Difference between revisions of "Logs:Lucky Little Twit"

>---< Orchard Gazebo, Nabol Hold >-------------------------------------------<

   Built of sturdy wood on a brick foundation and painted white, this       
  idyllic location is centered in the middle of Nabol's expansive orchards. 
  Ivy climbs from the ground across the trellised sides to wind about the   
  eight columns that support the circular roof. In the spring and summer,   
  white and pink flowers drape off the eaves and match the spring green and 
  yellow cushions that line the benches along the outer half-wall of the    
  gazebo.                                                                   
   In the morning and evening, when the temperature stays low enough, snow  
  falls steadily. By afternoon, with the day warming up somewhat, it starts 
  to turn into a miserably damp sleet.                                      

 -----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
  Farideh      F   19  5'5  Skinny, Brown hair, Hazel eyes                0s 
  R'hin        M   52  6'1  lean, sandy hair, pale blue eyes             11s
 ----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------

Nabol's winter festival is more of a somber affair than has been known in Lord Usetlan's days; partly due to the difficult couple of Turns they've had lately, and the lack of any presence from High Reaches Hold, the crowd is smaller this Turn. That doesn't mean there's not gossip, of course -- the gossip is about that awful thing at High Reaches Hold, and about Esvay's new holder -- their former Steward. Mercifully the Weyr doesn't rate much of a mention, other than some discussion of the intention of some of the attendees to visit at Turnover. It's late afternoon, and while not freezing, the weather is unwelcoming outside in general, though the festivals' tents are set up in such a way as to block most of the wind. The gazebo, too, serves as a suitable place to wait out the abrupt heavy snowfall that starts in the late afternoon, a certain bronzerider having chosen the bench to lounge on, mug in hand while he watches the falling snow.

The surprising incident at the latest High Reaches Hold event hasn't dampened Farideh's verve for all that glitters and shines, in the short term. It's amongst the shivering hoards that she's found herself, dressed in one of the only nice dresses she has - that of dark green velvet that fits appealingly - underneath that comically over-sized jacket of hers. She minces through the snow, her hem wet from the slush, until she gets to the gazebo and climbs the stairs; the whole way up, looking over her shoulder at a trio of knit-capped harpers. Only when they've disappeared within one does she relent to drop her gaze to the sodden bottom of her dress, clucking her tongue at her own misfortune. "Great," she grumbles, slowly backing up towards the bench, one foot behind the other, and she's definitely not checking to see if anyone's back there.

While riding leathers would certainly keep the cold at bay, R'hin's gone for more appropriate garb for a festival, including a furred coat, today. There's nothing that otherwise stands out as rider about him, a deliberate choice. His, "If you wanted to sit on my lap, you could've just asked," from behind her is familiarly amused, as is pale gaze, watching her.

A reaction is nearly instantaneous, the bent form of the brunette snapping upright, spine straight, though her head turns slowly to assess the situation behind her. Her mouth tugs to the side, both annoyed and relieved when she sees it's just R'hin. "But wouldn't that ruin the romance of the moment?" Fairdeh says saccharinely, turning to face the bronzerider, and awkwardly dragging her saturated dress hem.

"No," he corrects her with a laugh, unstirred from his lounging posture, "That would've been you tripping on the hem of the dress and me, rushing in to catch you before you fell to the ground. But it's cold, and I'm not all that sure I'd get there in time, so I thought it best to skip that particular portion of the afternoon." R'hin flexes fingers as if testing their reflexiveness. "You'd think though," he gestures towards her, "You'd learn to find a dress that doesn't hang to the ground to wear during winter. I mean, I know you're an Igenite and all, but you've lived at the Reaches long enough to know better, surely?"

"And surely you know I don't have the kind of marks to do anything more than alter something I find in the stores," Farideh says, grabbing a fistful of fabric to keep the wet parts from clinging to her legs. "I am a laundress, after all," not without a touch of wryness, even as she avails herself of the room left over on the bench, next to R'hin. "I might know better, but--" She lifts her slim shoulders and shrugs, tugging the wool-blend jacket closer around her torso. "Sometimes I still like to pretend."

"Indeed," R'hin allows, leaning slightly toward her, as he murmurs as if in confidence: "A laundress with access to almost everyone's clothes. Sometimes those things go missing for a short time, mm?" He's chuckling under his breath. He gives a grand gesture, a flip of his wrist, as if in concession of her latter point: "We all like to pretend. You," for example, "--pretend to be something you're not, to avoid a future writ so large and terrible in your mind that you'd rather clean other people's clothes for the rest of your life."

Lips twist, nose wrinkling, at his suggestion. "I'm not a thief," because, apparently, out of all the things she could be called, a thief isn't appealing to her. "Besides, wouldn't it be obvious, if someone's precious things went missing and I suddenly sprouted a wardrobe?" Farideh's not going for the idea, though she does smile sorrowfully at his next words. "Exactly," proud. "Look at what happened to poor Lady Issedi. I'd rather wash dirty underpinnings for the rest of my life than go like that." It's a short moment of silence she spares for the departed, before canting her head to the side. "What do you like to pretend?"

"It's not thievery if you return it," R'hin counters, persistently. "You borrow it for one day, wear at at some Hold somewhere -- how would they ever know?" his head tilts, as if challenging her to come up with a flaw in his logic. Her mention of the incident at High Reaches Hold has him sighing out a long breath. "The exiles were always a touchy subject. As long as you don't marry one, I'd say you're pretty safe," he's giving a dark sort of laugh as he says it, that subsides into silence a moment later. "Mm, you know. This and that. I could," regarding her thoughtfully a moment, "Pretend to be your father, escorting you around, fending off the inevitable male interest you'd receive, seeking the payment of a dance or two in return. But--" with a slight, judgemental frown, belied by the amusement glimmering in pale gaze, "You've gone and got your dress all wet, and I can't be seen with someone like that, unfortunately for you."

Her eyes narrow thoughtfully on his face, her lips pursing while she muses over his idea. "I find it exceedingly disturbing that I should somehow borrow the Weyrwoman's dresses and be seen out at gathers in them. Don't you?" Or, she doesn't say, doesn't that faze him? Farideh leans to the side, away from R'hin, with one palm braced in the bench seat. "One day it is exiles and the next it's any old Blood walking down the Hold road," with an exaggerated sigh. "And, besides, I heard," because she works in the laundry, the rumor mill to best all rumor mills, "that maybe Lord Devaki hired someone to do it. What if it was? What if he's setting a precedent? Then, every dumb Holder with half a mind will think it's okay to murder his wife so he can get another." She rolls her eyes, and slants a look to the side, absently. "You're old enough," Farideh says, her voice smug. "I wouldn't want people to get the wrong idea anyway." It's weak for a comeback, but she can't let him get the last word in, obviously.

Certainly, R'hin seems particularly unfazed -- but then this isn't exactly out of the ordinary. He waves off that particular line of discussion, as if he thinks the answer is obvious, since he's already provided it. The Lord, however, interests him more, or rather, her thoughts on it, pale gaze intent: "You were there, I heard. Do you think he had someone do it?"

"You heard," Farideh repeats drolly. "I didn't actually see anything. There were a lot of people and I was distracted--" But she sighs, her eyes flicking to R'hin. "I can't say. Everything was chaos. One minute everyone was happy and celebrating, and the next--" She spreads her hands, assuming he understands what happened, then. "I wasn't near enough to witness his reaction, but wouldn't it be more helpful to know how they were before? Maybe he hated her. Maybe he just wanted to marry one of those other exiles."

"By all accounts," R'hin spreads his hands, as if said accounts should be taken with a grain of salt, "They were happy. Everyone knows about Madilla, but if he... dallied, he kept it quiet. Seems to me a Lord Holder could just divorce his wife and marry another, if he were that unhappy. Murder's so... messy, especially when he's never really lost that association with that exile girl dying all those Turns ago." With a twitch of lips, "I suppose, we'll see how quickly he remarries, and to whom, mm?"

"By all accounts. Ask their staff. What do they see? Not-- that they would tell you anyway." Farideh starts to meticulously tuck the sides of her dress under her legs in preoccupied behavior, and keeps her eyes averted. "If he divorced her, then he'd have to face that reputation." Shifting, uncomfortably, "We will. I wonder, if Wulfan had any daughters, if it would be a hasty affair?" Her head tips to the side and she gives him one of those looks, that expresses a bunch of conflicting things.

"Better a murderer than a divorcee?" R'hin suggests without any sense he believes that. "Better a cheater, too?" He looks surprised at her mention of Wulfan, more for what she suggests than anything else. "I thought he was your favorite?" there's a hint of teasing amusement in the bronzerider's voice. "Perhaps if Wulfan had daughters, he'd still be a Lord," with a brief shrug of shoulders. Its her latter expression that interests him the most, though, with a sudden grin.

The bronzerider spreads his hands, chuckling. "It's not my loyalty to give. A person decides their own loyalty. Sometimes, though," R'hin's head turns, in the direction of the distant Weyr, though he couldn't possibly see it from here, "Loyalty is best placed not in an individual, but an area. An ideal." His gaze returns to her, lingering, as if to see whether she comprehends. "Especially when that ideal is greater than the individual." A beat, and the Savannah rider exhales. "Who can say. It certainly can't have helped -- I doubt it's coincidence that Joremy pulled a boy of his own out of," he snaps his fingers, "Thin air at the same time."

Following his focal point, Farideh leans forward to gaze towards the distance, and then at R'hin. "Loyalty to an ideal," she murmurs, but without any kind of significant connection to the phrase. "What would that be, for you? Women and drinks for everyone?" Batting her eyes, all innocent-like, despite the dryness of her words. "It's not like one plans those things. You can't snap your fingers like that," but her snap is less of one, more of a finger fumble, "and you get an heir. They would have had to--" She makes a real mature face. "You know, but, it could have been a girl."

That makes him chuckle, and it makes him stand, too, stretching down a hand for her to take. "Women and drinks," R'hin says, like he's agreeing. "And I only have one half of the equation, so I hope you see how much of a sacrifice I'm making for you, right now. Enough of a sacrifice to earn at least one dance after our fingers and toes thaw inside, don't you think?" There's no further comment on the Igen Lord, not for now, anyway.

Rather than take his hand straightaway, Farideh looks up at the bronzerider narrowly. "What a sacrifice," and accepts it after, using the support to stand up. "No. I don't think I'll take you up on that offer. I remember all too well what happened the last time, but there's at least one silly twit out there who wouldn't mind." Her face breaks into a smile, that's as much sardonic as it is genuine.

"And what a lucky twit she shall be," R'hin sing-songs, with a half-bow executed in her direction as he releases her hand. The snowfall has abated enough that his path off the gazebo and through the tents in the direction of the Hold is visible about half the distance before he disappears.

It's enough to laugh with genuine good-humor in his leaving, to watch him go from the railing, and when he's good and gone, Farideh will make her descent, sodden hem and all, to enjoy the rest of the gather.