View source for Logs:Twenty Eight

{{Log
|who=Farideh, R'van
|what=A goldrider and a bronzerider find out they're mutually unimpressed with each other.
|where=Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=17
|month=9
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.05.04
|quote="Oh, Farideh.. You wouldn't be able to oust me."
|weather=Foggy.
|mentions=Irianke, K'del, Tiriana
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon farideh fake smile.png, Icon r'van halo.jpg,
|desc=>---< Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr(#634RJ) >------------------------<

  Partly sheltered by the curving stone overhang, partly exposed to the     
  weather, the wide stone patio serves as a balcony for socializing or just 
  plain drinking on a sizable scale. The repurposed ledge might once have   
  let two large dragons land, but now there's too much furniture for that:  
  two rustic tables with attendant chairs, plus a couple more in            
  particularly good weather, and a wrought iron bench situated to make the  
  most of the view of the western bowl and the lake beyond.                 
                                                                            
  Other changes include rough little niches carved out of the stone walls to
  hold glows in colored bottles at night, the climbing plant that's being   
  trained to grow up along the overhang, and the blue ceramic pots of       
  flowers that dot the edge of the ledge as a colorful reminder not to fall 
  off.                                                                      
                                                                            
  An archway leads to the Snowasis itself, housed in the ledge's former     
  weyr, while a few wide steps descend along the wall to the bowl.          
                                                                            
  Fog begins to coalesce in the very early morning hours and lingers        
  throughout the day, soft and still and clammy.                            

 -----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
  Farideh      F  19   5'5  skinny, brown hair, hazel eyes                0s 
  R'van        M  24  6'1"  average, blond hair, blue eyes               21s
 ----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
                                Snowasis  Bowl                              
>-----------------------------------------< 17D 9M 37T I10, autumn night >---<
|log=The day has come and gone, and only the dregs of Rukbat's light linger over High Reaches' spires; night fast approaches and the fog seems to want to stay. Rain or shine, for the weyrlings, everything is the same, and it's in this pre-dark gloom that Farideh's chosen to perch herself on the patio ledge's edge so her legs can dangle over. She's dressed in light clothing and her hair isn't a complete mess, and for once she looks more distracted than tired. In fact, so preoccupied is she, that she's not yet bothered to eavesdrop on the conversations of the weyrfolk gathered on the patio behind her; there's certainly some juicy gossip involving one of Glacier's brownriders being batted around. Instead, she's chewing thoughtfully on her thumb, staring out over the bowl towards the lake.

R'van, meanwhile, is looking worn: the days of weyrlinghood are long, and he's been one of the ones up early and late both, burning the candle at both ends. At least he spends as much of his free time out of the barracks as possible. It's this that brings him up from the caverns to the Snowasis tonight, and then its patio to enjoy the air of early autumn. And then, there's Farideh, and of course he gravitates that way, pulling a chair out noisily, without otherwise announcing himself. Hello.

Irritation works its way across her face, first in the set of her mouth, to the tension in her cheeks, and then to into those emotive green-brown eyes and creasing her forehead. That's ''before'' she turns her head to scathingly rake her gaze over the person interrupting her quiet time. Farideh doesn't look altogether surprised that it's R'van, but her mouth at least eases into some semblance of a smile; pleased or annoyed, it's hard to tell. "Evening," she minces. "What brings ''you'' out here?" As if she couldn't possibly fathom-- not at all!

"The delightful company, of which I clearly do not get enough in my day-to-day activities," is R'van's drawled answer, as he seats himself in the chair he's claimed. "Yourself? The view, I'm sure. It never gets old." As if to back up this statement, he turns a dreamy look on the dim-lit bowl himself.

Barely imperceptible, Farideh's eyes narrow, and then she's turning on the ledge, drawing one leg in and letting the other dangle, so she's angled towards R'van. "You're full of shit." She's not hedging that one, and lifts her eyebrows while she continues to stare at him, baldly. "There's nothing spectacular about a flat expanse of dirt, though--" Her eyes sweep to the side, noting some of the riders near Snowasis' entrance. "I get tired of listening to them, sometimes. I can ''think'' here when it isn't over crowded." The ''them'' is implied.

R'van snorts, for his part. "If you have to call me out on it, you're missing the point," he tells her with a small shake of his head. "Also maligning our much-beloved homeland. Shame, that. Now they'll never trust you like a native." He's just being an ass now; the tiredness saps the usual wit out of his smirk. "I hope the thinking is worth it?"

The intended insult hits its mark, and Farideh stiffens, settling her full, angry stare on the other weyrling. "If you don't like me ''that'' much-- why don't you go sit somewhere else? With your intellectual equals?" She flings out a hand, one finger pointing off in some wayward direction. "I ''won't'' miss you." Her chin comes up and she ''tries'', too hard, to stare at him down her nose, which doesn't work since she's sitting on the ledge and he's in a chair. "Besides, weren't you ''just'' theorizing that Roszadyth might rise first and Vadevjiath might catch her? And then what? You became Weyrleader and throw me out of the Weyr like K'del did to that other ''woman''? That-- that-- " She can't even finish, she's so annoyed!

"Well," and R'van's tone keeps its evenness, but the vehemency of Farideh's response earns that gleam back in his eyes. ''Now'' he's amused again. "Tiriana?" he suggests. "You don't think she got off ''easy'', retiring down south somewhere? Considering what happened to, oh. Everyone after her."

"Tiriana," Farideh repeats, levelly. "It must be quite embarrassing to have someone like K'del oust you, or that the others would ''side'' with him over her. ''I'' would die of embarrassment right there on the spot." She folds her arms over her chest and remains steadily staring at him, narrow-eyed, so he can't get any ideas that she's somehow appeased by this turn of events. "Would you?"

But R'van doesn't really seem to care much if she's appeased or not, which is probably half the problem at least. "I couldn't say, honestly," he tells her after a moment in which he really seems to consider the question seriously. "I suppose it depends on how much those people's opinions matter to you. And how far you're willing to go to win. Beg them to take you back? Destroy them? Go on and live well, and hope the sight of that eats them alive? I hear that's the best revenge, after all."

"I'll give you a simpler question to answer, then." Farideh's mouth thins in an unkind smile. "Since you seem particularly unimpressed with ''me''-- if it was ''me'', ousting you, how would you feel?" She leans forward in anticipation, as though the proximity will make the answer even more sensational.

R'van actually just smiles at that. "Oh, Farideh," he tells her, somewhere between mocking and fond. It's a wide gulf. He makes it work. "You wouldn't be able to oust me."

Farideh blinks a few times, slowly, while she waits for him to say-- something else? laugh? It's unclear, except that she ''is'' waiting, until she isn't, and a stifled, mirthless laugh gets caught in her throat. She points a finger at her own chest, staring at him with disbelief. "''You'' think you could win out, over ''me''? Come to your senses. Please."

R'van's not laughing, though his mouth curves into a small smile all the same. It's bemusement at ''her'' reaction, though, and not some joke he definitely didn't make. "One very young, inexperienced, ''foreign'' Weyrwoman with a flair for the dramatic and a history of lying about very important things like, oh, her entire identity? Against a more mature, rational--not as likeable, I'll admit, but reasonableness and intelligence count for a lot in times like this--Weyrleader? I wouldn't even have to do anything. I'd just do my job, and even moderate competence at that would look shining in comparison." He shakes his head, but at least stops short of tsking her. "If you want to pull something ''that'' grand off, you're going to need a stronger foundation."

All of the disbelief recedes beneath an utterly blank facade-- which is his ''first'' clue. Is she listening? Is she taking it in? Farideh is certainly ''staring'' at him, but it's indescernable where any of it is penetrating. It's a faint tightening of her mouth that gives her away, and then the relifting of her chin. "''Fuck'' you, Rafe. Who are you anyway? Some overgrown, idiotic crafter who couldn't even become a Journeyman at-how old are you? Thirty?" Sure, she's deliberately fudging the facts, but that's part of her melodrama arsenal. "''You'' are a no body. At least ''I'' have some connections and breeding to speak of." Swiftly -- okay, as swiftly as she can, after almost three months of rigorous weyrling training -- she gets to her feet so she can somewhat tower over him, just this once. "And your Vadevjiath will never catch Roszadyth anyway. I won't let him. I'll clip his wings if I ''have'' to."

And Rafe, of course, answers with the facts: "Twenty-four, actually." It's part of being deliberately infuriating, to be sure, the straight man to her melodrama. "I didn't realize people of breeding found apprentices so worthy of insulting. But, if it makes you feel better, Vadevjiath and I have no interest in Roszadyth."

"Twenty-too-old-to-remember." This is definitely one of Farideh's more mature moments, with that unkind, smug smirk she's wearing that doesn't lend itself to the words she's speaking. It's his latter statement that has her looking wary, brow puckered. "Niahvth?"

"If I'm choosing between the two of you?" Rafe doesn't even have to consider that, canting a look up at Farideh standing over him. "Yes."

Less quick, but notably suspicious, Farideh asks, "Why?"

"She's smart," answers R'van, his brows furrowing up. Confusion. "She plays the game. ''Wouldn't'' you choose someone that capable?"

"Is smart all there ''is''? If that was the case, crafters would be running the world, wouldn't they?" Farideh reaches a finger to try and shove his forehead, but she's not exactly slow or fast of reflex, so it's easily blocked if he's so inclined. "She ''is'', but how do you know ''I'm'' not?" It's obviously her pride that's been tweaked.

"Do you ''really'' think you're as capable as she is? Will be, even with two more turns?" R'van doesn't try to avoid her hand, letting her shove at him; he just regards her with that same bemused look, as if that proves everything. "Be honest."

"No," Farideh admits, "but I might be. I might even be ''better''." Such blind faith in her own abilities, though, that's saying something for Irianke's ability to train too. She frowns down at him, her hands falling to her waist, and for now, not bothering to shove anymore. "You don't even know me more than a stranger would and yet you think you know ''everything''," is a touch disgruntled.

R'van just shakes his head. "It's possible. I'd put the odds of that only ''slightly'' below those of Tiriana coming back to retake the Weyr with fire," he tells Farideh, not unkindly, exactly. "So yes. If I were interested in being Weyrleader, I'd much rather Vadevjiath catch Niahvth than Roszadyth for it."

Not surprisingly, Farideh looks insulted. "Irianke would walk all over you. ''You'' wouldn't be able to keep up. You may be twenty-eight," because continuing to skew his age really drives home her point, "but she's, as you said, ''capable'', and ''I'' wouldn't listen to a single thing you had to say."

"Which," answers R'van, smirking, "is entirely why my ambitions lie somewhere entirely different."

"Once upon a time, you seemed ''nice'', but you're--" Farideh makes a face and takes a half-step back, regarding him with distaste. "I don't think I like you anymore. I ''hope'' it's not permanent."

This time, there's a tiredness creeping around the edges of that smirk, a weariness he tries to hide away as much as he can--not much, likely, considering their close-quarters living. "Me, too," he admits. "But truth badly delivered is still true."

"You think I'm incapable and dramatic," Farideh says, dryly. "I expect even my friends to lie to me that little bit-- which makes us what? Acquaintances?" She waves a hand in the air in a flippant gesture. "You're an ass." Her smile is thin, and doesn't budge, even when she's turning to step around the potted plants on the ledge and move towards the stairs.

"Those aren't friends, they're sycophants," R'van returns one more attempted gibe, though he's left studying after Farideh in the darkness, his own mouth pulled into a frown.
|Categories=Angst Logs, Flurry Wing Logs
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