Logs:Self-delusions
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| RL Date: 16 May, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A herder and a bronzerider chat, and maybe both are a little self-delusional. |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 10, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions, T'mic/Mentions |
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>---< Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr(#1549RJ) >------------------------------< With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life. It's late at night, dinner long since done with. R'hin's an occasional visitor to the nighthearth, but he's been here the last couple of nights, pacing impatiently up and down and around the room with enough tension that even a couple of the regulars have made themselves scarce to more... restful climes. The hearth burns low, warm but not hot, unstoked by the bronzerider or lower caverns staff. Faryn is stifling a yawn as she enters from the kitchen. She's got a lumpy, bundled towel in hand and she's holding it carefully, so as not to spill it's contents. There is not tension or determination in her movements; she knows where she's going, and angles generally towards a specific chair automatically. R'hin's pacing catches her eye only after she's lifted a leg, intent on curling it beneath her. Hesitantly, "You okay?" "Mm?" R'hin barely seems to notice Faryn, or her query, or pay it much mind, given his distracted, "Yes, yes," and wave, like he's practiced such a fending move. It's only after several more paces that he comes to a stop, and turns to look at her, as if he's only just noticed who it is. "You," with a lifted finger. Having hesitated in her flopping down, Faryn's noticed the fire. She sighs, withdraws her leg and sets her prize on a nearby table, all the better to seek out the poker, crouch down and prod at the fire. "Me," she agrees, easily enough. "You don't seem okay." Apparently R'hin seems to think answering is needless, that or he's being typically restrained. While she tends to the fire, he nosies into that bundle she's set down, nudging aside the folds to determine what's within. "Oi!" Faryn scolds, when the fire has started gamely licking up again and she's turned to notice R'hin. "Get - that's my dinner." The herder is apparently bolder about defending her food than she is about either her feelings or her future, because when she turns from putting the poker back she hurries over and actually swats at his hands. "What are you, six?" R'hin is unashamedly unapologetic, though he does hold his hands up in defeat when she swats at them. "Must be something special, to swat at me like an old maid shooing away the nosy kids," he replies, a hint of his familiar low-throated humor in his voice. "No," Faryn defers, but she grabs her bundle up anyways, curls that leg back beneath her and falls into the overstuffed chair with a content little sigh that says she's letting a day's work relax out. "In fact, it's," she hesitates, sets the parcel in her lap and unfolds the corners, revealing the contents. "Cold meatrolls, a day old tart and....oh, a surprise cookie." She eyes him. "If you're hungry, I could spare some. You probably burned off your last meal doing whatever it is you were just doing." She waves flippantly. Even before she unfolds the parcel, R'hin's leaning over to look, making what could probably be interpreted as a disappointed noise in the back of his throat. Still, he doesn't move away, leaning on the back of the chair, giving him a distinct height advantage, which also means she has to crane her neck to look at him. "I'd not like to be accused of starving out a herder. Besides, Leiventh's likely to be cleared by the dragonhealers tomorrow." "I would never tell them it was your fault," promises Faryn, holding out a roll to him, should he desire it. She takes up one of her own, takes a bite, and makes a surprised sound in the back of her throat. If she's heard about what happened, she's forgotten in her other business; otherwise, she hasn't heard. Her reaction is indicative of either, only clarified by, "Dragonhealers?" With a sound like muffled laughter, R'hin -- after a beat -- reaches for the offered roll. He doesn't seem inclined to linger on the topic, instead asking: "Have you been progressing in your task? Or merely digging your head into the sand of your life as a herder?" Faryn is evasive, her eyebrows up, the corners of her eyes wrinkled with worry. "You have to answer me first, this time. Is he okay? And you?" If there's a tightening of jaw it's brief enough, and R'hin otherwise seems to acquiesce to her ultimatum. "He suffered a gash on his neck in a flight we shouldn't have been at. It'll keep us weyrbound for a few more days, but he'll be fine." His words are short, reluctant, before he gestures, over to you, with a bit of that roll. Faryn examines him for any falseness, unhindered by that tightening expression, and then nods once, apparently satisfied. "Sorry," she offers, sounding genuine. For her, then, there is mustered offense. "I haven't buried my head in the sand, thank you. I haven't gotten away, but T'mic taught me to dance." He's aware of the examination, of course, and it elicits a tired grin in turn. It's the latter words that turn that grin into a faltering exhale of disappointment, however. "A dance with someone you might call friend in the safety of the Weyr is not risk. It does not challenge you or stretch you. The goal was not to dance, but to bear the awkwardness and the embarrassement of strangers, to grow beyond it." Faryn's roll of the eyes is positively pre-teen. "I know," she says, "but I had to learn. I don't want people to just scatter when I try to join them. Basic foundations." "Self-delusion does not become you, she-who-would-be-great," is all R'hin says, blandly. Faryn falls silent, all the better to sullenly eat her meatroll and grace him with her grouchiest look. "I think the self-delusion is deciding on being great as a goal." "Perhaps," R'hin allows, as he swallows a mouthful of bread. "It is your goal, after all. You may choose to abandon it for a life of lesser servitude. Or," with a twist of lips, "For a boy." Faryn laughs, unable to stifle it as her immediate reaction. "No," comes quickly. "No, I don't think I'd give up anything for a boy. Or a man, for that matter. I'm not Farideh." Who has, admittedly, given up her life for a girl, in some sense. "I'd let him join me, maybe, if he wanted, but...no." She chews her lip, her mind clearly on someone specific at his barb, but she doesn't address it. Instead, "I'll try harder, then." "No?" R'hin echoes her, though his intonation has a questioning note to it. There's a hint of surprise at Faryn's mention of Farideh in relation to a boy, though he doesn't verbalize it. Instead, he's silent, watching her deliberate, watching her come to her own conclusion, a hint of satisfaction sparkling in pale gaze. "Very well, then. There's a seacraft gather tomorrow. You ought to catch up with some old friends there. I'm sure you can manage to find your way there, as much as manage to get the time to go." Something about that seems to strike her as a little silly and she chuckles, even as she plucks the cookie from her napkin and leans forward, all the better to slide the remaining pastry to him. She'll not have anyone saying she's starved a bronzerider. "Funny, someone like you keeping a calendar of the social events. You take that." Drawing to her feet, Faryn stretches long, and her yawn this time is cavernous. "I'll try," is pointed, reluctant but not dismissive. "And you try to have a good night, R'hin. Wish Leiventh my best." "You never know when it might come in handy." R'hin accepts the offering, pale eyes amused. "I will," he adds, and there's gratitude in the response to her wishes, leaning against the chair to watch her go. He'll finish the pastry, but in time, be drawn back to his restless pacing of earlier. |
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