you didn't remember the toddler who threw up on your shoes at the winter ball fourteen turns ago, I'd be hurt. And if you forgot her much prettier sister, I'd be more hurt." Throwing Riahla on the trading caravan since turn twelve. Suireh signals the bartender for a second drink, before she gulps down the rest of her cooled wine. "You lost pretty badly back there." She was paying attention to that card game pretty intently apparently. Z'ian ducks his head and laughs again, this time it's an easier thing. "I didn't forget you or your sister. I just don't make a habit of remembering every time a toddler throws up on me. Not that it's so terribly often." He takes a long draw from his beer before settling the bottle down onto the counter. "But I also don't make the habit of presuming every woman I meet whose name I already know appreciates me stumbling over and acting overly familiar with her." He quickly shrugs his shoulders, entertained at least. "Yes. Again. Just enough to remind me not to do it again for a long while." At his mention of 'woman', Suireh pauses, a flush that isn't alcohol based climbing her cheeks. Thankfully, as such things do, her drink arrives at that moment, and she brings it up to her chin. Steam can causes flushes also, right? "You were hardly stumbling," points out the harper apprentice. "I've taken card classes at the Hall. Well, not really classes, but some of the journeymen teach us how to play, and play well enough by counting what's going on at any time. Could teach you any time I come back- home to visit." There's a funny little pause before home, like a hiccup, but not. "I mean, if there even is a home left to visit after- after all this." He rolls the bottom of the bottle against the hard counter, flashing her a bright smile and briefly raised eyebrows. "It's a funnier story if I'm stumbling." Z'ian considers the much younger woman and finally gives a slow nod of his head. "Sure, why not. I don't turn down lessons in... well anything, actually." Now that he thinks about it. It's been an interesting seven. If he notices the hiccup, he doesn't acknowledge it with anything more than a flicker of his eyes away from her, back again just as quickly. Her ending comment triggers an almost subconscious tightening of his shoulders and the easy-going bronzerider takes a deep breath, bringing the beer back to his mouth again. "There'll be something left." He can at least give that much. "Really?" There's a tremor of despair in Suireh's pitch perfect soprano. At least the training at Harper Hall's doing her some good, and the flatness of her voice is an ever so expressive flatness. "Outsiders, destroying my home." Z'ian just drinks from the bottle. Career alcoholism, here we come. It may just be that he's heard enough today about all the brownriders and goldriders running around like they own the entire weyr. Because he's just a little curt with her when she begins to pull the flat tremor of despair on him. "Yes. Outsiders. Destroying our home." Because there's been entirely too much of that lately. "My weyr, my, my, my. Not a single person thinks about the place as a whole." That part is muttered and he looks away from her, chewing on his lip for a moment before taking a quick breath. "My apologies." For that uh, grand display of temper. Which wasn't much. The flush returns, but markedly different. It's an ashamed flush, Suireh's gray eyes flaring open wide to stare at Z'ian. Her lower lip falls slack and pushes forward, in a would-be pout, complete with lip tremble, followed quickly by a sharp shake of her head so she can look into her mug instead of at Z'ian. It's only after she's steadied her breath and had a calming sip or three, that she says, all quiet and schooled, teasing in words if not in inflection (or even the dulled gray of her eyes that seek Z'ian's gaze), "Not our apologies?" Damn it. If Z'ian was sort of chewing on his lower lip before, he might as well have bitten it off this time. He rolls his eyes up to the ceiling before turning back to the young harper. Without asking permission, he puts one of his hands out and covers Suireh's. "Our apologies." It's not funny or teasing and his expression says that he knows it's not. It's just a touch more serious than that. Pretty, sad looking girls are probably somewhere on his list of weaknesses. He ducks his head down to catch her eyes, "I'm an idiot. Do you want to throw your drink in my face?" "No," says Suireh smally. She might not even notice that hand on hers; might, except she's totally an eighteen year old girl so she does, and her hand beneath his might flutter-start a little. "I mean. You're right. No one's thinking about the Weyr. About our home as a whole. At the Hall, High Reaches is a case study we look at, watch, take notes on, and try to learn from even before anything happens. And then you hear all these apprentices and journeymen speculate what will happen and what's flawed about the Weyrs and why autonomy is overrated and and...- And it's hard to see that and- it's just so hard being there sometimes." Of course, the one person Suireh verbal diarrheas on without the veneer of her snotty ice princess act would be the guy her sister threw up on when they were four. Of course. It's only fitting. She's not crying though. At least. Point for Z'ian on that. "Our home." Z'ian gives the might-be-fluttered hand a gentle squeeze as he listens patiently, somewhere along the line dropping off on the abuse he was giving to his lower lip. "No, they're not. They're not thinking about the people who live their lives here. They're not thinking about how the consequences of those actions are going to affect the whole. We're faceless, sometimes I think even to the people that are supposed to care." He releases her hands, drawing back so he can drape his arm onto the countertop. "I can only imagine it's more difficult for you, you grew up here." The bronzerider is sympathetic, yes. To the slightly entitled acting teenager whose sister threw up on him one time. "Are you thinking about coming home?" "I can't. I-," the dark haired harper girl-slash-woman tilts her head to eye that hand atop hers and suddenly stills as the recognition he's touching her hand sinks in far beyond the subconscious level. It's a very conscious awareness now. "Maybe after my exams. Don't even really know if I want to come back with everything going on. Don't even know if they'd post me here, since everyone at the Hall seems to think I'm too biased for High Reaches Weyr. Or against it. I'm not sure which." And yet, here she is, on her pre-exams break. Suireh's lips purse and she pries her hand out with a small wiggle. "Leova's taking me back home tomorrow early, when V gets up." Which, V being a toddler is probably really super early. "Don't lose too much more money, Z'ian. Malrek always told me to never join a game you can't guarantee yourself winning in one way or another." "With everything that's going on..." Z'ian takes a breath and smiles crookedly, "It might be the best time to come home." He lifts his shoulders for the rest and reaches to grab his bottle, draining the remainder of the beer out of the glass. The bronzerider doesn't know much about harpering or the political atmosphere at the hall, so honestly probably doesn't have much of an opinion on it. "You should probably get back and sleep then, so that you're not exhausted in the morning." He suggests gently before he rakes his fingers through his hair. Laughing easily, "It's not always about the money or the winning. Not that I've found." "Then you're still winning, right? Cause you find something else to satisfy you." Suireh remarks. She carries her mostly full mug of mulled wine up and slips off that bar stool. "Good night, you." "Sure." Z'ian shoots back, regarding her with a pleasantly amused grin. He lifts one hand and gives her a lazy salute, too informal for anything. "Have a safe trip back to the hall. Good night, Suireh." |
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