Logs:Sailor's Truce
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| RL Date: 29 January, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Drex |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Farideh and Drex agree to a truce. |
| Where: Weyr Entrance, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 10, Month 12, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Cold. |
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| It's gotten quite cold, now, but thankfully there's been no snow. It's overcast, and it looks like it's just starting to rain outside. Drex walks in slowly from the tunnel, walking oddly -- less slouching and more cautious advancement, his hair and jacket damp but not soaked, glancing over his shoulder in what undoubtedly looks like a particularly furtive manner, stopping near the stairs leading up to the Snowasis. Laughter precedes two jovial fellows who waddle down the stairs from the Snowasis, bundled in their tattered outerwear, and into the frigid winter air. They, in turn, are followed by a rosy-cheeked Farideh, her complexion indubitably so from drink rather than cold. She's too busy pulling up the stiff collar of her coat to notice the sailor lingering at the bottom until she's a step above him, and then it's a good-natured, "You!" coupled with a smile that greets him, in juxtaposition of her usual waspish manner. Drex's attention falls on the pair of fellows preceding Farideh, watching them head down the tunnel with a distinct sort of frown of attention. He doesn't notice the girl until her you pulls his gaze around, with a visible scowl. His gaze flickers over her, visibly suspicious at smile and good-nature both. Apparently he doesn't seem to think her word is deserving of a verbal response, instead crossing arms across his chest, and staring. The scowling doesn't faze her, but somehow makes her grin that much more incorrigible. "Aren't you going to say hello? It's the polite thing to do. Neighborly thing to do. Or don't sailors say helloooo?" Farideh reaches out a finger to poke him in the shoulder; it's a slow movement and easily dodged. "I'm glad you have clothes on this time," which sends her into a fit of giggles that she tries hiding behind her hand. Mostly inebriated. Definitely. "You really are daft," comes Drex's response, staring down at that poked shoulder, but not avoiding it. "Aren't you supposed to go off and fall into the bed of some rider or... something," he waves off after the two departed men, as if they might be acceptable candidates. Farideh's giggling stops and she stares at him sourly. "Why would I do that?" with a customary roll of her eyes skywards. "I'm not one of those girls." Beat. "You go fall into bed with a rider, if you haven't already," she suggests, crossing her arms over her rest reflexively, defensively. "But you're drunk, in a bar, with drunken riders," Drex points out, as if those things end logically in a rider's bed. "I mean, I get that you're slow, but..." he gives an exhale, like he feels momentarily sorry for her. "Oh for fuck's... c'mon," he reaches out a hand to grab kind of roughly at her arm. "My murals-- morals aren't compromised because I might be drunk," comes the forthright answer, because she might not be drunk! Except she totally is, and she stumble-steps off the stairs when he grabs her arm in a rough manner. "What for fuck's? What-- where are we going?" is Farideh's reasonable answer, blinking up at him uncomprehendingly. "To bed," Drex says, with a note that might be disgust, or contempt, or... just exasperatedly Drex. His hand is, if nothing else, steadying, and while she might stumble, he's not going to let her fall while he has a grip on her, taking a step towards the inner caverns. "But I'm not tired," Farideh grouses, giving him the glare he typically gets plus a pout for added emphasis. "It's not even dark out yet." She doesn't try to resist physically; she'll surely lose. "Should take you outside and push your face into a snowbank." Drex stops, like he's considering it, looking over his shoulder. "Would, if it were snowing. Lucky." She is, apparently, and he starts walking again. "Why do you hate me so much? First, the lake, then the baths, and now you want to push my face into a pile of snow?" Farideh's voice is indignant, her chin lifted in stubbornness, but she's still shuffling along with him, if at an unenthusiastic pace. "You're violent." Pot to kettle. "Maybe you need a drink." "Because it stops you talking for five minutes." Which is probably true as far as it goes. Drex snorts. "You're the one that attacked me, in my room, if you remember." She's still shuffling along, and he's still tugging, determinedly, ignoring the looks they get as they pass into the inner caverns. Her mouth opens and promptly closes, but there's no lack of anger in her heated stare, the one she's giving his back while they're moving through the caverns. At last, Farideh pipes up to remind him, "You pushed me into the lake first." That's her way of saying he deserved it without actually saying he deserved it. "So, we're even now?" Drex concludes, pausing in his dragging-along to look at her, as if this is a fairly important point to establish. "If you promise not to shove my face in snow," Farideh supplies cheerfully, regaining some of her drunken joviality in both her tone and the grin she presents. She seems to have forgotten he's been dragging her through the caverns before now. "Not today." Mostly because there's no snow to do it in, presumably. And then Drex lets her arm go, only to spit in his palm and offer it to her expectantly. The gesture is unexpected, and Farideh's enthusiasm dissipates as she looks down at his hand and the spit within his palm. Her eyes flick up to his face in horror. "Wh--what? Why?" "Y'wanted a truce, didn't you?" Drex stares at her, as if to say, well? The disgust registering on her face is obvious. Farideh's gaze shifts to her own hand first, and then she's squeezing her eyes closed and holding her hand out towards Drex. No words needed. But there's no contact, and Drex says, pointedly, as if it should be obvious: "You gotta spit, or it doesn't count." Disappointment. "It's bad enough I have to touch your spit," Farideh says, peeking one eye open. "I don't understand what the spit accomplishes." She wrinkles her nose and pulls her hand back, staring at it in revulsion. "Disgusting." Her spitting is much more subdued and quiet, and then she's holding her hand back out there, pointed staring away. "Do it, already." "It's just... it's..." it's not like Drex knows exactly why a tradition is a tradition, but damned if he isn't going to make Farideh do it. He only looks satisfied once she's done her part, and then he smooshes their palms together. Squish. At least she looks like she might lose her lunch, or her liquor, or both. Farideh cringes, and despite her protestations, her eyes come to rest on their hands with burgeoning dismay. Grosser when it's done, apparently. Drex gives a nod, like he's content, now, and despite the fact that he is probably (undoubtedly) enjoying the look on Farideh's face, it is a truce, and so he breaks the contact, and settles for nudging her along again, a little less roughly than before. When it's all over, Farideh's quick to wipe the spit off her hand and onto the side of her pants, swiping multiple times, unnecessarily. She only sighs, long-sufferingly, when he encourages her to keep going and plods along with a mutinous expression. "I'm really not tired," she points out again. "Yeah, you're perfectly fine." Even in her drunk state, she can probably tell Drex is humoring her, but he's got her as far as the resident hallway, so there's not much further to go. Except... "Which is yours?" The loud, annoyed sound Farideh makes is totally warranted, but she does point down the hall to indicate which one it is. "Four more doors. Don't think you can come put things in my pillow now that you know," she warns, obviously not thinking he'll stick to their truce, and referencing her own shenanigans. "On your pillow?" Drex's eyes narrow at her, now. "No, only yellow-bellied, land-lubber, craven people would do that." So she's totally safe, then! He reaches for the doorknob, and bangs it open, a hand still guiding her in, casting about to try and guess which of the beds are hers, no doubt. He picks the one that looks, the girliest, by which, the most pink and/or frilly, and directs her there. "I know. Who even thinks of that?" But any sarcastic smile she might pair with the words is lost as she starts a giggling fit, again, at his choice of bed. "That's not mine, and Pesma would be mad if I slept in it." Farideh points towards one on the other side of the room from the one he chooses, where there's a mess spilling out of her trunk. "That one." Not the girliest, by any means! There's a grunt from Drex, like he could possibly tell the difference, and he helps Farideh over there. There might be a little nudge from him to get her off balance enough to topple into the bed, totally accidental. (Not.) The nudge works, enough that she can't keep her balance, and plops down on the end of the cot to save herself the embarrassment of falling on the floor. "Rude," Farideh mutters, giving him a substantial glower. "Are you going to tell me a bedtime story now?" Drex looks satisfied, and turns on a heel, preparing to walking out when... "A what?" he gives her a bemused look, and then, once he's turned back with a snort, says: "There once was a girl on a ship who was thought she knew everything, and put things in other people's pillows, and the other sailors made her walk the plank." Oh, and, "The End." "That was a horrible story. Was she pretty? Was she smart? Why didn't they just tell her to stop?" Reasoning, the drunken way. Farideh holds her hands up, palms up, and shakes her head from side to side. "You can do better than that, can't you? I thought sailors went places and saw things and could tell long, boring stories about things no one believes but them." "She thought she was pretty and smart. And figured that was enough to get her by." Drex smirks, folding arms across his chest. "Because some people don't learn, and walking the plank is a wake up call." Before the big sea monsters eat you, anyway. Her latter words earn a narrow-eyed glare. "Maybe because she wasn't good at anything else," Farideh points out helpfully, and frowns. "What if she drowned? They would be fine with that on their conscience?" Her hands drop and she picks up a pillow, hugging it to her chest while she considers Drex. "Is that a no? Not even a wild story about a near death experience or how you saved a ship full of small children?" Drex gives a dubious look. "She wouldn't be on the sea if she didn't know how to swim," like that should be obvious. His eyes narrow, especially at her remark about a near death experience. He leans over her, and as seriously as he can form his expression -- verging on the ferocious, growls: "I killed a man in Ista. Just to watch him die." Farideh rolls her eyes, and has no more to say about the girl on the ship in the sea who may or may not know how to swim. Her expression is even relaxed, until he's savagely recounting a homocide. She leans back, away from him since he's leaning over, and balls up her fist at her mouth. Whispering, "Why-- why would you do that?" There might be a flash of a grin on the young sailor's face, but it's fleeting, as he says: "Just because I felt like it." Drex straightens, now, and there might be a bit more of a smirk creeping back: "So you'd better watch yourself." Farideh pulls the pillow back up like it could be a shield against Drex should he have a mind to kill her just because. "Okay. I'm--" She's staring at him wide-eyed, and maybe she'll kick herself later for being taken in by his pretty words, but for now the alcohol is help to paint him in a certain light. "Sorry. Sorry. Real sorry. Okay? Really, really, sorry. Don't-- just don't." Probably, kill her. "I accept your apology," Drex says, as he looks down at her, far too smugly. And then: "Sleep tight," he sing-songs, as he turns to head for the door. A pillow isn't enough - Farideh hurries to pull the covers up over her head, burying into her bedding, even while he's walking away. She definitely isn't going to sleep now, not with murderous sailors walking around the Weyr, easy as you please. Maybe Drex will feel bad later. Maybe. But for now, soon as he shuts the door, he's chortling to himself as he walks away. |
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