Logs:People Like Them
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 30 August, 2015 |
| Who: Jo, Faryn |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Jo runs into Faryn. Faryn confronts Jo about her run-in with T'mic. |
| Where: Central Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 7, Month 9, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: T'mic/Mentions, Yesia/Mentions, Edyis/Mentions, Taikrin/Mentions, Alida/Mentions, R'hin/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions, Farideh/Mentions |
  |
| The afternoon is a busy one. Residents and workers are moving in and out of the stores at intervals, and it's during one of the day's lulls that Jo arrives. Holding an empty black box under one arm, she immediately makes for the area where sheets and bathing supplies are stored. It's here where she lingers, rummaging through one box after another with only a few greetings and distractions as she hunts. As it turns out, this is not the room that Faryn is looking for, but it's tricky navigating these caverns on a good day and this one at least smells nice, if cloyingly so. Plus, hey: company. "You don't strike me as the sort of woman who likes this," comes low, with a gesture that encompasses the room and could easily suggest she means bathing altogether. The younger woman props herself in the doorway, crossing her arms with the small paper she's carrying dangling from two fingers while she watches Jo rummage. "Gotta get just the right scent, right? Can't go around smelling like anything less than summer rain in Ista." Dropping one of the small folded towel sheets back down on its stack at hearing those words from the doorway, Jo turns her head with one of her signature grins before she gives a quick shrug and a, "Come watch me bathe, then. Y'all girls 'round here seem to think I can't possibly wash myself," as in, she's taking that first as that, but she doesn't sound offended at least. Turning fully to see Faryn with her paper (and she with her box for collecting things for use), "I should smell like summer rain in Ista," she agrees on that front. "It's better than smellin' like se-" Okay, for once she censors her crass self as she nods towards that paper. "Whatcha lookin' for? I'm just gettin' some more bathin' supplies I'm runnin' out on, but I can help." "Are you not surrounded by people eager to help, all those conquests and exploits? Surely someone must want to, ah, lather you up." Faryn can't keep a straight face after that, dissolving into laughter. When she stops, it's to cut a look down at her paper with a poke of the tongue to indicate her level of thrilled. She doesn't answer directly, but rather decides, "I'm looking for any item that looks valuable, so I can scalp it." Jo should appreciate that. "That would make bathin' a lot more convenient," Jo seems to consider that option, the laughter from Faryn getting a snort. "My conquests have their own to worry 'bout, rest assured. Yer....scalpin' from the stores." It's not quite a statement, and it's not quite a question, either. She eyes that sheet as if she has suddenly developed see-through vision as she states, "I'll go with that. What're ya lookin' to scalp? I didn' think the Weyr had that many valuables worth sellin'." It seems she had checked at one point of her living here. "It doesn't," Faryn shrugs dismissively. "That's why I'm systematically taking hundreds of small things. Eventually it adds up." Still, what she'd be stealing - and her lack of a poker face makes this farce perfectly transparent - remains a mystery as she steps in, peering into a nearby crate with a judicious expression before she pops up with a jar as her prize. "Rain over Igen," she says, "I could have sworn it was Ista." And she waggles it tantalizingly at Jo. Leaning back against a stack of boxes as she watches Faryn search for awhile, "'N who're ya scalpin' shit to?" Jo has to ask, both amused and curious all at once as she watches her. "Are ya chargin' double what they're worth?" But then the younger woman has indeed found a prize, to which the convict rider wrinkles her nose a bit with a face and folds her arms across her chest at the waggling product. "Ya should wear it for T'mic," darlin'," she does suggest. "Test it out before ya hawk it for marks.Though, if yer lookin' for somethin' to drive a man wild, I hear ya can get that from somewhere hot." Of course Jo would tease. "Weyrbrats between the ages of seven and fifteen. Gullible little shits." Now it's clear she's joking, as if it weren't before. And even so, "Why, you want a cut? I would have thought you've got plenty of shady deals going on, criminal blah - murderer blah - dangerous thief, blah blah." Mention of T'mic has Faryn's smile disintegrating, only the very corners staying hooked up out of newly-formed habit rather than any mirth. She drops the jar back in the crate; it clatters loudly. She's lucky it doesn't break. "Heard you talked to him the other day." Of course she is. "Poor things gettin' shafted by ya," Jo states, shaking her head at the injustice. "But I'll always take a cut, though. Ya can never have too much to do. It's not like I've got somebody mindin' after me'n my business," and she puts a finger under her eye. "Sounds like yer startin' to see things my way though, Faryn. Who, T'mic?" There's a pause as if she does need to recall such an encounter before she nods and then shrugs. "Oh yeah. Asked him a bunch of nosy questions like what his favorite color was. Dunno if he appreciated me askin' for somethin' like that. He seemed far too polite to say so to my face, I noticed. It was...enlightenin'." Just like her gaze lighting on Faryn right now. Noting that drop of the Rain, "Why? What happened?" she asks now. Faryn's humour has faded; she doesn't seem terribly inclined to return to the topic of parting weyrbrats with their hard-earned allowances, instead propping a shoulder against the boxes and cutting Jo a look. "That's all? Just his favorite color?" She purses her lips briefly, then sucks the back of her teeth with a click that indicates irritation. "He is too polite. He's very polite. More polite, in fact, than I am. You knew that." Among plenty of other things that Faryn doesn't articulate, poking through the rest of the jars for something that's meant to be distraction. "I don't know, honestly. He seems to think I'm unhappy." Noting the faded humor with a slight dubious expression stealing over her features, "Well," Jo says to the questions asked, now seeming to really try to recall. She runs a hand through her hair as if sheepish, "I mean, I didn' know much 'bout him other than the fact that he's nice. He is. I dunno how he thought ya were happy when all I asked was how serious he wanted to be with ya. 'N him writin' harper songs, but he doesn'. I never said to him that ya were unhappy or anythin' along those lines." Frowning a bit as he looks at her, "He blew up on ya, did he?" she asks now. "He doesn't blow up. He's T'mic. He put up with Yesia in his wing and weyrlinghood and every weyrbrat that needed nannying without ever getting mad, that I saw. He's...nice." Faryn is repeating it because there's not another word for it. "He just wanted to talk about it, make sure I'm happy and that we're good." Tiptoes she goes, arm deep in the bin as she reaches for the single jar with a colored top that is different than the others, fingertips scrabbling for purchase. "He said, and I quote," she grabs the jar finally, examining it's label before looking at Jo over it, "'All I want is to be with you.' Easier to argue." Jo seems to grow awkward and quiet when Yesia's name is brought up, but it could also be about T'mic. Or both. "He must be very patient, too," she murmurs a bit soberly, but it's the latter that has her adding in, "'N he asked me if things were good'n I told him it was. That y'all were both young'n y'all will figure out what yer lookin' for in time. Shit, I didn' think he'd get all bent up 'bout somethin' like that. Want me to talk to him again?" See, she's offering to be nice! "Faranth, no," Faryn says with a huffing breath, pocketing that jar. It's valuable; the lid is red, way better than the other jars. Some kid's going to cough up money for it; or maybe her hair will just smell amazing, for all she insists on just braiding it even now. "I mean easier for me to argue. With him. Maybe we're not good." Her brows furrow. "I want more than just him." Watching all that get pocketed like a hawk, Jo shakes her head a bit as she counters Faryn with, "Arguin' don' make ya not good, darlin'. Could be that ya care enough to want somethin' to change for y'all, y'know?" To that last, there is a sober, "Whaddya want then, Faryn?" It's spoken as if they've had this line of conversation before, about wants and desires. "Could be, R'hin said the same thing," more or less, and Faryn shrugs in kind, smile dry as Igen deserts. "To make decisions in a bubble, for starters. Nobody gets hurt if I can't commit to them, to their cause or craft or emotional...whatever. For a gold to rise so I can get on my merry way down life, wherever that is. To be as simple and clear about what I want as T'mic seems to be." She pauses to think on the last point and, finding nothing else interesting in the crate, turns to face Jo, arms crossed. "I'm happier now than I remember being in a very long time, as long as I don't have to name it." Grinning with the glimmers of an odd sort of fondness, "I'd listen to him," Jo remarks on R'hin with a slight nod. "There's nothin' wrong with wantin' those things, darlin'," she adds now as she sets her little aside to rummage in one of the bathing supply boxes near her. "Tell him that," presumably T'mic. There's a pause before she says soberly, "Recently I've told that showin' interest is bein' able to tell someone what yer goals'n desires are. Bein' interested in theirs. I'm sure he has some, too. I can't imagine someone young like him content with his lot in life, when there's so much more to reach for. It's why I left Keogh when I did. In part." She pulls out a bathing tool and tosses it over into her own box. "R'hin's a butthead," does not lack in some affection of her own, but it must be said anyways. Faryn's nose twitches up in distaste, though it's unclear for exactly what; at the very least, she clarifies some with, "That's trite, isn't it? Who's filling your brain with sentimental bullshit? Do you even have room, between your plots of murder and all that bad behavior?" Her sigh is put-out, ever suffering but sojourning on. "But that's the problem. He has...goals. Very separate from mine, because they have to be. He's got that dragon," who, yes, still makes her resentful, and that is the closest anyone on Pern has made the word dragon into an expletive, "and dreams of being Quinlys' assistant, and for the most part, he seems perfectly content. Effortlessly." Beat, watching her rummage. "I have dreams that, in part, include the contingency plan of leaving him -- here, everyone -- if a queen doesn't rise before I'm too old, or if there's nothing left for me here after they do. Seems a waste of investment." Because she is practical. "He's a wise butthead," Jo corrects, smiling now with teeth involved. That Faryn calls her on the next - sentimental and all that it is - draws open laughter from the bluerider as she shrugs and says, "What, I can't be a 'girl' and a murderer at the same time? I have to choose? I guess I should hide all my poetry from you in my weyr." She must be joking, right? Snorting softly, "Tryin' to court someone properly," is all she says on the who, but something Faryn says draws her attention. "Would'ja really leave?" she considers that possibility with a considering look. "Where would'ja go? I mean, I get it. I'd probably do the same. At one point I was used to keepin' on the move. But then, I busy robbin' folls, so," So. Maybe she's teasing, too. Likely not. "He's been around," concedes the ex-crafter after a minute. Her suspicions don't stop with him, either. "You're a girl?" seems to be her first impulse, and her second is, "You. Courting. Let me guess..." she lifts a hand, waving it vaguely like she's divining it, or pulling thoughts out of Jo's head. "Bronzerider...Telgar....six-three....dark hair, strong features...could crack an egg on his chin....am I warm?" Much easier to tease at Jo - she of big knives - than to focus on any questions about her own position or plans. "I don't like to wallow where I've failed," murmurs Faryn, a touch sardonic. "Ista, Tillek. Seacraft, Beastcraft. Reaches." She lifts a finger for each enumeration: five, but at least two of those can be combined to one and another still has gas left for the run. Three is a much less impressive number. "There's always Ista." "He has," Jo readily agrees, with a grin. As for her being a girl, there's a deadpan look as she looks briefly down at herself before offering, "Need proof?" Beat. "Why would he be from Telgar?" she ponders that one aloud in the banter between them, a finger tapping the side of her mouth. "I'd like to see this egg bein' cracked on his chin. Ya know any Telgari bronzeriders, then? I won' accept them if they're not exactly that description." She's on the verge of laughter, but there is a more neutral, "She rides green. Soft. Feminine. Scared I might attack her when she's not lookin'. Ya haven' failed here," she notes now with a slight frown marring her features. "But, Ista. I wouldn' want ya to leave. I've grown rather fond of yer prickliness. Ista doesn' have me." That should matter, apparently. "Because that's what I'm picking up. I won't apologize if my psychic skills need honing; don't blame me if I'm picking up the whimsical thoughts of one of the stores assistants through the wall. This is not a precise art." Toothy grin. "Soft, green, feminine. Sentimental. Sounds exactly like what I wouldn't figure you for going after." Faryn's eyeroll is in conjunction with a nasal sigh and a repetition, "Sentimental. Don't get that way with me, it'll be weird. I am just planning. I won't get blindsided if things here don't work out, not like I was last turn." "Mmm, looks like practice is in order, then," Jo muses, returning to tossing a couple more things into her box. Something Faryn says though does draw a curious line across her features as she asks her, "What sort do ya think I should or would go for? 'N don' worry on my gettin' all soft'n mushy, darlin'. It's as rare with me as gettin' the coughs. Or wearin' a dress." She snickers on that one before turning back to face her and adds, "Though I do get sentimental when one of my knives break. One blade came off so badly that I was in bed at least for a few hours. Kait thought I was pregnant or somethin'. So, it could happen. If ya leave, ya won' just up'n leave, right?" she looks pointedly at Faryn now. "Cuz, I might take offense to that. That's not so sentimental." "And yet, some pretty soft greenrider has you wrapped around her finger. How the noble fall." Faryn's relentless, this one, stopping her poking at Jo's pride only to think about who she'd picture. "I figured you'd always go for...tougher people. Or Edyis, maybe," two distinct categories to suffice her expectations. "You and your knives. You know that's weird, right? No wonder this girl of yours thinks you might turn on her. It wouldn't even be on purpose, I bet. Just one minute sleeping, the next a knife in the back. You'd never be able to explain why you were sleeping beside it." And for the rest she waves dismissively. "Nah. Too much to pick up. I'd have to figure where I was going, and tell my friends. Make travel arrangements. These aren't things that happen without someone noticing." Jo gives Faryn a look for the first as she says, "Don' think that I don' know what yer doin'. I still wanna know what went down with T'mic." And, still, "Anyway," she continues, dropping one more thing into the box, "that remains to be seen. I don' think she even likes me at this point. Nothin's wrong with goin' for someone soft, though. I mean, I like tough girls, too, like Taikrin'n Alida. Smart girls like Ed. Bitchy girls like Farideh. Even the ones like me. I dunno if I have a specific preference. Just, this one, though," and there's a pause as she sets the box she a rummaging through down. "I see somethin', maybe. I won' stab her, but I do like knives," she notes with a dry look going to Faryn. "It's just hard to explain right now. Folks don' sleep with knives under their pillows?" Because clearly, she looks dubious if they don't. Still, she looks less tense at least upon hearing that Faryn's not going to up and leave, nodding once as she says, "Well, good. If ya ever needed somethin' to keep ya occupied, we could go ridin'. Go cheat some poor sods of their marks. Drink some assholes under a table'n rob'em afters. Ya know. Things girls yer age should be doin'." Faryn does not wear innocence as well as some people; she doesn't have the wide eyes down, and she just can't tamp down that smile beyond a lingering little smirk. "I'm not doing anything but taking an interest in your life the way you have in mine, Jo." It is a tiny bit aggressive, but makes a nice segue into, "Your questions made him think something was wrong. His questions made me think something was wrong. Maybe something is wrong. I told him we're fine, but we haven't talked since he dropped me off that day." That's enough to siphon off any answers for the rest, save that lingering incredulity about Jo's love life. Jo does appear a little non-plussed by the barb, and she is blithe in saying in return, "Yer welcome to take interest in my life, darlin'. Ask yer questions'n if I can answer'em, I will. There's not much I have to hide." Not much can be relative in her case. "I just take care of my friends," is her reasoning with a slight shrug. "But I'll back off. He's lucky I didn' go in hard on him like I usually do. Ya know what's wrong," she eyes Faryn now. "Tellin'n him everythin's good might work on someone like him, but it wouldn' work on other folks that can see right through it. He's a sweet guy, though," she notes now, considering her. "I'd keep'em around, too. A good'n sweet person's hard to come by." One can almost hear the 'but', seeing who this is. She tosses a few more things into her box. Purported interest, but not shown. She starts, "You gonna--" then realizes abruptly it doesn't matter to her in this scheme. Rather, "He's lucky? Well, shards, I guess I should be thankful then." Faryn watches Jo continue her collecting, her annoyance manifesting in jittery taps of the fingers around that paper of hers. "But..." comes eventually, hanging acknowledgement from the trunk of the elephant in the room. "I'm gonna-?" Jo prompts, looking back at her. She takes in that annoyance with a lift of her brow. "But," she says it, head tilting a little at an angle. There's actual hesitation before she decides on, "If ya want him, make sure ya can be what he needs is all. Same for him. Make it happen. Let it just be if it's what ya want. He doesn' seem like the sort to hold onto arguments for long." It seems like a diplomatic answer with a hitch of a shoulder in a slight shrug. It's a non-Jo answer given to the ease of nerves, it seems. Faryn's answer is not immediate. It's a low, self-deprecating scoff and the acknowledgment that, "Yeah, no. He isn't. Doesn't. But when I see him all...sad-faced, like he just watched me drown the runt of the litter, it just annoys me. So maybe you're right. " Or, at the least, whatever conclusion she's drawn has the potential for it. A clicking sound emanates from behind her teeth. "You gonna be what your pretty soft greenrider needs?" Arms folding across her black leathered chest, "Do somethin' nice for him," Jo suggests casually. "Maybe set up a lil' picnic. Smooth things out. Or take him ridin'. It'll give ya some time to figure things out." As for her herself, there's a soft little snort on her end as she looks towards what all she has in her box before she answers, "If I can. If she lets me in. If not," and she flicks a glance Faryn's way, "I know not to linger where I'm not wanted, or needed. Can't force someone to see things your way, love. There's far too many out there that will." Faryn stares at Jo, expression schooled into neutrality. "Maybe," she allows, sounding unconvinced. "Knowing him, he'd probably think something was wrong. He'd probably think I'd been doppleganged and was an imposter." She glances down at her piece of paper, and begins creasing it with slow deliberate in ever-smaller halves. "Good luck, then. She's probably smart to be careful, you know. People like you. Us." "Got him trained to yer ways already," Jo teases on that bit, reaching to heft the black box under her arm once more. Since Faryn is by the entrance, she approaches and only pauses her steps once they are face to face. To the last, there's a knowing look and she reaches out to briefly hold her chin with her free hand as she says, "Folks like me. Like us. Bein' careful goes both ways, Faryn. Good luck, too." She releases her chin then, having gotten what she came for, in preparation to leave. Faryn's just fine with holding Jo's gaze, even if it wavers when the bluerider takes her chin; a flicker of emotion, fleet and unreadable, and then she is all furrowed brows and tiny frowns. She opens her mouth to reply, and for once can find nothing to say. There's a shake of the head, no clear direction to it in affirmation or rejection, and she rolls a shoulder back so she can lean off the doorframe and into the hallway, stuffing her newly folded note into her pocket as she makes her way back down the hall again; good luck will have to suffice as goodbye. |
Leave A Comment