View source for Logs:Dread(s) and Rafts

{{Log
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|type=Log
|who=Drex, Farideh, Itsy, Tomic
|what=An afternoon by the lake. 
|where=Lake shore, High Reaches Weyr
|when=Day 15, Month 6, Turn 36
|day=15
|month=6
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2014.12.05
|quote="It's ''freedom'', is what it is." 
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon drex.jpg, Icon farideh bitchface.jpg, Icon itsy far-away.jpg, Icon tomic listening.jpeg, 
|icons=
|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.                                                          
                                                                            
  The weather today is very pleasant. A few clouds chase each other across  
  the mostly clear skies, and a soft breeze picks up in the afternoon to    
  make for a fine day.                                                      
              
>-------------------------------------< 15D 6M 36T I10, summer afternoon >---<
|log=Not overly warm, not particular cold, it's certainly the kind of weather one can just sit in. Sit, and contemplate the meaning of... well, of maybe that brown dragon getting a bath over there. Or the couple walking hand in hand down that way. Or the half-eaten roll that is slowly going stale in one's hand. Tomic's eyes stay a moment on each of these things, until his head starts to droop. Then he'll remember himself, straighten up, switch his focus, and slowly, slowly start to drift again. Wake up. Repeat.

Out on the lake, some enterprising children have no doubt employed parental pressure to obtain the materials to build a raft... of sorts. They've clearly all been called away, now, but that just leaves the makeshift vessel free for one such as Itsy, the dark-haired girl perched on the edge of it as it bobs in the wake of that brown dragon's movements, not so far off shore. Her feet dangle in the water, her hat - not ''her'' hat, but a decent enough replacement - slouched low over her eyes. Of course, those eyes are watchful; they've seen Tomic, they've seen others, too, though they've made no effort to catch anyone's eye in turn. 

No better excuse to be outside than to enjoy the semi-nice weather that's descended onto the Reaches, and better still, walking the shoreline of the lake with no shoes on so the sand squishes between Farideh's toes with each step. She's moving along at a slow pace and ''seems'' to be eyeballing the raft with its singular occupant, a certain amount of inquisitiveness evident on her face. Her footfalls stall eventually, her feet braced apart and her fists on her hips; Itsy gets the full weight of her stare, until she twists and scans the lakeshore behind her, looking for ''something'' - instead, she finds Tomic. Half asleep? No problem, she's going to call him out anyway. "Hey, ''you''," because gentle approaches are overrated.

How did she know that 'Hey you' is his second name? It gets Tomic's attention, his face twisting into focus when he looks up. "Hmwhat?" His first sighting of the raft, that was a few nods ago, now. It's not at the top of his priority list - and that's short enough as only to really have a top. The hand holding the roll shifts a little, waking up arm muscles that were, equally, almost dozing. "Yeah?" takes a bit more ownership of the response, his head canting, though he stays seated until further called upon.

Itsy is not unused to stares; even after months at the Weyr, she's unusual enough with that braided, dreadlocked hair, no matter how much she attempts to escape notice. Those luminous eyes of hers stare back, one part a defiant challenge, one part interest of her own, and as Farideh turns towards Tomic, the one-time sailor allows her gaze to follow, a few strokes of her hands in the water drawing the haphazard raft closer to shore.

"Are you busy?" Farideh shuffles through the sand, hands crossed behind her back, until she's within a couple feet of the nearly-dozing guy. "You don't look busy," this a casual observation, hazel eyes flicking over the seated form. "Do you know who ''that'' is? Where ''that'' came from?" Two different things, maybe, the girl and raft, or the raft and the girl? She's not too detailed with her method, and seems distracted enough that after she asks her questions, she glances back over her shoulder, towards Itsy and the raft.

"Nah," agrees Tomic, leaning forward, the roll tucking in toward him as his wrist relaxes, forearm rested on one of his knees. "Not busy." He turns his head, to follow her Farideh's look. "Looks like a girl," comes in answer to both, with a shrug that manages to be easy, despite those big shoulders of his. When Itsy is caught looking, she gets a lazy grin, and a wave of his hand (without the roll). Hi, girl!

It's unfortunate, really, that as both sets of eyes focus back upon her - and as that wave is executed - the brown dragon over there rises up out of the water, and the resultant wave capsizes Itsy's raft, sending her into a shallow dive... which she at least manages to execute immediately. When she emerges again, she's clinging to her hat and half-swimming, half-wading, towards shore, spitting out lake-water as she goes. No return waves, then. No smiles, either. The raft? It floats again, as rafts do. 

"Of course it's a girl." Exasperation tugs Farideh's mouth into a displeased frown, but by then the raft and its mysterious mate are being turned over in the lake. That's enough to grab the girl's attention again. "''I'm'' going find out," she states, out loud, like he should even ''care'', but it's clearly meant to be some kind of snub. Lucky for Itsy, then, that when she's coming up the shore from the water, Farideh is walking down it to meet her.

Tomic is up, too, though his intentions seem far more altruistic, "You okay?" called as he jogs a few paces toward the water's edge. But Itsy is clearly not drowning, and so he comes to a stop, standing a bit dumbly while Farideh makes the rest of the journey, and just... watching. "Sorry about your boat," is seized upon, after a moment. A way to stay involved, and he shifts his feet a little, craning his neck a bit, even if his vision isn't really obscured.

The water - and the fact that it's ''got'' to be pretty cold, even if this is 'summer' - doesn't seem to bother Itsy, who wades out of it, water streaming off of her nondescript clothes, without a backwards glance. Farideh's approach catches her attention, too, and so does Tomic's; she turns her gaze from one to the other, then back again, shrugging gamely. "It'll float again. Not a proper boat, anyway. Needs a sail." Now that she's standing on her own two feet, properly, she hauls off her hat, dumping water out of it, before putting it back on.

That Tomic stops short doesn't curb Farideh's enthusiasm or.. fascination. She keeps going until she's within a foot of the other girl, and comes to a sudden halt wherein she simply stares. "Where are you from?" she asks boldly, taking in the dreadlocked hair and wet clothing. "Why does your hair look like that?" with one hand lifting like she might try to ''touch'' it.

Tomic is also taking in the dreadlocked hair and wet clothing, albeit more distantly, And he makes no move to touch anything. He ''does'' lift that roll and take a bit of it, chewing contentedly. Some might say blissfully.

"Ocean," says Itsy, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. She watches Farideh, clearly bemused by the other teen's proximity, though it's not until that hand lifts that she actually goes so far as to bare her teeth, one hand reaching out to grab for her wrist; no touching. 

That one word elicits a frown, and the teeth-baring a surprised stare with a half-step backwards. It's already too late, her wrist is captured. "I ''just'' wanted to see what it felt like," Farideh says glumly, wiggling her hand to get it away from Itsy's grasp. She looks over her shoulder too, at the less-involved Tomic, as if to silently say: little help?

"Do lots of girls have hair like that?" Tomic wants to know. "Ocean girls?" Tomic has taken a step forward, though the timing of it makes it uncertain whether it's as a response to Farideh, or spurred by his own curiosity. He takes another bite of that roll as he goes, leaving barely a third of a mouthful pinched between thumb and finger. Once again, he stops short, though within easy arm's reach of the girls.

Itsy's fingers hold tight to Farideh's wrist for only a few moments; as she releases the other girl, she drops her hand back to her side, those bright eyes once more turning from one teen to the other. "It's hair," she says, with a shrug, which sets some of the beads to clinking together. "And sure, some do. Ocean girls. Easier. No need to brush it, eh?" Her voice is low for a woman, and rough-edged, though there's humour there. "No need to worry about the wind'n'the salt." 

''Ocean girls''. Farideh rubs her wrist where Itsy had grabbed a hold, giving Tomic a baleful side-eye, but her curiosity is not appeased yet. "How do you get it to do that? Do you wash it? Do you sleep on it? Doesn't it hurt your head?" She asks her questions back-to-back, barely taking a breath between each.

"They're kind of nice," Tomic decides, his head tilting, and a slow smile stretching his face. That last little bit of roll is popped into his mouth, and the parting smile is therefore issued with his mouth closed. He doesn't say much else. Just turns and ambles off.

This can't be the first time Itsy has been asked about her hair, but it doesn't stop her from fixing Farideh with a somewhat smirky gaze. Indeed, she's so busy doing that that she doesn't even notice Tomic's departure-- not until he's gone, anyway, and even then, it's only a quick twist of a glance, and then a wet-shouldered shrug. "Unwashed hair smells," she says. "Whatever you've done to it. Sure I wish it. Sleep on it, too. Doesn't hurt; it's just kinda normal, now, you know? Sailor down south did it for me, fixes it up every so often." Though now her expression turns mournful, nose wrinkling; now, she's stuck here. 'Stuck.' 

"How do you undo it?" All of this fascination over ''hair'', but then, perhaps Farideh has never seen anything like it to date. "How ''do'' you do it?" She clearly wants to try to touch the dreadlocks again; recent experience says no. "I'm Farideh. I work in the laundry," she initiates an introduction after this hair talk, giving the other girl a genuine smile.

This time, Itsy's is a toothy smile instead of anything more sinister, though with that over-wide mouth of hers, perhaps she can't fully escape a sense of the sinister. "With difficulty," is her answer to the first. And for the second? "You... twist, I guess. It's complicated. Takes ages, and then they have to mature." This time, albeit with some reluctance, she extends her head partway towards the other girl: go on. "Itsy. Served on the Pirate Queen until..." Until. 

"Sounds like braiding." Except it doesn't, but that doesn't stop the laundress from trying to make a meaningful correlation between a technique she knows and one she knows nothing about. "Itsy of the Pirate Queen. Were you the captain? A female captain of a ship," Farideh says, her gaze going somewhat dreamy, "That's romantic. Where have you been? Have you seen all sorts of strange things and places? Aren't you worried about the other sailors?" Soaking it all up like a sponge - a rather young, annoying, overly-eager sponge.

Was Itsy the captain? It makes her show her teeth again, amused, though she also shakes her head. "Our captain died," she says. "But it's fine. We'll find a better ship. A better captain." Itsy would make an amazing captain, definitely; ''she'' clearly thinks so. "Been pretty much ''everywhere''. All over Pern; anywhere you can get to with a ship." She sounds wistful. She's wet through, standing barefooted on the sand just beyond the edge of the water, with Farideh almost ''too'' close in front of her. "Why should I worry about other sailors? I can take 'em all. Any time." 

An uncomfortable silence, on Farideh's part, follows Itsy's confession about her captain, but it's easily overcome with an enthusiastic nod and glazing over the darker bits for lighter topics like traveling all of Pern. "Being on the water all the time doesn't bother you? Not even when there's a storm?" She's avidly watching the other girl as she speaks. "It's not, you know, weird," in a loud whisper, "being on a ship with a bunch of men? Are there other women on yours?" Ask all the questions in the first meeting, apparently.

For a tall teenager, Drex is surprisingly fleet of foot. Certainly the crunching of sand as he approaches is minimal, though the shadow he casts is more immediately apparent. He doesn't interrupt with words, but he's just suddenly ''right there'', at Itsy's shoulder, staring over his fellow sailor at Farideh. Deliberately, he folds his arms across his chest and settles into a slouch.

It's subtle, really, the way Itsy's stance chances once Drex is at her side; it's not quite relaxation, and not quite increased tension, either. It's just... there. "No," she says, answering Farideh's first question, or perhaps all of them, with another shake of her damp hair. "Not at all. There's nothing like being out on the ocean; nothing like that kind of freedom. Men don't bother men, not unless I want 'em to. Sailors're no worse than weyrfolk. Better, really. You always ask this many questions?" 

One minute they're having a nice chat - by Farideh's standards - and the next there's ''that guy'' looming behind Itsy. Her own shift in mood is swift, as if piecing the puzzle together, with glances flicking from Itsy to Drex and back again. She even takes a couple hasty steps backwards. "But you're stuck in a ship," she tries to reason, hazarding the tall sailor another stare. "Yes."

"She does," Drex is answering Itsy's question with the barest shift of shoulders that amounts to a shrug. "Nosy thing. Don't mind her, though, I think she hit her head on the deck once too many times, if you know what I mean." The words are for Itsy, and he's turned his attention to the other sailor, though he doesn't seem unaware of Farideh's slight retreat, if the brief flash of teeth is anything to go by. "Sailors have ''rules'', unlike you landlubbers."

Something glints in Itsy's eye; she's heartily amused by Farideh's reaction, aiming a nudge towards Drex that half-answers his comments. "She's funny," she tells her former shipmate, idly. For Farideh: "What's wrong with being stuck on a ship? It moves; you can be ''anywhere'', and then you're there. It's ''freedom'', is what it is. Right, Drex?" 

Amiability is a short-lived thing. Arms crossing over her chest, glare settling into place, Farideh regards the two sailors with growing irritation. "Being stuck on a ship until it pulls into port ''isn't'' freedom. You can't go walk in a field if you want to, or climb a hill, or go to a gather, you're ''stuck''. And if you two ''love'' it so much, then why are you even here? There's ''plenty'' of ships for you to be on." Classic.

"Funny," Drex echoes Itsy's chosen word, though when he says it, it's full of ''doubt''. It seems he feels that Itsy's words are fairly self-explanatory, since he nods simply. "Who wants to wake in the same place every morning?" with a tip of his head towards the caverns. When Farideh crosses ''her'' arms, too, he unfolds his, with a brief grin. "Eh, Itsy. She wouldn't get it. She wouldn't last five minutes on a ship."

"No," agrees Itsy. It's painfully clear, that: Farideh is not built for life aboard a ship. "You must've riled her up good, eh, Drex? What'd he say to you?" Clearly, that last is for Farideh, though her expression's friendly enough; ''she'' clearly doesn't mind if the other two don't get along. ''She'' will talk to anyone. Ish. 

"I wouldn't ''want'' to," Farideh shoots back; burn. But she won't answer Itsy's question about what, exactly, has made her dislike Drex so. She gives him one last solid glare, and a wistful glance at Itsy - probably her ''hair'' - before she huffs and marches off, ''done'' with the sailors. For now.

Drex's grin widens at Itsy's guess, and he's staring at Farideh, too: curious how ''she'' intends to describe their previous interaction. He seems more confused than anything else, by the glare and subsequent huff. "Told ya," he asides to Itsy, presumably about Farideh's level of sanity. Now that the other girl's gone he slides past to take her place, digging into his pocket. "Got ya something to celebrate ya getting old." It's a red hat, a little creased and with a small brim. It's nowhere near as ''impressive'' and ''piratey'' as her old hat, but it's ''something'', as stated.

"Landlubbers," decides Itsy, with a laugh, head shaking enough to make her beads jangle again. Mention of her age, though, distracts her all over again, gaze following Drex's motions, until it brightens with unrestrained laughter upon receipt of his gift. She's been wearing a hat - she's wearing it now, though the water has done it no favours, and it's never been ''her'' hat, just ''a'' hat - but that one is immediately doffed in favour of ''this'' one. "Is it stylish?" she wants to know, pretending to a high class accent she's never owned. "Am I beautiful?" The abandoned hat, the awful one, it can float away on the lake.  "Aside from being ''old'', apparently." She'll elbow him for that. 

The question of style earns a befuddled and subsequently blank look from Drex. "Looks fine to me," is all he says, once she's claimed and settled the hat on her head. "Not as good as your old one, but..." a shrug follows, and he frowns, sniffing. "Is that ...lavender? Have you been bathing with all that fancy stuff in the water? Think you're turning soft in your old age, Itsy." He's grinning, ''even'' after that elbow lands and he rubs at his side, unrepentant.

That look? That makes Itsy laugh and ''laugh''... except that the lavender comment makes her scowl, this time aiming to give her shipmate a shove. "You just wait," she warns, teasing, except for that ''look'' in her eyes. Beat. "There's a raft out there. Not a ship; not as good. But." It's ''something''. 

"A raft?" Drex's tone is somewhere between dubious and, oddly hopeful.

"A ''raft''," confirms Itsy, emphasising the word, the corners of that too-wide mouth turning upwards. "Race you to it?" 

Drex doesn't respond. Mostly because he's started ''running'', apparently not above cheating when it comes to Itsy.

''Cheat''! Itsy doesn't waste breath on the accusation, though; she's off after Drex, shorter legs powering through the shallows before she dives, slowed down by her need to keep that hat upon her head (curses!). Not that it matters, really; she grabs for an ankle, all the better to pull her friend down to her level and keep him there. 

Secure in the knowledge he has the advantage and he's totally going to win, Drex doesn't even bother looking over his shoulder to check where Itsy is (or where she ''isn't''). Which is probably why he doesn't get a chance to take a breath before he's yanked under the water. For a moment, as he thrashes about, there's genuine panic in his expression, and while it eases when he sees Itsy under the water, he doesn't seek to turn the tables. Instead, he's trying to kick for the surface, ''not'' the raft.

It's a reaction that Itsy should, perhaps, have been conscious of; prepared for. She's not, though, and though she lets go as soon as she's registered that thrashing, it's still a few moments before, as she surfaces, she seems to ''get'' it. Treading water, she turns her attention back towards him, asking questions with her eyes that don't get echoed in her words; is he okay? She's sorry. 

It's probably a good thing she doesn't ''ask'', since he doesn't seem inclined to ''answer''; Drex starts swimming towards the raft, less a race now, with a typical boy's expression of ''fine'' plastered on his face, now.

She scowls after him, eyes rolling: ''boys''. But after a moment, she resumes her own strokes, swimming around the raft so that she can attempt to clamber up onto it from the opposite side. It's a pretty haphazard raft, really, but... it ''floats'', and clearly that's the important thing. "What shall we call it?" she prompts. 

Drex is careful to balance is weight as they climb up, and once they're both settled, he looks more genuinely at ease. "Doesn't quite feel right," and after a beat, "No waves." Tugging a hand through wet hair, he frowns at her question. "Can't name it after the Pirate Queen. That'd be an insult," to the ship, presumably. "Seafarers Respite?" he suggests, after a moment. "Escape From Landlubbers?"

Itsy lets one foot hang off the edge of the raft, skimming through the water. "Mm," she agrees. "There was a dragon in the water, earlier; that made waves." It's not the same, though; she knows it. "Escape From Landlubbers," she decides, more firmly. "She's ours. Until we can--" Until, finally, they can go ''home''. 

"Lure all the dragons out with some... herdbeast. Get 'em circling like sharks, stirring up the water." The idea amuses the tall sailor, as much as he's aware how ludicrous it is. Drex seems pleased as she decides the name, nodding agreeably. "Your orders, cap'n?" he asks, casually.

The idea pleases Itsy, who laughs, though it's a bark of a laugh; genuine, perhaps, but also rueful, too. "Hoist the mainsail," she instructs, with a repetition of that laugh. "Pull the anchor. Set course, sailor. We've a long way to go, and the weather won't hold." She can't even pretend. 

The dramatic lunge of Drex to his feet as if hopping to do just that doesn't help; it sets the raft to rocking precariously, and even the water-faring sailor has trouble keeping his feet while it settles. Finally, with a grunt, "I miss climbing the rigging. Seeing the view from up there."

"I miss there ''being'' a view," counters Itsy, whose gaze falls towards the diving cliff, high above them, but only dismissively. She stays where she is, one hand holding tight to the raft, while the other adjusts her hat. "We gotta get back to the ocean, Drex. It'll kill us, to stay here." 

Drex grunts. His version of solid agreement. He shifts around on the raft until he's sitting where he can put his back against Itsy's, feet in the water, kicking. It's kind of like waves. If you squint hard enough. "Miss the smell of the ocean. Doesn't smell right," he adds.

Itsy's back, in answer, presses against's Drex's. She adds her own feet-waves to the swell, albeit in a half-hearted kind of way. "Doesn't taste right, either," she agrees. "We were born for the ocean." Beat. "Reborn for it. Never supposed to be like this." 

"Next time," Drex says, with a harshness reserved for distrust, "You make that Lord of yours give you the ship for ''real''. Cap'n in ''name''."

Itsy's grunt is agreement. "What'll we call her, eh? She won't be the queen, when we get here. No ship ever could be." 

"Pirate Haven? No, better not tempt fate," Drex is chuckling briefly, for all that. "I'm sure we'll know her name when we see her."

Itsy, too, has to laugh. "Mm," she agrees. And, "Like a dragon, like they say dragons do. Only she'll be better, because she'll be a ''ship'', and ours. Where will we go first? Aside from... as far from here as possible."

"South, all the way, maybe, if she has a deep enough draft?" Drex sounds momentarily wistful. "We can capture one of those big cats, make it our ship mascot. Feed it fish."

"South," agrees Itsy, firmly. "Let it eat anyone we don't like. No one'll ever bother us again. Not even ''him'' if we don't want it." Only she is, as always, less dismissive of Devaki; she remembers. Acknowledges, even. She ''owes'' them. 

"We'll train it to attack on command. ''Mascot, attack the landlubber!''" Drex seems happy with this conclusion. Undoubtedly he'll add a few more suggestions on how to train the wild creature before the sun sets and the cold drives them to dry land once more.

It's a happy fantasy; Itsy's happy to indulge in it, and in this semblance of the sea, for as long as she can. Tomorrow... tomorrow is another day.
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