NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs talk:Enabled

2015-11-01T22:31:46Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Yesia - via ArticleComments extension

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==Quinlys (13:58, 1 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==

... ''C'ris''. This is not what we talked about. XD XD XD
==Yesia (14:31, 1 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==

C'ris is seriously the best.

Logs talk:Tall Tales

2015-11-01T19:19:45Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Yesia - via ArticleComments extension

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==Yesia (11:19, 1 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==

Edyis, you fuck.

Logs:Body Language

2015-11-01T02:17:48Z

Faryn:

{{Log
|who=Faryn, T'mic{{!}}Jorrth
|what=Jorrth has a word with Faryn. Sort of.
|where=Akluseth's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=8
|month=9
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.03
|quote="Get lost."
|mentions=T'mic
|type=Log
|ooc=Backdated!
|icons-new=Icon faryn seriously.png, Icon t'mic jorrth motion.jpg,
|log=An observant person will notice it: the watchrider taking Faryn up to Akluseth's ledge, where she stays the night and leaves the next morning on whatever varied schedule she's been given. This morning, early drills a lack of early morning meetings have given Faryn her run of Edyis' weyr, and now the run of Akluseth's ledge while she waits for the watchrider to remember he's supposed to come grab her. She's standing outside now, leaned back against the wall with a book in hand, reading with the occasional glance up when the sound of wingbeats comes close enough.

An observant dragon, also. Jorrth's outline is very difficult to mistake - the dragon who comes without straps and without a ride, to a ledge that is familiar to him, if he's not much visited Akluseth since everyone got mad. But he's here now. Here, and landing in practiced, perfect form. Here, with those keen eyes of him pinned on Faryn beneath that thick, broad brow as he settles his wings and flicks his tail.

Faryn's perfunctory look this time shows, first, a dragon coming in for landing, so she starts putting her book away into her satchel, watching the dragon grow as distance closes, and then, "Aw, shit." Her eyes cut up, presumably to take in the rider she suspects will be there, but there's nothing to see. "You're not my ride."

To which Jorrth snorts, and shakes his head and the bulk of muscle along his shoulders, wings unable to keep fully out of the motion. He stays, for the moment, where he'd landed, watching the woman he's known since ''forever'', and waiting. Clearly waiting.

Clearly. Clearly enough that Faryn straightens her bag, crosses her arms and lifts her chin defiantly at him. "What, then? Did T'mic...tie a letter to your leg, or something? Is he down a well?" She leans around slightly, as if she might find a scroll-case somewhere, in absence of anything else strapped to the blue.

Jorrth mirrors that lean, shifting one of those delicate little feet of his, putting his shoulders and chest into it, and peers at Faryn's ankle.

Faryn clears her throat, eyebrow raising at his counter. No letter, then. She's frowning at Jorrth now, and self-consciously looks down at her ankle too. "Ugh, use your words." Which is perfectly reasonable.

Jorrth straightens up, and looks at her for one breath. Two. And then hops forward (yes, he can still hop) and licks. Right at the face.

How do you avoid something you can't anticipate? How do you anticipate a dragon ''licking your face''? ''Why is this happening?'' These questions, and more, answered now. You don't, you can't, and ''because Pern is cruel''. Faryn, slightly off balance from looking down, definitely misses it coming until she squeals - yes, girlish - "Oh, ''gross'', Jorrth, NO!" And she scrambles back with such fervor that, yes, she trips. Falls flat on her bottom. ''Glares''.

At this point, Jorrth dips his head. No, he doesn't try lick her again. He doesn't even headbutt her. But he stares at her, all up close, while she's on her backside. And blows warm air through his nostrils at her, too.

It's all false gratitude, Faryn propping herself up on her hands with that big head all close, when she says, "Gee. Thanks. I needed that, I guess. My day isn't really complete without it. You should do it tomorrow too."

It's a human gesture, but it's one he knows, that up-down of his head. And Jorrth will, too. She better be here tomorrow. He's still a moment, that the gesture might stand on its own, and only then moves to nudge at her with that big head of his.

"I'm not going to come out here so you can touch me with your disgusting tongue and knock me ass over teakettle, Jorrth." Faryn sighs and straightens, adjusts her bag so it's sitting in her lap. Jorrth's nudge gets a distracted, but not unhappy, pat. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."

In that, Jorrth seems satisfied. At least, he steps back, and turns his bulk around, looking out toward the ledge briefly, then swinging his head and shoulders back to look at Faryn once more. A solemn blink follows.

Faryn rights herself, brushing the seat of her pants and sorting out where her jacket is in disarray. "Go on," she shoos him, trying to interpret that look -- all the looks. Ultimately, she waves her hands at him in the absence of a broom. "I'm fine. I just - need time to think." Frown. "He needs you more than me anyways. Get lost."

Jorrth blinks once more at her, and then spreads those wings and makes a great big jump, and is gone.
}}

Logs talk:Personal Affairs

2015-10-31T18:43:44Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Faryn - via ArticleComments extension

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==Faryn (11:43, 31 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

These two are my favorites. Keep it coming vig slave.

Logs:Quiet Time to Heal

2015-10-31T06:04:40Z

Faryn:

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Faryn
|what=Edyis hunts Faryn down at the Sandbar.
|where=The Sandbar, Ista Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=13
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.27
|quote="It's just another fanciful thought doesn't deserve entertaining."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Edyis Serious.jpg, Icon faryn listless.png,
|log=The Istan weather is warm if a little gloomy, and frankly the low, flat grey clouds at intermittent points in the sky don't hold a torch to anything that the skies of the Reaches might produce, and it certainly is not enough to put a damper on the people who are loitering around the weyr's bar. There are plenty of empty seats at the bar, between drinkers who have left a seat to avoid conversation with their neighbors. Faryn's got one of them, with a space on either side, and a drink half-finished before her. She's drinking from the long straw--and alternately chewing on it while her eyes roam the small space.

Let it be noted, some browns can make buddies ''anywhere'' and also? They look out for their own. So that Akluseth and Sulizath have shared intel shouldn't be too surprising. Since the Reachian brown can be spotted out in waters just a short distance away. That Edyis is dressed like a native, the tropical sea green sarong styled as a sundress probably is, since she seems to be attempting to sneak up on the up on the gloomy straw chewer.

"What can I getcha?" Edyis is betrayed by Istan hospitality the moment she gets close to the bar, and Faryn turns to glance over her shoulder and follow the man's gaze and see who he's addressing. She takes in the brownrider, her forehead furrowing, eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in the garb and the ''sneak''. Her mouth goes briefly slack, like she might form a greeting, but nothing comes. That straw must be delicious.

"Mm, something sweet with lots of ice." Edyis murmurs, flashing a smile and claiming a chair next to Faryn. "I figured you'd possibly run the other direction if I didn't catch you off guard. I looked for you, after. By then you were already gone." She notes, as her drink arrives. "Would have been nice to get a note at least."

Faryn, to her credit, doesn't run the other direction. She does lay off the straw, pushing it around the rim of the glass so she can drink down what's left efficiently and shove the glass forward too in taciturn request. The bartender flashes his own practiced smile at the both of them, plucks up the glass, and carries it away with a cheerful whistle that makes Faryn's mouth curl in a tiny, annoyed sneer. Or maybe that's for Edyis. "I figured no note said enough," she says, watching one drink come and waiting for her own. Maybe it's complex.

"So we are doing the whole you are pissed at the world because you didn't impress thing again?" Edyis states mildly, "Because I left the boxing gloves in Akluseth's bags if that is the case." There's a shake of her head then, and something gentler in her expression. "Or did you think that any of those you left behind would care about you any less."

"No, Edyis. I'm doing--" she starts. Stops. Takes her drink from the bartender on his next pass like it's a life preserver and swallows down a quarter of it without missing a beat. Then, "I'm trying to figure out my life. Where to go. What to do. I can't ''think'', with you all there and all your opinions and," like spitting poison, "''caring''. And I certainly didn't need you all there to look at me like you're looking at me now."

"And how am I looking at you now?" Edyis wonders, drawing the straw into her glass and sipping.

Faryn makes a clicking sound with her tongue behind her teeth before the straw finds its way back, her chewing almost pensive in its pace. "I think I'm too drunk to find the word," she says with a notable lack of slur despite the quickness of her drinking. "Let me be, Edyis. You're clouding up my thoughts."

"I didn't come here out of pity Faryn." Edyis notes with a click of her tongue, "I came because I happen to have a friend who needs an assistant, and your probably the only person whose stubborn enough to put up with him for longer than a few months." She shrugs, "But hey if you want to play the pity me game I can oblige, but I know you better than that."

Faryn's jaw tightens in slow increments around the straw. Were it not flexible beneath her teeth, she'd be breaking something. "Sounds a lot like you came here to taunt me. One minute, I'm enjoying my drink and the weather and thinking about whether laying at Hanson's feet would get me my job back, the next?" She gesticulates at Edyis. "You of all people -- I figured you'd at least understand enough to keep that bullshit off the table."

Dark eyes study and assess, and there's a thoughtful quietness to Edyis the more anger that rolls off of Faryn, the calmer the brownrider seems. "What the fuck does Hanson have to do with it?" Quiet and bewildered, there's a soft exhale then and a studying look given as fingers are raked through dark curls. "You, you don't lay down and fade quietly Faryn, I understand why you can't be at Reaches right now, trust me. I know what it's like to want something only to realize that it's impossible. Or that it won't happen the way you imagined, but - you are more than this. You can do so much more than this." The words fervent.

Anger, yes, and jealousy and resentment and pain. She is her mother's daughter, hunkered down there with the hatches battened for all those emotions, and Edyis is just rapping away on the door. But Faryn listens, her jaw spasming at the hinge from the pressure it’s under. "Hanson," she tries, but doesn't get any strength of voice behind the thought, or even the full thought, before Edyis continues. She scoffs. "Hanson wouldn't take me anyways. I know that, got the letter somewhere. It's just another fanciful thought doesn't deserve entertaining. Head in the clouds." A very long beat passes before she scratches the side of her nose before she ventures, flatly, "What sort of assistant." It doesn't have the intonation of a question, but probably should.

Maybe Ed is oblivious to those emotions or maybe she understands. She exhales slowly, listening. "Vintcrafter gone ''rogue.'''' Edyis murmurs then, perhaps not entirely sure what else to say, or perhaps giving Faryn a chance to let the storm calm or rage as she wishes. Letting silence fall.

"And how," still even, still affectless, "exactly does a Vintcrafter go rogue? Mislabel his stock? 'Bottled in Cloud-Cuckoo Land, in the year infinity-redfruits-plus-three, by Master Shittershins of the Vintner Hall', perhaps?" Faryn at least isn't raging or white knuckling her glass anymore. Progress!

Both brows arch at the sarcastic display, there's almost the wicked curve of a smile. It lingers but doesn't quite show itself. "He ran afoul of craft politics but was too daft to give up the thing he loved." It might be admiration, or perhaps a sense of kindred spirits that accounts for the fondness in the brownrider's tone.

"An easy mistake." Faryn toasts the currently-invisible and as-of-yet-nameless crafter in question before her next sip. "And now, what? He sneaks into collections of Lord Holders in the dead of night and changes their labels? He tears the labels off?" She gasps, half-hearted with mocking horror. "Oh, the ''humanity''."

"No, he brews that spiced rum that I always keep about. But forget I asked. If your going to mock his art." She snickers into her glass. "I was kind of surprised you went to Ista, but I guess it makes sense in a way."

Faryn's interest piques for a moment, betrayed by a rising eyebrow and a sidelong look that is better than the way she's been staring at the bartop. "Mum loves that. She'd buy a barrel if she could find it." Which is totally not throwing her mother under the metaphorical stampeding dragon. "I mock everyone's art," she points out, and then with a shrug, "She wouldn't take me anywhere else."

"Irreverence isn't an attractive quality." The former scribe notes with a slant of her mouth that belies the deadpan tone. "I'm not saying he'd teach you his art, that my friend would be up to you to charm him out of it, but there's nothing wrong with trying different things until you find where you fit."

"Isn't it? Surely somebody must think it is. I'm sure your vintner would find it hilarious. At the very least if he's what you say, he'd have to appreciate the truth to it all." Her mouth twitches. Not a smile. Just a something, in passing. "I fit pretty well in this stool, I hear."

Edyis lifts her shoulders ambiguously. "You'd have to ask him in person for that I think." Though that smile still lingers. "Well we all need our quiet time to heal, but I figured I'd offer it, and if you wanted to try it, more power to you.

Faryn flicks her fingers. "Maybe I will," does not constitute any agreement to anything being offered. "I know how to find you, if I want to. But right now, I think, you're ''clouding my thoughts''." There's a pressure, an urging. She's not mad; she just needs, as suggested, quiet time to heal.

Edyis salutes, "Mm, think I'll go over there where the sunshine and the water are." Since she's dressed for the beach after all. Dissapearing from Faryn's view.
}}

Logs:Quiet Time to Heal

2015-10-27T08:09:58Z

Faryn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Edyis, Faryn |what=Edyis hunts Faryn down at the Sandbar. |where=The Sandbar, Ista Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr, Ista Weyr |day=13 |month=2 |turn=38 |IP=Interva..."

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Faryn
|what=Edyis hunts Faryn down at the Sandbar.
|where=The Sandbar, Ista Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=13
|month=2
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.27
|quote="It's just another fanciful thought doesn't deserve entertaining."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Edyis Serious.jpg, Icon faryn listless.png,
|log=The Istan weather is warm if a little gloomy, and frankly the low, flat grey clouds at intermittent points in the sky don't hold a torch to anything that the skies of the Reaches might produce, and it certainly is not enough to put a damper on the people who are loitering around the weyr's bar. There are plenty of empty seats at the bar, between drinkers who have left a seat to avoid conversation with their neighbors. Faryn's got one of them, with a space on either side, and a drink half-finished before her. She's drinking from the long straw--and alternately chewing on it while her eyes roam the small space.

Let it be noted, some browns can make buddies ''anywhere'' and also? They look out for their own. So that Akluseth and Sulizath have shared intel shouldn't be too surprising. Since the Reachian brown can be spotted out in waters just a short distance away. That Edyis is dressed like a native, the tropical sea green sarong styled as a sundress probably is, since she seems to be attempting to sneak up on the up on the gloomy straw chewer.

"What can I getcha?" Edyis is betrayed by Istan hospitality the moment she gets close to the bar, and Faryn turns to glance over her shoulder and follow the man's gaze and see who he's addressing. She takes in the brownrider, her forehead furrowing, eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in the garb and the ''sneak''. Her mouth goes briefly slack, like she might form a greeting, but nothing comes. That straw must be delicious.

"Mm, something sweet with lots of ice." Edyis murmurs, flashing a smile and claiming a chair next to Faryn. "I figured you'd possibly run the other direction if I didn't catch you off guard. I looked for you, after. By then you were already gone." She notes, as her drink arrives. "Would have been nice to get a note at least."

Faryn, to her credit, doesn't run the other direction. She does lay off the straw, pushing it around the rim of the glass so she can drink down what's left efficiently and shove the glass forward too in taciturn request. The bartender flashes his own practiced smile at the both of them, plucks up the glass, and carries it away with a cheerful whistle that makes Faryn's mouth curl in a tiny, annoyed sneer. Or maybe that's for Edyis. "I figured no note said enough," she says, watching one drink come and waiting for her own. Maybe it's complex.

"So we are doing the whole you are pissed at the world because you didn't impress thing again?" Edyis states mildly, "Because I left the boxing gloves in Akluseth's bags if that is the case." There's a shake of her head then, and something gentler in her expression. "Or did you think that any of those you left behind would care about you any less."

"No, Edyis. I'm doing--" she starts. Stops. Takes her drink from the bartender on his next pass like it's a life preserver and swallows down a quarter of it without missing a beat. Then, "I'm trying to figure out my life. Where to go. What to do. I can't ''think'', with you all there and all your opinions and," like spitting poison, "''caring''. And I certainly didn't need you all there to look at me like you're looking at me now."

"And how am I looking at you now?" Edyis wonders, drawing the straw into her glass and sipping.

Faryn makes a clicking sound with her tongue behind her teeth before the straw finds its way back, her chewing almost pensive in its pace. "I think I'm too drunk to find the word," she says with a notable lack of slur despite the quickness of her drinking. "Let me be, Edyis. You're clouding up my thoughts."

"I didn't come here out of pity Faryn." Edyis notes with a click of her tongue, "I came because I happen to have a friend who needs an assistant, and your probably the only person whose stubborn enough to put up with him for longer than a few months." She shrugs, "But hey if you want to play the pity me game I can oblige, but I know you better than that."

Faryn's jaw tightens in slow increments around the straw. Were it not flexible beneath her teeth, she'd be breaking something. "Sounds a lot like you came here to taunt me. One minute, I'm enjoying my drink and the weather and thinking about whether laying at Hanson's feet would get me my job back, the next?" She gesticulates at Edyis. "You of all people -- I figured you'd at least understand enough to keep that bullshit off the table."

Dark eyes study and assess, and there's a thoughtful quietness to Edyis the more anger that rolls off of Faryn, the calmer the brownrider seems. "What the fuck does Hanson have to do with it?" Quiet and bewildered, there's a soft exhale then and a studying look given as fingers are raked through dark curls. "You, you don't lay down and fade quietly Faryn, I understand why you can't be at Reaches right now, trust me. I know what it's like to want something only to realize that it's impossible. Or that it won't happen the way you imagined, but - you are more than this. You can do so much more than this." The words fervent.

Anger, yes, and jealousy and resentment and pain. She is her mother's daughter, hunkered down there with the hatches battened for all those emotions, and Edyis is just rapping away on the door. But Faryn listens, her jaw spasming at the hinge from the pressure it’s under. "Hanson," she tries, but doesn't get any strength of voice behind the thought, or even the full thought, before Edyis continues. She scoffs. "Hanson wouldn't take me anyways. I know that, got the letter somewhere. It's just another fanciful thought doesn't deserve entertaining. Head in the clouds." A very long beat passes before she scratches the side of her nose before she ventures, flatly, "What sort of assistant." It doesn't have the intonation of a question, but probably should.

Maybe Ed is oblivious to those emotions or maybe she understands. She exhales slowly, listening. "Vintcrafter gone ''rogue.'''' Edyis murmurs then, perhaps not entirely sure what else to say, or perhaps giving Faryn a chance to let the storm calm or rage as she wishes. Letting silence fall.

"And how," still even, still affectless, "exactly does a Vintcrafter go rogue? Mislabel his stock? 'Bottled in Cloud-Cuckoo Land, in the year infinity-redfruits-plus-three, by Master Shittershins of the Vintner Hall', perhaps?" Faryn at least isn't raging or white knuckling her glass anymore. Progress!

Both brows arch at the sarcastic display, there's almost the wicked curve of a smile. It lingers but doesn't quite show itself. "He ran afoul of craft politics but was too daft to give up the thing he loved." It might be admiration, or perhaps a sense of kindred spirits that accounts for the fondness in the brownrider's tone.

"An easy mistake." Faryn toasts the currently-invisible and as-of-yet-nameless crafter in question before her next sip. "And now, what? He sneaks into collections of Lord Holders in the dead of night and changes their labels? He tears the labels off?" She gasps, half-hearted with mocking horror. "Oh, the ''humanity''."

"No, he brews that spiced rum that I always keep about. But forget I asked. If your going to mock his art." She snickers into her glass. "I was kind of surprised you went to Ista, but I guess it makes sense in a way."

Faryn's interest piques for a moment, betrayed by a rising eyebrow and a sidelong look that is better than the way she's been staring at the bartop. "Mum loves that. She'd buy a barrel if she could find it." Which is totally not throwing her mother under the metaphorical stampeding dragon. "I mock everyone's art," she points out, and then with a shrug, "She wouldn't take me anywhere else."

"Irreverence isn't an attractive quality." The former scribe notes with a slant of her mouth that belies the deadpan tone. "I'm not saying he'd teach you his art, that my friend would be up to you to charm him out of it, but there's nothing wrong with trying different things until you find where you fit."

"Isn't it? Surely somebody must think it is. I'm sure your vintner would find it hilarious. At the very least if he's what you say, he'd have to appreciate the truth to it all." Her mouth twitches. Not a smile. Just a something, in passing. "I fit pretty well in this stool, I hear."

Edyis lifts her shoulders ambiguously. "You'd have to ask him in person for that I think." Though that smile still lingers. "Well we all need our quiet time to heal, but I figured I'd offer it, and if you wanted to try it, more power to you.

Faryn flicks her fingers. "Maybe I will," does not constitute any agreement to anything being offered. "I know how to find you, if I want to. But right now, I think, you're ''clouding my thoughts''." There's a pressure, an urging. She's not mad; she just needs, as suggested, quiet time to heal.

Edyis salutes, "Mm, think I'll go over there where the sunshine and the water are." Since she's dressed for the beach after all. Dissapearing from Faryn's view.
}}

Logs talk:To Adapt

2015-10-27T00:42:19Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Faryn - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:To Adapt]]
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==Faryn (17:42, 26 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

He's terrifying me make him stop.

Logs:Left in the Cold

2015-10-26T05:44:34Z

Faryn:

{{Log
|who=Fadra, Faryn
|what=With her mother's help, Faryn doesn't linger long after her third and final chance for Impression.
|where=Candidate Barracks, Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=4
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.25
|quote="I know why y'did it. I just wish y'hadn't."
|mentions=Edyis, T'mic, Z'kiel,
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon faryn alone.jpg, Icon fadra.png,
|log=Faryn did not go back to bed.

The younger candidates, exhausted by the anxiety and the adrenaline of their trial-by-dragon, tumbled miserably back into their cots. Several started crying, abruptly Two, some distance away but audible in the silence of a weyr that was trying to settle back into routine after being jarred at such an unreasonable hour, buoyed their spirits quickly by thinking of their futures, including the simple math of their ages to the timing for the queens to rise.

While they talked, Faryn gathered the few belongings she had been hauling around the weyr for the past three turns and stuffed them in the satchel she’d been hauling around for one. She shrugged into the bronze-hued flight jacket Z’kiel had given her and filled its pocket with the silver flask from her mother. She had a pair of dumb, fuzzy pajamas she’d borrowed once from Edyis and never gotten around to returning, and those made it into the bag too, wrapped around the dreamcatcher T'mic had made her promise to keep.

Fadra was waiting outside, teasing Sully--not ‘’her’’ Sully, but Faryn’s--with bits of meatroll that she snatched away at the last moment before his teeth closed on it. When he looked up, so did she, and the little brown abandoned his messenger’s post to return to the person who’d sent him off, or at the very least the person who was less stingy with the food. He had a piece of jerky down his gullet before he’d even properly settled on Faryn’s shoulder.

The brownrider didn’t let the silence lapse into anything worthy of notice, and certainly nothing that could be awkward. “Y’okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Bullshit,” countered Fadra instantly, and Faryn winced, her mother’s words finally bringing into reach the exhaustion all those who went to bed felt. Like a candle, she melted. She wanted suddenly, desperately, to crawl back into her bed and not wake up, but braced herself for more. There was always ‘’more’’. Except this time. This time, there was a softness: “I know why y’did it. I just wish y’hadn’t.”

Faryn looked at her boots, her brow furrowed with concentration too intense for something as simple as picking out dark leather against muddy ground from the day’s sleet. Not, of course, that it was anything to do with that. “Everything is ''fucked''. I --”

“You’ll ‘’be’’ okay,” Fadra interrupted. “Soon. You’ll be okay, and then better’n that with a little time.” She stamped her feet, crossing her arms and tucking her hands beneath her elbows for warmth. “Cold ‘nough t’freeze the balls off a brass ‘lizard. Y’gonna stay here?”

Faryn shook her head. Her voice came out strained, ‘’pained’’, but vehement. “Fuck." She waited for the fog of her breath to drift away. "No. Nothing here."

A second threatening silence hovered on the edges of their conversation. Fadra again took the responsibility for breaking it. “Your bluerider?”

“No. He’s not--”

“That brownriding girl y’brought to the Sandbar? Whoever gave y’that sharding jacket? Your ‘’friends’’?”

“‘’No’’. Mum, ‘’please’’. You were right.”

If she understood nothing else, Fadra understood that, to some point. She’d never ‘’fully’’, not with Sulizath there breathing warm and secure, a fortress of brown and solid as a stone. She lifted her hands in capitulation, looking remorseful. “I wish I wasn’t.” She took a deep breath, sighed, and when she reached out it was to clasp Faryn’s shoulder and shake her gently. “Let’s get y’out of here, love. We'll get y'warm yet."
|Categories=HRW Clutch 38 Logs, Angst Logs
}}

Logs:Left in the Cold

2015-10-26T05:41:49Z

Faryn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Fadra, Faryn |what=With her mother's help, Faryn doesn't linger long after her third and final chance for Impression. |where=Candidate Barracks, Bowl, High Reaches..."

{{Log
|who=Fadra, Faryn
|what=With her mother's help, Faryn doesn't linger long after her third and final chance for Impression.
|where=Candidate Barracks, Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=4
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.25
|quote="I know why y'did it. I just wish y'hadn't."
|mentions=Edyis, T'mic, Z'kiel,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon faryn alone.jpg, Icon fadra.png,
|log=Faryn did not go back to bed.

The younger candidates, exhausted by the anxiety and the adrenaline of their trial-by-dragon, tumbled miserably back into their cots. Several started crying, abruptly Two, some distance away but audible in the silence of a weyr that was trying to settle back into routine after being jarred at such an unreasonable hour, buoyed their spirits quickly by thinking of their futures, including the simple math of their ages to the timing for the queens to rise.

While they talked, Faryn gathered the few belongings she had been hauling around the weyr for the past three turns and stuffed them in the satchel she’d been hauling around for one. She shrugged into the bronze-hued flight jacket Z’kiel had given her and filled its pocket with the silver flask from her mother. She had a pair of dumb, fuzzy pajamas she’d borrowed once from Edyis and never gotten around to returning, and those made it into the bag too, wrapped around the dreamcatcher T'mic had made her promise to keep.

Fadra was waiting outside, teasing Sully--not ‘’her’’ Sully, but Faryn’s--with bits of meatroll that she snatched away at the last moment before his teeth closed on it. When he looked up, so did she, and the little brown abandoned his messenger’s post to return to the person who’d sent him off, or at the very least the person who was less stingy with the food. He had a piece of jerky down his gullet before he’d even properly settled on Faryn’s shoulder.

The brownrider didn’t let the silence lapse into anything worthy of notice, and certainly nothing that could be awkward. “Y’okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Bullshit,” countered Fadra instantly, and Faryn winced, her mother’s words finally bringing into reach the exhaustion all those who went to bed felt. Like a candle, she melted. She wanted suddenly, desperately, to crawl back into her bed and not wake up, but braced herself for more. There was always ‘’more’’. Except this time. This time, there was a softness: “I know why y’did it. I just wish y’hadn’t.”

Faryn looked at her boots, her brow furrowed with concentration too intense for something as simple as picking out dark leather against muddy ground from the day’s sleet. Not, of course, that it was anything to do with that. “Everything is ''fucked''. I --”

“You’ll ‘’be’’ okay,” Fadra interrupted. “Soon. You’ll be okay, and then better’n that with a little time.” She stamped her feet, crossing her arms and tucking her hands beneath her elbows for warmth. “Cold ‘nough t’freeze the balls off a brass ‘lizard. Y’gonna stay here?”

Faryn shook her head. Her voice came out strained, ‘’pained’’, but vehement. “Fuck." She waited for the fog of her breath to drift away. "No. Nothing here."

A second threatening silence hovered on the edges of their conversation. Fadra again took the responsibility for breaking it. “Your bluerider?”

“No. He’s not--”

“That brownriding girl y’brought to the Sandbar? Whoever gave y’that sharding jacket? Your ‘’friends’’?”

“‘’No’’. Mum, ‘’please’’. You were right.”

If she understood nothing else, Fadra understood that, to some point. She’d never ‘’fully’’, not with Sulizath there breathing warm and secure, a fortress of brown and solid as a stone. She lifted her hands in capitulation, looking remorseful. “I wish I wasn’t.” She took a deep breath, sighed, and when she reached out it was to clasp Faryn’s shoulder and shake her gently. “Let’s get y’out of here, love. We'll get y'warm yet."
|Categories=HRW Clutch 38 Logs, Angst Logs
}}

Yesia

2015-10-24T23:24:14Z

Faryn:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Yesia2.png
|mother=Avona
|father=Biannor
|siblings=Adrelar (-4)
|body=== Description ==
Yesia oozes femininity, from her preference for pretty dresses to her perfectly coifed hair. She is shapely, narrow at the waist and wider at hips and bust, and could accurately be called leggy, because most of her modest height resides in legs she likes to show off. She's strikingly pretty, in a way that suggests good genes, or perhaps good breeding. She's got a rounder face: a jawline almost too strong compared to the rest of her face, high soft cheekbones, large hazel eyes, and full lips that are perpetually, maybe willfully, pursed in judgement. This is all framed by thick ringlets of red hair that go past her shoulders, presented in a variety of pretty styles and often tied or styled with bows and ribbons. She possesses a constant air of repressed energy, as though she's forcing herself to be less gregarious than she is naturally.

{{wysk}}

= History =

The oldest of two children, Yesia was born, raised, and Searched in Crom, where her father was a miner and her mother a jeweler, a dynamic that always worked well for their family (even if, in its own way, it amounted to a teeeeny amount of theft from the Minecraft). Yesia, then, was training to follow in her mother's footsteps, and is an admirable jeweler in her own right: small trinkets, bracelets and necklaces tend to be her forte. Officially, Yesia was unaffiliated at the time of her Search, despite the fact that she was getting on in age and should have already selected a craft. When she accepted Search, it was initially without her parents' knowledge or blessing; there was a gold egg on the sands, and she was ''going''. Being that she was not beholden to a hall, they had very little recourse when she stayed the path and departed for High Reaches.

Upon arrival, Yesia at once misstepped and began putting on false airs. She's admitted since to being terrified, far from home in a strange place with a reputation for murders and crime, not to mention true to life dragonriders. She made quick enemies of people like Farideh and Edyis, but her support system included plain and meek girls who were happy to just have attention and friends, however negative and derisive she was to them. She Impressed the first hatched dragon of Niahvth and Reisoth's clutch, much to the dismay of many candidates, who could easily anticipate the torture she would inflict upon them for a turn.

That Yesia made it through Weyrlinghood without incident is a prospect with its own absurdities. She hated her class, she hated her weyrlingmaster, and with the Igen deal still vaguely in place she planned to transfer. She even wrote the request. Her best friend Paz did the same. When the time came, only Paz submitted hers; Yesia was convinced to stay by her dragon and AWLM Telavi, and her slowly developing tolerance for some of her class, despite her own caginess and a slow withdrawal from social networks she built after she got her own weyr.

Most of her friends leaving for Igen on graduation plays a very large part in the company Yesia chooses to keep since she was tapped into Snowdrift. Her friends are not friends, in most cases, and any outsider can see that. In some ways, she is a only a worse version of herself now that she's a full rider, freed from the hold expectations that never really fit a girl with lips like hers and a body like ''that''. She's promiscuous with all the wrong people, takes frequent (and exclusively male) bedmates on a regular basis, has incidentally fallen into acquaintance with mostly criminals of varying degrees of severity, and still plays the victim when she doesn't get her way. Her contributions to the Weyr are minimal: she does as her wingleader in Snowdrift asks, but otherwise fails to rise above expectations. After all, this is the same girl who once told Quinlys that all she wanted to do was fly around and go to parties, and she hasn't changed that much, yet. If there is even enough in her ''to'' change.

= Relationships =

'''''Clutchsiblings''''' 
'''[[Edyis]]''' - ''They put us in the same wing. After all that, I think this is the sickest joke anyone's ever played on me.'' 
'''[[Farideh]]''' - ''Hey, you know, you're not so bad now that I never need to deal with you.'' 
'''[[Keysi]]''' - ''Do you feel anything? Ever?'' 
'''[[T'mic]]''' - ''Definitely gay.'' 
'''[[Z'kiel]]''' - ''Sometimes you're so patient, but you're also so...serious.'' 

'''''Other Riders''''' 
'''[[H'vier]]''' - ''How can you be so old ''and'' so hot? You're a better person than people say you are; maybe that means I'm better than they say I am, too.'' 
'''[[Jo]]''' - ''You see something different than when other people see in me. But I'm not -- and you're not....'' 
'''[[K'del]]''' - ''Oddly approachable, for someone at the top.'' 
'''[[K'zin]]''' - ''Why'd you have to come to Snowdrift? I was looking forward to not having to work on avoiding you.'' 
'''[[Telavi]]''' - ''Literally, you're my best and only friend. Which would be sad, but you're so ''fantastic''.'' 
'''[[Quinlys]]''' - ''Bye, Felicia.''

'''''Others''''' 
'''[[Everett]]''' - ''You're ''pretty'', and ''fun'', and if we keep working on that ''confidence...'' 
'''[[Silva]]''' - ''I think we can be ''very'' good friends.''

= Playlist =
{{{!}}style="width: 100%;"
{{!}}-valign="top"
{{!}}-style="width:25%;"
{{!}}{{!}}'''Cool for the Summer - Demi Lovato''' [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=il9nqWw9W3Y [X]] ''Got my mind on your body And your body on my mind Got a taste for the cherry I just need to take a bite''
 
'''Your Body is a Weapon - The Wombats''' [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Q74TyTUrTo [X]] ''Your body is a weapon, love And it makes me wanna cry My body is a temple of doom Doomed not to be by your side ''
 
'''
{{!}}'''Warm Me Up - The Audition''' [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YsimdJ2vwo0 [X]] ''Come closer to me, baby I've got everything you need, to fill your hunger pangs for tonight Warm me up beneath the sheets, babe I've heard all about how you can save''
 
'''The Curse of Curves - Cute is What We Aim For''' [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIjVpRAXK18 [X]] ''Her bone structure screams "Touch her! Touch her!" And she's got the curse of curves. From what I've heard with skin you'll win.''
{{!}}}
= Other Extras =
== Myers-Briggs Personality: The Debater/Visionary ==
'''Type:''' [http://www.16personalities.com/entp-personality ENTP] 
'''Variant:''' Turbulant               '''Role:''' Analyst 
'''Strengths:''' Original, quick thinker, energetic, knowledgable        '''Weaknesses:''' Insensitive, argumentative, intolerant, impractical 
"The ENTP personality type is the ultimate devil's advocate, thriving on the process of shredding arguments and beliefs and letting the ribbons drift in the wind for all to see. Unlike their more determined Judging (J) counterparts, ENTPs don't do this because they are trying to achieve some deeper purpose or strategic goal, but for the simple reason that it's fun. No one loves the process of mental sparring more than ENTPs, as it gives them a chance to exercise their effortlessly quick wit, broad accumulated knowledge base, and capacity for connecting disparate ideas to prove their points.''

= Logs =

{{NewLogs |name={{BASEPAGENAME}}}}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

=Icons=
{{Icons}}
|position=Professional Victim
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Weyrling
|dragon=Scheming Siren's Song Green Aeaeth
|birthplace=Crom
|playedby=Holland Roden
|status=Active
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=High Reaches Area, Crom, Crom Hold, High Reaches, Greenriders
}}
[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]

Logs:Keeping Gifts

2015-10-24T19:40:45Z

Faryn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Faryn, T'mic |what=T'mic brings Faryn a gift. They're predictably awkward. |where=Kitchens, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=25 |month=12 |turn=38..."

{{Log
|who=Faryn, T'mic
|what=T'mic brings Faryn a gift. They're predictably awkward.
|where=Kitchens, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=25
|month=12
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.11
|quote="It's your job to just take something, when someone's giving it to you."
|type=Log
|ooc=Backdated.
|icons-new=Icon faryn listening.png, Icon t'mic.jpg,
|log=The morning dawned a blizzard of ominous proportions, the winds howling through the cavern openings and snow several inches deep on the ground, to add to the permanent white blanket of winter that drapes the weyr this time of turn. Faryn’s in the kitchens ahead of most of the bedraggled and wet crowd in the half-hour leading up to the breakfast rush, complaining without passion as a bowl is added to the tray in front of her, “Why does the weather always turn to ‘’shit’’ when I have a rest day?” She’s settled in one of the nooks, a black ledger open on the table and a pencil in hand, balancing the columns as the kitchen staff bustles around her, trying to place the last touches on breakfast.

Jorrth saw her. Even in a blizzard. He saw her at the last minute, though, which is why she was able to even just skirt the bowl unmolested. But he still saw her. And that's probably why T'mic, all with snow turning into water and dribbling down off those big shoulders of his, is suddenly there, in the kitchen, with both arms wrapped around his his misshapen belly. "Because it's winter time," comes his answer, because he's there, right at one of those nooks, while people have to move around his bulk to carry on with setup.

"You don't say?" is perfunctory, Faryn not even looking up from her ledger to deliver the sarcasm to whomever until she's finished carefully inscribing a number. When she does, it's a moment of surprise betrayed in her dark eyes. "Oi!" That's one of the kitchen staff, voicing his objection to having to navigate around yet another obstacle with his burden. Faryn watches, deliberating, then possibly for the sake of an on time breakfast, she lifts her chin to gesture across her table at the empty seat there. "They'll kick you out, you stay in the way."

T'mic tries to get out of the way, so really, he's halfway into the seat across from Faryn before she's even nodded. But that nod is permission to sit down, and is acknowledged with that big grin that's so easy to him. "Yup," is contented agreement. Once sitting, he doesn't have to support his belly-package, and gets to removing his outerwear. Good job, too; he's been inside long enough that he's overheating, and that face of is his getting all red. "Glad Jorrth found you," comes as he's contorting to get his arm out of its sleeve. It opens the undone jacket more. The package falls toward his lap, and gets stopped by the edge of the table. It's still wrapped and mysterious, though.

Faryn notes another figure in the margin as T’mic settles, reaching out with her free hand and arm to push the half-filled tray closer to the wall so there is space between them. That done, she finally tucks the pen in the spine of the book, closes it, and lifts her eyes to T’mic. The package is noted, as are his struggles with it, but short of a sympathetic little wrinkle of the nose as he juggles it, she says nothing about it. Instead, “Of course he saw me. He’s made it his life’s goal to assault me, every chance he gets. I wish you’d stop him.”

For a guy who's now trying to get his other arm free, and seems to be stuck by the limited flexibility of his shoulder, T'mic's, "It's just 'cause he likes you," is really rather smooth. "He headbutts me all the time. Doesn't lick me, but you know. You're special, that way, I guess." Ahah! A pivot at the hips seems to have helped. At long last, the empty jacket is pushed over the back of his chair. That package is recovered, and placed, proudly, on the table. He tries not to let it overlap onto her book or anything, really he does.

Faryn watches the ultimate struggle in progress across from her, the corner of her mouth quirking in an unbidden smile at the awkwardness of it all. Fond, but also brief. When he untangles himself, she quickly schools back into her special brand of neutral, everlasting smirk included. “I think he does it because I smell and taste amazing, all that time spent in here. So much spice. One day, you'll find him crunching my bones and regret it.” Her eyes drop to the deposited package, and she tugs the book free. She also notes his pride, and ever difficult, avoids the logical leap in favor of, “Who shall I deliver this to? I’ll extend a favor, this once, as long as you don’t make it a habit. I’m Farideh’s assistant, not the weyrlingmasters’.”

T'mic misses it, that smile. Maybe he doesn't need it. "You do smell and taste pretty good," is the sort of thing that should've been delivered dryly, but that he can't quite. There's no sad puppy look to go with it, though. No Jorrth look, either, though he does look right at her. It's just T'mic. Likewise, when he extends one of those big fingers to point. "It's already delivered. It's for you." Which then, of course, prompts, "The big one at home, it's done now. And I did this other one, but then it got wet or something. I had to redo it. This one." The finger tap-taps on the table near that package.

Point T’mic: a faint blush rises on Faryn’s cheeks and she averts her gaze to the box, drumming her fingertips like his own tapping is an invitation for harmony. When she stops, it’s to touch the edges of the parcel, apparently hers, eyebrows knitting. She shakes her head and gently pushes it over the centerline of the table. “It’s very nice of you, but I really don’t deserve a gift. You…it seems a lot of work you put into someone who….” Fill in the blanks.

Those big brown eyes blink at her. And then he's smiling. Of course he is. "Gifts aren't about deserving them, Faryn." Didactic. It's a tone that would be familiar, even, if she'd known his grandmother at all. T'mic extends an index finger, and undoes the change in that box's position with a little, gentle push. "It's your job to just take something, when someone's giving it to you." More his own voice, is, "Oh, and this one, you gotta keep." A few quick nods.

"Don't you just sound like you've been practicing talking to weyrlings in a mirror." The foolishness of them playing pong with a package is too much, so Faryn accepts it at his insistence, folding her arms over top of it like an addition to the tabletop. Like a child, she can’t entirely resist thumbing the edge of the paper, but seems disinclined to open it now, here, with most of a full breakfast tray that can’t be hers. “Do I?” she challenges archly, one brow lifting.

"I don't need a mirror for that," says T'mic, honest as ever. There's satisfaction, in the way he crosses his arms over each other on his side of the table. His boxless side of the table. "Yeah," is too solemn and serious an answer to that challenge. "You do. For this one." No sooner are those arms settled, it seems, that one's lifting, its hand rubbing at his mouth and chin.

Faryn snorts her amusement for the first, shaking her head. “‘’This one’’. Are you saying there’s more? Because, if so, T’mic, you should stop while you’re ahead.” There’s warning in her tone, but it’s gentle as far as warnings go.

"What?" says T'mic first, brow furrowing a little. But then he understands, eyes widening a bit, and shakes his head. "There's not more. I mean, not now. It's just important, that's all." A nod, as if that could settle it all. His chair bump-scrapes a little as he adjusts his feet under it, and his weight on it.

Faryn’s mollified enough that she says with a brisk nod, “Alright then. If it’s so important.” To you, she doesn’t say. She studies him again, lips parted like she’s got something to say, then shakes her head and settles on, “Thanks,” even though she hasn’t even opened it yet. She’s saved from more by the passing kitchen staff, who drops a plate at her elbow. She scoops it on to the tray she pushed aside, then draws the entire thing up onto the box in preparation to leave. “Stay dry, yeah? Soon enough you’ll have all those baby dragons to worry about; not the time for a flu.”

T'mic's eyebrows draw a bit closer in toward each other. He looks concerned at her, when she starts moving. Enough that he stands, and has a hand almost at her elbow when he comes up with, "Faryn?" Wordsmith.

"Yeah?" Faryn's scooting to the edge of her seat so she can slide the parcel into her arms in one smooth movement. But at least she pauses. Even looks at him, more directly than she has been most of the conversation.

"Um," says T'mic, when she actually looks at him. Forgotten. Then, it's too awkward to be any sort of plan, 'cause he has to lean all awkward and brace a hand on the table and almost get clocked by a pot full of porridge. But either way, that big bluerider makes to put a kiss on her cheek.

Would she recoil if she could, unhampered by packages and breakfast and the small space she's confined in by the table and her seat? It's possible. Hard to tell, really, but his kiss lands, and she betrays her surprise with a stiffening of her spine and the widening of her eyes. “Um,” she echoes his sentiment, then rises quickly to her feet. “I have to go.” Because of course she does. When she skirts past him to join the flow of the kitchen foot traffic, it’s quick, with little room to be called back. Of course, that means her last is meant as goodbye.

T'mic doesn't try to block her. Even, awkwardly manoeuvers out of her way. There's more - whatever it was that had gotten displaced by that impulse - but he doesn't bother trying with it. Just sort of turns as she goes, and backs up until he can sit on the table (warning creak), and watch her leave. His last will just have to stand as that, too.
}}

Logs talk:Warnings

2015-10-24T17:09:37Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Faryn - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Warnings]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Edyis (23:20, 23 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

DOOOOOMED. So dooomed.
==Alida (23:28, 23 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

GOOD one, K'del! Feel free to scare the crap out of Silva somemore! Alida's too busy to do it. ;)
==Faryn (10:09, 24 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

The fact that Yesia is her baseline is the best thing. I wonder... If Quinlys needs another AWLM. :|

Logs:Bouts Of Sentimentality

2015-10-20T16:17:53Z

Faryn:

{{Log
|who=Jo, Faryn
|what=Faryn comes upon a drinking Jo and the two commiserate loss in their own ways.
|where=Rider's Lounge, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=22
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.11
|quote="You look like shit."
|mentions=R'hin, M'kris, Farideh, Rategar,
|type=Log
|ooc=Back-dated.
|icons-new=Icon jo pensive.jpg, Icon faryn sad.png
|log=It’s evening in the Reaches. Jo continues to be a wraith between partial wing duties and her weyr. This evening, however, finds her up at the lounge - cradling a mug of something amber-hued at a table to the side as she seems to be lost in her thoughts. It’s new, dark leathers that she wears, distinctive from the black leathers she’s used to wearing about the Weyr.The lounge isn’t as crowd as Snowasis would be at this time of night, but most of the tables are occupied by riders from the looks of them - and they seem to be leaving the wingsecond to her own devices.

Faryn’s here already, inexplicably exiting the rear storage room and shoving something into the bag she carries as she goes, scanning the gathered faces with a neutrally distant curiosity and equally neutral recognition of some. Her path doesn’t deviate for any of them. Single-mindedly, she weaves through the tables for the ledge, and pauses only when the nearest face belongs to the shadow of a bluerider who--’’well’’. Her features cloud with something unpleasant (distrust?) and Faryn drops into one of the free seats without a word.

Jo was on the verge of taking a measured sip of her ale when she suddenly finds a new occupant at her table. There’s a pause of the mug going to her lips, the woman’s already lingering frown strengthening as she looks at the contents of her mug for longer than is necessary. Perhaps she can see Faryn from its glass since the mug doesn’t come down fast enough. It’s lengthy, the silence. Jo lets it linger before that mug makes contact with the table and she studies it further before she asks, “Wanna drink?” There’s no greeting.

Faryn is uncharacteristically patient, watching Jo through the distorted bottom of the glass without a word and without fidgeting, at least not after she pulls her bag up into her lap. Her answer is flat. "No. You look like shit." Neither is wholly unkind, and the first has no bearing on the second, but her intonation is the same all around.

“I could say the same ‘bout ya,” comes from Jo, the woman finally looking at Faryn with her own dark gaze. Then, “I’m fine.” It sounds like she’s been saying these two words on repeat since the Crom gather. “What’s goin’ on with ya?” she asks now, looking at the bag. “Awfully far up from the ground.” Beat. “Ya need a drink.” Maybe Faryn looks thirsty.

"You try sleeping in a barracks with a bunch of children and tell me how you fair," Faryn challenges quietly, but she’s still focused on studying Jo’s face. “I handle business where it comes up. Today, it was here. Tomorrow…” Her slender shoulders lift in a shrug. “I don’t. You don’t either. You look like shit,” she repeats, emphatic. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the edge of the table and linking her fingers together, loose-wristed and dangling just in front of her face. “I’ve been meaning to….” Faryn stops, inhales, and breathes a low sigh, shaking her head like she’s thought the better of the sentence.

“A candidate,” Jo guesses, her look on Faryn. “No longer the stables. Rat’s one, too.” Pause. “I need more,” she says of drink, looking at the level of her mug. “I look fine. Been meanin’ to ‘’what’’?” Her words and answers mingle together, and it seems like she’s not noticing. Perhaps she’s had too much to drink already, but if so, she’s holding it well. “Candidates can’ drink, right? I don’ ‘member mine. I’m sure I’ve nicked a few sips durin’ that time anyway.”

Faryn nods, the sharp and straight cut of her bangs flipping up. “Yeah. Last chance. I haven’t been in the stables in forever. You know that.” Doesn’t she? Did Faryn not tell her? Perturbed, Faryn’s index fingers begins tapping out a little rhythm on the back of the opposite hand. “I know he is. I thought I told you to drop him. He’s going to be ‘’trouble’’ and not the good kind. What’s he here for?” That’s not the question she means to ask, and it doesn’t require an answer. “We can drink,” she agrees, on the last lap skate around the meat of things, “but I don’t want to, right now. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. About Crom.”

Crinkling her face a bit, briefly, “Haven’ seen ya,” Jo says, draining her mug. “Ya haven’ told me ya met him. So, ya met him.” Despite looking like shit, the convict rider is expecting some kind of report on the newly-minted candidate. There’s an anticipatory air between them, even. But then, there’s talk of Crom, and it’s clear Jo’s going to need a refill for ‘’that’’ particular topic. She turns to try and flag someone down to order more drinks for them. While doing so, “What ya wanna know ‘bout Crom?” she asks now, the taste of guardedness in her tone. “Tell me ‘bout Rat first. Why ya think he’s trouble.”

“I hope he falls from the hay loft and breaks his neck,” Faryn tells Jo generously, and if while the bluerider is trying to flag down waitstaff the weyrwoman’s assistant is covertly shaking her head in negation, with meaningful eye contact to boot, well. Maybe the waiters ‘’won’t’’ see her, or maybe they’ll just ignore her. “I sent you a note about him. He lies too smoothly. Too proud, too...he makes me nervous, Jo, and he doesn’t take ‘’no’’ for an answer. Can’t you trust my gut this one time? I know I fucked up, but not about him. Now.” A beat. “What...happened, Jo? The harpers are going to say whatever they think happened, eventually. I want to hear it from ‘’you’’.”

"Tell me how ya really feel," Jo remarks on that first assessment, with only a touch of humor. The barkeep comes by and she's brief in detailing what to order for them both. Faryn gets a dubious look from the man for her eye before he returns to his counter. "We all have our vices," she notes once the man leaves them alone, not exactly defending Rat. "'N his bein' 'round is out of my hands. I'll keep it in mind though, 'case he ever steps outta line. I'll fuck'em up." The woman doesn't look like she's joking about that, her tone taking on a dark edge. As for the last, it seems expected. The convict rider studies the younger woman sitting before her for a long moment before she answers, "He'n I got to Crom together. He found out M'kris was around'n he wanted me to get'im for him since the man likely wouldn' come on his own. I did, they argued, they fought'n R'hin got stabbed in front of me." It's a story well rehearsed by now, the telling of it almost monotoned. Perhaps Jo entered the numbing phase of her grief.

Unsurprisingly, the almighty power of the mark wins out again; Faryn isn’t surprised. “I doubt I’m going to be the only person with a problem with him,” she suffices about Rat with a small grimace, not bothering to linger on him as a subject. Her warning is because she’s obligated to it; trying to persuade Jo is not part of the deal. Their second topic isn’t less uncomfortable, it’s just more relevant, and it’s the only direction to move. “That’s it, then.” Her gaze drops to the table, and she presses her forehead against her linked hands. “I supposed when he went, he’d take whatever got him down with him. Not--’’that’’. Not now.”

"He's a candidate now," Jo states, as if that might matter. She doesn't linger on Rategar, either, the bluerider watching Faryn closely for her reaction. Her silence is markable, the one that follows as the bartender comes by with drinks for them both. It's whiskey, two small glasses. When Faryn's gaze drops, "'Spose he did," she answers on the last, her demeanor heavy. "Saw ya at the gather," she notes now, perhaps finding that easier to talk about. "Where did'ja go?" That Faryn ran was noted. Maybe Rat had seen her go and mentioned it to Jo, too.

“Yeah. You said. Like, a minute ago.” Faryn studies Jo in return, searching her face while the drinks are delivered. “And here’s hoping he gets nothing but disappointment out of it. Knock him down a peg or two. It did me.” She’s located whatever she’s looking for, though, and notes, “You should really stop drinking. It’s not good to be ‘’numb’’, Jo. I know, it’s shit that he’s gone and it’s more shit you had to -- I don’t want this to go somewhere that makes us lose you, too.” There, she said it. Despite her objections to drink she shoots back the whiskey to wash the bad taste of sentimentality out of her mouth. “For a walk.”

Once the drinks arrive, “How so?” Jo asks on Faryn being knocked down a peg or two, her brows furrowing a titch. She takes up the glass, right when Faryn gives her suggestion, the woman pausing from downing it whole as she seems to give her words thought. It’s a heavy silence that meets all of what she says, that penetrating gaze on the candidate along with something akin to a ‘’glare’’. Then, she downs it in one go before she says, “That’s pro’bly the sweetest thing ya’ve said to me yet.” Because, she’s noting it. Setting the empty glass carefully down, “Ain’ nothin’ gonna happen to me yet, girl,” her voice is rough as she says it from downing the whiskey too fast. “Gonna take much more’n this to get rid of ‘’me’’. Girl just needs to get her hard right, is all. Usually, knockin’ out a few folks helps with that. A walk.” Her chin lifts just a bit. “Is that, he meant somethin’ to ya, too?”

“It’s just...humbling,” Faryn replies, putting the empty glass on the table upside down and nudging it to the edge. If Jo’s glaring, Faryn doesn’t care. So long as there aren’t fists or--shit, ‘’knives’’--she is fine with taking the brunt of Jo’s annoyance with her. “Mark your calendar. It’ll be the last. I don’t have time to waste on niceties. I have a reputation to maintain, and if you tell anyone I’ll tell them I think you’re a murderer and was telling you so.” If, perhaps, not a murderer of R’hin. “Just be careful,” is where she’ll leave it, a simple enough request. Her own reply is not a glare, but a shake of the head and a brusque, “No.” Her eyes slip past Jo to, yes, flick her fingers out to hail the server and indicate her empty glasses with two fingers pronged.

“Took a long while before havin’ Tac in my head humbled me a bit,” Jo admits with a slight shrug to her. “Impressin’em affects folks differently. ‘N, everyone already thinks I’m a murderer’n all manner of bad things. Surprise’em by claimin’ I’m ‘’normal’’, ‘n ‘’decent’’ instead. Ya might get a far better reaction.” That’s to her telling anyone that Faryn has a sentimental bone in her body. Still, that the candidate cares enough to say so has the wingsecond acknowledging it with a nod and a look that says more about it than what she could say verbally. She watches the other for her answer, hailing that server as she says, “He had that way ‘bout him, didn’ he?” Yeah, she can see right through that answer, her gaze studying.

“Nobody’d believe that. It’s almost funny,” ponders Faryn darkly, “despite all the ‘’bullshit’’ with Monaco at Roszadyth’s flight, and all the history? It’s hard to tell for sure who they want to have killed him more: M’kris or ‘’you’’. Doesn’t matter either way, does it? People suck.” Indeed they do, the server among them for his slowly sauntering pace. Faryn’s hand draws into a loose fist and she raps her knuckles on the table near her glass. “He ‘’sucked’’. Fuck him,” she says, venomous, even if everyone else knows better than to speak ill of the dead. “He’s gone either way. I can rest easy knowing he won’t interrupt my ‘’life’’ by abandoning me in the mountains or taunting me my entire lunch hour about things that aren’t his business.”

“Folks do, at that,” Jo remarks on people sucking, her tone arched. She even joins Faryn in the look being given to the slow server. She even seems to be in agreement of the assessment for R’hin, though it does finally draw the glimmers of a grin somewhat forming on her lips for it. “Just like’em to go out like this,” she remarks to that dryly. “If he was here, I’d hit’em. Or try to. I’d pro’bly end up fuckin’ him’n beatin’ on his chest. Why would be abandon ya in the mountains?” As for taunting, “Gimme a month,” she offers her. “I’ll take his place’n taunt ya ‘bout shit that ain’ my business. ‘Least I can do.” It’s almost even humor as the server finally arrives at their table.

“Murdered? Seems right in some ways,” she agrees, “wrong in a lot of others. I guess dying in his sleep was right out, too boring. And," pointedly, “gross. I don’t want to think about you having sex. Or him. Or you both--’’shells’’.” Faryn wrinkles her nose, frowning at the bluerider with displeasure. “Why not?” is of abandonment, and though she parts her lips to continue the server finally brings them refills and Faryn is relieved of the burden of explaining, at least briefly. “I’d rather you didn’t,” she says instead of picking up the old thread of her thoughts. She’s slower with this new glass, sipping it as it’s meant to be. “I get along fine without being routinely harassed, believe it or not.”

“Maybe ya’ll never have to worry ‘bout that for a long time to come,” Jo says on going out, the woman shaking her head. “Ya don’ seem like ya have any enemies. ‘Less ya pissed in someone’s pie or somethin’.” This. This seems easier to talk about than any current events, though at the face Faryn makes to her having sex, there’s a look and a, “Ya think I’m fucked up cuz I see him like a brother, do ya?” She takes up her refilled glass before continuing. “I don’ see him abandonin’ ya in the mountains. Anyway. Someone needs to keep an eye on ya. Dunno why, just….he had a knack with findin’ folks with potential.”

"I just think you're fucked up, full stop." Faryn barks a laugh. "Joke's on you, then," she says, "because he picked me up from Tillek and left me in a holding in the Benden mountains for a month." It's an unfair half-story she doesn't elaborate. "I think, sometimes, he just ''wanted'' to see something in me. Not sure he ever really did." Small frown. "Doesn't matter now."

“Thanks a lot,” Jo states dryly on the first, with just a twist of the corner of her mouth. “Left ya? why a holdin’ in the mountains? R’hin wouldn’ just…” Would he? Jo pauses on that as if she would amend what she was about to say before snorting and finally bringing that glass to her lips. “Found him fucked up on a beach in Monaco one time,” she admits now, as if in relevance. “He’s found ‘’me’’ all screwed up more’n once. He saw somethin’ in a lot of us. Even me. Reckon if the bastard had reason to leave ya in the mountains, he had his reasons. Ya don’ hate him.” It’s not a question as she lingers on her drink.

"Welcome!" Chirped, with false glee. "I was Steward, while I was there," may shed light on the situation, just a little bit. “It was a good distraction after the hatching.” Jo’s recollection elicits a wry smile from Faryn. “Fucked up beaten or fucked up drunk?” she wants to know, “Or both?” Though that, like everything, hardly matters. What does matter is that shake of the head in the negative, counterpoint to her words. “He had a way of making me feel this tall.” She squints at Jo through fingers a half-inch apart. “I could hate him. Probably should. But no, I don’t. I just--don’t know.” More sentimentality? More booze, down the hatch!

This being news to Jo, "Steward. ''You''?" she is looking Faryn over with the frown of open curiosity. "Did'ja like it?" On the memory of R'hin, there's a softer snort from her as she answers, "'Lil of both. I remember the riders there comin' at him'n I got in their way. Sometimes I think..." There's a pause as if she's lost her thought, the frown less on curiosity and more on uncertainty before she grunts and drains her glass as she says, "Doesn' matter. He pushed everyone he came across, didn' he? So I've heard. It wasn' like that with us. Ya don' hate'im. Neither do I. He had his way of carin'. Didn' make ya go soft." Next round of booze.

"Steward. Me," confirms Faryn neutrally, her teeth catching the inside of her cheek and drawing her entire mouth off to the side in what seems to be displeasure, but her eyes -- they're a little sad. "I did. I ''thought'' I did. I thought I wanted to...to help people a little more than just in the stables, so I left the Craft and thought I'd figure it out. Then it all...." Snowballed, demonstrated by the over-and-over looping of her fingers. "Sometimes you think what," she presses, softly. If the server notices, her gesture this time is for one refill, not two, indicating her imminent departure.

Jo listens, leaning back now that her glass is empty as Faryn speaks. She nods towards the end to it, her frown more prominent and grave as she says, “Maybe he was tryin’ to help ya find all that out in the end. Without him, ya wouldn’ve gone, would’ja?” But Faryn is prompting for the return to the previous, and there’s a silence before she quietly says, “Sometimes I think, ‘’wonder’’, if he had seen somethin’ like this comin’ even back then. The way he was, darlin’. Never know, right? Thanks for the drink, Faryn,” she says now, having seen the hand signal as the server approaches. “I’ll come by the barracks sometime after drills.” The ‘’thanks’’ may not be said aloud, but it’s there in her gaze.

Faryn’s smile is rueful as she gathers her bag up and slings it over her shoulder. She pauses, nudging her glass away from the edge of the table and propping her hip there briefly, looking down at the bluerider dubiously. “I can’t accept that he knew. If he ‘’knew’’, and he let everyone--?” She undertones a grunt, frowning. “Better not knowing. He wouldn’t tell us if he were here, anyways.” Her last is a wave of the hand to dismiss the offer, and a brisk shake of the head as she turns away. “Unnecessary. Get yourself right, Jo. Maybe when you do, I’ll come visit you.”

With a slight shrug, Jo seems to concede what Faryn says on the late bronzerider with a brief, “Well. Just as well, darlin’. Just as well.” Because to all the rest, the convict rider claims her new round of whiskey just delivered with a brief raise in her direction as if in a toast. “Do that.” As Faryn goes, Jo remains.
}}

Logs talk:Misrepresented, or not?

2015-10-19T05:38:07Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Faryn - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Misrepresented, or not?]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Faryn (22:38, 18 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Oh god a candidate mixer would be perfect. Pity the time frame between now and the hatching is so brief. Not that Faryn would have fun. It'd be like a middle school dance, everyone nervous and weird against the wall with Joce and Faryn supervising like pissed off chaperones.

Yesia

2015-10-19T02:58:50Z

Faryn:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Yesia.png
|mother=Avona
|father=Biannor
|siblings=Adrelar (-4)
|body=== Description ==
Yesia oozes femininity, from her preference for pretty dresses to her perfectly coifed hair. She is shapely, narrow at the waist and wider at hips and bust, and could accurately be called leggy, because most of her modest height resides in legs she likes to show off. She's strikingly pretty, in a way that suggests good genes, or perhaps good breeding. She's got a rounder face: a jawline almost too strong compared to the rest of her face, high soft cheekbones, large hazel eyes, and full lips that are perpetually, maybe willfully, pursed in judgement. This is all framed by thick ringlets of red hair that go past her shoulders, presented in a variety of pretty styles and often tied or styled with bows and ribbons. She possesses a constant air of repressed energy, as though she's forcing herself to be less gregarious than she is naturally.

{{wysk}}

= History =

The oldest of two children, Yesia was born, raised, and Searched in Crom, where her father was a miner and her mother a jeweler, a dynamic that always worked well for their family (even if, in its own way, it amounted to a teeeeny amount of theft from the Minecraft). Yesia, then, was training to follow in her mother's footsteps, and is an admirable jeweler in her own right: small trinkets, bracelets and necklaces tend to be her forte. Officially, Yesia was unaffiliated at the time of her Search, despite the fact that she was getting on in age and should have already selected a craft. When she accepted Search, it was initially without her parents' knowledge or blessing; there was a gold egg on the sands, and she was ''going''. Being that she was not beholden to a hall, they had very little recourse when she stayed the path and departed for High Reaches.

Upon arrival, Yesia at once misstepped and began putting on false airs. She's admitted since to being terrified, far from home in a strange place with a reputation for murders and crime, not to mention true to life dragonriders. She made quick enemies of people like Farideh and Edyis, but her support system included plain and meek girls who were happy to just have attention and friends, however negative and derisive she was to them. She Impressed the first hatched dragon of Niahvth and Reisoth's clutch, much to the dismay of many candidates, who could easily anticipate the torture she would inflict upon them for a turn.

That Yesia made it through Weyrlinghood without incident is a prospect with its own absurdities. She hated her class, she hated her weyrlingmaster, and with the Igen deal still vaguely in place she planned to transfer. She even wrote the request. Her best friend Paz did the same. When the time came, only Paz submitted hers; Yesia was convinced to stay by her dragon and AWLM Telavi, and her slowly developing tolerance for some of her class, despite her own caginess and a slow withdrawal from social networks she built after she got her own weyr.

Most of her friends leaving for Igen on graduation plays a very large part in the company Yesia chooses to keep since she was tapped into Snowdrift. Her friends are not friends, in most cases, and any outsider can see that. In some ways, she is a only a worse version of herself now that she's a full rider, freed from the hold expectations that never really fit a girl with lips like hers and a body like ''that''. She's promiscuous with all the wrong people, takes frequent (and exclusively male) bedmates on a regular basis, has incidentally fallen into acquaintance with mostly criminals of varying degrees of severity, and still plays the victim when she doesn't get her way. Her contributions to the Weyr are minimal: she does as her wingleader in Snowdrift asks, but otherwise fails to rise above expectations. After all, this is the same girl who once told Quinlys that all she wanted to do was fly around and go to parties, and she hasn't changed that much, yet. If there is even enough in her ''to'' change.

= Relationships =

'''''Clutchsiblings''''' 
'''[[Edyis]]''' - ''They put us in the same wing. After all that, I think this is the sickest joke anyone's ever played on me.'' 
'''[[Farideh]]''' - ''Hey, you know, you're not so bad now that I never need to deal with you.'' 
'''[[Keysi]]''' - ''Do you feel anything? Ever?'' 
'''[[T'mic]]''' - ''Definitely gay.'' 
'''[[Z'kiel]]''' - ''Sometimes you're so patient, but you're also so...serious.'' 

'''''Other Riders''''' 
'''[[H'vier]]''' - ''How can you be so old ''and'' so hot? You're a better person than people say you are; maybe that means I'm better than they say I am, too.'' 
'''[[Jo]]''' - ''You see something different than when other people see in me. But I'm not -- and you're not....'' 
'''[[K'del]]''' - ''Oddly approachable, for someone at the top.'' 
'''[[K'zin]]''' - ''Why'd you have to come to Snowdrift? I was looking forward to not having to work on avoiding you.'' 
'''[[Telavi]]''' - ''Literally, you're my best and only friend. Which would be sad, but you're so ''fantastic''.'' 
'''[[Quinlys]]''' - ''Bye, Felicia.''

'''''Others''''' 
'''[[Everett]]''' - ''You're ''pretty'', and ''fun'', and if we keep working on that ''confidence...'' 
'''[[Silva]]''' - ''I think we can be ''very'' good friends.''

= Playlist =
{{{!}}style="width: 100%;"
{{!}}-valign="top"
{{!}}-style="width:25%;"
{{!}}{{!}}'''Cool for the Summer - Demi Lovato''' [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=il9nqWw9W3Y [X]] ''Got my mind on your body And your body on my mind Got a taste for the cherry I just need to take a bite''
 
'''Your Body is a Weapon - The Wombats''' [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Q74TyTUrTo [X]] ''Your body is a weapon, love And it makes me wanna cry My body is a temple of doom Doomed not to be by your side ''
 
'''
{{!}}'''Warm Me Up - The Audition''' [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YsimdJ2vwo0 [X]] ''Come closer to me, baby I've got everything you need, to fill your hunger pangs for tonight Warm me up beneath the sheets, babe I've heard all about how you can save''
 
'''The Curse of Curves - Cute is What We Aim For''' [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIjVpRAXK18 [X]] ''Her bone structure screams "Touch her! Touch her!" And she's got the curse of curves. From what I've heard with skin you'll win.''
{{!}}}
= Other Extras =
== Myers-Briggs Personality: The Debater/Visionary ==
'''Type:''' [http://www.16personalities.com/entp-personality ENTP] 
'''Variant:''' Turbulant               '''Role:''' Analyst 
'''Strengths:''' Original, quick thinker, energetic, knowledgable        '''Weaknesses:''' Insensitive, argumentative, intolerant, impractical 
"The ENTP personality type is the ultimate devil's advocate, thriving on the process of shredding arguments and beliefs and letting the ribbons drift in the wind for all to see. Unlike their more determined Judging (J) counterparts, ENTPs don't do this because they are trying to achieve some deeper purpose or strategic goal, but for the simple reason that it's fun. No one loves the process of mental sparring more than ENTPs, as it gives them a chance to exercise their effortlessly quick wit, broad accumulated knowledge base, and capacity for connecting disparate ideas to prove their points.''

= Logs =

{{NewLogs |name={{BASEPAGENAME}}}}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

=Icons=
{{Icons}}
|position=Professional Victim
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Weyrling
|dragon=Scheming Siren's Song Green Aeaeth
|birthplace=Crom
|playedby=Holland Roden
|status=Active
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=High Reaches Area, Crom, Crom Hold, High Reaches, Greenriders
}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]

Logs:Chim Chim Cher-ee

2015-10-18T22:14:58Z

Faryn:

{{Log
|who=Faryn, Jocelyn
|what=Two (candidate) sweeps talk circumstances while working in the nighthearth.
|where=Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=12
|month=1
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.17
|quote=Who does this when there aren't candidates?
|mentions=Farideh, Quinlys, T'mic
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon faryn thoughtful.gif, Icon Jocelyn glance.png,
|log=It is cold and snowing outside, a fluttery hangover from yesterday, and plenty of people probably seek the warmth and solace of the nighthearth. Tough luck it’s out of commission just now: the stew pot isn’t hanging, there isn’t a fire going, and all the chairs have been moved against the opposite wall for safety. Even the pastries aren’t inviting enough to brave the banging coming from the fireplace. Faryn’s covered in soot, the thighs of her olive pants smeared with dark handprints, ash in her hair and what skin she has exposed. She shovels with a practiced ease--good form, if you’d call it that--but she is not a machine. Metal scrapes the stone one last time before she straightens, puffs a breath, and leans against the handle, her cheek against her curled knuckles. No wonder there’s grime on her face. “Who does this when there aren’t candidates?”

"People tasked with cleaning the lower caverns, " Jocelyn replies absently from where she's standing atop a stepstool, broom in hand to evict a few spinner's webs from a corner of the other side of the room. She's hardly a sight for sore eyes, herself, with her hair not quite tamed into a ponytail, sleeves rolled up to her elbows and dust coating the knees of her trousers. There’s a grimness to her expression as she sweeps the cobwebs away, one hand braced against the wall for leverage. "Would you rather be bottle-feeding infants?"

“Kids like me,” Faryn grunts, not immediately moving back to her task. She acts like she might, gripping the shovel and nudging at a pile without taking it up. “They loved me when I worked in the stables. Ask around.” There isn’t a real challenge there; she might be the only person who remembers it that way, and at any rate, “But no.” Eventually she does commit to taking up the shovel again, and there’s another scraping sound so she can lift and deposit more soot into her bucket. “I thought they would let you stay assistant headwoman while you were a candidate.”

“I’m not so sure that they find me likeable, ” and Jocelyn grimaces, carefully hopping down to shift her stool to another section of the room. “I’m sure there’s a good reason why no one ever asked me to be a full-time nanny.” Sweep, sweep, goes her broom up against the wall; it’s a few moments before she responds to Faryn’s last with a short, “They would. I refused.” And a few minutes more before she elaborates: “It would have caused too many problems for all involved if I were managing the candidates ''as'' a candidate. It would have been - unfair.” Bitchy perfectionist though she may be, she at least does have a reputation for a strong sense of fairness. “They let you stay on as Farideh’s assistant, I noticed.” It’s a matter-of-fact observation according to her tone, even if the words ''could'' ring of criticism.

Faryn smiles, watching Jocelyn move her stool. “Children have notoriously bad judgement. My--T’mic was a nanny. I bet they liked me because they ‘’loved’’ him, the little followers.” Scrape scrape goes the shovel. “Makes sense. Though if anyone could manage it…” She moves further into the fireplace, and her voice echoes back out. “It’s like babysitting either way, isn’t it? The girl who took the bunk above me must be thirteen, on the outside.” There’s some clattering that echoes hollowly--does fireplace cleaning include the chimney? “Easier to keep your job when all you’re managing is missives and packages. Same when I was with the craft. This time, Quinlys just said I couldn’t have ‘’perks’’, so I said okay.” A beat, complete silence from the fireplace, then, “Not her assistant anymore though. Maybe not ever again.”

Jocelyn doesn’t miss the slip of the possessive pronoun, says the lifted eyebrows she has for Faryn. “Big fellow, bluerider, ” she says with another glance, but leaves that topic in favor of beginning to sweep the section of floor nearest her, aiming to progress clockwise about the room. “It’s more than babysitting, ” she sniffs. “It’s preparing them to potentially enter weyrlinghood, which isn’t at all a Gather stroll, as we both know by now. It’s a choice, this path, and far from an easy one.” Her broom pauses in its movements post-clatter, then resumes once there’s no cry of injury that follows. “So you won’t go back, if what you’re looking for doesn’t find you when those clutches hatch, ” is almost more statement than question, yet still she has an expectant look for the fireplace for an answer.

“That one,” agrees the ex-crafter lightly, and also does not carry on ‘’that’’ topic except to say, “Nice guy.” The clattering can only end in disaster, eventually, but right now there is a tenuous truce in the universe and nothing seems likely to fall and hurt Faryn. “I don’t envy Quinlys her job,” the slim woman notes, emerging from the fireplace to deposit another pile of soot. She props the shovel against the wall to replace it with the only other tool she brought: a brush with several long pieces of wood. Chimneys it is. “Probably not,” she concedes as she assembles the first two pieces, crouched down. “Not much to stay for.”

“That, ” Jocelyn notes of not envying the weyrlingmaster her duties, “makes two of us.” She’s almost to the fireplace, nudging a few of the chairs along the wall forward just enough to be able to sweep behind them before putting them back in their out-of-the-way positions. Her studious looks are certainly not subtle in the wake of the other’s admittance, lips pursing while she continues her work. “And you’d go - where, exactly? Back to your craft? Somewhere else entirely?”

“Craft wouldn’t take me back if I got on my knees and begged,” Faryn notes drily, without malcontent. It’s quick work, putting the brush together, and she cuts Jocelyn her own examination before ducking back into the fireplace, where (notably softer) banging ensues. “I promised Farideh I wouldn’t think about it until the deed is done. I’m here now, and she told me being grim about it won’t help. She’s probably right.” Soot skitters free in the fireplace, motes of ash floating out, and after a short round of huffing coughs she adds, “She had a good idea about Keroon, though. But the pat answer is anywhere. I could go anywhere, for anything. Find somewhere suiting."

Jocelyn makes a little noise of almost-approval, slowing her sweeping once she's in front of the fireplace so that she can catch what remnants of soot may trickle out onto the floor with her broom. "Sensible of you to not let yourself worry about it just yet." A dreamier soul would likely take the opportunity to inquire about where Faryn's ideal locale would be; Joce is no such thing, however, so she continues with a brisk, "I'm sweeping against the far wall, and then I'll be finished here." For all that it sounds like a declaration of farewell, she lingers once she's done with her task, perhaps to satisfy herself that her fellow candidate hasn't been injured while working on the nighthearth's flue.

“I’m worried,” admits Faryn, “but fat lot of good it will do. Never really thought Farideh would be the sensible one giving ‘’me’’ decent advice.” The brush ‘’shh’’ing is the only sound for a few long moments. It’s a testament to the routine workings of the caverns that nothing treacherous falls on her. “I’m almost done,” Faryn says, perhaps taking Jocelyn’s announcement as an invitation. Someone else, preferably with wings, will have to give the rest of the chimney a sweep; she’s just about done what she can, and there’s a little more haste as she scoops the last of the fallen soot into her bucket. “Want to…?” Faryn’s gesture finishes the question: the pot needs to be lifted again, another fire stoked, the furniture moved back. “I can help you wherever you go next,” seems a fair tradeoff.

Up turn the corners of Jocelyn’s mouth, however just; “Farideh, ” says the weyrwoman’s former roommate evenly, “is capable of being sensible, despite - first impressions.” Leaning her broom against the wall just outside of the entrance, the redhead gives a curt nod in reply to that gesture and begins pushing straight-backed chairs toward their usual places. Anything heavier with major upholstery will probably require two sets of upper arm strength. “Unnecessary, ” is her rejoinder for the offer, a hand waving dismissively, “but that’s a fair consideration.” And that’s how she says thank-you.

“And second, and--” grunt, as Faryn hauls up the pot and hangs it, “--and third, and sometimes fourth…” She trails off though, briefly pensive, but whatever thoughts catch her remain unexpressed. Putting the room to rights is quick with two people. Even the fire doesn’t give Faryn much trouble, and is soon illuminating the area with soft light. “Maybe I’ll find another fireplace on the way,” says Faryn as she puts away the sweep and takes up her shovel. Which is to say, you’re welcome.
|Categories=HRW Clutch 37a Logs, HRW Clutch 38 Logs
}}

X'vin

2015-10-18T17:18:32Z

Faryn:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=x'vin.png
|mother=Varina
|father=Malcoen
|siblings=Brittan, Briolyn, Reilyn, Vaistien
|friends=Edric
|body={{wysk}}

= History =
{{:X'vin/History}}

=Relationships=
===PC===
'''[[Dee]]''' target Young, naive, scared. Your heart bleeds too much. If you let us help you, I promise you won't end the way Lilah did. We can make Fort great again.
 '''[[Edric]]''' friend Your help, as always, is invaluable.
 '''[[E'dre]]''' contempt N'muir's should never have fed your ego; you're still a brownrider, and you'll not have that knot long.
 '''[[Hattie]]''' unimpressed The weyr I transferred into was a result of poor judgment. Who to blame but the weyrwoman and her weyrleader at the time?
 '''[[Ka'ge]]''' threat We all tell our lies, have our secrets; most of us don't hide so poorly, so ''plainly''. I want to know why; I would hate to waste a resource.
 '''[[Lilah]]''' vanished All my plans hinged on you. It's a very good thing you're already dead.
 '''[[Parli]]''' thorn Your apathy surprises me, but you listen. That's all that matters just now. Soon enough, I'll require more.
 '''[[Z'riah]]''' obedient Are you as pliant as you seem to be? If so, you're that much more useful to me.

===NPC===
Giarnon 
Vaion 
Jennilynn 
blahblah. back to classwork.

{{Family}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Father
{{!}}Malcoen
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=763862400}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Mother
{{!}}Varina
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=817228800}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother
{{!}}Brittan
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1041984000}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Briolyn
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1059004800}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother
{{!}}Reilyn
{{!}}Jman Harper
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1059004800}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother
{{!}}Vaistien
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1135900800}}
{{FamilyEnd}}
= Soundtracks =
{{{!}}style="width: 100%;"
{{!}}-valign="top"
{{!}}-style="width:25%;"
{{!}}
== X'vin ==
'''Everybody Wants to Rule the World - Lorde''' ''Help me make the most of freedom and of pleasure. Nothing ever lasts forever. Everybody wants to rule the world''

'''No Rest for the Wicked - Lykke Li''' ''There'll be no rest for the wicked, there's no song for the choir, there's no hope for the weary if you let them win without a fight''

'''Bloody Shirt - To Kill a King''' ''Get out! And get gone This town is only gonna get worse Get out! And get gone This town is only gonna eat you''
{{!}} 
'''Dancing With The Devil - Wolf Gang''' ''They call you Lucifer. The fires are burning and you look the other way I saw the funeral I watch the devil as he dances round me But he dances with the fever and spreads the plague of war''

'''Ballad Of A Politician - Regina Spektor''' ''You love so deep, so tender your people and your land, You love 'em 'til they can't recall who they are again
''

'''Savages - Marina & the Diamonds''' ''Underneath it all, we’re just savages Hidden behind shirts, ties & marriages Truth is in us all, cradle to the grave We’re just animals still learning to behave''

<big>Instrumentals</big> 

'''Dream Within a Dream - The Glitch Mob''' [https://youtu.be/z3MH4l1-t_8 [X]] 
{{!}}
 
{{!}}
== Besmernyth ==
'''Vampire Smile - Kyla la Grange''' ''Baby I need a friend but I'm a vampire smile, you'll meet a sticky end I'm here trying not to bite your neck but it's beautiful and I'm gonna get so drunk on you and kill your friends.''

'''Mother Russia - .fe''' ''I need a Russian, I need it now Mix the black mix the white Kiss the mist every night Lick the tip, crush the ice Kiss the mist every night''
{{!}} 
'''Chvrches - Gun''' So finally, we agree, no place for promises here You better run, you better run so Hide, hide I have burned your bridges Now I'll be a gun, and it's you I’ll come for Hide, hide never felt so easy I will be a gun, And it's you I'll come for
''

<big>Instrumentals</big> 

'''Midnight Syndicate - Cage of Solitude''' [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Tfg7bNpNxY [X]] 
'''Gypsy Romance - Russian Folk Songs''' [https://soundcloud.com/sandbaadbahri/russian-folk-songs-gypsy [X]]

'''
{{!}}}

= RP Logs =

{{NewLogs |name={{BASEPAGENAME}}}}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

=Icons=
{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Blood, Benden Weyr, Fort Hold, Bronzeriders, Flint Wing
}}

Logs:Breakfast Is Dangerous

2015-10-18T16:53:27Z

Faryn:

{{Log
|who=E'dre, Parli,
|what=Parli happens upon E'dre over breakfast
|where=Living Caverns, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Area
|mentions=N'rov, X'vin
|day=14
|month=1
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.18
|weather=Let it snow!
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon E'dre Hah.jpg, Icon Parli Bored.png,
|desc=>---< Living Cavern, Fort Weyr(#513RIJMas$) >--------------------------------<

Fort's enormous Living Cavern is a vast, echoing space, with deep set
windows carved into the outer wall to let in light and fresh air. Large
enough to house the entire human population of the Weyr with plenty of
room to spare, the most common use of the living cavern is as a communal
eating and gathering space. Long tables with benches usually line the main
part of the cavern with a table set aside for the Weyrleaders on a raised
dais, as well as other smaller tables set along the walls for quieter
dining. Tapestries depicting historic moments in the Weyr's history and
scenery from the coverage area decorate the walls and lend the space a
warmer feel than bare stone.

To the east, a large doorway leads out to the Bowl, with a sturdy metal
door that can be closed during inclement weather or Threadfall. The
Nighthearth is tucked away in a little alcove near the door. The large
main hearth is used for cooking and for heat, though chairs are often
pulled up nearby for the Weyr's elderly to enjoy the heat. A swinging door
not far from the hearth leads into the Kitchen that shares the wall behind
the hearth. To the west, a passage opens up into the Weyr's Inner Caverns.
|log=The morning saw the Weyr waking up to those large, soft, snow-flakes of a mild snowstorm that feels more magical and inviting than other storms may. The caverns are busy this morning as groups continue to wake and stream in for the breakfast offerings. E'dre's settled at a table recently vacated by his wingmates, still nursing his nearly cold klah as he browses a hide in front of him.

Oh boy. ''Morning.'' Narrow-eyed and sour-faced, Parli shuffles into the living cavern and heads directly for the klah pots. She's already dusted in a bit of snow, though it melts relatively quickly once she's well inside. Klah is poured, sampled, and "Ugh"ed at. It must pass the test - or, more likely, requesting a fresh pot of klah is too much effort - for she gathers up some manner of breakfast (pastries, mostly) before eventually setting eyes on the table a smattering of her wingmates occupy. A long-suffering sigh follows. She goes that way, which - fortunately or unfortunately - requires passing by the table E'dre is at.

E'dre doesn't generally find reason to be talkative in the living caverns (when he does taek a meal there) and might've let Parli simply grumble past him but there's something that catches his eye and he lifts a hand to stall her. "You didn't seem to like the klah," he comments, amusement clear in the gaze he tips at her and the smirky-smile that settles on his face. "You think they burned it this morning?"

Welp. Parli is successfully stalled, but at the cost of another sigh. She stops and half-turns to obliquely look askance at E'dre, one eyebrow slowly rising as he speaks. "No," is drawn out just a little - the tone is best described as bored sarcasm. "I mean, probably, but it's too weak to tell if it's burned or just trying too hard to be real klah." Her expression is delightfully deadpan throughout, though her raised eyebrow remains securely in place.

E'dre muses over this as he peers into the dregs of his remaining klah. He looks up at Parli and then back to his klah. He sidebars a glance towards the klah kettle that's ''clearly'' in closer reach to Parli than to him. "Huh," he muses, setting his mug on the table and sliding it away from him - and neaerer to the other brownrider. "I'd have to taste this latest batch to really draw any conculsions," he hints and then he picks that hide back up to stare at. Business-like.

"Yeah, you probably should," Parli agrees blandly. "It's kind of gross but, whatever." An indifferent shrug follows - but she's certainly not following the rest of his all-too-obvious hinting. Instead, she sets ''her'' mug down - within range of him to reach, but not really at a comfortable range. "Ugh, no. I don't want ''your'' gross klah. You can have mine." She cuts a look to her wingmates, wrinkles her nose, and adds, "It looks like a whiskey morning ''anyway''." Matter-of-fact, that.

''That'' draws E'dre's attention from his hide and towards Parli's wingmates. "They do that often?" he asks far too calmly. He gestures for her to sit, pushing her klah back in her direction. "I'll brave it when I get up next," he explains as he frowns again towards that table. He's looking back to Parli and then to his hide with a grumbled, "Shards." He slams the hide down and then he's gulping the last of his klah with a grimace.

"Them? Faranth no. I mean, maybe, I don't know." Parli shrugs again, the boneless kind of shrug that only the perpetually bored can manage. "I do, but only because they're idiots and alcohol makes them easier to deal with." The offer to sit is, eventually, taken. She does take her mug of klah back with a sense of weighty disappointment, but settles into picking at her pastry with a distinct lack of interest. A slow swig of klah follows, an eyebrow creeping skyward once more at that grumble and slamming of hide. "Uh... huh." Her gaze flicks to the hide and, if her hands weren't busy, she'd probably be wagging a finger at it. "Bad hide. You're the worst hide ever. Look at what you made the Weyrleader do."

"The hide, the drunks, either would suit for a reason for me to grumble and slam things around," E'dre drawls at Parli. Something of her boredom and sarcasm must be infectious as now ''he's'' sighing like someone who is long suffering. "Just one more thing added to the list of the day," he admits to her with a shrug. He spies an opportunity and lifts his hand, a come-hither wave and point given to his mug. A kitchen staff member bustles over without issue to refill his mug with the newly made klah. "There you are, sir. Nice to see you this morning, sir," the young boy murmurs to E'dre before dashing off to his other tasks. Satsified, E'dre takes his mug up and cradles it against his chest in growing contentment.

"I guess," Parli replies and absently continues picking at the pastry and taking bits and pieces. Her features screw up at something or another - the glazing over of her eyes does plenty to suggest the source - and then she's snorting to herself. She pushes the pastry a bit closer to E'dre. "Go ahead. Point on the pastry where the bad hide touched you." A beat, then: "You have an assistant, right? I mean, just make them deal with it today or whatever. Go do," vague and airy gesticulation ensues, "like, I don't know, whatever else you have to do."

E'dre can't help but chuckle over Parli's pastry and commentary. "No. The pastry wouldn't hold up if I began pointing out all the wrongs of the hide against me." He sips his klah and grimaces against the flavor. "I'll have to talk to them about where we're getting the klah these days. This is ''horrible''." He pats his chest and grimaces again against the burn as it goes down. "An assistant?" E'dre's amusement seems inclined to stay this morning. Parli must've caught him on one of his ''good'' days. "I ''was'' the Weyrsecond. I don't have one trained up as a back-up. Though I let N'rov try for a few days." He eyes her briefly and then gazes back to her wingmates. "You enjoying Flint? Aside from," he gestures in a back-handed way. "That."

A one-shouldered-"whatever floats your boat" shrug resolves in Parli pulling the pastry back. "It would probably be a better fate than it's going to suffer now," she muses. Not that she cares. That thing is going to be destroyed long before it's actually eaten. Both eyebrows raise at his proclamation, her slow smile - a rare thing, indeed - being very much of the unspoken (but obvious) 'I told you so' variety. Aloud: "So why don't you make him do it anyway? Or, I don't know, make some other Wingleader your 'Second of the day or whatever." The question is met with a vague noise, yet another shrug - such powerful shoulders! - and a bored, "I guess. I mean, it's okay. It's not, like, busy all the time any more or anything. Just drills and more drills and, oh boy, even more drills." Go, go, lazy jazz hands. "It's better than talking to Holders like before." ''Ugh.'' - unvoiced, but still there.

E'dre's interest just seems to keep catching as Parli speaks, something sparking in his gaze as he takes more sips from his klah and nods encouragement to her sharing. "I see," he offers, interest turning quickly to calculations. "I never was a fan of talking to Holders. They always seemed to ''want'' something in exchange for our presence," he adds, shifting in his seat. "Which could get annoying. Which Holders did you talk to? I mean, some of them are pretty decent, but others...," he lifts a hand and wriggles it side-to-side as a descriptor. "I guess now that you all don't do that and you've gotta drill," he adds, grinning, "those that don't like the drills are drinking?"

The klah is tried again, to much the same effect as before. Parli sucks her teeth a little, eats some pastry, and slouches a little in her seat. "Well, yeah. I mean. If they came here, wouldn't you want something from them?" Her nose wrinkles. "Ugh. I can't even remember. X'vin has all my reports, so. I guess talk to him or something. I'm sure he still has them somewhere." Another long, deep sigh of the long-suffering, soul-heavy sort is given, coupled with an eyeroll that lasts a second or two too long. "I can't speak for the others, but ''I'' like the drinking. Thank you, alcohol." She raises her klah briefly in a toast to the beverage that is definitely not there. "But, whatever. The drills still get done, so..." She'll just leave that there.

A chance must've been missed for E'dre's not as cheerful and chummy as he was. "Of course X'vin's got your reports," he agrees as he takes a longer pull from his klah. "And if the drinking is really turning into such sport, perhaps I'll have to chat him up a bit about that. Safety. Sanity. Y'know. Can't have all our riders tossing back booze to celebrate the coming of the sun." He shifts in his seat and then stands, pushing the bench out from behind him as he goes. "I'm going to take this offensive hide to throw at N'rov's head," he comments, grabbing the hide. "See if he wants to make sense of it." He's got a smirk for Parli on that, "Thanks for the idea." He tips his head to her and then moves to head out of the caverns. He's got that klah mug but he's left the rest of his dishes behind for someone else to deal with.

There's another rolling of eyes, but Parli doesn't say any more; she's a bit more occupied with her business, such as it is. Her wingmates eventually get up and file out - presumably to get ready for drills - but she doesn't join them. "Sure. Yeah. Just make sure to fold it up or something before you throw it. It doesn't go far otherwise." Spoken from experience, that. There is no getting up to salute, no farewells; there's a vague little wave, though, so there's something? In either case, he leaves and she lingers - and she'll eventually get to her drills. Probably even while it's still morning. Maybe.
}}

Logs talk:Breakfast Is Dangerous

2015-10-18T16:52:31Z

Faryn: Comment provided by X'vin - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Breakfast Is Dangerous]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==X'vin (09:52, 18 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

SHE is possibly a drunk. WE as a unit ARE NOT drunks, and I take PERSONAL OFFENSE to the implication. And at any rate, at least we're not ''cheaters''. /meaningful stare

Logs talk:Deviled Eggs

2015-10-18T01:06:24Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Faryn - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Deviled Eggs]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Faryn (18:06, 17 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Lynner, you asshole.

Logs talk:Illusions vs. Reality

2015-10-17T16:45:38Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Faryn - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Illusions vs. Reality]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Squishy (22:07, 16 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

I love little miss sunshine in between the pessimists. The contrast is so much fun!
==Faryn (09:45, 17 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Aw, now I'm thinking of all the things that might happen to Pia. Her dragon hates maps. Her dragon navigates like a husband on a road trip. Her dragon is just a big butt head.

Logs:The Crazy and the Perv

2015-10-15T01:58:04Z

Faryn:

{{Log
|who=Serin, Silva,
|what=Nothing was going to go right from the moment Silva's given Tunnel Snake Hunting.
|where=Kitchens and Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=27
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.13
|quote="You are a PERVERT."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon silva.jpg,
|log="You want me to do ''what''?!" Silva's voice is almost a shriek when the caverns worker assigns her task. Green eyes are wide and limp hands take the sack as it is handed over. That worker is hard put to hide a smile as the spoiled candidate is assigned tunnel snakes. "Good luck." Which leaves Silva behind with a stick (laying against a wall) and a thick canvas sack to go forth and DO.

Oh, spoiled girls are the best, and Serin wanders by just at the most opportune time to overhear and see the wide green eyes and limp hands as she takes the sack from the caverns worker. He has a fairly easy job for the day, so he decides to make his presence more known and walks over to lean against a nearby wall. "Problem with your duty for the day?" He wonders, a broad grin crossing his face. Overall, he seems like he could be a friendly guy with his long blonde hair tied back and pleasant expression.

Oops, tall, slim, Blond. Blue haired. Vapid Silva stops her outburst //right away// and shakes herself out of it. Straightening up she tosses her hair over her shoulder. "They want, ''me''," OUTRAGE Serin, "To hunt ''tunnel snakes''. I mean... what if like. they bite me. It would be ''worse'' than breaking a nail." That doesn't sound too whiny right? Blinking upwards through her eyelashes. "Would... you help? Maybe?"

Really trying to hold a neutral expression, Serin just gives the slight green eyed girl a look over and takes in a deep breath. Though, the deep breath is likely to keep himself from bursting out in laughter, he does manage to keep a serious expression. "Oh, really? Isn't that just horrible?" He wonders, and gives a quick nod and pushes himself away from the wall to reach for the stick that was leaning against the wall. "I'll help you out."

"''Terrible.''" Congrats Serin, have a cling on called Silva. She doesn't actually ''touch'' him, but she's going to right there at his side, like a second shadow. On the, uh, ''other'' side of that stick, alright? "He.... he said over there," a vague gesture at a dark corner, "they had problems with bags getting nibbled through."

Smirking a little, Serin points towards the direction of said dark corner and then heads towards it. "You have to come with me, no sneaking off." He says, lest she think she's going to get out of helping at all - besides, if she wants to try and claim she did the job she really does kind of have to stay. Of course, once he gets closer to the area where the tunnelsnake is likely to be, it's less likely she's clung on to him any longer. Kneeling and pressing his face to the floor to get a look under one of the shelves, he tries to spot where the tunnelsnake might be hiding, and then uses the stick to poke at the darkness.

He's right, as the pair grow closer to that dark corner Silva does begin to hang back, though she does have the good sense to grab up a glow and bring it along. "Be careful, okay? I mean, I wouldn't want ''you'' to get hurt doing this." It almost even sounds sincere. A hint of movement in the darkest part of the corner has the girl jumping and lettig out a tiny scream, "There! there! I see it! Oh Faranth, right THERE."

Serin might almost have a knack for this tunnelsnake hunting thing, as he uses the stick to poke at it - which only gets the animal more angry. "I can see it!" He claims, reaching a slender arm under the shelving to grab at something once it seems like he's used the stick to pin it down. However, rather than telling her that he's caught it, instead he just quickly stands up and pulls it out from under the shelf. And shards if it isn't a huge tunnelsnake, its body lashing and squirming as he holds onto it and gets himself quickly to his feet. "Catch!" He says, making the motion like he's going to throw it at her even if he doesn't let go.. not yet.

A completely normal curiosity (an an ill placed belief in the humanity of Serin) Silva has drawn closer, despite the wiggling in the darkness. "Oh be ''careful''" A sharp breath gets taken until, "OH NO NO NONO GET IT .... oh shards that was ''mean''" From scared with arms flailing to protect her face to a flush of anger over taking her Silva stamps her foot against the ground. "Why would you ''do'' that? Ugh, it is so ''ugly''."

Did she really think that Serin would stop with an attempt to toss the tunnelsnake at her? He just grins broadly and takes a few more steps towards her, "Mean? No..." He says, as the snake hisses and looks like it's growing even more agitated as he continues to hold onto it. He takes a couple steps closer to bridge the gap between her and him, if she doesn't move she might well get touched by the squirming snake. "This is mean!"

Uh, yes? Hot guy, must be nice. Come ''on''. That's just how the world is suppose to work, okay? Each step she takes closer has Silva retreating, and when his larger steps bring him close enough to touch her with that snake she's going to scream again. "STOP, please, just ''put it in the bag''," And turning she's going to start running, a short... rather... ineffectual run.

Serin can't help but laugh, somehow the screaming of a spoiled girl really does make for a great time. He shakes his head, "Come here! You have to do it!" He says, following after her with the tunnelsnake, and keeping up with her fairly easily. Of course, if he passes the bag he kicks it out of the way in an attempt to make it unable to be found easily. "This is ''your'' job!"

"You are ''terrible''" Silva ducks under a low hanging shelf, and is totally trying to hide from him. It might work better if he wasn't right on her heels and like, if she would stop making noises. Real tears are there on her eyes of fright, but there's a good bet that a lot of her posing is just that - posing.

"Hey, who's terrible? You were trying to talk a guy into doing your job for you!" Serin says, and if it wasn't bad enough that he caught the tunnelsnake and then -chased- her with it, he also decidedly drops it on the floor in front of the shelf that she's trying to hide under. Luckily, it seems the tunnelsnake is more interested in hiding itself rather than going after nearby people with its teeth, though.

Of course, the nearest hiding space is right past Silva. No bites for the girl, but a serious scare that has her throwing herself out from under the shelf. Small fists are totally going to aim themselves right at Serin's chest, though they're more like small marshmallows aimed at him if they land. "I just wanted ''help''. You didn't have to ''chase'' me. I mean, I would have said ''thank you''."

Serin has himself bent over with laughter, surely carrying through the storage room as he can't help but chortle as she comes jumping out from her hiding spot. He stands to take the beating, if one can call it that, and then reaches to try and grab one of those fists. "Would you have? You don't seem like the sort that would be thanking people for doing jobs that are beneath them." He muses, pale blue eyes meeting her green with a smirk.

The second he grabs her fists Silva desists with hitting and is going to try to tug away. "I ''would'' have said thank you. IT's not ''below'' me, just like," she turns her head away, so that he can't see her mussed makeup and tear streaks, "I've never ''done'' it before and they're like... scary."

Serin lets the hand go as easily as he caught it, shaking his head, "Come on now, I heard you when they gave the chore to you. Like a holders daughter who's never touched a dustpan." He mimics afterwards, "You want me to do ''what''?" He even tries to sound like her, even if he actually doesn't at all. He sighs and reaches out as though to try and pat her on the head, "Well, it's free again, you can try yourself this time."

"Well, like, I've never ''done'' it. And it's not like that jerk showed me ''how''." Silva doesn't quiet have much shame, nor does she show her face again. Released she pulls herself away and reaches up to try to erase the signs of her recent fright. "Just go ''away'' if you're going to be a jerk."

Serin crouches, then looks up at her as though he's trying to see how much damage he's done to her pretty little face. "You were more worried about breaking your nails and throwing a tantrum, than learning how to do it." He says, propping his head up on a hand and smirking at her, because he's pretty sure that's how it went. As for 'going away', nope, doesn't appear he will be.

Silva arranges every ounce of dignity she can out of this experience, and she makes the bland candidate clothing look almost designer despite the dirt stains and streaks of her make up. "There is ''nothing'' wrong with being pretty, or wanting to ''stay'' pretty." There's an echo in her words, like they're well practiced. Throwing a dirty look at him, "And ''I'' didn't ''deliberately'' use what someone was afraid of to make myself look bigger. You're just a ''bully''."

Serin reaches to tug at her clothes, mostly just the shirt and a little tug downwards - not like he's trying to take a peek under. "These are only things. Who are you without them?" He asks, pushing himself to his feet and brushing his own shirt off from the dust he picked up when being on the ground. "I like looking good too." He muses, since he actually /does/ think he looks good, even if he's not the muscular hunk type.

THAT action gets, if anything, an even more overreaction than Silva's earlier antics. "Stop that!" She'll swat at his hands and jerk backwards. Pretty face she may be, forward, not-so. "I'm ''me''. What kind of a question is ''that''?"

"What kind of answer is that?" Serin asks, arching a brow and then holding out the stick towards her for her to take. If she is planning on trying to do her job, she'll need it. Just about then, the tunnelsnake knocks something off a shelf and darts under a nearby shelf by Silva.

"Uh, ''my'' answer. It's not like I'm going to take off my clothes and ''show'' you, perv." Silva makes a show of straightening her clothing, and only a flicker of movement catches her gaze. It's enough to send her hopping though, and sending the glow rolling, causing it's light to be cut off. There's a faint glow of light over near the doorway, but otherwise, everything around the pair fades into darkness.

"You think I want to.. Wait, what?" Serin asks, shaking his head quickly and that's about when the glows go rolling. He grew up in this weyr, so even without the light he's pretty aware of what the room is laid out as, so he doesn't seem too concerned by the loss of light, but he ''does'' try to offer some help to Silva by reaching towards her, "Let me show you the way out of here." He says, though, where his hand actually touches her - well, he doesn't know.

It's probably fate dancing a jig in the darkness when the first thing that Serin's hand meets is very much ''not'' her arm. It's something else round and warm. Another shriek from Silva and the sound of her body slamming against a nearby shelf. "Owowowow...."

Seems Serin isn't quite sure what it is until he tries to give it a squeeze, yep, not an arm at all. "Sorry!" He clips, reaching around in the darkness to try and help her, but as she slams against the shelf, he trips over her foot and they both end up tumbling to the floor where the glows can be seen giving off ''some'' light and making the inappropriateness of their position even more blush worthy.

Caught all tangled up with a man in the ''darkness'', Silva's just going to do what any delicately bred hold girl would do. Opening her mouth she ''screams'', while also trying to shove him off of her. The sound of things falling mixed with Silva's screams brings people in from the kitchen the suddenly open door shedding a whole pile of light on the situation. Which means it's in complete confusion.

Disentangling himself the best he can, Serin pushes probably a bit harder on her chest than he means to and gets himself to a sitting position on the floor just a moment after the kitchen workers come in. Doesn't help his case that his long blond hair is looking pretty dischevled from the ordeal, and he looks downright mortified even if his cheeks are bright red. "I was trying to -help-!" He gives a glare to Silva, and scrambles to his feet.

Silva's reputation is going to work against her here, because that face that shows up? It might just be the face of a particular young man who met the palm of her hand about a seven back. Rather then look at //all// suprised at this scene he just gives a huff and turns on his heel. Yeah, the two of them are going to have to work it out. He's not touching Silva with a ten foot POLE. Which leaves them alone again in the light from the kitchen. Silva's hair is all awry, and her already mussed makeup is a mess. Already a bruise grows on one cheek from where she slamed into a shelf.

Blinking as the young man comes in, gives a huff and leaves, Serin doesn't know what to make of it but he is trying desperately to calm himself down. He just felt up a girl, not once, but twice and being the young man that he is - his body liked it a lot more than his brain and it leaves him just utterly embarrassed. He turns away from Silva and crouches to wrap his arms around his knees, and glances at her. "Get the glows, would you?" He asks, trying to buy more time.

If Silva's feeling any confused feelings going on she is doing a ''much'' better job of holding it in. Wounded dignity holds her together. There's a pile of sniffles coming from her though, and rather then argue, she goes to get the glow basket. Opening it the scene around them gets thrown into sharp relief. No tunnelsnakes, thankfully, but overturned bags and a mess? Yes. Her eyes sweep over the mess and a single tear - real this time, trickles down her bruised cheek.

Serin seems to be in one piece himself, finally getting up and walking over towards Silva to offer her a hand up if she wants it. "It was an accident." He mutters, looking down at the ground and sighing lightly. "You should probably get some ice on your cheek so it doesn't get your whole face black." He says, waiting to see if she'll take his help.

It's probably a good thing that Silva can't actually see that cheek of hers, or she might flip out again. Save that for later, and in private. Rather than accept his help Silva shoves the glow at him, and takes a step away. "This is all your fault." It comes out in a huff, as she wipes away that tear. "If you'd just put the stupid snake in the ''bag'' instead of ''throwing'' it at me..." Yeah, not making any friends here Silva.

Taking the glows, Serin just shrugs his shoulders and starts walking towards the door where the other guy huffed off from. "Sure sure, all my fault." He agrees, because he's pretty aware that arguing with her isn't really going to get him anywhere. "Someday you'll laugh about that." He says, looking back at her to give her a wink. "And everything else that happened." Nope, not a pervert at all.

That wink is enough to get her riled up again. There's a distint stamp of her foot to the ground. "You are a PERVERT." She says it loud enough for it to echo, with that she sweeps up the bag (alas, empty) as well as the stick and stalk her way out of there brushing right by him. He can just look at her butt (which she doesn't ''actually'' realize would be the result of walking by him) as she walks away and into the kitchen.

Serin just laughs as she yells at him, and if she didn't know - he's plenty happy to tell her. "You got dirt on your butt!" He calls after her, just before she vanishes into the kitchen as he wanders along slowly afterwards and heads another direction lest she think that he's stalking her to look at her butt.
|Categories=HRW Clutch 37a Logs, HRW Clutch 38 Logs
}}

Logs:The Crazy and the Perv

2015-10-15T01:57:49Z

Faryn: let's do the time warp agaaaaaaaaaain

{{Log
|who=Serin, Silva,
|what=Nothing was going to go right from the moment Silva's given Tunnel Snake Hunting.
|where=Kitchens and Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=27
|month=13
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.13
|quote="You are a PERVERT."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon silva.jpg,
|log="You want me to do ''what''?!" Silva's voice is almost a shriek when the caverns worker assigns her task. Green eyes are wide and limp hands take the sack as it is handed over. That worker is hard put to hide a smile as the spoiled candidate is assigned tunnel snakes. "Good luck." Which leaves Silva behind with a stick (laying against a wall) and a thick canvas sack to go forth and DO.

Oh, spoiled girls are the best, and Serin wanders by just at the most opportune time to overhear and see the wide green eyes and limp hands as she takes the sack from the caverns worker. He has a fairly easy job for the day, so he decides to make his presence more known and walks over to lean against a nearby wall. "Problem with your duty for the day?" He wonders, a broad grin crossing his face. Overall, he seems like he could be a friendly guy with his long blonde hair tied back and pleasant expression.

Oops, tall, slim, Blond. Blue haired. Vapid Silva stops her outburst //right away// and shakes herself out of it. Straightening up she tosses her hair over her shoulder. "They want, ''me''," OUTRAGE Serin, "To hunt ''tunnel snakes''. I mean... what if like. they bite me. It would be ''worse'' than breaking a nail." That doesn't sound too whiny right? Blinking upwards through her eyelashes. "Would... you help? Maybe?"

Really trying to hold a neutral expression, Serin just gives the slight green eyed girl a look over and takes in a deep breath. Though, the deep breath is likely to keep himself from bursting out in laughter, he does manage to keep a serious expression. "Oh, really? Isn't that just horrible?" He wonders, and gives a quick nod and pushes himself away from the wall to reach for the stick that was leaning against the wall. "I'll help you out."

"''Terrible.''" Congrats Serin, have a cling on called Silva. She doesn't actually ''touch'' him, but she's going to right there at his side, like a second shadow. On the, uh, ''other'' side of that stick, alright? "He.... he said over there," a vague gesture at a dark corner, "they had problems with bags getting nibbled through."

Smirking a little, Serin points towards the direction of said dark corner and then heads towards it. "You have to come with me, no sneaking off." He says, lest she think she's going to get out of helping at all - besides, if she wants to try and claim she did the job she really does kind of have to stay. Of course, once he gets closer to the area where the tunnelsnake is likely to be, it's less likely she's clung on to him any longer. Kneeling and pressing his face to the floor to get a look under one of the shelves, he tries to spot where the tunnelsnake might be hiding, and then uses the stick to poke at the darkness.

He's right, as the pair grow closer to that dark corner Silva does begin to hang back, though she does have the good sense to grab up a glow and bring it along. "Be careful, okay? I mean, I wouldn't want ''you'' to get hurt doing this." It almost even sounds sincere. A hint of movement in the darkest part of the corner has the girl jumping and lettig out a tiny scream, "There! there! I see it! Oh Faranth, right THERE."

Serin might almost have a knack for this tunnelsnake hunting thing, as he uses the stick to poke at it - which only gets the animal more angry. "I can see it!" He claims, reaching a slender arm under the shelving to grab at something once it seems like he's used the stick to pin it down. However, rather than telling her that he's caught it, instead he just quickly stands up and pulls it out from under the shelf. And shards if it isn't a huge tunnelsnake, its body lashing and squirming as he holds onto it and gets himself quickly to his feet. "Catch!" He says, making the motion like he's going to throw it at her even if he doesn't let go.. not yet.

A completely normal curiosity (an an ill placed belief in the humanity of Serin) Silva has drawn closer, despite the wiggling in the darkness. "Oh be ''careful''" A sharp breath gets taken until, "OH NO NO NONO GET IT .... oh shards that was ''mean''" From scared with arms flailing to protect her face to a flush of anger over taking her Silva stamps her foot against the ground. "Why would you ''do'' that? Ugh, it is so ''ugly''."

Did she really think that Serin would stop with an attempt to toss the tunnelsnake at her? He just grins broadly and takes a few more steps towards her, "Mean? No..." He says, as the snake hisses and looks like it's growing even more agitated as he continues to hold onto it. He takes a couple steps closer to bridge the gap between her and him, if she doesn't move she might well get touched by the squirming snake. "This is mean!"

Uh, yes? Hot guy, must be nice. Come ''on''. That's just how the world is suppose to work, okay? Each step she takes closer has Silva retreating, and when his larger steps bring him close enough to touch her with that snake she's going to scream again. "STOP, please, just ''put it in the bag''," And turning she's going to start running, a short... rather... ineffectual run.

Serin can't help but laugh, somehow the screaming of a spoiled girl really does make for a great time. He shakes his head, "Come here! You have to do it!" He says, following after her with the tunnelsnake, and keeping up with her fairly easily. Of course, if he passes the bag he kicks it out of the way in an attempt to make it unable to be found easily. "This is ''your'' job!"

"You are ''terrible''" Silva ducks under a low hanging shelf, and is totally trying to hide from him. It might work better if he wasn't right on her heels and like, if she would stop making noises. Real tears are there on her eyes of fright, but there's a good bet that a lot of her posing is just that - posing.

"Hey, who's terrible? You were trying to talk a guy into doing your job for you!" Serin says, and if it wasn't bad enough that he caught the tunnelsnake and then -chased- her with it, he also decidedly drops it on the floor in front of the shelf that she's trying to hide under. Luckily, it seems the tunnelsnake is more interested in hiding itself rather than going after nearby people with its teeth, though.

Of course, the nearest hiding space is right past Silva. No bites for the girl, but a serious scare that has her throwing herself out from under the shelf. Small fists are totally going to aim themselves right at Serin's chest, though they're more like small marshmallows aimed at him if they land. "I just wanted ''help''. You didn't have to ''chase'' me. I mean, I would have said ''thank you''."

Serin has himself bent over with laughter, surely carrying through the storage room as he can't help but chortle as she comes jumping out from her hiding spot. He stands to take the beating, if one can call it that, and then reaches to try and grab one of those fists. "Would you have? You don't seem like the sort that would be thanking people for doing jobs that are beneath them." He muses, pale blue eyes meeting her green with a smirk.

The second he grabs her fists Silva desists with hitting and is going to try to tug away. "I ''would'' have said thank you. IT's not ''below'' me, just like," she turns her head away, so that he can't see her mussed makeup and tear streaks, "I've never ''done'' it before and they're like... scary."

Serin lets the hand go as easily as he caught it, shaking his head, "Come on now, I heard you when they gave the chore to you. Like a holders daughter who's never touched a dustpan." He mimics afterwards, "You want me to do ''what''?" He even tries to sound like her, even if he actually doesn't at all. He sighs and reaches out as though to try and pat her on the head, "Well, it's free again, you can try yourself this time."

"Well, like, I've never ''done'' it. And it's not like that jerk showed me ''how''." Silva doesn't quiet have much shame, nor does she show her face again. Released she pulls herself away and reaches up to try to erase the signs of her recent fright. "Just go ''away'' if you're going to be a jerk."

Serin crouches, then looks up at her as though he's trying to see how much damage he's done to her pretty little face. "You were more worried about breaking your nails and throwing a tantrum, than learning how to do it." He says, propping his head up on a hand and smirking at her, because he's pretty sure that's how it went. As for 'going away', nope, doesn't appear he will be.

Silva arranges every ounce of dignity she can out of this experience, and she makes the bland candidate clothing look almost designer despite the dirt stains and streaks of her make up. "There is ''nothing'' wrong with being pretty, or wanting to ''stay'' pretty." There's an echo in her words, like they're well practiced. Throwing a dirty look at him, "And ''I'' didn't ''deliberately'' use what someone was afraid of to make myself look bigger. You're just a ''bully''."

Serin reaches to tug at her clothes, mostly just the shirt and a little tug downwards - not like he's trying to take a peek under. "These are only things. Who are you without them?" He asks, pushing himself to his feet and brushing his own shirt off from the dust he picked up when being on the ground. "I like looking good too." He muses, since he actually /does/ think he looks good, even if he's not the muscular hunk type.

THAT action gets, if anything, an even more overreaction than Silva's earlier antics. "Stop that!" She'll swat at his hands and jerk backwards. Pretty face she may be, forward, not-so. "I'm ''me''. What kind of a question is ''that''?"

"What kind of answer is that?" Serin asks, arching a brow and then holding out the stick towards her for her to take. If she is planning on trying to do her job, she'll need it. Just about then, the tunnelsnake knocks something off a shelf and darts under a nearby shelf by Silva.

"Uh, ''my'' answer. It's not like I'm going to take off my clothes and ''show'' you, perv." Silva makes a show of straightening her clothing, and only a flicker of movement catches her gaze. It's enough to send her hopping though, and sending the glow rolling, causing it's light to be cut off. There's a faint glow of light over near the doorway, but otherwise, everything around the pair fades into darkness.

"You think I want to.. Wait, what?" Serin asks, shaking his head quickly and that's about when the glows go rolling. He grew up in this weyr, so even without the light he's pretty aware of what the room is laid out as, so he doesn't seem too concerned by the loss of light, but he ''does'' try to offer some help to Silva by reaching towards her, "Let me show you the way out of here." He says, though, where his hand actually touches her - well, he doesn't know.

It's probably fate dancing a jig in the darkness when the first thing that Serin's hand meets is very much ''not'' her arm. It's something else round and warm. Another shriek from Silva and the sound of her body slamming against a nearby shelf. "Owowowow...."

Seems Serin isn't quite sure what it is until he tries to give it a squeeze, yep, not an arm at all. "Sorry!" He clips, reaching around in the darkness to try and help her, but as she slams against the shelf, he trips over her foot and they both end up tumbling to the floor where the glows can be seen giving off ''some'' light and making the inappropriateness of their position even more blush worthy.

Caught all tangled up with a man in the ''darkness'', Silva's just going to do what any delicately bred hold girl would do. Opening her mouth she ''screams'', while also trying to shove him off of her. The sound of things falling mixed with Silva's screams brings people in from the kitchen the suddenly open door shedding a whole pile of light on the situation. Which means it's in complete confusion.

Disentangling himself the best he can, Serin pushes probably a bit harder on her chest than he means to and gets himself to a sitting position on the floor just a moment after the kitchen workers come in. Doesn't help his case that his long blond hair is looking pretty dischevled from the ordeal, and he looks downright mortified even if his cheeks are bright red. "I was trying to -help-!" He gives a glare to Silva, and scrambles to his feet.

Silva's reputation is going to work against her here, because that face that shows up? It might just be the face of a particular young man who met the palm of her hand about a seven back. Rather then look at //all// suprised at this scene he just gives a huff and turns on his heel. Yeah, the two of them are going to have to work it out. He's not touching Silva with a ten foot POLE. Which leaves them alone again in the light from the kitchen. Silva's hair is all awry, and her already mussed makeup is a mess. Already a bruise grows on one cheek from where she slamed into a shelf.

Blinking as the young man comes in, gives a huff and leaves, Serin doesn't know what to make of it but he is trying desperately to calm himself down. He just felt up a girl, not once, but twice and being the young man that he is - his body liked it a lot more than his brain and it leaves him just utterly embarrassed. He turns away from Silva and crouches to wrap his arms around his knees, and glances at her. "Get the glows, would you?" He asks, trying to buy more time.

If Silva's feeling any confused feelings going on she is doing a ''much'' better job of holding it in. Wounded dignity holds her together. There's a pile of sniffles coming from her though, and rather then argue, she goes to get the glow basket. Opening it the scene around them gets thrown into sharp relief. No tunnelsnakes, thankfully, but overturned bags and a mess? Yes. Her eyes sweep over the mess and a single tear - real this time, trickles down her bruised cheek.

Serin seems to be in one piece himself, finally getting up and walking over towards Silva to offer her a hand up if she wants it. "It was an accident." He mutters, looking down at the ground and sighing lightly. "You should probably get some ice on your cheek so it doesn't get your whole face black." He says, waiting to see if she'll take his help.

It's probably a good thing that Silva can't actually see that cheek of hers, or she might flip out again. Save that for later, and in private. Rather than accept his help Silva shoves the glow at him, and takes a step away. "This is all your fault." It comes out in a huff, as she wipes away that tear. "If you'd just put the stupid snake in the ''bag'' instead of ''throwing'' it at me..." Yeah, not making any friends here Silva.

Taking the glows, Serin just shrugs his shoulders and starts walking towards the door where the other guy huffed off from. "Sure sure, all my fault." He agrees, because he's pretty aware that arguing with her isn't really going to get him anywhere. "Someday you'll laugh about that." He says, looking back at her to give her a wink. "And everything else that happened." Nope, not a pervert at all.

That wink is enough to get her riled up again. There's a distint stamp of her foot to the ground. "You are a PERVERT." She says it loud enough for it to echo, with that she sweeps up the bag (alas, empty) as well as the stick and stalk her way out of there brushing right by him. He can just look at her butt (which she doesn't ''actually'' realize would be the result of walking by him) as she walks away and into the kitchen.

Serin just laughs as she yells at him, and if she didn't know - he's plenty happy to tell her. "You got dirt on your butt!" He calls after her, just before she vanishes into the kitchen as he wanders along slowly afterwards and heads another direction lest she think that he's stalking her to look at her butt.
|Categories=HRW Clutch 37a Logs, HRW Clutch 38 Logs
}}

Logs talk:To End A Man's Life

2015-10-15T01:48:42Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Faryn - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:To End A Man's Life]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Faryn (18:48, 14 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Damn.

Logs:Bitter Tears

2015-10-14T08:48:29Z

Faryn:

{{Log
|who=Faryn
|what=After [[Logs:Murder Gather|R'hin's murder]], Faryn stays in Crom a few extra hours.
|where=Crom Hold
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold
|day=18
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.11
|quote="Did you know him?"
|mentions=R'hin
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon faryn cry.png,
|log=There is at least one person in Crom sympathetic to a young woman who looks like she needs a good drink to stabilize her, regardless of the knot she wears from a weyr that's been nothing but trouble, lately. Faryn was ‘’not crying’’ when she broke away from the crowd, and she’s not crying when she hollowly asks if she can buy a drink -- or a bottle -- from a barman who has not quite taken his table down, her voice hollow and resigned. He looks her over, eyes lingering on her knot briefly. He nods. Pulls a bottle, then thinks the better and pulls a glass instead to pass to her. He winces when she swallows it all in a go and shoves it forward for a refill. "Pace yourself, y'hear?"

No reply. She looks at the bottle, then tries on a smile that looks like it hurts. Tries a nod with it. The entire attempt rings too false, so he pours again, halfway full this time, to pace her himself.

“Did you know him?”

“Not really.”

“Can’t find a ride?”

“Didn’t look.”

Two hours later, with the bitter afternoon relenting into night, he escalates to commentary: “Girl like you shouldn’t be a rider. Seems a lot more knifeplay than anything else, these days. You could find a nice boy, get married, settle down.” The cold cuts sharper when the sun dips low, and Faryn stares into her glass, listening to his assessment. Remembering what she'd told a bronzerider she didn't know about her life, what she wanted. What she ''didn't'' want. Be good; be better; be great.

She can’t; she isn't. Her patience frays at the ends long before that, around the same time that she realizes she's crying, for Faranth knows how long. The bartender reaches out to try and comfort her with a hand on her shoulder and a reassuring squeeze as she ducks her head between her arms, her crying silent save sniffles and a couple strangled sobs of punctuation. When she seems to calm and her shoulders stop shaking, the man squeezes again. "Thought you didn't know him?"

She bites, "I ''dont''," with more ferocity than necessary, and pays him without ever looking him in the face again.

Long minutes walking in the bitter cold take her back, where there isn’t a crowd anymore. The scene is still closed off and protected, and the guards spot her right away as the only person moving directly towards them. She’s not sneaking, not subtle. When one of them moves a little more aggressively than she likes to intercept her, she holds her hands up in tired surrender to waylay him. “I don’t want to go in there.” He settles down a bit.

She isn't crying anymore, or maybe her tears froze. She looks at the tent like it’s a puzzle she can deconstruct, or possibly like she expects R’hin to poke his head out at the guards. Joke’s on them, and wouldn’t he be ‘’just’’ that brand of asshole? Hasn’t he been nothing ‘’but’’ that particular brand of asshole? And yet… Faryn feels her throat tighten again, and she swallows painfully against another round of tears she didn’t invite.

''Did you know him?'' the bartender had asked. It makes her laugh now, as sharp as the cold that's eating away at her, a poor imitation of the real thing.

''No,'' she thinks, ''Not sure anyone did.''

"Bye, R'hin." Her voice is harsh, but it's too cold to linger as nighttime sets its hooks, and the guards look seconds from deciding she must know something, too, their interest piqued by the laugh for all it held no humour. She doesn’t know anything. Not about this. Not about him. She leaves, and doesn't look back.
|Categories=Angst Logs
}}

Logs:Pretty Dolls and Puppets

2015-10-14T01:43:26Z

Faryn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Faryn, Silva |what=Silva ''tries'' to make a friend, but Faryn's never had much patience for girls with more looks than sense. |where=Candidate Quarters, High Reach..."

{{Log
|who=Faryn, Silva
|what=Silva ''tries'' to make a friend, but Faryn's never had much patience for girls with more looks than sense.
|where=Candidate Quarters, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=27
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.13
|quote=“A little touch here… maybe some blush… you really could be stunning.”
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon faryn stop talking.gif, Icon silva.jpg,
|log=Silva’s sprawled herself across her bunk, long dark hair spread around her. It’s late, and she’s got some girls gathered around her, and they’re gossiping the night away. As the yawns grow larger Silva waves away the others, “Whatever, I’ll catch you tomorrow. Like, tomorrow I bet they’re going to have us shoveling runner crap or something.” A flip of her hair as her last ‘friend’ scoots off to bed and her eyes travel about, seeing out the others, not ‘’quite’’ ready to sleep herself.

Despite being one of the first candidates, Faryn’s cot is near to the door, making her arrivals in the evening as unobtrusive as her pre-dawn departures. More often than not, especially lately, she comes after most people have fallen asleep. Tonight is an odd exception, for whatever reason, and she’s been sitting on her own cot with a book in hand and a sleepy expression that says she’s not paying full attention to the words on the page or the conversation around her. Silva’s proclamation makes her blink behind the book and come back, just a little, with an odd little shake. “Deja vu.” To the book, really.

She’s on the prowl tonight, or something. The moment Faryn’s in the room Silva’s eyes are following her, speculatively. Pushing herself to her feet Faryns cot gains a +1 of personhood in the form of Silva. “You know.” She reaches forward to touch the edges of the other candidate’s hair, “A little touch here… maybe some blush… you really could be stunning.” A flick of her gaze towards the book, “Though if you keep reading in the low light, you’re going to end up cross eyed. And ‘’no one’’ likes that.”

Faryn closes the book, thumb nested in the crease of the spine to mark her place. By the time Silva's standing near her cot, the older candidate has lifted her eyes with the most unpleasant expression she can muster: a simple, unimpressed stare, her mouth pressed into a line that threatens a frown. The frown gives up the ghost in record time. Faryn recoils, her objection immediate as she tucks the stray hairs away, the rest of her long and practical braid safely out of harm's way. "No. Go away," she orders. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to touch people without their permission?"

“Oh sweetheart,” False brightness there from Silva, but it could totally pass as someone just being ‘’overly’’ friendly. “It just needs a little work. You ‘’must’’ let me help you. I mean, you could even read or… whatever. It would be ‘’such’’ a challenge.” Silva isn’t getting up, and she looks way too comfortable here on this bed that so isn’t hers.

“What,” Faryn says, a question without the proper inflection. Flatly annoyed. She straightens, and something in her wiry form is immediately recognizable as ‘’not good’’. “I’m nobody’s ‘’sweetheart’’, least of all yours.” She looks Silva up and down, sizing her up; finally, someone smaller than she is. It’d be so easy to-- “Get. Off. My bed.” Gritted out. “I didn’t realize we were so hard up for candidates that ‘’you’’...”

Silva snaps back and brings up a hand as if to ward off the other girl. “You don’t have to be so ‘’rude’’.” Clear offense is taken as Silva looks the other girl up and down, “I mean, I was just trying to be ‘’friends’’. Do you even know what that means?”

Maybe she’s had a long day, though in some ways every day is pretty long, when you’re up as early as she is. “Probably not,” she says, and it could be for any of those statements. “You don’t want friends, though, what I can tell. You want pretty dolls and puppets, to tell you how nice your hair is and how pretty and clever you are. Right?” Faryn studies Silva’s face. “What’s your name?” That’s how friendships start, right? Although, maybe, usually, that question comes with a little more enthusiasm.

“Uh, ‘’excuse me’’?” Silva pulls herself up to her feet, and despite the fact that she’s shorter than the other woman looks downwards at her. “‘’I’’ have said nothing but nice things about you. I don’t know ‘’where’’ you get off judging ‘’me’’.” Flipping her hair over a shoulder Silva settles her hands on her hips. “Silva.” Grudgingly she gives her name. “You know. There’s nothing wrong with being pretty or wanting to look good. You don’t see the ‘’Lady Holders’’ walking around looking all bookish.”

As soon as Silva stands, Faryn stretches both her legs towards the end of the cot, obstructing her from settling back in if the desire strikes her. Admittedly, there are several inches past her boots that Silva might be able to squeeze in, if she really tries, but the intention is clear. “To my face,” Faryn judges dismissively. “There was a girl like you in the last group, too. Pretty as all get out, but--” the ex-crafter puffs a sigh, rolling her eyes. “Look, sweetheart,” too sibilant, the ‘s’ far too long in a hiss, “I met my quota of friends. I’m sure plenty of girls would ‘’love’’ your services, but I’m not one of them.”

“Whatever. Its all on you. ‘’I’’ was trying to be nice.” Silva’s not going to waste a single more second on the other girl, and with another flip of her hair is just going to mince right over towards her bunk. Pausing almost there Silva looks backwards, “Just like, tell me if you ever want something done with your hair. I could make you look ‘’amazing’’ .”

“Faranth, you’re just ‘’like her’’,” Faryn says, watching Silva’s body language. “Wrong hair color, is all. It’s like I’m cursed.” To be ‘’plain’’. She waits until she’s certain Silva’s not coming back, her gaze lingering on the younger girl for a long moment or three. Eventually, given time, she goes back to her book, and her solitude, with occasional looks up to make sure nobody else is going to descend on her.
|Categories=HRW Clutch 38 Logs
}}

Logs talk:Niahvth's Fail Eggs

2015-10-13T15:37:00Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Faryn - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Niahvth's Fail Eggs]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Faryn (08:37, 13 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

The possibility that Niahvth's hatching party will be a funeral with cake is kind of at the back of my mind all the time. I think Faryn's betting ledger is notoriously light this round.

Logs:Calling, Again

2015-10-13T15:07:50Z

Faryn:

{{Log
|who=Torlynna, Z'kiel, Z'kiel{{!}}Ahtzudaeth
|what=Ahtzudaeth decides Torlynna is missing the ''right'' knot.
|where=Courtyard, Crom Hold
|involves=Crom Hold
|day=21
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.11
|quote="He just knows the knot you have is the wrong one."
|weather=Light snowfall.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Z'kiel.jpg, Icon Ahtzudaeth.png,
|desc=>---< Crom Hold(#1196RAJ) >--------------------------------------------------<

Like many Holds of Pern, Crom is built within the shelter of a solid panel
of rock. An expansive courtyard rests beneath this shelter, leaving up
towards massive stone-wrought doors and a wide deck of smoothed boulders.
The distinctive shadows of the watchdragon's ledge, the drumheights, and
the fireheights rise high on the cliff and dotted along the wall are
windows that are either flung open or shuttered depending on the weather
or, more dangerously, Thread. Vegetation is lacking in this mine-based
Hold, though the carts and beaten paths of miners returning home weave in
twisted circles about the Hold, leading far off towards the furthest
reaches of the few mines untouched near Crom itself.

A proud Hold, the crests and banners of the family flap in the wind,
hanging from the highest windows of the stone walls.

The snowfall is light and intermittent throughout the day until it tapers
off completely into a frigid night. The ground is damp, though very little
sticks.
|log=The slow swirl of falling snow is briefly interrupted by the manifestation of a bronze, one that circles high above the hold before angling toward the ground in a calculated spiral. Ahtzudaeth lands lightly in the courtyard and utters a low, throaty sound that edges toward a ''chortle'' of all things. Z'kiel dismounts and shoots a goggle-hidden glare at the beast. He quickly exchanges goggles and helmet for a knitted skullcap and scarf - and he adds a heavy bag while he's at it, slinging it crosswise over his person. The man grunts at the bronze, the bronze grunts back, and the rider starts off at a slow, measured pace toward the Hold proper.

The Cromese peoples are still enjoying the days of Lady Crom's turnday festival. That might explain why Torlynna is milling around one of the weaver craft vendors with her eyes coveting a long wool and fur cloak on display. It's the sort of item far outside her budget given her quality of clothing and the lust burning in her narrowed eyes. It's so busy, however, that she gets a few chances to stroke the thick pelt of the hood while the crafters are busy making actual sales to people with coin. The first few days of the festivities might have made her jerk around to gawk at arriving dragons but the thrill of seeing the big beasts has worn off now or, perhaps she's so absorbed in her daydreams that she doesn't notice the additional dragon and rider arriving. At last, and with a big sigh, she pushes away from the cloak and starts towards the hall, putting her path in line with Z'kiel so they are strolling together towards the source of warmth and protection from the snows.

It is, perhaps, somewhat heartening that the festival doesn't linger beneath the shadow that passed over it not that long ago. Ahtzudaeth, for one, doesn't seem terribly troubled by the situation - and, as dragons go, he seems far more interested in watching the swirl of people than in engaging with the other dragons scattered about. He pads a little closer, his steps careful - and, somehow, ''thoughtful''. His head moves this way and that, luminous eyes bright with a mirth that's reflected in the slight gape-grin of his mouth. Z'kiel, grim-faced as ever, doesn't share in his better half's amusement - nor does he seem interested in anything ''except'' doing whatever he's there to do. The bronzerider cuts a look askance to the young woman that joins his course and studies her with eyes that are narrowed - habit, that, rather than any overt sense of distrust. His study is cold and strange, predatory for a fleeting moment, and then it just ''stops.''. So does he, for that matter. Abruptly and with an audible ''hnnnh.''

Torlynna has her mind on other things. Lust of goods most likely. Her jaw clutching, indio gaze fixed on a spot in the middle distance as her long legs carry her forward. It's only when the taller man beside her stops does it seem to dawn on her that he head has been in the clouds and she's completely ignored the man. Her own narrowed gaze softens and she forces herself to release the clamped teeth to offer a slanted smile to the dragon-man. "Happy Gather." She calls, tossing a hand up and towards him but she's not stopping it seems, long strides widening a little more.

The bronze continues his approach - at least until he can go no further. Booths and the crush of people make it all but impossible for him to move forward. Ahtzudaeth settles back on his haunches with the utmost of patience, head held high and grin widening. Z'kiel, for all that he looks back at the dragon, ultimately shakes his head with a slight pinching of his brows. It's only when the tall, young woman raises a hand and calls to him that his attention is wrenched back into the here and now. But, when he speaks, it's not to wish her the same. Rather: "'''Wait.'''" The word falls hard, Igen-accented and laden with grit. It's aimed ''her'' way, but a few other passersby slow down or stop in confusion, looking at him, then at each other, as if uncertain as to just which he's speaking to.

Torlynna takes another two steps after the call for her because, well, why would the stranger need her? Then she realizes that she's not going to make it to the warmth of the hearth just yet and stops, turning to regard the man with eyebrows swung up over narrowed eyes. "Hhmm?" Another woman who was also nearby stops as well, smaller and more reactionary, the little woman's eyes widen and round as she makes fluttery movements with her hands. Torlynna is less responsive but curious, glancing from the woman to the dragonrider. "Need directions?" She asks, not unkindly asked, maybe a touch of sympathy.

Of course, now that people ''have'' stopped, Z'kiel's the one left looking confused. He shoots a look back to Ahtzudaeth who, helpfully, rears up a little more and raises a forepaw in a queerly human-like gesture to ''point'' at someone. From the distance and angle, though, it's impossible to make sense of it. "The worst. That's you," Z'kiel grouses just under his breath. Torlynna's words are caught just above that and he exhales sharply with an equally sharp shake of his head. "No." He winces a little at the sheer weight of the word and shakes his head again as if that might dull it. "No," he tries again. "Something- no. Some''one'' is missing something here." There's a tilt of his head, an indication of the not-so-distant bronze and his odd gesticulation. "And ''he's'' not helping." There's a brief clench of his jaw, then: "Come with me. The lot of you. Not you," excludes the two or three young men, leaving perhaps three other young women in the summoned lot. "Please," is an afterthought, grated out with frustration that's dragon-centric.

Torlynna's eyes are drawn towards the movement of the rearing dragon and the oos and aaahs of the crowd close by to the magestic beast to witness this show. Torlynna's head tips slowly as she squints at the dragon and slowly shifts her focus to the dragonrider, sweeping a look over him consideringly. Beside her, the gush of the smaller woman drowns out whatever she might have said. No way she's making a scene like that. Instead she folds her arms over her chest and lets the little woman dart in front of her, trying not to get tripped up. At last her expression settles into amusement, why not? SHe opens her mouth to ask but it's the simpery little woman who bolts headlong, "What's missing? Oh! Missing someone! Oh my!" And such excited blustering that Tor glances at the rider with a widening smile. Yup, more sympathy there as she trails with the small group.

"Not. No. Not-" Z'kiel gives up, his jaw tensing again. He gestures, sweeping Torlynna, the smaller woman, and the other two along - not unlike a canine herding ovines, except without biting. It's only when they draw nearer to Ahtzudaeth that the bronze settles down again, settling into a languid posture; on his belly, forelegs crossed just ''so'' and with his head tipped down. The former Igenite rubs the bridge of his nose and steps aside, letting the bronze do- well, nothing, from the looks of it. Nothing except look ''very'' intently at each of them, with equal measures of time for the two others, the smaller one, and Torlynna herself. "Which one? The least you can do is not do the thing you're doing ''now''." The beast chortles again, amused. To the women: "Someone's missing ''something'' here. Not you," he settles on, pointing at one of the younger women in the lot. Sixteen, maybe. She shuffles off with a pout.

Torlynna keeps her arms folded over her chest in a protective set of shoulders as she moves along with the others. She's at liberty to admire the dragon up close. It could be said she's looking him over with the same intensity fixed on her. Then she lets her focus shift, turning to the dragonrider, tightening her thick arms over her ample chest as he begins to translate. "How can he tell someone's missing anything?" She asks and watches the younger woman drifting back the way they'd come.

With the field narrowed slightly, Ahtzudaeth turns his attention more keenly to Z'kiel, who glares at him with a slight shake of his head. With a snort, the bronzerider shifts his gaze from the beast to Torlynna when she speaks. "Has a knack for it," he replies. "Somewhat. Some dragons look for something that's ''there''. He can't make it easy like that." Another woman is sent off - mid-twenties and pretty, though she looks mostly relieved that she's turned away with that gesture. "But what he ''sees'' is- different. One of you two." Torlynna and the smaller woman that came with her, that is. "Names?" The question is barely a question and asked with a note of uncertainty that's slanted right back to the utterly still bronze. "Why is that even important," isn't a question at all and is ''definitely'' for the dragon who is, for the moment, looking utterly and completely ''smug'' about something.

The little woman shoots a look up at Torlynna as though they are in some contest and hurriedly gushes out, "I'm Marandra Dragonrider sir. Dragon. Um..." She twines her little hands together and fidgits, almost vibrating with excitement. She might fly appart at any moment. Torlynna for her part just wings up her eyebrow and rocks back on her heels a little. In contrast, she's calm and reserved, but her smile is there, her expression curious and mild as she gives the little woman a reasuring smile for her eagerness. If the prize was for the most eager, the little chit would certainly be in the top awards. "If you're really asking for our names, I'm Torlynna. And yours is? You have a strange accent." Not worldly enough to know where it might be from though. Marandra gawks at her for being so forward, distracted from her nervous shivering.

"Marandra." The name is rolled around a bit, then it's on to "Torlynna." Z'kiel sucks his teeth, forehead furrowed. "He's curious about them," comes the eventual clarification. "Not sure why. But." One shoulder rises and falls, with the 'Reachian rider looking from one woman to the other with a growing sense of consternation. "I'm Z'kiel. He's Ahtzudaeth. We ride for Alpine Wing at High Reaches Weyr," though that bit might be unnecessary; his knot is pinned to a shoulder. "I was from Igen Weyr. You're from here?" ''Hnnnh.'' "He likes your ''energy'' Marandra," the emphasis clearly added by the dragon-half of the pairing. "But you." Z'kiel's eyes narrow a bit more as he studies Torlynna. "''You're'' missing something. Something here." He points at her shoulder - or, more specifically, at her knot, of all things.

Torlynna's narrow eyes squint a fraction more. "Pleased to meet you both. I'm Lemos born but Woodcraft apprentice by trade and posted here." Her arms loosen from the shield they'd provided over her body and long fingers touch at her shoulder. "It's gather day, I left my knot--" Marandra scowls at her, still full of that nervous excitement. Tor ignores her in favor of talking with the dragon-man. "He could see my missing knot from all the way over there?" Torlynna asks, sounding skeptical.

"No. But," Z'kiel glances at Marandra again, before all but dismissing her for the time being. She's not sent off - not yet, anyway - but there's a more pressing situation at hand. "No," he tries again. "He just knows the knot you have is the wrong one. Doesn't matter if you wore it or not. The one he ''sees'' is missing." He speaks slowly, as if trying to make sense of whatever the bronze is relaying to him. Ahtzudaeth starts grinning again, as it were, and he issues a low rumble of satisfaction. "Torlynna. There are two clutches hardening on the sands at High Reaches. He says he likes how you ''look''. Our Headwoman will have the right knot for you." A beat. Then: "He is ''calling''. He says the young ones are, too." He's not certain of that last, but it matters little. He continues, slow and somber and ''serious'': "Will you answer? Will you Stand at High Reaches?"

Torlynna stares at the bronze dragon hard. "I have worked very hard for the knot." She tells the smiling dragon and then turns back to the rider with a starlted, 'oh', when he explains more fully. A sudden smile breaks across her face as she listens and at last gives a single nod of her chin. Though she might not fully believe her good fortune, she's not one to say so aloud. "I'd be honored to stand for the hatching!" Marandra wrings her hands together a little more and wobbles from one foot to the other, mouth opening and closing around a mixture of hope and dread. That she's not been sent away seems to give her the courage to stay put rather than dashing off. Torlynna glances at the smaller girl and then back to the rider expectantly.

The bronze rumbles and ducks his head; Z'kiel nods, unconsciously mirroring that very gesture. "You worked hard for it," the rider echoes. "But. They'll let you keep studying your craft." He'll not take it into 'just in case' territory, though; he leaves it there, with a glance angled to Marandra again. Another grunt. Another round of narrow-eyed teeth-sucking. Then: "No. He doesn't... see ''that'' with you." There is no apology for it; no consolation prize. Just: "Enjoy the rest of the Gather, Marandra. You," Torlynna is looked at again. "Get what you need. We can bring you back for the rest. I have a spare jacket and helmet," so, at least, she won't freeze Between. There's that, at least.

The two women exchange a look. Tearful and jealous on Marandra's side and compassionate on Torlynna's though the little woman whirls away and jogs off through the snow so as not to be caught with tearful eyes. Torlynna worries her lower lip in her teeth and then lets out a quiet sigh, nodding to the dragonrider. "Right." Seeming to take his lack of apology to heart--it's just the way it goes. "I'll just be a moment." And she is only gone a short time, returning with a small pack and scarf wrapped around her throat. Her eyes gleam with excitement despite her attemps at being cool and reserved. Riding a dragon is worth getting a little bubbly about!
|Categories=HRW Clutch 38 Logs, Search Logs
}}

Logs talk:Calling, Again

2015-10-13T15:06:37Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Faryn - via ArticleComments extension

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==Faryn (08:06, 13 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Don't you tell Ahtzudaeth he's the worst, you butt. He is clearly the best searcher EVER. And yay for Tor. I look forward to seeing more of her!

Logs:Bitter Tears

2015-10-12T09:29:45Z

Faryn:

{{Log
|who=Faryn
|what=After [[Logs:Murder Gather|R'hin's murder]], Faryn stays in Crom a few extra hours.
|where=Crom Hold
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold
|day=18
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.11
|quote="Did you know him?"
|mentions=R'hin
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon faryn cry.png,
|log=There is at least one person in Crom sympathetic to a young woman who looks like she needs a good drink to stabilize her, regardless of the knot she wears from a weyr that's been nothing but trouble, lately. Faryn was ‘’not crying’’ when she broke away from the crowd, and she’s not crying when she hollowly asks if she can buy a drink -- or a bottle -- from a barman who has not quite taken his table down, her voice hollow and resigned. He looks her over, eyes lingering on her knot briefly. He nods. Pulls a bottle, then thinks the better and pulls a glass instead to pass to her. He winces when she swallows it all in a go and shoves it forward for a refill. "Pace yourself, y'hear?"

No reply. She looks at the bottle, then tries on a smile that looks like it hurts. Tries a nod with it. The entire attempt rings too false, so he pours again, halfway full this time, to pace her himself.

“Did you know him?”

“Not really.”

“Can’t find a ride?”

“Didn’t look.”

Two hours later, with the bitter afternoon relenting into night, he escalates to commentary: “Girl like you shouldn’t be a rider. Seems a lot more knifeplay than anything else, these days. You could find a nice boy, get married, settle down.” The cold cutting sharper when the sun dips low, and Faryn stares into her glass, listening to his assessment. Remembering what she'd told a bronzerider she didn't know about her life, what she wanted. What she ''didn't'' want. Be good; be better; be great.

She can’t; she isn't. Her patience frays at the ends long before that, around the same time that she realizes she's crying, for Faranth knows how long. The bartender reaches out to try and comfort her with a hand on her shoulder and a reassuring squeeze as she ducks her head between her arms, her crying silent save sniffles and a couple strangled sobs of punctuation. When she seems to calm and her shoulders stop shaking, the man squeezes again. "Thought you didn't know him?"

She bites, "I ''dont''," with more ferocity than necessary, and pays him without ever looking him in the face again.

Long minutes walking in the bitter cold take her back, where there isn’t a crowd anymore. The scene is still closed off and protected, and the guards spot her right away as the only person moving directly towards them. She’s not sneaking, not subtle. When one of them moves a little more aggressively than she likes to intercept her, she holds her hands up in tired surrender to waylay him. “I don’t want to go in there.” He settles down a bit.

She isn't crying anymore, or maybe her tears froze. She looks at the tent like it’s a puzzle she can deconstruct, or possibly like she expects R’hin to poke his head out at the guards. Joke’s on them, and wouldn’t he be ‘’just’’ that brand of asshole? Hasn’t he been nothing ‘’but’’ that particular brand of asshole? And yet… Faryn feels her throat tighten again, and she swallows painfully against another round of tears she didn’t invite.

''Did you know him?'' the bartender had asked. It makes her laugh now, as sharp as the cold that's eating away at her, a poor imitation of the real thing.

''No,'' she thinks, ''Not sure anyone did.''

"Bye, R'hin." Her voice is harsh, but it's too cold to linger as nighttime sets its hooks, and the guards look seconds from deciding she must know something, too, their interest piqued by the laugh for all it held no humour. She doesn’t know anything. Not about this. Not about him. She leaves, and doesn't look back.
|Categories=Angst Logs
}}

Logs talk:Sensitivity Training Required

2015-10-12T08:10:01Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Faryn - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Sensitivity Training Required]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Alida (00:47, 12 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Yep...Ghena's still got all the finesse of a wrecking ball. *gigglefits*
==Faryn (01:10, 12 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Oh, Nik. You'll grow thicker skin soon enough. Otherwise a knife will go ''right through''. XD

Logs talk:The Fuck-Up with Faryn

2015-10-12T07:24:24Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Faryn - via ArticleComments extension

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----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Squishy (00:14, 12 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Yeah even now, the whole thing makes me giggle.
==Faryn (00:24, 12 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

The best confessions are the ones where you didn't do anything wrong.

Logs talk:Cartographer-Rider

2015-10-12T07:23:31Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Faryn - via ArticleComments extension

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==Faryn (00:23, 12 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

''Please understand that it is not my wish to throw away my training and vocation for something new; I'm not so fickle! '' 
Faryn should have included that in her letter to the hall. That would have helped, certainly. It would have been a lie, but it would have ''helped''.

Also, I love Pia.

Faryn

2015-10-11T22:58:09Z

Faryn:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Faryn2c.jpg
|mother=[[Fadra]]
|father=Dresdyn
|siblings=Five brothers, half-blooded, in Tillek
|friends=Farideh
|body=
Faryn looks smug by default, at work or at rest, and that's what's easy to notice first. Narrow-faced with dark hair, sharp, interesting features and a smirk that has taken up permanent residence, it is easy to believe she might be enjoying a joke at the expense of whomever or whatever her dark eyes have seen fit to light upon at that particular moment. It can be galling, too, because at five-feet-four, she still somehow manages to carry herself with an air that suggests not only an ability to defend any enjoyment she might be having, but a willingness. Though slender and lean, weighing barely more than seven stone if anything over at all, she is tough at a glance, (over)confident in bearing, and ostensibly scrappy if the need arises.

{{wysk}}

=History=

{{:Faryn/History}}

= Relationships =
===Family===
*'''[[Fadra]]''' - ''If anger is hereditary, I got all of this from you.''

===High Reaches===
*'''[[Drex]]''' - ''I figure Farideh could do worse than you. And you could do worse than her, too.'' 
*'''[[Edyis]]''' - ''You're my friend, not my shield. If I hide, it won't be behind you.'' 
*'''[[Farideh]]''' - ''I'll always worry about you, but I can see it now. You'll be fine.'' 
*'''[[H'vier]]''' - ''Next time you put your hands on me, you won't get a warning. How someone like you has made it this long in life gives me little hope.'' 
*'''[[Irianke]]''' - ''You make me nervous, on an instinctual level.'' 
*'''[[Jo]]''' - ''Don't take it wrong when I say you kind of remind me of my mom. In this case, it's a good thing. You're good people.'' 
*'''[[Keysi]]''' - ''You're like the stoic ghost of decisions past. You should come around more when I need foresight, not reflection.'' 
*'''[[K'zin]]''' - ''I appreciate all you've done for me - you're a good guy.'' 
*'''[[T'mic]]''' - ''I think you love me, and I'm sorry for that.'' 
*'''[[Quinlys]]''' - ''Time to start betting on Irianke, it seems.'' 
*'''[[R'hin]]''' - ''You're dead, and that feels more wrong than anything has felt in a long time.'' 
*'''[[Z'kiel]]''' - ''As friends go, having one as low maintenance and prone to grunting as you are can't be anything but in my favor.''
==Summer's Dust and Desiccation Brown Sully==
Enough might label him spindly, even bony; his dusty brown hide a sirocco-whipped chiaroscuro of parched straw, dusty umber pebbles, and eroding soil. Dry ravines wander aimlessly amidst the thirsty landscape of long limbs and tail, while deep-hidden moisture tinged hide slightly darker at long belly and narrow chest, deepening to fertile loam at protected creases and joints. This penury is relieved only when shorter, but wide wings are unfurled: a dappled smattering of early autumn's colors imprinting themselves amidst the withered curl of late-summer's dead leaves. Baked rust, old gold, burned copper: these surprising tones ride along bones, at joints, and re-awaken at trailing edges of his pinions. All these colors highlight and contrast the desiccation of body, the arbors of his wings giving shade and a promise of the rainy season sure to come. Only in the withered, dark mahogany of his claws - that coloration also found at very tips of neck ridges - can be seen the fiercest heat of the long summer that bore him.

=Soundtrack=
{{{!}}style="width: 100%;"
{{!}}-valign="top"
{{!}}-style="width:25%;"
{{!}}{{!}}'''The Fox - Niki & The Dove''' [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l2f6UbMnlq4 [X]] ''I've grown a handsome tall tree, mother And I want to bear a fruit for you And I've carried your fears and your hopes, father It's so heavy on my back, oh you should know''
 
'''Breathe Me - Sia''' [http://vevo.ly/hq5YG8 [X]] ''Ouch, I have lost myself again Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found Yeah, I think that I might break Lost myself again and I feel unsafe ''
 
'''Hemlock - Quiet Hounds''' [https://quiethounds.bandcamp.com/track/hemlock-2 [X]] ''I heard in the arching canyons, some birds lose their wings so high from the greatest distance, no more will they sing We'll stay with the broken hearted, stay here with our friends Long gone are the righteous wonders, you and me in the end ''
{{!}}'''Bravado - Lorde''' [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xV_xHBdLFSk [X]] ''It's a switch flipped It's a pill tipped back, it's a moon eclipsed, whoa And I can tell you that when the lights come on I'll be ready for this''
 
'''Falling - HAIM''' [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIjVpRAXK18 [X]] ''Don't stop, no it's never enough
I'll never look back, never give up And if it gets rough, it's time to get rough But now I'm falling, falling, falling ''
{{!}}}

=Extras =
==== Myers-Briggs: The Adventurer/Composer====
'''Meyers-Briggs'''
'''Type:''' [http://www.16personalities.com/isfp-personality ISFP] 
'''Variant:''' Assertive               '''Role:''' Explorer 
'''Strengths:''' Passionate, curious, sensitive to others, imaginative        '''Weaknesses:''' Fiercely independent, unpredictable, competitive, fluctuating self-esteem 
"The biggest challenge facing ISFPs is planning for the future. Finding constructive ideals to base their goals on and working out goals that create positive principles is no small task. Unlike Sentinel types, ISFPs don't plan their futures in terms of assets and retirement. Rather, they plan actions and behaviors as contributions to a sense of identity, building a portfolio of experiences, not stocks."

= RP Logs =

{{NewLogs |name=Faryn}}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

=Icons=
{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Crafters, Beastcrafters, High Reaches Area, High Reaches Weyr, Tillek, Ista Weyr
}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Tillek_Hold]]

Logs:Bitter Tears

2015-10-11T22:28:07Z

Faryn:

{{Log
|who=Faryn
|what=After [[Logs:Murder Gather|R'hin's murder]], Faryn stays in Crom a few extra hours.
|where=Crom Hold
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold
|day=18
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.11
|quote="Did you know him?"
|mentions=R'hin
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon faryn cry.png,
|log=There is at least one person in Crom sympathetic to a young woman who looks like she needs a good drink to stabilize her, regardless of the knot she wears from a weyr that's been nothing but trouble, lately. Faryn was ‘’not crying’’ when she broke away from the crowd, and she’s not crying when she hollowly asks if she can buy a drink -- or a bottle -- from a barman who has not quite taken his table down, her voice hollow and resigned. He looks her over, eyes lingering on her knot briefly. He nods. Pulls a bottle, then thinks the better and pulls a glass instead to pass to her. He winces when she swallows it all in a go and shoves it forward for a refill. "Pace yourself, y'hear?"

No reply. She looks at the bottle, then tries on a smile that looks like it hurts. Tries a nod with it. The entire attempt rings too false, so he pours again, halfway full this time, to pace her himself.

“Did you know him?”

“Not really.”

“Can’t find a ride?”

“Didn’t look.”

Two hours later, with the bitter afternoon relenting into night, he escalates to commentary: “Girl like you shouldn’t be a rider. Seems a lot more knifeplay than anything else, these days. You could find a nice boy, get married, settle down.” The cold cutting sharper when the sun dips low, and Faryn stares into her glass, listening to his assessment. Remembering what she'd told someone she didn't know, about her life, what she wanted. What she ''didn't'' want. Be greater; be better; be good.

She can’t; she isn't. Her patience frays at the ends long before that, around the same time that she realizes she's crying, for Faranth knows how long. The bartender reaches out to try and comfort her with a hand on her shoulder and a reassuring squeeze as she ducks her head between her arms, her crying silent save sniffles and a couple strangled sobs of punctuation. When she seems to calm and her shoulders stop shaking, the man squeezes again. "Thought you didn't know him?"

She bites, "I ''dont''," with more ferocity than necessary, and pays him without ever looking him in the face again.

Long minutes walking in the bitter cold take her back, where there isn’t a crowd anymore. The scene is still closed off and protected, and the guards spot her right away as the only person moving directly towards them. She’s not sneaking, not subtle. When one of them moves a little more aggressively than she likes to intercept her, she holds her hands up in tired surrender to waylay him. “I don’t want to go in there.” He settles down a bit.

She isn't crying anymore, or maybe her tears froze. She looks at the tent like it’s a puzzle she can deconstruct, or possibly like she expects R’hin to poke his head out at the guards. Joke’s on them, and wouldn’t he be ‘’just’’ that brand of asshole? Hasn’t he been nothing ‘’but’’ that particular brand of asshole? And yet… Faryn feels her throat tighten again, and she swallows painfully against another round of tears she didn’t invite.

''Did you know him?'' the bartender had asked. It makes her laugh now, as sharp as the cold that's eating away at her, a poor imitation of the real thing.

''No,'' she thinks, ''Not sure anyone did.''

"Bye, R'hin." Her voice is harsh, but it's too cold to linger as nighttime sets its hooks, and the guards look seconds from deciding she must know something, too, their interest piqued by the laugh for all it held no humour. She doesn’t know anything. Not about this. Not about him. She leaves, and doesn't look back.
|Categories=Angst Logs
}}

Logs:Bitter Tears

2015-10-11T21:14:31Z

Faryn:

{{Log
|who=Faryn
|what=After [[Logs:Murder Gather|R'hin's murder]], Faryn stays in Crom a few extra hours.
|where=Crom Hold
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold
|day=18
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.11
|quote="Did you know him?"
|mentions=Aughan, Farideh, R'hin
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon faryn cry.png,
|log=There is at least one person in Crom sympathetic to a young woman who looks like she needs a good drink to stabilize her, regardless of the knot she wears from a weyr that's been nothing but trouble, lately. Faryn was ‘’not crying’’ when she broke away from the crowd, and she’s not crying when she hollowly asks if she can buy a drink -- or a bottle -- from a barman who has not quite taken his table down, her voice hollow and resigned. He looks her over, eyes lingering on her knot briefly. He nods. Pulls a bottle, then thinks the better and pulls a glass instead to pass to her. He winces when she swallows it all in a go and shoves it forward for a refill. "Pace yourself, y'hear?"

No reply. She looks at the bottle, then tries on a smile that looks like it hurts. Tries a nod with it. The entire attempt rings too false, so he pours again, halfway full this time, to pace her himself.

“Did you know him?”

“Not really.”

“Can’t find a ride?”

“Didn’t look.”

Then, commentary: “Girl like you shouldn’t be a rider. Seems a lot more knifeplay than anything else, these days. You could find a nice boy, get married, settle down.” That’s late in the conversation, two hours later with the bitter afternoon relenting into night, the cold cutting sharper when the sun dips low. She’s still ‘’waiting’’ like she can be anything useful to Farideh when the inquisition is over.

She can’t; she isn't. Her patience frays at the ends long before that, around the same time that she realizes she's crying, for Faranth knows how long. The bartender reaches out to try and comfort her with a hand on her shoulder and a reassuring squeeze as she ducks her head between her arms, her crying silent save sniffles and a couple strangled sobs for punctuation. When she seems to calm, the man squeezes again. "Thought you didn't know him?"

She bites, "I ''dont''," with more ferocity than necessary, and pays him without ever looking him in the face again.

Long minutes walking in the bitter cold take her back, where there isn’t a crowd anymore. The scene is still closed off and protected, and the guards spot her right away as the only person moving directly towards them. She’s not sneaking, not subtle. When one of them moves a little more aggressively than she likes to intercept her, she holds her hands up in tired surrender to waylay him. “I don’t want to go in there.” He settles down a bit.

She isn't crying anymore, or maybe her tears froze. She looks at the tent like it’s a puzzle she can deconstruct, or possibly like she expects R’hin to poke his head out at the guards. Joke’s on them, and wouldn’t he be ‘’just’’ that brand of asshole? Hasn’t he been nothing ‘’but’’ that particular brand of asshole? And yet… Faryn feels her throat tighten again, and she swallows painfully against another round of tears she didn’t invite.

''Did you know him?'' the bartender had asked. It makes her laugh now, as sharp as the cold that's eating away at her, a poor imitation of the real thing.

''No,'' she thinks, ''Not sure anyone did.''

"Bye, R'hin." Her voice is harsh, but it's too cold to linger as nighttime sets its hooks, and the guards look seconds from deciding she must know something, too, their interest piqued by the laugh for all it held no humour. She doesn’t know anything. Not about this. Not about him. She leaves, and doesn't look back.
|Categories=Angst Logs
}}

Logs:Bitter Tears

2015-10-11T20:14:14Z

Faryn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Faryn |what=After R'hin's murder, Faryn stays in Crom a few extra hours. |where=Crom Hold |involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold |day=18 |mon..."

{{Log
|who=Faryn
|what=After [[Logs:Murder Gather|R'hin's murder]], Faryn stays in Crom a few extra hours.
|where=Crom Hold
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold
|day=18
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.11
|quote="Did you know him?"
|mentions=Aughan, Farideh, R'hin
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon faryn cry.png,
|log=There is at least one person in Crom sympathetic to a young woman who looks like she needs a good drink to stabilize her, regardless of the knot she wears from a weyr that's been nothing but trouble, lately. Faryn was ‘’not crying’’ when she broke away from the crowd, and she’s not crying when she hollowly asks if she can buy a drink -- or a bottle -- from a barman who has not quite taken his table down, her voice hollow and resigned. He looks her over, eyes lingering on her knot briefly. He nods. Pulls a bottle, then thinks the better and pulls a glass instead to pass to her. He winces when she swallows it all in a go and shoves it forward for a refill. "Pace yourself, y'hear?"

No reply. She looks at the bottle, then tries on a smile that looks like it hurts. Tries a nod with it. The entire attempt rings too false, so he pours again, halfway full this time, to pace her himself.

“Did you know him?”

“Not really.”

“Can’t find a ride?”

“Didn’t look.”

Late in the conversation, two hours wasted in a bottle with the bitter afternoon relenting into night, the cold cutting sharper when the sun dips low. She’s still ‘’waiting’’ like she can be anything useful to Farideh when the inquisition is over. “Girl like you shouldn’t be a rider. Seems a lot more knifeplay than anything else, these days. You could find a nice boy, get married, settle down.” That’s

She can’t; she isn’t. Her patience frays at the ends long before that, around the same time that she realizes she's crying, for Faranth knows how long. The bartender reaches out to try and comfort her with a hand on her shoulder and a reassuring squeeze as she ducks her head between her arms, her crying silent save sniffles and a couple strangled sobs for punctuation. When she seems to calm, the man squeezes again. "Thought you didn't know him?"

She bites, "I ''dont''," with more ferocity than necessary, and pays him without ever looking him in the face again.

Long minutes walking in the bitter cold take her back, where there isn’t a crowd anymore. The scene is still closed off and protected, and the guards spot her right away as the only person moving directly towards them. She’s not sneaking, not subtle. When one of them moves a little more aggressively than she likes to intercept her, she holds her hands up in tired surrender to waylay him. “I don’t want to go in there.” He settles down a bit.

She isn't crying anymore, or maybe her tears froze. She looks at the tent like it’s a puzzle she can deconstruct, or possibly like she expects R’hin to poke his head out at the guards. Joke’s on them, and wouldn’t he be ‘’just’’ that brand of asshole? Hasn’t he been nothing ‘’but’’ that particular brand of asshole? And yet… Faryn feels her throat tighten again, and she swallows painfully against another round of tears she didn’t invite.

''Did you know him?'' the bartender had asked. It makes her laugh now, as sharp as the cold that's eating away at her, a poor imitation of the real thing.

''No,'' she thinks, ''Not sure anyone did.''

"Bye, R'hin." Her voice is harsh, but it's too cold to linger as nighttime sets its hooks, and the guards look seconds from deciding she must know something, too, their interest piqued by the laugh for all it held no humour. She doesn’t know anything. Not about this. Not about him. She leaves, and doesn't look back.
|Categories=Angst Logs
}}

Logs talk:Solace

2015-10-11T19:04:00Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Yesia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Solace]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Squishy (01:09, 11 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Aww. Yesia. Jo. I love this moment between them.
==Alida (01:50, 11 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Awwww...JoJo. :( Yesia... for once, you did GOOD. :)
==Jo (11:52, 11 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Eventually when she gets past this moment she's in, Jo ''will'' suddenly look up as she remembers this night and go, "Yesia really did-? Did she just-?" And Tacuseth will go, << Yes. Yes she did. >>
==Yesia (12:04, 11 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

You all have ''so so so'' little faith in her as a good person. It's no wonder she continues to be a terrible shallow asshole.

Logs:X'vin's Methods

2015-10-11T16:50:52Z

Faryn:

{{Log
| who = Dee, X'vin
| where = A tavern in Ruatha region
| what = While shadowing Flint Wing, Dee picks X'vin's brain about his methods and ideas for the future of Fort.
| involves =Fort Weyr
| day =18
| month = 13
| turn = 38
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.10.10
| quote = "Would you say it's safer for the wings to focus on one-in-a-million maybes or on circumstances that are telegraphed and preventable but ignored?"
| weather =
| mentions = E'dre, Edric, Erinta, Giarnon, Hattie, Lilah
| ooc =
| icons = dee short.jpg, x'vin explaining.png
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
The type of place you end up when someone suggests a tavern says quite a lot about the company you keep. There are the frequent places -- seedier bars near Fort Sea, filled with loud sailors and swill, and there is always the southerly Lava Lounge too -- but if you ask a man like X'vin, the best kept secrets are the taverns that won't get you stabbed and robbed. This one, for example, is probably only a tavern by strict definition. Just west of the Hold on an ambling and well-maintained road, the tavern itself is comfortably and modestly appointed, catches lots of sunlight and is notably ''cleaner'' than taverns tend to be. The proprietor is a kind, rotund women in her middle-age and the minimal staff is quick, efficient, and extremely discreet, hovering around the edges of the few tables that are occupied.

"Whatever you'd like, Dee," X'vin says when they've settled in, not ordering himself. Even so, the barman pulls down a bottle and two wine glasses, setting it down and beginning to pour one of them. The morning has been drills -- a chunk of the wing notably missing -- but the afternoon is lunch, and what comes after that remains to be seen, or even acknowledged in conversation.

Dee is the sort of weyrling shadow that might exhaust the person saddled with her company. Her font of questions might seem endless, but when it comes time to ''do'', she lapses into a silence that is near as exhausting given the intensity of her focus on observation and replication as needed and otherwise memorizing all she's being exposed to. Twelve days might as well seem a turn. Today has been little different, though she's ''tempered'' the timing of her questions to the wingleader, likely because of his previous cautions to her to not work too hard. Still, leading up to their arrival for lunch, it's obvious that Dee's working up to something. It's in the tense way she's holding herself in her seat, in the slight pucker to the skin between her brows and in the set of her lips.

Dee's lips shift to a genuine and friendly smile as their given the choices for the afternoon's meal. She asks for a recommendation and takes it without a second thought and with sincere thanks. It's only after the pair is left alone that the young goldrider focuses hazel eyes on the wingleader. "Why isn't Flint conducted like the traditional wings?" must be the thing that she's wanted to ask and been struggling to find a more polite way (she's clearly failed in that regard).

X'vin's glass arrives while Dee's ordering, and his own request is, "The usual," which probably explains more than anything else has. He swirls the red in his glass and considers her. Whether he finds her question appropriate or impolite, the curve of his smile remains unchanged. "I choose to trust my riders with a degree of autonomy that most leaders don't agree with," he says after a few moments. "Morale carries a rider - and a wing - much further than threats and punishment. Lilah was starting to understand, before..."

Dee's wine goes untouched for the moment. Instead, her arms settle on the edge of the table, folded over one another so she can lean a little forward. "What do they ''do'' differently than the other wings as a result? What kinds of goals do you set for them?" For a moment it seems that might be all there is, but then suddenly and a touch awkwardly, "Do you want your weyrwomen to understand? I'm listening." ''Really''. Her expression is open, her attention complete on what he might like to tell her. Aside from the fact that there's a dragon somewhere outside that could whisk her away, she's a captive and willing audience for his proselytizing should he elect to make the attempt.

X'vin listens without interrupting, but he's somewhat less rapt; a waitstaff gets his attention by walking too closely, and he follows the man's progress right up until she grows awkward. One eyebrow betrays his amusement, quirking upward in contrast with the warmth of his eyes. "I'd like my weyrwomen to respect the choices made by a fighting wing...when there's nothing to ''fight''." His tone is pointed. Setting his glass on the table, X'vin straightens, a sure sign he's ready to engage fully. "Flint ''did'' maintain friendly relationships with the Holds, until E'dre requested we withdraw. I don't think he understands. Keeping the Holds feeling safe, ''earning'' our tithes, so to speak. It is nothing so glorious as fighting Thread, but you can see how far the weyr's regard has fallen in a turn. People stealing from the tithes and the stores?" He lets that sink. "It will get worse if we're not careful."

Dee flinches slightly at the mention of the stores, her eyes dropping down to the table just ahead of her arms. She shifts her positioning without really doing much to alter it before letting her eyes return to the wingleader. "It's sad how short-sighted people can be," she chooses the words carefully. "In an Interval, it's easy to lose sight of why we do this, on both sides," she pauses briefly to reach for her wine. "Just as in the Pass it's hard to think beyond the next Fall and the next, I'd imagine," she can only imagine, of course. "And it seems like whatever progress is made in one Interval is near forgotten in the swirl of chaos, Fall and fight that dominates a Pass." She chews her lower lip.

"There's no right answer," concedes the bronzerider easily enough, "but there's no reason to fan the flames. Flint keeps up their drills, of course, because we can't afford to lose it. I hardly think six days of drilling it is anything but bravado, and certainly a waste of time when -- well. When there are ways we can be useful elsewhere. Simple things, really. Edric suggested a widening of road and clearing of greenery near the weyr, for example." He tsks lightly. "There is a difference between remembering the past, respecting it, learning from it, and digging your hooks in that it might stay forever." He takes his glass then, drinks long, and decides, "I don't think there's a perfect way. Just that there's a better one, and a better use for us than sitting in the weyr demanding to be brought supplies, in return for what?"

"If your wing was called upon tomorrow to fight Thread," Dee wonders without accusation, "do you think you would fare as well as wings that do drill six days a seven?" She sips her wine before setting it back down, no swirling or anything that marks her as a wine connoisseur. "It seems like the roads would see more traffic during the Interval," she allows with cautious consideration. "What would you do if you held the Weyrleader's knot?" Perhaps another goldrider would ask this more tactfully, but Dee's inquiry seems based in honest curiosity. "Would all the wings shift to be like Flint?"

"If my wing were called upon to fight Thread tomorrow, I have a feeling the concern would be less about who did the best in the 'Fall. Flint would do it's duty, and well, but I won't pretend that obsessive drilling wouldn't give some wings the advantage, just as it would in a Threadfall competition. But then again, how seriously is anyone taking it, right now?" For the roads, X'vin only holds his hands out, palms up in surrender. "Some people pick and choose the parts of their beliefs they like the most. The roads are less important than drills, and the greenery is less important than the roads. Slippery slope." As for the rest? He laughs with good nature, shaking his head. "I wouldn't presume to know. Ideally, you'd work ''with'' your wingleaders, for cohesion. Not every wing would work as mine, and not ever rider fits with Flint. It's not so cut and dry."

"No one saw the comet pass coming," Dee reaches a hand up to rub across her suddenly wrinkled brow, smoothing the skin and her brows back down before she shifts to lean back in her chair. "I'd prefer if Thread fell that we didn't suffer loss, let alone catastrophic loss, in the first hit." Her eyes close briefly. "Shells. A turn ago I couldn't have imagined having this conversation." It's an off-topic observation, but it doesn't stop her from leaning back toward X'vin to tilt her head and ask, "Is there a happy medium? How would you do it? Split some wings to tasks with the Holds and Crafts and keep some solely drilling? Should the wings shuffle? Everyone get used to working with everyone else instead of just their own wing when it comes to drills?" She's thinking, that much is obvious from her expression, mind chasing down the what ifs and maybes.

"Would you say it's safer for the wings to focus on one-in-a-million maybes or on circumstances that are telegraphed and preventable but ignored? An earthquake could bring this building down around our ears before the lunch hour is up, Dee. Would you stand in a doorframe to eat your meal, or would you consider building a sturdier structure? Is it in your nature to ignore things until they become a problem?" She won't have enough time to answer, because, "No. No, if that were the case, you would have sat and waited for Lilah to fix the problems, rather than steal from the stores in desperation. Desperate people don't think clearly." X'vin pauses long enough to flash a brilliant smile at the waiter who brings their meals, and leaves the wine bottle behind in his wake, but he doesn't immediately touch his food and the smile dims quickly. "Are you displeased with the way E'dre runs the weyr and his wings?" X'vin asks in kind imitation of her curiosity, instead of answering her question.

"I've learned a lot since then," is quiet defense. "I'm still young and I still don't know everything, but I'm thinking, I'm projecting, I'm trying to understand the problems other people see, particularly if they're things I can't or don't have experience with yet." Dee sighs softly. "The northern Weyrs are ''different'' than the Southern ones. The way the Holds and Weyrs interact... It's-- I don't think I could describe it, but things seem so much colder, always so much more ''dire'' here." That in of itself seems to be difficult for Dee to wrap her head around. "I'm displeased with where Fort is at now. Things are being done, but I'm not sure they're the right things. I don't know enough to know if E'dre is aiding or stymieing attempts to forge the future of the Weyr. He means well, whatever his results." That much seems to make things all the more difficult to judge in the young woman's eyes.

X'vin gently raps a nail against the curve of his glass; it sings soprano vibration for a moment. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and it doesn't change the result." He finally picks up his utensils while she compares the weyrs she knows, and he's fastidious about cutting into the meat on his plate into bite-sized pieces. "I know you've learned. It wasn't an attack, it was an observation that I think you can relate to now, more than you could six months ago. I came here with the tools and the connections to help Lilah get Fort into a better place, but with her gone -- E'dre and Hattie are hidebound and stubborn." The words are better than the curl of his lips around them.

Dee is silent and staring for some moments in the wake of his words, but her expression gives little away. When she speaks, it is with a new question, "So what would you have ''me'' do differently?" Presumably ''after'' Taeliyth would give her a measure of power to do or not do things the same or differently than those presently tending to the running of the Weyr.

This new line of conversation gives X'vin pause, fork and knife hovering over his plate for several heartbeats before he sets them down to study her. "Don't lose yourself. You said it yourself, Dee. You've learned, and hopefully enough that you can handle the things that are going to come your way. Lilah, Hattie, E'dre...they don't know ''people''. Lilah was learning, but she's --" a wave of the hand. "You do. Don't lose that to what you're learning."

"Not exactly what I meant," Dee tells the bronzerider with a wan smile after a sucked breath and its exhale. She sits back in her chair to look at him from this new, slightly slouched angle. "How would you have me deal with the Holds? Like you? Lending riders? I'm not very good at schmoozing," is nearly a warning. "Particularly with Holders."

X'vin rolls his eyes and laughs, mostly at himself it seems. "That sounded more pat than I meant it to, but I'm serious, and I already answered that. People in general hear what they want to hear; from you, right now? They want to hear that you're just as dismissive of their plights and concerns as the current weyrleadership. If you want to ''schmooze'' them, let me buy you a few dresses and take you to a few gathers; if you want them to ''respect'' you, treat them like people, not a means to an end or a burden." But up comes his silverware again, so he can spear a piece of meat and consider her more seriously. "Would you have me escort you to the Holds as I did Lilah? She was learning. Shards, she even convinced Giarnon to let her take Erinta, and I didn't even know. Sometimes it's who you know."

Dee's hands finally see fit to make busy with her meal. "I don't have a problem treating people like people, the thing is that sometimes treating people as ''people'' and not--" She squints at her wine, trying to find the words for it, finally waving her fork to dismiss the search, "Well, something else, anyway, just doesn't work out for furthering relations. Most of the Holders wouldn't have chosen a Southern farmcrafter for Weyrwoman." Fortunately or unfortunately for Dee, the Holders in question don't have a say about that anymore than most of the Weyr does. "It's generally preferred that I go with an escort when I go, for as much the safety of Hold relations as for my own safety," Dee's frowning briefly at that, but recovers in the next moment. "I'd be pleased to have your guidance, X'vin." For some, if not probably for ''all'' her visits out of Weyr. Certainly at this stage, it's probably wisest for Dee to play more than one side of a thing before committing herself. Call it gaining life experience.

"You'll learn quicker than Lilah, then. In the beginning, teaching her to smile was like pulling her teeth out. You could just see it, here." He points to his eyes. "You haven't got that. It hardly matters where you're from now -- I'll vouch for you." He says it in a way that says it is worth more than anyhting else he could give her. He eats another bite with an mmm sound. "They didn't ask for a brownrider as a weyrleader or their Lord to vanish either. They're learning to deal with the unexpected as much as you are. You'd be surprised how much treating them like people will get you." His smile is grim when he notes, "I doubt they'd hurt you. They'd be stuck with a weyrwoman they know doesn't want the knot. No matter. It's less the visits and more the practice talking to them. We can start later. After lunch, maybe."

"Maybe," Dee suggests after a few bites, "you could start me off with some smaller places that do a fair bit of farming. If nothing else, I'll be able to be truly interested in what the Holder has to say about his land. I've been thinking that must be my point of common ground for starting, mustn't it?" She lifts her brows at X'vin in question. Still, her attention for the topic seems to be wandering with the increased focus on what's on her plate. The recommendation must have been good.

"That could work," says X'vin slowly, with the ever-hanging ''but'' on the end, unspoken as he focuses on his meal. He'll elaborate on it later, presumably. After lunch.
}}

[[Category:FTW_Clutch_32_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Solace

2015-10-11T08:06:15Z

Faryn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jo, Yesia |what=After Crom, Jo shows up on Yesia's ledge for comfort. |where=Puddle-Keeper Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |day=18 |month=13 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |..."

{{Log
|who=Jo, Yesia
|what=After Crom, Jo shows up on Yesia's ledge for comfort.
|where=Puddle-Keeper Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|day=18
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.10
|mentions=R'hin
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon jo cracked.jpg, Icon yesia sympathy.png,
|log=It's some time late the evening - long after the gather in Crom ends - that Tacuseth arrives on Aeaeth's ledge. His color is off; something towards a bluish grey as Jo slides down from his back and stumbles. << Aeaeth, >> is his call, the blue making sure he's more towards the puddle than encroaching on her space. As for Jo, the bloody halter is gone. All she has on is dark leathers that smell new as she shuffles feet towards the weyr.

The considerable time between then and now hasn't put enough distance between itself and the greenpair with the puddle ledge for either of them to be at ease, but it has given them time to settle into a comfortable environment, as best they can. Yesia's inside, then, warm and wrapped up in a large blanket with a mug of klah, hair down and make-up off, the dress she wore to the gather out of sight in favor of fleecy sleepwear. She looks comfortable, warm, and when word of company reaches her she's slow to move.

On the ledge, Aeaeth is facing the weyr, her head on her paws and her back to weyr bowl, as close as she can be this unfriendly night to her lifemate without frostbite making a surprise appearance. << Tacuseth, >> Aeaeth sighs, her colors as washed out as Tacuseth's, but returning slowly. They brighten noticably when she sees him, and whispes of Jo, << Is she--? >>

<< Bad, sweets, >> Tacuseth answers on his lifemate as he slumps towards the green. He sounds drained, the shadows as washed out as his color. He looks back to watch Jo's progress as she appears on Yesia's threshold, her jacket unfastened to reveal nothing but scarred skin underneath - her hair a mess and her face splotchy as she pauses there, looking at her. No words come, but the bluerider looks listless as she tries to compose herself before the greenrider.

"Jo!" carries with it genuine surprise, which means Aeaeth yet again was too distracted tell Yesia who was coming. She rises quickly, tangled in the blanket enough that she ends up batting it away, stepping free and looking at the bluerider with something not unlike her initial terror of Jo, months ago. "You look," begins, is curtailed and replaced, "Are you okay?"

When she hears her name, it spurs Jo forward. A tear falls down one cheek as she haltingly closes the distance, Yesia's answer being a shake of her head. All she can manage is a bare whispered, "Yesia," before she tries to draw her in against her.

Initial terrors for a moment have initial reactions. It's fair--her most recent vision of Jo is a yellow halter covered in blood, and her dragon ''never'' forgets colors when they're striking. She tries to retreat and trips in the blanket, enough to waylay her progress. She's talking, though; she always talks. "Wait, no, you were...and that was Monaco's...and ''Leiventh''? You can't just come here like--"

When Yesia starts to talk and trip over her words, Jo wrenches herself out of that jacket in second. It drops, bare from her pants upwards as her hands reach to cup Yesia's face as she follows that retreat. Her lips descend on those words, tasting of her tears as she presses her close with one hand going to the small of her back.

"Mm!" Startled though she is, Yesia allows herself to be drawn forward into that kiss, taking some solace from it for a half-second. Jo is ''Jo'', still, even if she tastes like salt and looks like sadness incarnate. Her fingertips trace scars, tentative. "I'm sorry," is all she says when they break a moment, but her fingers have moved to twine in Jo's.

There's heat in that kiss when it's mostly desperation. She lets Yesia touch her scars when the kiss breaks, and it's those words - and those fingers - that has a small whimper escaping from her lips. She can't speak, her fingers twining in turn as she slowly slides to her knees as she buries her face into Yesia's clothes, perhaps to hide her tears.

Yesia's breath is shuddery, and she is as appreciative of the reprieve from intensity as Jo must be for the shelter of Yesia's legs. It gives her time to gather herself again, eyes closing for a few steadying inhales before she reaches a hand down to touch Jo's hair. Seconds later, she's down on her knees too, her arms around Jo's neck so she can pull her into an embrace, her mouth near the bluerider's ear. "Shhhhhh, Jo. Shhhhhh."

Jo has shuddery breaths against Yesia's clothes, feeling that touch to her hair. Then she's ''there'', curling into that embrace as she fights furiously to stop the flow of tears. Yesia's lips near her ears - those words - there must be a thin line between grief and passion for her. She inhales her scent as fingers touch her red hair, her nose nuzzling into her neck before she tries to claim those lips once more. There's nothing rational to her right now. Only the pull between raw hurt and anger, and the sexuality she's clearly familiar with.

Any other night, Yesia might accept that affection, justify it, and bask in the aftermath. Tonight, even she has some decency. She draws away, one cradling the side of Jo's face so she can look her in the eye and shake her head. It's not accusing this time; just gentle and reflecting her apology. "No. Not now. Not when you...just ''no''." She's gentle, but firm. "You can stay the night. To ''sleep''. So you're not alone."

The firmness with the gentleness has Jo looking Yesia in the face when she tries to kiss her. Any other night, there would be a plethora of crass remarks to give in response. It's the typical 'Jo' thing to do and say. That none comes at all in the space of silence to follows perhaps speaks more. A hand reaches up to drape over the greenrider's hand on the side of her face, looking into her eyes before she finally nods on exhale. Sleep. She looks to the bed for a moment before slowly gettin to her feet.

Yesia holds her breath while she waits for a response, sighing with relief when she agrees. She stands too, gathering up the blanket around her to drag it along as she shutters the few glows that still light the weyr. It's childlike, but her progress is steady until she makes it to the last glow beside the big bed.

At first, once Jo's standing, she looks lost as she casting a glance about her through a watery blur. Mostly, she looks tired, and there's a drag to her as she slowly slips out of her boots. Despite being topless, she keeps her pants on once she straightens and watches Yesia with the glows. Silence still marrs her features.

Yesia doesn't drag, and indeed crawls onto the bed like second nature, still dragging the blanket along. She lacks the patience and energy to put it on properly, and even rumpled and half-hanging off the bed there's room enough for two beneath it. She's wearing it like an overlarge cape when she reaches out for Jo's hand and tugs her gently, the other arm held out and up to make a cave of the excess blanket. "Come on."

It's rare to have Jo quiet or acquiescent. There's no innuendo where there should be - no suggestiveness in smiles and body language. The language seen is one of a weary woman that's had a far too long day, and perhaps later she would return with all her masks of bravado in place. Not tonight. Her hand is taken and she's easy to pull into the comfort of that blanket as she slides in. Seeking warmth, her fingers grip Yesia's once she's prone.

Jo's silence should be unsettling, certainly, but Yesia just goes through motions; rolling away to shutter that last glow, going through the work of orienting the blanket around them both, and settling flush to the bluerider. She is patient and silent, while she hugs her and waits for the regularity of breath that indicates she's fallen asleep, however long it takes; it's not until she can count the breaths unbroken that she closes her own eyes, and for her, sleep is instant.

Once prone, Jo is a little stiff. With Yesia moving close and hugging her, that stiffness melts away like the coming as the bluerider folds into her. It's awhile before Jo really does let herself fall asleep, but when she finally does, perhaps Yesia will hear that unmistakable, "Thanks," fall from her lips before taking that given comfort and letting down her guards enough to find true sleep.
}}

Logs talk:Everything's Wrong

2015-10-11T06:49:43Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Faryn - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Everything's Wrong]]
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==Squishy (23:23, 10 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Awww
==Faryn (23:49, 10 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Babies.

Logs talk:R'hin's End

2015-10-11T04:30:18Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Faryn - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:R'hin's End]]
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==Edyis (21:27, 10 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

-sobs-
==Faryn (21:30, 10 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

I reject this, it's an alternate universe.

Logs talk:Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader?

2015-10-11T04:20:16Z

Faryn: Comment provided by Yesia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader?]]
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==Yesia (21:20, 10 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

''There are totally intelligent riders. I met one just the other night. Her name is Yesia and she's amazing.''

Committed to history, everyone.

Logs:Put on the Mitt

2015-10-10T16:27:00Z

Faryn:

{{Log
|who=C'ris, Yesia
|what=C'ris has a gift for Yesia, along with a little advice.
|where=Puddle-Keeper Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|day=4
|month=3
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.04
|quote="I think she could use a friend, too. Just like you."
|mentions=Edyis, Quinlys
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon c'ris smile.png, Icon yesia tired.png,
|desc=The passage from the ledge narrows abruptly to a human-sized aperture that
disallows entry by a dragon, suggesting that damp depression outside is
truly the only couch available to the draconic resident. The entry is
angled for protection from the elements, though, and save a small space in
extremely strong winds, there's rarely any exposure to poor weather for
the weyr proper; it gets little wind and loses little heat naturally,
though a heavy drapery has been hung in place, if not for privacy than as
a failsafe in the colder months.

The interior of the weyr is impressive indeed, with high ceilings, shelves
carved straight into the walls, and ornate glow-holders at intervals that
are always fresh and light the room in gentle yellow-white. The furniture
is, like most furniture, secondhand, and the most impressive piece is
certainly the huge bed - not stone but framed and lifted off the floor by
hardy wooden construction, including both head and foot-boards. It's
flanked by a set of side tables that match each other, but not the bed.
The rest is average: a large desk and wooden chair; a well-padded armchair
and a mismatched loveseat, and a tall round table that usually has a
pitcher and mugs upon it.
|log=It isn't a dragon's touch that reaches out to Aeaeth to ask her permission to come to her weyr, nor even Mivength himself that brings C'ris up to the ledge, but rather another blue that plays elevator duty today. It may be, even, that the man would be secretly relieved if no one was home, for all that he calls out hesitantly, "Yesia?" as soon as he has slid down from the dragon. He clutches a cloth-wrapped bundle carefully, a scarf wrapped around his neck.

Since Aeaeth's not there, the blue gets no greeting in alighting on the ledge. And since there's no warning and Yesia wasn't expecting company, it's probably no surprise when the drapery covering the door shudders and Yesia pokes her head around it, looking ready to tell off whoever is standing there. The impression doesn't fade when she sees C'ris. "What are you doing here?" she asks, snippy, with a glance at the parcel in his hand.

"Hello," starts a bit too formal, before C'ris adds a, "Uh, hi. I mean, I-- How are you? Can I come in?" He doesn't exactly wiggle the package, but his fingers curve tighter around it even as he tries to slide a look hesitantly past Yesia and into the weyr there before his gaze returns to the weyrling quickly on catching himself.

"No. Does anyone know you're here? They're going to think you - I -" He ''knows'', that look says, and Yesia crosses her arms, her chin tilting up, her gaze flicking down to the parcel. She's not the best barrier for his view, but there is warmth emanating from the inside, which might be tantalizing enough. "What's that?"

"It's not-- No, this was me. I, uhm, a while back, got this made for you," explains C'ris, holding it out awkwardly towards her as she answers no. Maybe he had, in his mind, some bigger, grander gesture of revealing it. "Well, Edyis drew it. But I had the rest done." Inside the cloth is a sketch of Yesia and Aeaeth, caught in midst of an Eskimo kiss, and framed in dark wood and expensive glass.

His stumbling confession has Yesia's slender eyebrows arching in displeasure, but she takes his offering anyways, gripping it carefully. That she doesn't drop it as he explains is a good sign, even if her grip flexes on it as he says Edyis' name. She moves the cloth aside carefully, touching the frame, the glass, looking at the picture within with a softening expression. Then she moves the curtain aside wider, too, a tacit invitation so neither of them have to bear the cold. She's looking at it as she moves further in, and presently comes her only response. "Why?"

Gratefulness floods C'ris' expression as he steps inside, hands reaching to untwine the scarf from his neck and immediately make himself more comfortable even as he offers a quick, warm smile at Yesia for her question. "It's a weyr-warming gift. And it's such a nice drawing that Edyis made, and the two of you--," he starts easily, shrugging a shoulder up with a hint of what might be guilt. "She gave it to me months ago to give to you, but it took a while, you know, to get it done. But, I can hang it somewhere, for you?" He takes that moment to glance surreptitiously around the weyr, curious to see if she's made changes there.

Yesia's been busy, but all those times sneaking away when she was wingsecond have culminated in some changes: the extra seating in the form of a loveseat, for one, and the head and footboards of the bed. She's even scored a pair of sidetables, and at some point rearranged everything into a decent and functional array. But no, there's nothing ''warm'' about it, nothing that says it is hers except the fact that she's in it, in this moment. "The two of us ''what''?" she demands, putting the picture - face down - on the desk. His offer to hang it recieves no answer, though her eyes go to a point on the wall where it might fit. Considering.

"You look cute in it," answers C'ris of the statement he left off before, his fingers lifting to scrub at dark hair briefly. But then he'll look away too, towards the wall where she is looking to consider it as well.

Yesia can't argue against that. "Did she draw this while she was being all...stalky? I remember doing this. I told her to go away, and she drew a picture of me anyways?" A disgusted sound leaves her throat. "She's so weird." Vanity wins out, though. She lifts the picture at the corner of the frame, tilting her head to peek at it. "So weird."

C'ris shakes his head, finally drawing his gaze back to Yesia before he tells her gently, "Not weird. You are one of her clutchmates, and that matters. And--." Again, he trails off, hesitating over his words. But then he adds without her having to ask, "And, I think she could use a friend, too. Just like you."

Yesia's arms are still crossed over her chest, her frown relentless. "Weird. Maybe it's important to everyone else, but not to me. They're. I just don't fit in with them. I guess you were one of those lucky people I keep hearing about who did." She snorts, disdainful. "She doesn't want to be my friend. She already has Keysi and T'mic and..." Two is enough.

"But it doesn't mean she can't use another. Or that you-- I'm sorry," is how C'ris ends his statement simply, real empathy soft in his words for her statements rather than continuing to push the young woman into anything. "I'd guess that I, uh, was the one that all my clutchmates called weird. I didn't get along well during weyrlinghood. Mivength was-- Well, still is, but I couldn't figure out how to control him. I was always messing up."

"I just want to graduate," Yesia murmurs, "and not be..." she makes a so-so gesture with her hand, wobbling it. "Did it get better, after? Do you still like them? Are they your friends?" She has to wonder, because, "You came to help Quinlys even though you're not a weyrlingmaster," and that still strikes her as odd.

"You will," C'ris assures Yesia warmly, easily. He even pairs it with a smile towards the younger woman. "After, well-- Yeah. I mean, you get more freedom, but you can still mess up. But we're all ''dragonriders'', you know? We're all in this together." A pause, before he adds, "I guess that's why I came to help. Because I want to make a difference, and weyrlinghood--. You aren't the first person to have trouble with it."

Yesia is biting her lip, looking at him seriously, but eventually she picks up the picture anyways and strides towards the wall. She can't quite reach where it would fit, but she puts it in front of her to estimate what it might look like. "I don't think I'm the first person. I think - it would have been easier with different people. From the beginning, it's been like this. The moment I stepped foot in the candidate barracks. Here, maybe?" The query is an aside for the placement of the frame. "Edyis told me, the last time we really talked - when she drew this, I guess, a long time. She said she treats me like that because I act like a bitch. And I don't know how they expect me to just...lie down and take it." She looks over her shoulder at him.

"Sometimes it's not like-- Well, I mean, you can burn yourself in one of the kitchens ovens, and you can kick and scream all you want, but if you keep reaching into the oven without putting on a mitt, you're going to keep getting burned, you know?" C'ris starts slowly, but eventually he settles comfortably if quietly into his metaphor as he smile again as she looks at him. "You could just walk away, sure, but then you also don't get food, either. So, sometimes-- You just have to put on the mitt." Then he steps forward, reaching to take the picture and hold it up that bit higher where it would fit better.

Yesia relinquishes the picture readily enough, stepping back even as her nose wrinkles at his metaphor, which is, for the record, weird. "What if that doesn't work? What if it still - ah - burns?"

"Then you, ah-- Try another oven? I mean, if you've really tried and used the mitt and--." Eventually even the metaphor is too much for C'ris, and there is a sudden quiet laugh that trails after his words that he can't quite finish. "Sorry. I just think, you know, if you wanted to." But he doesn't move away from holding the picture up for her.

Whether he intended to or not, Yesia laughs at him. "You're bad at those." But her mouth twists a little. "I'm bad at - " A brisk shake of the head, of those big ringlet curls that are growing and growing nearly to the point that they could be considered long again, "I - do want to. I'm tired." It sounds terrible from someone so young, but months of it makes that the only appropriate word. "That looks nice. Thank you. For - " the frame, the advice, the visit, the shitty metaphor.

C'ris offers immediately to the statement, dismissive, "It's no problem." He finally steps away from the wall, setting that framed sketch carefully down on the end table, before he steps forward to Yesia to wrap the greenrider into a brief, comforting hug. "We can both practice, get better. I'll work on that. But--." He draws away, before adding as he remembers, "I can go, so you can rest. I'll come back later to hang it with tools."

Yesia goes rigid for a moment under the contact - but it's been a long time, probably, since the stories she sometimes has when she talks to Paz, about how her dad used to hug her after his time in the mines. It's a brief thing, before she seems to appreciate it, and she doesn't try to make it anything more than it already is. "'kay," she agrees into his shoulder before he withdraws, and then issues a short laugh, "I don't have any hanging...things, anyways. Not much to hang."

The rigidness wasn't missed; there's a certain carefulness in the way C'ris moves, for all that the man was overall already gentle, in general. "I have some; I used to hang stuff up for-- Well, it doesn't matter. But I'll come back," he tells her, his smile holding the promise there. "Take care, ok? I'll see you tomorrow." And there is one last lingering, concerned look on the bluerider's part, before he moves from the weyr.

Yesia is awfully agreeable now, another, "Okay," forthcoming for all of it. When he's gone, she takes the picture in hand, and settles in the big chair while she listens for wings to bear C'ris off. She's pensive, looking at it, but eventually her fingers touch the glass, where her nose and Aeaeth's are touching, and she smiles at the image, for all it was drawn by a stalker.
}}

Logs:Cheap Way Out

2015-10-10T16:26:25Z

Faryn:

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Yesia
|what=This day, the day when Edyis and Yesia don't fight, must be a cold day in Igen.
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|day=1
|month=10
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.05.08
|quote=There is no cure for weyrlinghood except time.
|weather=Though overall pleasant, the temperature has dropped just below the freezing mark, enough to allow the lightest sprinkle of snow to fall from the skies.
|mentions=Farideh, Keysi, Laine, Olrina, Paz, Telavi
|type=Log
|ooc=Not even an AU!
|icons-new=Icon edyis considering.jpg, Icon edyis akluseth mine.png, Icon yesia tired.png, Icon yesia aeaeth siren.png,
|desc=>---< Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr(#276RJs) >-------------------------------<
The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself. A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.

-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------

Edyis F 20 5'4" athletic, brown hair, brown eyes 2m
Yesia F 17 5'5" hourglass, red hair, hazel eyes 0s
|log=Even in the fading light, and the cooling autumn temperatures Edyis and Akluseth are loathe to leave the shore of the lake. Tonight seems no exception even as Edyis hugs the loose sweater tighter about her small frame watching the brown as he plays in the waters. Soon there will be very little choice but to head back in but she seems to be stubbornly sticking it out.

"No, no." Yesia's voice is clear on the cool, still evening air, carried even easier over the water as she gets closer. "I don't expect you to sleep itchy, not any more than I would sleep with my hair a nest. I just thought maybe ''oil'' would be fine, love." If Aeaeth's low grumble is any indication, it's ''not'' fine. The dragon appears ahead of Yesia for once, probably because Yesia's ''stalking'', her jacket pulled tight around her in the quickly encroaching cold. There is no hesitation on the part of the little green, who barrels past the Edyis on shore with only a warning bugle and bright spots of itchy-brownblue in her << Excuse me! >> for Akluseth. Shortly, the green is sloshing into the water, disappearing just beneath the surface. It's more than Edyis get from Yesia, at least

Akluseth's greeting is a twist of warm water currents, easy and energetic as ever. << Itchy? >> Comes sympathetic with the drift of the waves. Edyis can't help but smirk a little, hoping the expression is hidden by the fading light. A deep sigh escapes. "Winter will come too soon." She murmurs softly, not to Yesia but not ignoring her either. Perhaps she simply wants to watch the greenrider ''suffer'' through a last minute bath.

Bubbles float to the top of the water from below, a preamble to Aeaeth popping out and spraying water everywhere she can, snorting it out of her nose. << Yes, >> she says vehemently. <> Drama queen she is, but the water has appeased her for now, and she floats languidly closer to her clutchsibling, sighing contentedly. "When it does, she won't get baths after the sun goes down," Yesia grumbles, too cold or too tired from the day to be directly bitter at Edyis just now. "I refuse."

"There's a hot spring, few hours flight from here, but you can't get there without flying." Which ''might'' explain why Edyis isn't there at the moment soaking away the day's soreness. <> Akluseth shares as she circles lazily. "I can't believe I used to be able to pick him up and carry him around."

"Well that doesn't do us any good," Yesia says, cutting a look to Edyis that lacks her unique and particular edge. She just looks...sleepy, right then. "I want to be able to fly," she almost whispers, watching Aeaeth in the water as the young green spreads her wings, practicing in the low-impact environment provided her. << The water helps. I dry out very fast. >> A sigh, and her progression is very easily seen: it's more than a bath she wants, and the green beelines for a rock in the middle of the lake, one just her size.

Edyis laughs despite herself. "Not much I know of that will do any us any good at the moment. There is no cure for weyrlinghood except time." Leaning against a boulder, dark eyes watching the brown and green, she asks after a long silence, "You came from Crom right? What possessed you to do something so crazy as stand for a clutch of eggs?" Genuinely curious, and no trace of mockery in her tone.

Yesia makes a quiet 'mmm'ing sound in acknowledgement. "We have plenty of that," the girl says, but it's not a pleased observation. Edyis' question gets her gaze, wary and immediately closed. "You don't care," isn't a question. It's a challenge, or perhaps just a wall going up to protect her.

"Blame all the stupid essays." Edyis murmurs with a dark chuckle still watching that brown in the water. "Don't know enough about you yet to care." She tosses back easily enough, and it's almost apologetic, and as close to an admission of being wrong as most people ever get from the prideful young woman. It may even cost her something, to judge from that distant expression.

"You never bothered to try," Yesia counters, because it's the natural course things take with them, it is automatic and still so very sleepy. She lets that hang, even in the face of some sort of apology, just to make sure it lands where it should before, "Yes, I'm from Crom. And I came because I could. I didn't have a craft, and what girl wouldn't, with a gold egg on the sands?"

"What incentive did I have to try?" She counters softly, and without any particular emotion. The mention of the golden egg causes her head to shake. "I never understood the appeal. It tends to be a rather boring set of responsibilities." The former scribe muses softly, "I feel badly for her though, all that running... but this suits her better I would wager. Even if she has a lot of growing up to do." She adds after a beat, "Even if we all have growing up to do."

Aeaeth has clambered atop a rock, her eyes reflecting the moonlight even at that distance. She's staring at their riders, and is sharing some secret when she whispers Akluseth's mind, clearly a little confused, << Mine...does not like yours. >> Which is to say, why are they talking? Even if they're not, right that moment, with Yesia staring out at her dragon with that pert little frown of hers, the one that is ever so common. "I was ''new''," she says eventually, for incentive. "I was new and far from home and alone. And you were all...." Whatever they were is encompassed in a shrug. "How can you not? All the stories and tales, Moreta and Lessa, why wouldn't every girl think they wanted it? But," she adds at the same time Aeaeth whuffs with displeasure, "I wouldn't want that gold now, not for anything. Aeaeth is my best friend. I've ''never'' had anything like her. Or anyone. I don't regret it."

Silver fishes dance in flashes of golden light filtered through restless waves. << Edyis. >> He muses to the green, << She is not the easiest person to get along with, but she is the way she is. >> Not one to offer up his rider's reasoning or secrets. As for the brownrider herself she sucks in a breath, "You say that as though it made you unique." It isn't biting or even cutting, more like a healer observing a patient for symptoms of a disease. "Why get to know a bunch of people who may or may not stay? Doesn't make any sense to get too attached only to say goodbye after a few months." But something in that, seems to encompass more than just candidacy. She smiles at the assertion. "That too is something I never quite understood. I hated Akluseth at first, but... it's like he knew he'd wear me down eventually. Seaweed brained brown."

"That's a shitty way of thinking about it. And it's a shittier reason for treating people...." She's so very close to voicing the truth of things, but Yesia is not brave, not like that, and it doesn't look like it will make it out. It's a good thing Aeaeth is better, even if it's in private with her clutchmate. << Yesia too. I think...she wants to try though. >> "It doesn't make anyone unique," Yesia continues. "You're not unique either. You're just another mean-spirited brownrider, too ''sensible''," in big air quotes, "to realize how bad you are to people, because people put up with it." There's still no love lost, apparently. "With that logic, why should I have bothered to try and be nice to you? To any of you? You called me names and put ''mud'' on my bed, and stole my pillows and tried to turn Paz and Olrina, my only friends, against me." Her horrified expression might be lost in the darkness, but it's rich in her voice. It's almost accusing. "''Hated''? How could you?"

"Maybe, everyone finds some way to cope." The brownrider reasons mildly. "No, I am not unique. Just one more bitter refugee." The assessment of herself equally bland. "Or perhaps I realize and I am just the sort of person who is terrible enough not to care?" It sounds more like playing advocate than a serious statement, but it might be difficult to tell with that distant expression trained on the brown and green. "So you were afraid, and new and so you acted out being terrible yourself because you were someplace new and scary." The observation bland, and without emotion. "Is that the shape of it?"

The unspeakable happens. Yesia, looking quietly at Edyis, pulls her coat around her, takes a few mincing steps closer, and sits down there, crosslegged and with her hands stuck in the circle of her legs. "You're from a hold. You should understand how people think about weyrs. And...Crom has history. People are wary of this place." The short answer is yes, but it's not enough. "I didn't know what to expect, except stories. And I didn't want you to think I was just some stupid hold girl, scared of her own shadow. Not that it took Farideh long to start calling me that, regardless." Bitterness there. "I won't take it," she states plainly, without her usual fervor. "I don't have to."

Edyis exhales softly pensive. "I can understand to an extent. I didn't exactly have the luxury of hostility as a defense when I first came here, but then I guess it was a different set of circumstances." Swallowing as though it was something she hadn't thought about in a long time. "I think I might have liked that Yesia better though, rather than the one who said every nasty thing that came to mind." The side of her mouth twitches downward faintly, but she allows herself to slip down the rock into a sitting position. Clearly thread is about ready to fall out of the clear starry sky.

Yesia shakes her curls adamantly, her declaration firm. "That Yesia would get eaten alive. If it hadn't been for Paz, I would have gone straight home. And now I can't anymore." She catches her lower lip, considering, then says, "I've got my letter to ask to go to Igen written. You can run off and tell your friends, I'm sure they'll be delighted. Only one person wants me to stay here anyways, and I think she's just being nice because it's her job." She sounds dubious on that point, but she doesn't elaborate further. "You guys win."

Edyis arches a brow at that. "That is a cheap way out." The former-scribe muses aloud. Ink-dark eyes focused on the red head now.

"It's a way out," Yesia retorts at once. "Like I care what you think. I just thought you would want to tell them. Then they can talk about things that are at least true."

Edyis snorts, "It's a cheap way out." She repeats. "But I suppose if you are that sort of person, you haven't changed much from when you first arrived." Pulling to her feet, "You have to be willing to fight for a place to make it home." Ambiguous words left open to interpretation, "If you run when things get difficult I guess this isn't that place for you."

"Not that you'd notice," Yesia all but hisses. "You don't ''know'' me, remember? How would you know if I've ''changed''?" She looks up at Edyis, almost seems like she might stand up just so the brownrider doesn't loom over her, but then opts to stare out at the lake instead. Aeaeth stirs on her rock with a sigh, slips into the water and makes steady progress for shore. "I don't see anything here ''worth'' fighting for. She's it," a point towards the green, "and she is where I am. I'd fight for her, if she asked, but not for any of you. This ''isn't'' my home. I've only ever felt like a stranger."

Edyis laughs, but it isn't a mocking sort of laughter. No this is far warmer and more genuine, ink dark eyes glittering with amusement. The brown offers a warble to the green, even as he slinks out of the water after his rider. "You decided that all on your own Yesia. I'd wager though you'd have the same problems there as here." Her brow furrows faintly. "Take it from someone whose uprooted their life several times. It isn't always the place or the people that is the problem." A second rare admission perhaps of her own faults, or perhaps just an ambiguous jumble of words as she heads back in.

Aeaeth's warble in return is soft, curtailed when she presses wetly against Yesia, pushing her head against the girl until they are a single silhouette, with the girl's arms wrapped the dragon as best she can. "Whatever," may or may not be heard, but it's easily a full (and cold, and wet) ten minutes before she rises herself and makes her way towards the barracks as well. God forbid she be seen with those two.
}}

File:Icon yesia tired.png

2015-10-10T16:25:27Z

Faryn: Faryn moved page File:Icon yesia tired lean.png to File:Icon yesia tired.png

File:Icon yesia tired lean.png

2015-10-10T16:25:27Z

Faryn: Faryn moved page File:Icon yesia tired lean.png to File:Icon yesia tired.png

#REDIRECT [[File:Icon yesia tired.png]]

Yesia

2015-10-10T15:11:20Z

Faryn:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Yesia.png
|mother=Avona
|father=Biannor
|siblings=Adrelar (-4)
|body=== Description ==
Yesia oozes femininity, from her preference for pretty dresses to her perfectly coifed hair. She is shapely, narrow at the waist and wider at hips and bust, and could accurately be called leggy, because most of her modest height resides in legs she likes to show off. She's strikingly pretty, in a way that suggests good genes, or perhaps good breeding. She's got a rounder face: a jawline almost too strong compared to the rest of her face, high soft cheekbones, large hazel eyes, and full lips that are perpetually, maybe willfully, pursed in judgement. This is all framed by thick ringlets of red hair that go past her shoulders, presented in a variety of pretty styles and often tied or styled with bows and ribbons. She possesses a constant air of repressed energy, as though she's forcing herself to be less gregarious than she is naturally.

{{wysk}}

= History =

The oldest of two children, Yesia was born, raised, and Searched in Crom, where her father was a miner and her mother a jeweler, a dynamic that always worked well for their family (even if, in its own way, it amounted to a teeeeny amount of theft from the Minecraft). Yesia, then, was training to follow in her mother's footsteps, and is an admirable jeweler in her own right: small trinkets, bracelets and necklaces tend to be her forte. Officially, Yesia was unaffiliated at the time of her Search, despite the fact that she was getting on in age and should have already selected a craft. When she accepted Search, it was initially without her parents' knowledge or blessing; there was a gold egg on the sands, and she was ''going''. Being that she was not beholden to a hall, they had very little recourse when she stayed the path and departed for High Reaches.

Upon arrival, Yesia at once misstepped and began putting on false airs. She's admitted since to being terrified, far from home in a strange place with a reputation for murders and crime, not to mention true to life dragonriders. She made quick enemies of people like Farideh and Edyis, but her support system included plain and meek girls who were happy to just have attention and friends, however negative and derisive she was to them. She Impressed the first hatched dragon of Niahvth and Reisoth's clutch, much to the dismay of many candidates, who could easily anticipate the torture she would inflict upon them for a turn.

That Yesia made it through Weyrlinghood without incident is a prospect with its own absurdities. She hated her class, she hated her weyrlingmaster, and with the Igen deal still vaguely in place she planned to transfer. She even wrote the request. Her best friend Paz did the same. When the time came, only Paz submitted hers; Yesia was convinced to stay by her dragon and AWLM Telavi, and her slowly developing tolerance for some of her class, despite her own caginess and a slow withdrawal from social networks she built after she got her own weyr.

Most of her friends leaving for Igen on graduation plays a very large part in the company Yesia chooses to keep since she was tapped into Snowdrift. Her friends are not friends, in most cases, and any outsider can see that. In some ways, she is a only a worse version of herself now that she's a full rider, freed from the hold expectations that never really fit a girl with lips like hers and a body like ''that''. She's promiscuous with all the wrong people, takes frequent (and exclusively male) bedmates on a regular basis, has incidentally fallen into acquaintance with mostly criminals of varying degrees of severity, and still plays the victim when she doesn't get her way. Her contributions to the Weyr are minimal: she does as her wingleader in Snowdrift asks, but otherwise fails to rise above expectations. After all, this is the same girl who once told Quinlys that all she wanted to do was fly around and go to parties, and she hasn't changed that much, yet. If there is even enough in her ''to'' change.

= Relationships =

'''''Clutchsiblings''''' 
'''[[Edyis]]''' - ''They put us in the same wing. After all that, I think this is the sickest joke anyone's ever played on me.'' 
'''[[Farideh]]''' - ''Hey, you know, you're not so bad now that I never need to deal with you.'' 
'''[[Keysi]]''' - ''Do you feel anything? Ever?'' 
'''[[T'mic]]''' - ''Definitely gay.'' 
'''[[Z'kiel]]''' - ''Sometimes you're so patient, but you're also so...serious.'' 

'''''Other Riders''''' 
'''[[H'vier]]''' - ''How can you be so old ''and'' so hot? You're a better person than people say you are; maybe that means I'm better than they say I am, too.'' 
'''[[Jo]]''' - ''You see something different than when other people see in me. But I'm not -- and you're not....'' 
'''[[K'del]]''' - ''Oddly approachable, for someone at the top.'' 
'''[[K'zin]]''' - ''Why'd you have to come to Snowdrift? I was looking forward to not having to work on avoiding you.'' 
'''[[R'hin]]''' - ''You...you're just ''mean''.'' 
'''[[Telavi]]''' - ''Literally, you're my best and only friend. Which would be sad, but you're so ''fantastic''.'' 
'''[[Quinlys]]''' - ''Bye, Felicia.''

'''''Others''''' 
'''[[Everett]]''' - ''You're ''pretty'', and ''fun'', and if we keep working on that ''confidence...'' 
'''[[Silva]]''' - ''I think we can be ''very'' good friends.''

= Playlist =
{{{!}}style="width: 100%;"
{{!}}-valign="top"
{{!}}-style="width:25%;"
{{!}}{{!}}'''Cool for the Summer - Demi Lovato''' [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=il9nqWw9W3Y [X]] ''Got my mind on your body And your body on my mind Got a taste for the cherry I just need to take a bite''
 
'''Your Body is a Weapon - The Wombats''' [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Q74TyTUrTo [X]] ''Your body is a weapon, love And it makes me wanna cry My body is a temple of doom Doomed not to be by your side ''
 
'''
{{!}}'''Warm Me Up - The Audition''' [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YsimdJ2vwo0 [X]] ''Come closer to me, baby I've got everything you need, to fill your hunger pangs for tonight Warm me up beneath the sheets, babe I've heard all about how you can save''
 
'''The Curse of Curves - Cute is What We Aim For''' [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIjVpRAXK18 [X]] ''Her bone structure screams "Touch her! Touch her!" And she's got the curse of curves. From what I've heard with skin you'll win.''
{{!}}}
= Other Extras =
== Myers-Briggs Personality: The Debater/Visionary ==
'''Type:''' [http://www.16personalities.com/entp-personality ENTP] 
'''Variant:''' Turbulant               '''Role:''' Analyst 
'''Strengths:''' Original, quick thinker, energetic, knowledgable        '''Weaknesses:''' Insensitive, argumentative, intolerant, impractical 
"The ENTP personality type is the ultimate devil's advocate, thriving on the process of shredding arguments and beliefs and letting the ribbons drift in the wind for all to see. Unlike their more determined Judging (J) counterparts, ENTPs don't do this because they are trying to achieve some deeper purpose or strategic goal, but for the simple reason that it's fun. No one loves the process of mental sparring more than ENTPs, as it gives them a chance to exercise their effortlessly quick wit, broad accumulated knowledge base, and capacity for connecting disparate ideas to prove their points.''

= Logs =

{{NewLogs |name={{BASEPAGENAME}}}}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

=Icons=
{{Icons}}
|position=Professional Victim
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Weyrling
|dragon=Scheming Siren's Song Green Aeaeth
|birthplace=Crom
|playedby=Holland Roden
|status=Active
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=High Reaches Area, Crom, Crom Hold, High Reaches, Greenriders
}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]

User:Faryn

2015-10-10T06:51:58Z

Faryn:

==About Me==
I am a full-time student living in the Pacific Northwest. I've been off-and-on with MUSHing for the better part of a long time. I take 3-5 classes a term in four month stretches, so my availability is pretty steady but I am most often available for lurking while I try to read exhausting texts on short notice. I overuse emotes, and for that I have no remorse. You can usually find me RP_OK in the evening hours, and I'm always alright with scheduling or backdating scenes. Ask me about gdocs; I don't prefer it, and whenever possible will put off a scene for a live option, but there are always exceptions.

As a player I am extremely flexible. I do my best to turn every plot twist, scene, and relationship into something fun to play and build on, whether that's good, bad, ugly or indifferent. I fully believe ICA=ICC, and since my threshold for real drama is less than zero, I like to foist all junk on my characters. It's cathartic. That being the case, I'm open for anything you're willing to throw at me, and even things that might not seem good, I'm very likely willing to participate in.

==Availability==
September 28 - December 12, I'm unavailable M-W-F until very late evening. It is unlikely that I will be available for play on those days at all, but I may pop my head in. I will be free T-TH-SA-SU for (mostly) scheduled play, provided there aren't unforeseen circumstances. A +mail or page if you need me will do it!

==Character List==

{|class="table table-striped"
|-valign="top"
|style="width:120px"|[[Image:Icon_faryn.png]]
|'''[[Faryn]]''' (''February 2015 - present'') Faryn is an ex-Beastcrafter who was posted at High Reaches Weyr not long after the storm of Turn 36 (though not as a direct rescue from it). She is the only daughter of an old Istan Weyrsecond and a sailor, and spends plenty of time foundering in the ways she's failed to be what they wanted. After failing to Impress at High Reaches, she stuck around in hopes she'd be able to Stand again. She ultimately left the craft; shortly after, the Beastcraft disallowed Search in their ranks.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Icon_x'vin.png]]
|'''[[X'vin]]''' (''June 2015 - present'') X'vin's a Benden bronzerider transferred to Fort under what some may see as ''suspicious circumstances'' in Turn 38. Indeed, since his arrival, a goldrider has vanished, a headwoman has been replaced, a [[Edric|devilishly good consultant]] has been hired on, and plenty of the Lords have been approached by their ambitious cousin for their support in his political bids. So, yeah. He's a little nefarious, but damn does he have a bright smile.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Icon_yesia.png]]
|'''[[Yesia]]''' (''April 2015 - present'') Oh, Yesia. Created as an insta-weyrling, she was meant to be a temporary torture for her weyrling class and then die, or get transferred off to Igen, but that plan failed. She's a pretentious, judgmental greenriding brat with a superiority complex -- that has, if you can believe it, lessened since her Impression. She wound up being too much fun to ship off, so here she stays, flirting, judging, and generally being that girl you hated in high school.
|}

== Recent Logs ==

{{NewLogs | name={{Alts:Faryn}}}}

==Log Stats==
{{LogCountAll | player=Alts:Faryn}}

{{Cloud | player=Faryn| exclude=Fadra;Faryn;X'vin;Yesia}}

Logs:Not Feeling Feisty

2015-10-10T06:39:33Z

Faryn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Faryn, H'vier, Jocelyn |what=H'vier tries his wiles on the two female candidates least likely to give him the attention he wants. |where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr..."

{{Log
|who=Faryn, H'vier, Jocelyn
|what=H'vier tries his wiles on the two female candidates least likely to give him the attention he wants.
|where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=15
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.09
|quote="What's got you both in such a sour mood? That time of the month?"
|mentions=T'mic
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon faryn.png, Icon H'vier.png, Jocelyn.jpg,
|log=It's cold and raining outside, so the Snowasis is pretty crowded. H'vier is ''still'' somehow sitting at the bar with seats between himself and the people nearest to him. He's mostly in his leathers, jacket opened casually, and a glass of newly refilled whiskey on the counter that he's leaning against, body turned just enough to be able to watch the rest of the bar.

Despite not having the reputation of a social butterfly, Jocelyn occasionally puts in an appearance at the Snowasis, usually solo or in the company of one or two others for a working drink. Tonight, she's the last of a small group of candidates to enter; the others are quick to grab a table and initiate conversation around who will order what, punctuated by jovial gestures and jocular interjections. There's a glance spared for them as she heads instead toward the bar, hands pulled from her pockets to begin loosening scarf and jacket collar while she strides up to the counter. Fingers drum an impatient rhythm on the surface once she gets there, pale eyes alighting on the nearest bartender with an expectant look. Her order? Something dry and white. Tap-tap-tap, goes her hand as the man behind the bar steps away to fulfill her request.

Due to certain restrictions, candidates don't necessarily draw the bronzerider's attention. Not until one of them separates from the rest, anyway. Dark eyes linger on Jocelyn as she approaches the bar, but it's only once she's waiting impatiently for her drink that H'vier says in some semblance of a charming manner, "Hey, pretty. Let me buy that for you?" He pats the seat of the stool next to him twice. This is evidently the price of his investment.

Jocelyn's hand freezes mid-motion, impatience stilled in the wake of being so addressed. ''Pretty.'' Eyebrows lift in a manner more skeptical than indicative of interest as she shifts her attention to H'vier and the vacant seat next to him. "You should take the time to learn names, " is her cool response. Her drink arrives not long after, and she's prompt to slide the appropriate number of marks forward to the server with a neutral mutter of thanks. A couple seated nearby gets up to depart, leaving the redhead quite able to slide onto one of the empty stools moments later - not next to H'vier. There's an appreciative exhale once she's taken first one sip, then two of the pale bubbly she's been served.

Faryn arrives not long after Jocelyn and the group of candidates, a brief enough window that it's not immediately possible to rule her out as a straggler to Jocelyn's small group. Probably not, since she looks windblown and doesn't seem to scan the bar for anyone in particular. She tugs off her knit cap and deigns to lower the zipper of her jacket so her throat is exposed to the air, navigating through the crowd to the bar, where there's no seat for her but a space just her size. In contrast to Jocelyn she orders, "Something dark," and waits, cutting a look down the bar as the couple leaves. She hastens to claim one of them, without regard for the person who takes the other. Conveniently, ''she'' does know names, and demonstrates by greeting, "Jocelyn."

"Your loss, gorgeous," says H'vier with a shrug, turning slightly to face Jocelyn more than the rest of the bar, because he's not going to just ignore her now. He doesn't notice Faryn until she says the other woman's name. "''You'll'' sit next to me, Faryn, won't you?" See? H'vier totally knows some names. And now that he knows the other? "Jocelyn here is even chillier than you are. Not sure how willing she is to stab me, but I kind of like it when you girls get feisty." If Faryn doesn't move, H'vier will have to so he can settle in next to her instead. Sorry, ladies. He must be bored.

A side-glance cuts the other candidate's way at the sound of her name, followed by the smallest of head tilts to pass for a polite enough nod. "Faryn, " says Jocelyn evenly by way of return, half-turning so that she's more facing her contemporary than the bronzerider down the way, whom she's apparently decided to ignore to the best of her ability. "You also tagged along, I see." It's a dry observation, delivered with half a glance back toward the cluster of candidates who entered before them. ''They're'' all being social at their table, cheerful and in high spirits even before a server comes their way with glasses and snacks. The line of her shoulders tenses slightly as H'vier continues on, but her focus remains fixated in the other direction.

"Sure," Faryn replies with mock-cheer. "And then, for fun, I'll walk right off the patio and hope I break my legs. That would round my day out perfectly. Thanks." Her gratitude is not for H'vier, but the bartender, who swings back around with her order. Not whiskey; rum, smelling strongly of spice. "Tagged?" Faryn asks, following Jocelyn's glance. "Oh, no. Not with them. I just got back." From somewhere she doesn't elaborate on, distracted by testing her liquor. She finds it satisfactory and her fingers relax around the glass, possessive but easier than a moment prior -- for a few wonderful seconds, ''gone'' when H'vier decides to tag along closer. She sighs, annoyed, through her nose, lacking Jocelyn's focus. "Unlucky for you, I'm not feeling feisty at all. But I think someone in here must. You should find her."

"I don't know why you girls are so against having some fun. Both of you look like you could use some of it. Too damned young to be so... this." H'vier waves a hand to gesture vaguely at them both. The hand turns into waving for the bartender to get him another whiskey because he's going to finish this one off in the next few moments. "What's got you both in such a sour mood? That time of the month?" Obviously he would think that's an option.

Looking every bit as though 'fun' is nowhere in her personal lexicon, Jocelyn gives a noncommittal noise while she nurses her own glass, sniffing briefly as the other woman's drink arrives. "Not what I usually enjoy, " she decides after a moment, "but if that tastes as palatable as it smells, I might have to order it next time." One arm comes forward to lean on the bar in such a way that her elbow takes up just that much more space around her, a non-verbal barrier that all but broadcasts her total lack of invitation as H'vier approaches. "I don't know about you, but I do need a new hiding place for the inevitable pile of bodies, " she says drily, still to Faryn. "I figure I'll have another seven to plan their disposals." Sorry, sir: this is non-hormonal Jocelyn.

Faryn's mouth twitches in a small grimace. "My mum used to drink this. Still probably does. It reminds me of home." She takes another pensive sip. "I wish he'd given me whiskey, but it's good and warm for the winter." The grimace slips into a softer smile. "Might still have some from last my mum came around, if you'd like to try it some time." The other woman huffs a small snort of amusement. "I know lots of places!" Her volunteering for hiding bodies is entirely too eager, her voice only lowering in faux conspiracy to whisper, "Most of them are in Igen." At a normal volume again, she lifts her drink to wave it a little dismissively. "Bet you know lots of places closer to home though." H'vier? Faryn's trying ''really'' hard not to acknowledge him, but he's got a way. "Right now, I'd say you."

H'vier settles comfortably beside Faryn, so Jocelyn is safe in that regard. "If you want to get rid of bodies, the best place to put them is between." Not that H'vier has any experience with this sort of thing, obviously, but he says it so casually that one might think he at least isn't taking Jocelyn very seriously. "You wouldn't be sour if you'd just let it happen, gorgeous. I promise that you'd have a good time. Both of you would have a good time." He has a very high opinion of himself. But ''something'' about him must make up for his personality.

"I might, " Jocelyn says after a few moments about that drink, much in the sort of manner that someone says they ''might'' come by for a visit, except that they don't. "Oh, I don't know, " mild, "you might know of more places in Igen than I do around here." Since the off-handed link established between murder and menses hasn't seemed to have had ''any'' effect on H'vier, the redhead simply arches an eyebrow for the suggestion of ''between'', eyes narrowing as she slides off of her stool. Frankly, "You seem to be the only one who is, " having a good time, and with those parting words, she promptly re-wraps her scarf and heads for the outdoors, leaving the majority of her drink unfinished. Exit Jocelyn, stage left.

Two fingers, flicked off in a wave above the rim of Faryn's glass in farewell to Jocelyn, tangentially familiar with the way the woman dismisses herself. The ex-crafter looks a little dismayed, still. Now it's just her and H'vier, and one free seat she can see. Glass in hand, Faryn leverages herself over one seat, putting space between her and H'vier. He isn't her chosen company, and even so, she picks up the thread of conversation and continue along it. "If you commit a crime, it's best to do it alone. More people means more chances you get caught. You ever heard of the prisoner's dilemma?"

H'vier makes sure to watch Jocelyn as she leaves, probably more lewdly than he would otherwise. Once his attention turns back to Faryn, he doesn't bother moving over a seat again. "Have you committed a lot of crimes, sweetheart? I can't say that'd make me any less willing to fuck you. Moreso, actually." He considers that for a moment, then asks, "What if I let you hold a knife while we did it? Would that make you feel better?"

Faryn takes a deep breath, exhaling her exasperation at the rum. Which, it's worth noting, is staying in hand and very close to her mouth, like she's worried about putting it down in case she needs a quick fix of patience. She doesn't deign to answer his first question -- or his second really. There's only, "I hate you."

"Hate is kind of a strong word," says the bronzerider with the sort of sigh that might suggest she's hurt his feelings. Except that would mean H'vier has feelings, and he obviously doesn't. "You're not my favorite person, either, you know. Always threatening me or saying mean things when I'm just trying to show you a good time. It's kind of rude, darling. I didn't even deck that boy of yours when he got in my face." H'vier is a super nice guy, Faryn.

"Mmmm." Faryn thinks about that, what it implies, and for once is civil. "You're right. I'd have to care about you quite a lot more than I do for that sort of thing." She drums her fingers along the edge of her glass. "It's kind of rude to continue pursuing people when they've told you no."

"Mmmm." Faryn thinks about that, what it implies, and for once is civil. "You're right. I'd have to care about you quite a lot more than I do for that sort of thing." She drums her fingers along the edge of her glass. "It's kind of rude to continue pursuing people when they've told you no." Her rhythm on the glass stops at his last, and she turns to face him. "I don't know what you're talking about, so I'm sure I don't owe you my gratitude for it."

"The tall, ugly one. That's yours, isn't he? He was kind of pissy about me touching you, I guess. But he doesn't follow through very well. More the reason I didn't hit him than anything to do with you, truthfully." H'vier is facing the counter now, taking a drink of his whiskey and watching while the bartender makes a drink for someone else.

"No, not ''you'', describe him," Faryn presses with dry humour, looking at him peripherally. She can't pretend she doesn't know what -- who -- he means, though. "Not mine. And I'm still not going to praise you for him catching you the one-in-a-hundred time you're not a prick."

"Ha," H'vier says it dryly. "I wasn't asking for praise. But maybe if you stopped acting like a bitch for a few seconds, I'd stop treating you like one. I know you find it hard to believe, but plenty of women enjoy my company just fine." He gestures vaguely toward the rest of the bar behind him with his drink, but he's still sitting right here.

"Bad taste, low self-esteem," attributes Faryn without missing a beat, and she doesn't rise to his insult so much as she once did. "You don't treat me like I'm a bitch. You treat me like a piece of meat, one with plenty of holes you can stick it. We can do this all night. Why do you keep ''trying'' if you don't like me? Does it just kill you to not be told yes?"

"Who enjoy amazing sex." H'vier adds the last to her list of attributes. "You'll say yes one day. And then you'll kick yourself for missing out for so long. I can be a very good friend to have, Faryn." He looks over at her, but he's shifting to his feet now. It brings him a little closer to her, but getting closer doesn't seem to be his ultimate intention. "I'll let you brood while I go find another piece of meat to stick. Enjoy." He moves further down the bar, then, to make sure he gets his drink topped off.

Faryn knocks the rest of her drink back with a snarl of displeasure -- too much alcohol, too much ''arrogance'' from him, whatever. "That must be why people ''clamber'' to be in your social circle. I lost credibility by being seen talking to you." And so, it's lucky that Jocelyn left her glass behind. Waste not.

"Cute," says H'vier before he's turning to go find one of the women who actually do enjoy his company. Or maybe he'll just go brood by himself in a booth somewhere out of sight instead. It's kind of hard to tell with him sometimes.
}}