Logs:Running From This And That
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| RL Date: 29 April, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Laine |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Farideh and Laine jog in the bowl, while Roszadyth and Lifreyth talk squishy bugs. |
| Where: Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 3, Month 9, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Warm |
| Mentions: Drex/Mentions, Itsy/Mentions, Yesia/Mentions |
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| Autumn's just starting to settle in; long summer days are waning earlier and shadows are stretching longer. It's early evening, just after lectures, with Rukbat preparing to settle behind the Spires, but the warmth of a mild fall day still hangs in the air. There's a track worn, now, into the tufted topsoil of the bowl--the result of a month's worth of early-morning weyrling exercises. Presently, there's a brown dragonet standing (okay: lounging) sentry not far from that track; his lifemate is dressed in loose-fitting pants that tie at the calf and a tank top, and seems to be using him as a prop against which to stretch her legs. "It feels like it's getting darker sooner every day," is Farideh's sighed greeting, as she steps up to the worn out track. She's looking up towards the sky and what color remains, though she's obviously speaking to the other weyrling. Her head turns when her gaze drops to Laine, and her mouth curls into a smile. "I wouldn't imagine myself doing this a turn ago." And yet, here she is, dressed in loose black harem-style pants and an equally loose sleeveless top layered over a fitted, sleeveless top; an arrangement that lends itself towards breathing, even in the warm early-autumn air. "Couldn't imagine this a turn ago, either," Laine replies without looking, prodding her brown with two fingers as she folds in half over one raised leg. In response, Lifreyth shakes himself, shifts his weight so Laine's foot, wedged between neckridges, slides harmlessly off to thump to the ground. There's a snort (from either, maybe both) and Laine turns, chuckling low and quick, as she jerks her chin up toward the fading sun. "Think they'll make us run laps in the dark?" It's rhetorical, really, spoken with a near-imperceptible eyeroll: of course they will. Even in the warmth of the day's last light, the hairs on Laine's arms are beginning to prickle and the weyrling briskly rubs her hands together. "Ready? Did you stretch?" "No?" Farideh's lip twitch, her fingers seeking to comb her short curls behind her ears and out of the way. "Certainly not running laps." She huffs out an exasperated breath, but squints towards the other side of the bowl. "I stretched in there--" is punctuated by a look that way, to where Roszadyth is just now ambling from stretching her own sleek limbs. "I'm ready when you're ready." Head tipped towards Laine, her hands fall onto her waist. Dim though it is, shimmering, pale sunlight filters here and there, weakly dappling where it touches, as Roszadyth reaches out to her brother, in something like a sleepy caress. « Lifreyth. » (To Lifreyth from Roszadyth) "Ran before this. Easier for some, I think. Got short legs, though," Laine grins ruefully, and balls a fist to strike against the side of her thigh. Then she shifts and starts out, but slow: an easy pace, hardly faster than walking. It allows for a stretch of silence, and a few deep breaths through the nose. "You ever had a plan? Like, a real one. Like when someone asks where you're gonna be in five years?" To Roszadyth, Lifreyth is brightly alert, as, it seems, ever. His response is ready and friendly, a whirling of dust and the rich scent of treated leather and hide, wafting up and toying with those dappling sunbeams. « Roszadyth! Were you sleeping? » "I've never ran, unless you consider running from my mother at home." Farideh tries to keep a straight face, but there's the trace of humor in the un-subtle puckering of her mouth. She takes Laine's lead in starting slow, and will only quicken her pace when the other girl does, though she probably looks less graceful with a faulty form. "A plan? The plan was always to get married and have a bunch of little lordlings, I suppose. Or that was my mother's plan. After I came here-- no, not really. I'm still not sure I have one. What about you? Wasn't crafting?" The sunshine brightens, briefly, and filters through that whirling dirt, highlighting the particles as they float. It's followed by a tiny sneeze, and then a giggle. « I was. » She's warm and interested, probing in that intangible way. « How are you today, Lifreyth? » (To Lifreyth from Roszadyth) "And you ran all the way here." Laine's laugh is more of a sharp exhale through her nose than anything else. She's still slow, shaking her hands at the wrist, and weaving here and there around muddy patches that smear the bowl. "Your mom's plan doesn't count," Laine waves away a gaggle of imaginary lordlings. "You weren't gonna be whisked away by sailors?" And as for herself: "No plan," she answers, brightly enough. There's a long pause. "Well. Crafting, I guess. But I didn't count that. Dunno. Kinda miss it, now. Stupid." "Hardly," of running to the Reaches. "I betweened here. I cheated. I suppose I could have thought the whole thing out better if I had-- but--" Farideh shrugs and lets out a gusty sigh, that's part from exertion and part actually exasperation. "By sailors? No, no. He knew. I told him a long time ago I didn't want to live on a ship-- though he did suggest we run away and open a tavern somewhere," she admits, chewing on her lower lip. "You can always be a craft rider. I think they encourage that-- if your craft does-- no, I'm not sure. You might try asking R'van about it. I think he might-- or maybe not." She's not sure about anything, really. "You don't have something you want to do in particular? Besides be a rider." Those motes of dust all whisk away at that sneeze, and Lifreyth's chuckle is bright and brassy. His invitation is a wing unfurled and the passing sensation of settling into a well-worn and overstuffed leather armchair: cuddles? He's an open book. Literally: pages rifle through some invisible breeze. « I ate a bug today. » So today was a good day. (To Roszadyth from Lifreyth) The pale gold would never refuse such an offering, and it's with soft steps that she makes it to her sibling, to nudge a freshly-oiled shoulder against his side, to lean. « How did it taste? » she wants to know, all wide-eyed and fascinated, if words could have an expression, her sunlight shining on, warm, encouraging. « You amuse me so, Lifreyth. » (To Lifreyth from Roszadyth) Laine shoots a look, raised-brow and mouth quirked, sidelong at Farideh. "Don't think most think it out. Not really. And it worked out for you in the end. So it's really for the best you didn't get whisked anyway. Plus," she muses, "I don't think you can have a proper bath on a ship." The brown-riding weyrling increases her pace, but it's only to dart forward and hop over a muddy puddle. She falls back to an easy jog. "Nah. I mean, yeah. They do. I could. Got a letter. They'd like to, if I'd like to, but. I don't know what I'd like to do. Haven't got a chance to think much about it, not since-- him." Lifreyth. To Roszadyth, Lifreyth considers his answer with the seriousness of a swinging pendulum, the deep tick-tock of a grandfather clock echoing his own heartbeat. He settles himself comfortably, tucking his wind around his clutchmate. Pondering. « I shouldn't've eaten it. Never stood a chance; it was just a little thing. » But there's a laugh, there, too: a sparking of yellow lightbulbs, dim shelves lighting. « It tasted... squishy. » "You don't? I admit, I don't really know anyone else who has run away from their Hold, or anyone that--" Farideh wrinkles her nose and laughs, outright. "Runs away with a sailor to live on his ship. In the middle of the ocean. With a bunch of dirty men with lack of morals. Would you have? Gone with Itsy, if she had asked?" Her eyes slant to the side, to watch for Laine's reaction, though she's still keeping pace, if her words aren't as effortless as they were. "No. I don't think so. We'd have to collect rain water and who knows how that works." A sigh later, she's shaking her head. "It's still a lot to come to terms with. I'm-- fine, but I haven't had time to time to think about all the eventualities. Everyone seems to think Roszadyth will rise first, and then-- do you think it's stupid to dwell on the chances?" Content to lean into, her large, innocent eyes follow their riders on the track, while her mind delves into the complexity of twisting fabric and far-flung windows, her light suddenly much, much brighter than before. « Squishy? » Another giggle, girlish and airy. « Why did you eat it then? » (To Lifreyth from Roszadyth) "Pretty sure everyone is running away from something. Like how Yesia's running away from having a brain or being a nice person." Laine suddenly bites her lip, presses her lips into a tight line. "Pretend I didn't say that." Since they're clutchmates and all. Laine chews on that lower lip for a moment, considering, breathing hard through her nose. She's a little pinker in the cheeks, but surely that's just from the exercise. "Maybe. If Itsy asked? Maybe. If--ah. I dunno. They're gone, anyway." Moot point. Laine lifts a hand to wipe across her forehead. Repeats: "Chances?" To Roszadyth, Lifreyth savors that light, allowing it to wash over dark shelves and deep recesses, where it illuminates trinkets and oddities and unsteady heaps of books. That ticking of his subdues but it's still pervasive and ever-present. « Squishy, » he affirms, and for good measure he shares that sensation of crunch then gush of buggy innards. Her question is met with a blink, and, as though it were obvious: « I'd never eaten a bug before. Have you? » "Yesia," dry, "is running from her inevitable fate." Farideh states that cryptically enough, and laughs at Laine's sudden embarrassment; they both know how true it is, after all. Who in their right mind would like Yesia? "Really? You like-- liked her that much? You didn't even kiss." That appears to be the worst, if the other girl's one is any indication. She slows to side-step a divet in the track and shrugs before she sets off again. "Yeah, chances. I'm being paranoid because I'm worried about the real chance of-- you know-- dying unnecessarily." Roszadyth thinks, a breeze stirring the fabric of her mind; she's toying with that sensation, turning it around, committing it to her memory, for now. « No. I have not. Should I? » She hums, softly. « I do not think I would like it. » And replayed, back to him, is the sensation of that squishy, emphasis on the crunch, with a slight withdrawal. (To Lifreyth from Roszadyth) "I said maybe." Laine wags a single finger in Farideh's direction. "I'd think about it. It'd be like standing. Something new, to try. And don't remind me about the no-kissing." It really is the worst. "She didn't even say goodbye," and it's spoken softly, almost plaintively, though that might be the breathlessness. "Not," Laine hastens to add, "Like I expected her to." Laine falls silent and jogs alongside the gold-riding weyrling for several long, quiet minutes. "I don't know if that's paranoid. Worry? Worry is normal. But, lots of goldriders have died, so the chances of you dying too are actually smaller. Like, mathematically. The odds are in your favour." Laine has been studying extra hard for those placement exams. To Roszadyth, Lifreyth turns over that sensation as it's transmitted back to him, investigating it, prodding it, amending it, aligning it with his own experience. Pages rustle. « I only tried it because I wanted to. If you don't want to... » There's the mental equivalent of a shrug, bulbs dimming briefly, flickering. « Having tried it, and sharing that with you, isn't that something like you having tried it, too? » Those bulbs flare back into light. Roszadyth is thrilled by Lifreyth's thoughtfulness, and even then, she's moving away, back towards the barracks, her pale tail twitching in her wake. « I like anything you share with me, Lifreyth. » Her sunlight starts to fade, but there's still a touch of warmth. « Come. There is something to see here. » Here is, obviously, inside their cozy series of weyrling caverns. (To Lifreyth from Roszadyth) "We can go find them when we can fly. Itsy said she'd write. She hasn't yet, but she promised-" Farideh evidentially thinks the sailor will stick to that promise, no matter the circumstances, and rather than answer the other weyrling's guesses about her probabilities of dying like so many before her, reaches a hand to slap Laine's elbow. "Come on. Faster. Less talking. Let it be done so I can go lie down on my bed and moan about my sore muscles." And off they go, jogging at a faster speed, down the track, until they can't anymore. |
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