Logs:Thanks, Mom
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| RL Date: 25 April, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn |
| Involves: Ista Weyr |
| Type: Vignette |
| What: A parcel from Ista, nearly a sevenday after Niahvth and Reisoth's clutch hatches. |
| Where: Stables, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 4, Month 8, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: All my post-hatching vigs were too upsetting for me, so I settled on this - just in time to join the crowd of congratulations letters the weyrlings got. |
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| If she'd known the weyrlings were all getting letters, maybe Faryn would have been less surprised when one of the older weyrbrats burst into the stables at midday, waving a package at her. "Letter," he panted, clearly having sprinted all the way across the weyr to hand deliver it. "For you." Pant. "I..." pant "told the..." pant "message rider I could bring it." The end was delivered rapidly, all in one last exhale, so he could stand straighter and tilt his head back, properly catching his breath. Faryn obliged him only enough to come out of the stables and reach for her package, but she was patient until he handed it over. "Thanks," was dry, curious eyes roaming the small package. A small parcel, maybe five-by-five, wrapped in modest and light cloth of a boring taupe. Affixed to what was ostensibly the top, a folded and sealed letter with distantly familiar writing, the characters sharply rendered, as someone who held a quill too tight. She held it, looking at the boy, and added, "I'll take it from here." A dismissal, then, though she maybe had no right to be issuing it. The 'brat took a few more minutes to breathe then flashed her a smile and a small wave, issuing a pat to one of the runners on his way out, a task he took much slower than he did getting there. It wasn't until later, climbing into the hayloft with her blanket and a glow basket, that she had the chance to really worry about the package. It was her mother's writing, undoubtedly, and that made it easy to put off, shoving it to the back of her mind. Settling against one of the hay bales, Faryn drew her legs up, put her chin on her knees, and reached for the letter, unfolding it, her face preemptively in a grimace. Faryn: To drown your disappointment, since shit happens. Or doesn't. Better luck on your journeyman exams. It was a big scrap of hide for such a pithy message. Faryn deconstructed it shortly. No greeting, no terms of endearment, not even a signature. Such a distant entity to call a mother. The herder shoved the note under the bale to give her attention to the package. Inside, as promised, was a small, extremely worn hip flask. It sloshed when she picked it up, and smelled strongly of Tillekian whisky when she opened it. She sighed, slouching down. "Gee," she murmured, taking a long swallow. It burned going down, although not unpleasantly. "Thanks, Mom." |
Comments
Roz (20:30, 25 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
Your mom is the best! Booze!
Edyis (00:23, 26 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
I agree with Roz. Totally the best.
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