Logs:Prettification
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| RL Date: 9 February, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Itsy |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Farideh is gonna make Itsy pop-u-lar. |
| Where: Farideh's room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 17, Month 13, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Devaki/Mentions, Drex/Mentions, Issedi/Mentions |
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| Putting the plan in motion was an easy task. Convince her roommates to find other activities, barter away trinkets for other trinkets, and clear the room, on the day, so the beds are all pushed up against the wall in what is normally a six-girl residential dorm room. And Itsy will get a note, to come to Farideh's abode, that evening, properly bathed - emphasis on properly - without a certain, annoying companion that she favors. Farideh is busy sorting through a slim box with a bunch of tiny treasure, from miniature oil bottles, to some kind of goopy red stuff. She's silently taking account of the contents, with her back to the door, though it's obvious from how the room's been rearranged that she's expecting someone. Being invited to a pretty girl's quarters is, surely, a good thing as far as Itsy is concerned, and yet... and yet. Itsy's trepidation has her circling around the corridors several times before she gets anywhere near Farideh's door, and hesitating outside for long moments before she finally, finally pushes open the door and steps inside. Hands clasped behind her back, and hatless, she looks enormously vulnerable, though she's certainly clean. Even those dreads have been tidied, as much as they can be. "Hi," she says, forceful enough that it sounds gruffly masculine. Straightening at the sound of Itsy's voice and setting aside compact wooden box, Farideh turns, offering the shorter girl a cordial smile. "You came. I thought you might not." She waves her hand, motioning for her to have a seat on any of the beds lined up against the walls. "Make yourself comfortable," as she flops on the mattress nearest herself, one leg tucked under. Her green-brown eyes flick over the other brunette thoughtfully, as if assessing what admirable traits she might possess without any further aid. Itsy's shrug is probably intended to be nonchalant, but fails to actually achieve that goal; she just looks awkward, though she follows instructions in sitting down, uneasily, on the edge of one of the beds. "Said I would," she says, firmly. "So I did. Even if..." A pause. "Well?" Does Farideh like what she-- no, wait. "Am I a lost cause?" She manages, at least, to show her teeth as she says that, tone holding some self-mockery. "A lost cause? No. Don't be silly," says the laundress, canting her head to the side. "I asked around and I think I can get your hair to do--" Farideh swirls her hand around her head; whatever that means. "It'll be fun." And with that, she bounces up off the bed and grabs a cloth from amid her tools. "Let's wash your face, first." Maybe she's not confident in Itsy's ability to clean, or maybe she's convinced of double-duty, but she's moving towards the sailor with the cloth tented on her fingertips. Whatever it means, Itsy plainly has no idea, for her answer is nothing but an owlish blink-- a blink that grows rather more hesitant as the other girl begins to approach. "I did wash," she points out, one hand lifting as if to protect herself, and then falling, hastily, back into her lap, long fingers splayed out over her knee. "All right," she corrects herself, meekly, those blue-green eyes fixed sharply upon Farideh, her body held stiffly still. "This," Farideh prefaces, "will help your face breathe. I'm positive all that sea water didn't do anything for your skin." Without any more preamble, that cloth gets draped over the sailor's face, the other girl's fingers gently molding it to the planes of her face. "So, tell me." Because what are beauty routine and makeovers without a little gossip, a little chitchat. "How did you come by the name Itsy? Or isn't that your real name?" Her tone is conversational, as she continues to smooth and press that damp cloth into Itsy's skin. This counts as exquisite torture for Itsy, whose eyes close, whose breathing tightens, as Farideh touches her (even with the cloth standing as barrier between them). It's surely only that that loosens her tongue; a distraction! "What counts as real?" she counters. "A name's what you get called, isn't it? Been Itsy for longer than I was anything else. Even Drex don't know-- it's just Itsy." "The name that you were given when you were born," Farideh clarifies, obviously not accounting for any special circumstances, but then, what does a spoiled holder girl about that? She sighs, tolerantly, and rolls her eyes towards the ceiling. "My parents already had my name picked out before I got here, but they call me hen, affectionately. I'm not going to go by that name, and don't even think about telling anyone that," the latter bit, as an afterthought, since she probably just revealed more than she'd planned to. Itsy's mouth tugs into a smile. "Hen?" she repeats, which could hold a hint of laughter, though it's subtle, if so. It leads to a sigh, and - perhaps because if Farideh is going to share, she'd better follow suit - then she admits, "Itsalisy. And don't you dare tell anyone that, either, because I'll kill you in your sleep." Not very girly, in the end, given the tightness of her words, and the frown that's now set across her mouth. "Yes. Laugh all you want." It doesn't bother her as much since it's just them, and hopefully Itsy's word is as good as she says it is. "Itsalisy. That's a pretty name." Farideh starts to peel off the cloth, finding its purpose done, and tosses is to the side; don't worry, one of her roommates will get that later. She moves to the side, plunking down on the bed next to the other girl, and reaches for one of her hands. "I believe that you would." Her upward glance is fleeting, and her eyes quickly drop back down to Itsy's nails, which she's perusing while tapping a fine stone nail filer against her thigh. "Where are your parents now?" Shrugging, Itsy seems to be implying that she won't laugh; not anymore, anyway. "Ha," she says, instead. "Pretty name for a not-so-pretty girl. Never liked it." Her own gaze drops towards Farideh and the hand she has allowed to be taken. Her hands are unsurprisingly rough, though probably smoother than they were, back when she was on board her ship. "Dunno. Never knew who my dad was. Probably ma never did either. She's likely dead. Whores ain't built for long lives." Her tone is defiant and yet also uncertain, as if she's challenging Farideh to have a problem with her ancestry... and also, perhaps, faintly ashamed of it. "Just because you're a sailor and live on a ship with a bunch of boorish men," Farideh misunderstands, "doesn't make you not pretty." It's like she's trying to explain to an errant child, waving her nail file around, before starting to buff Itsy's nails with precise little strokes. "You haven't seen your mother in how long?" she asks, and though little lines of worry form between her brows, she doesn't lift her gaze from her task. Oh look - Farideh has made itsy blush, gaze resolutely focsed upon the efforts being made upon her nails, quite as if this is the most fascinating thing she's ever seen in her life. "D'you... think I'm pretty, then? Could be pretty?" And - hurriedly, as if she'd like to wipe over those two questions and pretend they never happened - she adds, "Ten turns. More. Been on my own since I were tiny, really. Not like you, I guess. Got a whole loving family, don't you?" "Of course you're pretty, Itsy. I already told you that you have pretty eyes." A slow shake of her head denotes Farideh's exasperation; does she have to repeat herself twice? She's mostly shaping and buffing the nails, smoothing any ragged edges so they're uniform and aesthetically pleasing. "I suppose you could call them loving," she muses out loud, tapping the top of Itsy's hand and gesturing for the other hand. "If trying to force you to marry a stranger for their own gain is loving, but, most would probably say yes," in a bland tone. Itsy? Still blushing. Still awkward. Her nails, however? Absolutely fascinating-- especially this other hand, now that she's offered it to Farideh, skin to skin. "Oh," she says, in answer to the rest of Farideh's words. "Don't see that as 'specially loving, myself. Reckon you could be well rid of them, in that case. Figure a girl's got to choose that, right? Who to marry, or if she wants to marry at all. No one else's business, who she loves." The blush doesn't gain a comment, but Farideh's pretty proud of her work, as she stops to admire what she's done already in such a short span of time. "No, it's really not, anyone's business who and how she loves, is it?" She smiles happily at the other girl, and stands to collect another item from her box of wonders. When she turns back around, a small, blue glass bottle is clasped loosely in her palm. "Drex says you and Lord Devaki have a--" Her eyes lift, her brows following suit. "Special relationship." It's obvious she wants to know more, in Itsy's own words. Itsy mostly seems bewildered by her nails, now, peering at them as if they belong to someone else; they surely can't be hers. Of course, all that comes to a halt at that last remark, for which she blanches, obviously. "Huh?" Her brows knit. She frowns. Then, finally, she shrugs. "It's nothing like that. He's just... my patron, if you want to be all fancy." "Your patron?" A level stare is given the sailor, a look in which she gives away just how not convinced she is. "How did you meet him?" Farideh walks back to the bed and sits on the edge, grabbing for one of Itsy's hands again. "Why does he invite you and Drex to dinners at the Hold?" Her voice is light, still conversational, as she tips some full-bodied, if feminine, oil onto the back of Itsy's hand and starts to rub it into the newly-manicured fingers. "I find that most odd." "'cause a man like that can't be interested in people like us?" Itsy's tone is more amused than offended - certainly, her grin seems to back that up. "He got me my first position on a ship, way back when. Helped me'n'Drex. Guess he just likes to show an interest, now. That was back before he was Lord, back when he was nobody at all. Maybe we just remind him of that." "Because it's strange. I can't say I know any other Lords who would choose to eat at the same table as their--" Farideh's eyes flick over Itsy's smaller frame, however briefly. "Staff." She's still aptly massaging the oil into other woman's hands, doing so absent-mindedly, which may be a clue that it's something she does often, if only to herself. "But he's always been somebody, even if he was nobody. They wouldn't just confirm a nobody to Lord Holder," though she sounds vaguely disconcerted by the idea. Itsy's mouth widens into a broad, amused smile at the descriptor of 'staff,' though she makes no effort to clarify why she finds that especially funny. Her own gaze lifts towards the other girl, watching her first time in quite a while. Some of the tension has lift her shoulders, but there's still... something. This whole experience is weird. "He was an exile," she says, cheerfully. "Claims Blood way back, though. And he married..." A pause. She moves on; best not talk about Issedi right now, perhaps. "Rags to riches. Better him than me, right?" "And you're expecting me to believe that, even now, while he retains a sought after position, he still wants to sup with a pair of teenaged sailors who could just as easily get lost out at sea?" Farideh drops the one hand in an effort to grab the second, to continue the manicure ritual. "I'm sorry, but I don't believe you." She's tart, then. "I'm much more willing to believe that he forces you to serve his table than eat at it," the girl sighs, shaking her head sadly back and forth. "Maybe," allows Itsy, nevermind her earlier comments, "I'm just really, really good in bed." Beat. "Or Drex is." Her smile is winning. The massaging motions Farideh's been making stop, and she looks up sharply. "That is disgusting." She drops Itsy's hand and stands up, moving back to the bed that's stacked with her beauty arsenal. "What you," she glances back with a frown, "and Drex, and Lord Devaki do in-" She can't even finish that statement, instead noisily shuffling through her things. Itsy, her hand her own again, hesitates; if anything, she seems apologetic, though it only lasts for a moment. "I'm kidding," she promises. "Devaki's only interested in women, and for that matter, so'm I." Something gets slammed and there's a jarring sound, just before a small, "oh." It's followed seconds later by another "oh", this one clearer, as Farideh turns to face Itsy. "I see," she says calmly, "that's lovely, really." And because avoidance is the best choice in all situations, she turns and starts digging through her things again, making more noise to hopefully cover any awkward silence that might fall. It's not that Itsy expected a different response, not really. It doesn't mean she can't have hoped for it, though, and she's not entirely successful at hiding the disappointment in her expression-- though she 's lucky that Farideh turns away again so quickly on that front. "Yeah, well," she says. "Girls're prettier, aren't they? Softer." Awkwardly, she glances around. "Are we... done?" A sound of success and Farideh holds up a comb. "They are," she admits, walking back to Itsy, "Softer, by comparison, to boys. It's fine for you to like girls. Like we said, it's no one's business who and how a girl chooses to love, right?" Moving behind the bed, she tries to get behind Itsy, to address the hair situation. "No. We're not done. Not by half," and she sounds triumphant about that. Alas! No reprieve for Itsy. And, indeed, the look on her face at sight of that comb is probably downright hilarious; no girl should be afraid of a comb! "I... guess," she says, hesitantly, turning her head to watch Farideh on the bed behind her, as unhelpful as that is. "What are you going to do?" She might as well be facing torture. Nails were one thing, but this... "I think," Farideh leans back, judging the state of Itsy's hair, "I'm going to braid it." Which is just one giant dreadlock, so how scary can that be! "Braids are feminine," or so declares the laundress with a bit of a giggle, before using the comb to guide the hair into her hands. "You're not tender headed, are you?" she questions innocently. "Noo-ooo," begins Itsy, which sounds less sure than perhaps it ought. She does turn her head back around so that she's facing away from the other girl; at least she knows that much about having her hair done. Well - she'd have to, really, given the dreads. "Bein' pretty's kind of like wearing armour, I think. All this stuff." Farideh's reply is a fluttery sigh. "It kind of is, isn't it? It's a girl's greatest defense from all the unpleasantness in the world, but even then, what's armor but a removal apparatus?" Another sigh, as she pulls the thick dreads of Itsy's hair back, somewhat successful in wrangling it into sections to begin the arduous task of braiding. "Do you want to wear a dress? I have a couple I found in the stores. They might have to be tailored, in the long run, but they'll work. Maybe we can go to a Turnover gather together and you can wear the dress. It will be so much fun." And just by her enthusiasm, it's like she's already decided it will be. Itsy's hesitance is clear... though it may have something to do with the fact that she clearly enjoys having her hair played with. Her hands have balled themselves up, loosely, one resting upon either knee. "I..." A pause. "Guess so? Just don't let Drex see. He'd laugh at me." It's fond, but realistic. "Can't hurt to do it once or twice. And if I'm going to go with you, then... got to look the part, right? Can't, you know... you know." Awkward. Nimble fingers wind the dreads into a loose concoction of a braid, Farideh makes little mm sounds here and there whil Itsy speaks. It's when she's done, and the braid secured, that she flings her arms around the other girl's neck and gives her a hug. "We're going to be great friends, I just know it." Then, it's onto gathering what remaining odds and ends she's collected: lip stain, dresses to try on, and an earthy-smelling perfume oil. There will be lots of talking - Farideh will, anyway - and plans made, of gathers to come and a friendship to flesh out. |
Comments
Edyis (02:33, 10 February 2015 (EST)) said...
Awww. Itsy's all flirty and shy. Farideh and her tools of tortur- I mean beautification.
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