Difference between revisions of "Logs:Daughter of Igen"

It is a late night in autumn and the air is cool, the stars and moons obscured by a light cloud covering. Sounds of revelry come from the Snowasis, where weyrfolk are happily toasting to good times and turns to come. Quite unlike those people, it's an agitated Farideh that strolls out of the Weyr's bar and down the steps of the ledge, only to strike out towards the lower caverns. She has her head down and her hands crossed tightly, protectively, over her chest, but that doesn't stop her from noticing the pale bronze and his golden rider. Her steps slow, and eventually, redirect towards the Igenite. "Hey," she calls out in greeting, but her face is not friendly per say. "Are you going somewhere? Anywhere? Igen?" She sounds breathless.

He saw her coming. He must have. He acted like he didn't but a moment too late, his blonde head ducking, eyes averting from the brunette only after she's seen him. "Hi," J'taryn greets, blushing away any chance of covering his attention for the brunette. "We were-- yeah, Igen. Home." He blinks at her, not entirely getting it. Why does she want to know again?

A stilted nod answers the bronzerider's response. "Good. I want to go. To Igen." Farideh doesn't wait for him to confirm his acquiescence, but walks up to the bronze with purposeful steps and glances back at J'taryn. "Let's go." She sounds impatient.

"O-oh, 'kay." J'taryn agrees since it wasn't his choice anyway. He hurries to pull on his helmet, nearly forgotten in one hand and pull the strap under his chin. Then he's moving past her to swing up into Njebrith's straps with the practiced grace of one who's been partnered for turns. He reaches down his hands to offer her help up. That he places her behind him in the straps bodes well for his intentions with ferrying her off to Igen. Once she's strapped in and he's gloved and goggled, he's lightly slapping the hide within reach and saying, "Jeb," and up they go. Black, blacker, blackest! Does Farideh recognize the sprawling pattern of lights that is Big Bay Hold below them?

The hand up is accepted with aplomb and that entitled haughtiness customary to so many Blood; his help won't be denied this time. Getting situated takes only a little time, and then they're up, and she's tensing for the short trip between. Farideh's exhale is brief, hitching when she notices where they are, and her hands holding onto his jacket, lightly before, tighten and she shouts: "No! Not here. Somewhere else." If he can hear it over the rush of the air around them.

He tenses when her grip tightens. Maybe it's just reflex though and not acknowledgment. At first, there's no other sign that he's heard her. Worse is certainly the prospect that he did and simply doesn't need her. But then two achingly long heartbeats later, the cold consumes them again. When they emerge again into the deep violet night that swaths the moonlit desert spreading endlessly out below them, there's only one bright spot, which, as they circle lower proves to be several bright spots in a wide circle, the brightest at the center where a bonfire blazes. There's no trace of permanent structure, no landmarks, just the fire and the dozens of faces it illuminates, the outlines of people dancing and the sound of drum, song and laughter carrying to them as Njebrith lands outside the circle, far enough that the beat of his broad wings doesn't trouble the beasts of burden tied up some distance away, nor the covered wagons closer by.

The landing is met with eagerness, and Farideh is already clambering her way down from the bronze once his rider assists in helping her out of the straps. Her feet hit the ground and she lets out a long, vigorous exhale that quantifies her need, and perhaps her gratitude better than words could. She is sticking close to Njebrith for now, though her eyes wander farther afield - to the drums and fire-illuminated faces. "Where are we?" she queries once J'taryn has dismounted, during curious hazel eyes, at once, on the taller man.

The man is sufficiently swift in helping Farideh out of the straps and climbing down himself, pausing to stow the flight gear he doesn't need in bags attached to the straps. Not far from where Farideh stands, there's an outline of another dragon, no whiling gaze apparent, so this one is probably asleep. It's to that one that Njebrith gravitates as J'taryn answers, "Igen," helpfully. Then, "The middle of nowhere." Also helpful. "Seemed like maybe you wanted away. This is pretty away." He looks at the brunette a brief moment before heading toward the bonfire.

"I gathered," Farideh returns sardonically, of Igen. "None of this looks familiar." Nighttime changes landscapes, but there's the sense of familiarity, or lack of. She returns his steady gaze, all of those roiling emotions hidden well by the darkness. Her hand reaches out when he starts towards the bonfire, to pull him back, but he's already going and she's got little choice except to follow at a quick pace; adjusting to the sand, in boots, causes a couple semi-trips along the way. "Do you know these people?" she says, sidling up to J'taryn as soon as her feet will let her. "We're not interrupting?" Concern shows in her frown, her crinkled forehead.

"Yes, and no." Two distinct answers for her two questions. J'taryn knows them and they're not interrupting. "It's a party," sort of. He nods a greeting to some of those they pass, pausing briefly once to clasp arms with another man, and then he's picking up a mug from inside the lip of one of the wagons and fills it from a jug there, offering it to the brunette politely. Able to be seen now by the fire are the dancers. Anyone who wants to, wilder variants of what might be seen at gathers, far less concern for tripping on hems and tearing fine gowns for there are none. These people wear simple clothes and all bear the signs of much time spent in the harsh heat of the Igen desert.

"What are they celebrating?" the brunette squeezes in before they're in the thick, and she follows close on his heels like she's the bronzerider's shadow. Inquisitively staring, silently even, Farideh's taking in the dancers and J'taryn's apparent involvement. She accepts the mug of juice with a nod of quiet thanks, finally settling her unnerved eyes, lit by firelight, on the golden-haired Igenite. "Is this your family?"

"Living another day," comes with a shrug. Why not? Her last prompts a laugh from the bronzerider, short but genuine. He dips his head in affirmative answer. "My father's more than mine, really." He adds after a sip of his own sweet but decidedly spiked drink. "I'm a weyrbrat. He was from here," probably the people more than the precise place, "but he introduced me around when I was ten or so. Been coming around when they can be found since." It's a fairly succinct explanation for what could've been much longer, surely, but this is J'taryn so that's the kind of thing Farideh can come to expect. "It's safe here," he adds a moment later. "They're good people." If decidedly apparently unorthodox for the way Pern and Igen especially normally works.

"Safe," is the word the girl chooses to cling to, letting her avid gaze roam the weathered faces and their colorful garments, and their merrymaking amongst drums and sand dunes. It's a far cry from the Reaches and its cold climes. Farideh shifts closer to the wagon, hugging her untasted juice close to her chest. "How did you-why Big Bay?" she asks, at last, both quiet and troubled in one. Her stare is full of severity and suspicion, neither sentiment hidden from J'taryn.

J'taryn is silent, his expression thoughtful but not telling of anything else just now. He lifts his shoulders. "I didn't think you wanted to go to the Weyr." There's a pause before, "I can take you there if that's where you meant." And another before, "You seemed... out of sorts." It's a nice way of avoiding messier emotion words.

"No." His answer is enough to assuage any suspicions the laundress may have. "I was. I am. Do you ever feel like--" Farideh drops her gaze, staring in sudden rapt fascination at her feet. "You have too many feelings that you can't comprehend? That you heart might burst from it all." She sneaks a peek up at him, obviously seeing if he's laughing, or otherwise making fun. "I need to-- to be here." Not here, with these people, per say, but with the shifting sands of the desert under her feet, the dry Igen air in her lungs; of an essence.

J'taryn isn't laughing, nor is he making fun. But still, when his answer comes, it's a quiet, "No." If she waits a pair of breaths, he adds, "But Jeb does. Frequently." He bobs his head in simple acknowledgement of her words. "There's a lot to be said for being here." Then, "I wouldn't want to call anywhere else home." For whatever that's worth.

Suspicion rears its head again. "You don't have feelings?" It may be a jump, to conclusions, but she's forever herself and non-apologetic for that. "Don't you have an opinion on Wulfan and Joremy?" Farideh's gone brave, though she sneaks small glances towards the revelers as if they could hear her small voice from across the space that separates them.

In the face of Farideh's emphasis, J'taryn looks surprised, and nearly taken aback. "I... That's not... I just don't feel that way." The way she described. "Jeb does," he's quick to say. "I feel what he feels, but they're his feelings." He tries to explain. He stares down at the sand then (it is a very long way) and his feet upon it. "I do." Did she want to know what they were? She'll have to ask, though it doesn't seem like he's playing intentionally coy. He's just quiet.

He is looking at the ground, but she wants him to focus on her. Leaning over and down, Farideh tries to angle herself so she's staring up at him. "What? What do you think about it? Do you agree? Do you think it shouldn't have happened?" She's not going to let him be quiet on the subject, and seems bothered by the topic, herself. "Of Yuliye?"

The leaning has J'taryn recoiling a touch in his continued surprise. He stands up straight which gets his head sufficiently far from Farideh to have her be less in his personal bubble. "I think Joremy is the people's favorite, which doesn't necessarily make for a good Lord. Nor does a sickly child born to a dubious match bode well." He sucks in a breath before exhaling, "But I don't know that I know the details well enough to speak with authority." And evidently the blonde bronzerider doesn't like to gossip, who knew.

Farideh would normally be amused by his reticence to be close, but their conversation means more to her than a dragonrider's uncomfortableness. "Do you recognize Lord Joremy as your Lord?" She stands up and slants the nearby fire a thoughtful glance. "It's getting cold," spoken softly, with an unfathomable undertone.

"I don't have to recognize anyone, Farideh," J'taryn says it quietly but firmly. "I'm a bronzerider. I've never lived in a Hold. The matters of Holders are naught to us so long as the tithes come. Our job is to protect, not to involve ourselves without good reason." There's a pause. "It has, so far, been a peaceable change through the proper channels of the Conclave. It's not our place to do ought." Then, he shifts, slipping off his jacket and offering it to the brunette. It's only after that he says, "Do you recognize him as your Lord?" The emphasis on 'your' is slight, but there.

Her hazel eyes flick back to J'taryn, almost comfortably. "No. You don't, but I assumed you cared where your livelihood came from and your candidates." The cup of juice makes it to her mouth, then, in a fortifying gesture that twists her lips when she realizes it's spiked and not virgin. "Why would you say that?" she murmurs, her hand disappearing in the sleeve of one harm as she shrugs on the offered jacket. "I'm bound to the Reaches, now. What Joremy does or doesn't do-" Farideh sigh is fluttery and precedes a step towards the fire, her eyes tugging to the side to pinion J'taryn with her stare. Her suggestion is there, and then she's ambling nimbly to the nearest blanket, where she lowers herself and sits, cross-legged, happily watching the dancers twirl and the drummers beat.

"Don't much have a real need to Search outside the Weyr nowadays," J'taryn notes as a rather superfluous aside, since they do anyway. "Because you care," is first, but probably eclipsed by, "And because you're a daughter of Igen, Farideh." Does she hear him as she departs for the blanket? He moves to follow, meaning to settle down beside her, but not too close, his long legs half extended.

Does the brunette hear him? Lack of answer suggests no. Her face is too elated to hint at misgiving, her eyes following the to-and-fro of the wild desert people. "Do you dance? Like that?" Farideh's chin dips in reference to the dancing Igenites, and then her whole face turns to assess the bronzerider's. "You could teach me." Of course, she's delighted by the prospect, and doesn't try to hide the smile brimming after her words.

His eyes fall shyly to the blanket when she asks the question. The answer is obvious. He clears his throat, "I used to dance like that. Not anymore." There's an excited croon that doesn't compliment the music. It makes J'taryn close his eyes a moment. Then there's a slight sigh and he's rising to his feet, reaching a hand down to help the brunette up. Evidently, someone thinks he should, besides Farideh.

The initial reaction causes the frown, but the subsequent reversal brings a sunny smile to her face. "I'm sure you can get it back quickly. You never forget how to dance," Farideh says cheerfully, setting her cup down and pushing herself up with J'taryn's help. "What do we do?" she inquires in a loud whisper, glancing around in sudden self-conscious fashion.

"No, I haven't forgotten." J'taryn admits that much. He pulls her with him to the edge of the dancers. "Like this." His style of instruction is more hands on than not, but the way he places his hands, he might as well be touching his sister. The dance is more fluid than the gather dances which involve a lot of coordinated movement, but the individual movements prove jerkier until they're learned for the way they isolate individual muscles. It takes time and effort, but after a time, Farideh has learned enough to join with the outer circle of dancers, the inner ones reserved for those with more experience. J'taryn chivalrously declines the pulling hands of a woman trying to draw him into one of the inner circles, staying with Farideh in case she should end up a damsel in dance distress. When she's had enough, he'll go with her back to the blanket to reclaim his cup and drink deeply from it.

This style of dance is less inhibited, more wild than the polite turns and pairings of Hold affairs, and as such, the brunette is completely enthralled. It's with relish that she savors the instructions and tries, with much fumbling and lack of skill, to repeat the steps. She's laughing by the end of it all, her cheeks ruddy for all the cold, and breathless when she makes it back to the blanket, dropping to her knees to wait out her lungs. "A reserved fellow like you," Farideh says laughingly, all good-natured, "I would have never expected to keep up with them. Thank you, really." Her fingers splay on her knees, her eyes returning to the flames swaying in the desert wind.

"Everyone has secrets, Farideh," J'taryn answers in a way that qualifies as off-handed for him (only half a moment's pause instead of a full one). "Some just matter more than others." His eyes drift into the darkness where Njebrith's hide catches the firelight. "Tell me," he requests, "what were you running from?" Beat. "Tonight."

All the dancing and returning a smile to her smile for nothing! It's dashed with his question, a somberness settling in its stead. "Not running from, running to." Farideh wraps her arms - still bundled in the bronzerider's jacket - around herself and sinks on her heels. "I told you. I felt like my heart was going to burst. I don't know what it is about this place," she murmurs, tipping her head back to take in the deep violet sky and its smattering of silvery stars. "I can't stay and I can't stay away." Her chin falls, her eyes flicking to J'taryn. "Everything has changed. What was wrong with how it was before? Wasn't it good before? Weren't we happy before? Can't it stay one way forever?" Spoken like a true, untried youth.

The blonde man looks at her with trepidation. "It can't. You know it can't." She does, he has confidence. J'taryn looks at the fire. "All life is change. In a single moment, everything you knew, everything you dreamt, everything you thought you were capable of changes." It sounds like he's talking from sad experience. Then he manages a slight smile for the younger woman. "It's the lesson the desert teaches us. The sand shifts day to day and is never the same. The wind has moved the grains. Some days it's only grains, and others, the whole dunes die and are reborn." He drinks more of his drink, this is the deep sort of thing that requires more alcohol.

"Who says it can't?" she says in a wobbly, broken voice that hints at tears. "Why do some people get to keep their realities and the rest of us have to change? I don't want to be a pawn or a political allegiance or another unwilling participant in some Holder's bed. I don't want any of it. I don't want it for my sister. I don't want it for my friends. And I wish--" Farideh lets out a breath and then sucks it right back in. "Joremy hadn't overtaken his brother." There, she said it. "Dragons can go back in time, can't they? But, it still wouldn't be the same." Some of the fight leaves her, and she stares listlessly at the swirl of cloth and body, not truly seeing. "Sand analogies stopped meaning anything to me when I was four," she points out, with a severe look his way.

"Maybe you were smarter when you were four," J'taryn observes quietly, but not unkindly. Really, his look is sympathetic, even pained himself, briefly. "The world would be a better place if no one ever had to do those things. Everyone has choices. Sometimes, the grass simply isn't greener." And he sounds sad for that, forlorn even. "Dragonriders have the closest thing to true freedom that I've ever seen, and even then, one gives up much to ride. For some it's a step up, for others... it's giving up everything."

"Life was sweeter and uncomplicated." About being four, presumably. "I am discontent and I don't know how to fix it," she says, wiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands. Girls, right!? Farideh picks up her cup and cradles it in her palms like it's a precious treasure unsuited to rough handling. "What did you give up?" Her voice is soft, lightly curious in the commiserating way, but she's staring at the rounded receptacle in her fingers.

From a pocket in his pants, J'taryn produces a handkerchief. It's a plain square of cloth, but it's clean and he offers it to Farideh without really looking at her, giving her the privacy to deal with it as she sees fit. Her question makes him laugh, but in a surprised rueful way. "Sanity?" He starts and then smiles, probably the most wide and genuinely she's seen, into his cup. "Independence." This is more serious, but he doesn't linger on it. Instead he looks at young woman. "Complicated doesn't mean bad. It's just messier, Farideh. Life. It gets that way, but it can be richer for it. Sweeter still, even. Just... don't get too caught up in the past," he advises.

Farideh stares at the handkerchief for an unseemly amount of time, but tentatively reaches for it with one hand in a way that doesn't upend her drink. "How did you know you were willing to sacrifice those? That you would? Or is that part of the trying?" She does little except scrunch up the bit of cloth in her hand, twisting it between her fingers. "Don't get caught up in the past." Her eyes slide over to J'taryn, and then: "You're saying-- I should forget about the past? All of it? Forsake tradition and history and--" Exhale. "I want to go for a walk." Demanding. "I didn't," simple answer. "I don't think I'd trade it even if I could, though." It's probably something J'taryn has thought about before. He's rising smoothly when she makes her demand and offering his hand again to help her up. "I'm not saying forget it, I'm saying don't let it keep so firm a hold on you that you can't find happiness in whatever mess of complications you end up with."

"No? No regrets at all?" Dragonriding isn't a new concept to her, but talking about the rider-dragon bond is. She pulls herself up with his help, and then tucks both hands, with the handkerchief, into his jacket's pockets. "I don't understand," Farideh mutters, shaking her head as she strikes out past the safety of the fire's lumination, "The past makes us who were are, doesn't it? You can be you without who you once were, or who made you.. you."

J'taryn has a softer laugh for that. Looking to the fire he confesses, "Some days I regret I wasn't born a well-to-do Blooded man, but that has nothing to do with my dragon. Njebrith is a constant challenge, and some days he exhausts me, but I don't ever regret him, or regret standing, even if it wasn't what I thought it would be." He follows a half step behind the brunette. "That's true enough, but you don't have to let it rule you." His brow wrinkles in deep thought, but whatever thought it is doesn't find a way to his lips.

Farideh's head tips back and forth, considering his words with a show of humor at her own situation. "Being a Blooded man has it's advantages, but so, I hear, does being a bronzerider and a Weyrleader. More, because you don't have to abide by the rules of holders." She keeps her strides short and leisurely, letting her feet carry her over the sands and away. "That's easy for you to say. You were born with one of those things--" with a swift glance down and then away as if nothing happened, "between your legs. Holder girls don't have a choice, unless you run away to a Weyr," and her lips quirk in silent amusement.

It's after he's done blushing for her gesture between his legs that he speaks. "So you're going to Stand and Impress bronze then," J'taryn queries, "So you can fly the senior queen and become Weyrleader." He's mulling it over as if it weren't entirely impossible. "You don't want to abide by the rules of holders?" He asks this softer. "You thought the Weyr would do you better somehow? And you'd rather be a laundress there?" Than whatever else she was doing before.

"If a bronze would have me! I would make a marvelous Weyrleader. Don't you think?" Farideh's amusement shines, apparent, in her eyes and causes the upward curve of her mouth. "No. I don't, and yes, I did. I see that both have rules to follow now, but at least weyrfolk don't impose unrealistic settlements on themselves. And just why not? I could be a laundress forever. Or a handyman. Or the Headwoman. I could be anything." She sounds confident about that, lifting her chin with in a show of stubbornness and yea, arrogance.

J'taryn has a close-lipped smile for the brunette, "Better than me," he assures quietly. "You could be a rider," the bronzerider muses as they walk, not denying that Farideh could be any of those things, if she chose. Does he really seem the type to argue with a spirited teenager? "If you were a rider, your home could never be forced away from you, you know." She must, mustn't she?

"What? You don't ever want to be Weyrleader or you don't think you'd make a very good one? You are kind of quiet, and unassuming, and not whole-heartedly attractive, but then, how many of them are?" Farideh goes on in a conversational manner, not bothering to apologize for her bluntness. It could be that she is trying to get a rise out of him, but it's hard to tell with her neutral expression. "But I would be bound, right? Dragons don't like to leave their Weyrs, I thought, and then I'd have to share those baths for-ever. That's what I miss. A private bath," she sighs, rubbing at the tip of her nose where the chill's set in.

"Both," of the first, and simply said. Of her assessment of him, he simply looks over at her, and then back out at the night. Evidently he's also lacking in bruiseable ego. Someone should check to make sure Njebrith is really bronze and not an awkward shade of brown. "If you advance enough in rank, and the right person vacates," he doesn't say dies, "there are weyrs in some places with private baths." He reaches up to push his hand through his hair before saying, "Most dragons like to stay at the Weyr they were shelled at, but if you wanted a dragon who wanted to travel and live in another place, I imagine you're clever enough to teach it so. But you would always have to live at a Weyr." Beat. "Providing for a dragon outside of one isn't terribly feasible long term," or so they've all been taught.

"You're without ambition?" the girl asks him dubiously, squinting. "Not Weyrleader, or Wingleader, or anything? Just a rider?" She sounds decidedly curious, if not surprised. "I don't know. There are plenty of things to do and places to see and people to be. Some people say it's easier with a dragon and some people say it's easier without. I suppose I should find out for myself?" Farideh says, head tipped to the side to watch his reaction to that, and purses her lips to hide a mischievous smile. "But I can't be any of those, or do any of it if I'm married to some Lord Loser."

"Nothing wrong with just being a rider, laundress." J'taryn's look to her is calm and patient. "Most riders are just riders, you know. There aren't so many special positions to go around. And Jeb takes a lot of time." He's thoughtful for a moment, "It sort of depends on how you want to see the world, I expect. If not find out for yourself, at least decide. Best not to end up having things decided for you, probably. You don't seem like you'd like that sort of thing," given everything she's said. "What about Lord Not Loser? Would you like that?" His question has curiosity to it, but no real pointedness in its nature.

The plunging desert temperatures might be getting to her, or perhaps some wistful thought, as the brunette stops in her tracks, looking back towards the fire and the shadow-y figures surrounding. "There isn't a single Lord Not Loser out there. Not now, anyway. Astivan is married and Devaki too," Farideh notes, lifting thoughtful eyes to the bronzerider's face.

"What about Lady Lara's heir?" J'taryn asks. It's impossible to tell with his placid nature if he knows what he's saying in this asking.

Farideh's eyebrows come together over puzzled eyes. "I don't think I've ever seen the man. I've heard he's winsome, almost as winsome as a woman, but I've also heard someone call Xanemin cute," which causes an abrupt laugh. "Lord Cendon isn't so bad, but there's rumors that he's-- cutthroat."

"So you don't make any allowances for character flaws when a man can otherwise give you your own pieces of the world?" J'taryn's query is thoughtful (surprise!) and there's a touch of emphasis on the word 'you' which might suggest some sort of comparison, but then maybe it's just a speech manifestation of the desert juice.

"What," Farideh's squinting one eye at him, her temperament clearly disagreeable, "is a character flaw? It sounds like a flaw. I don't know. When you love someone aren't you supposed to look beyond their flaws? But if I'm made to marry someone, I can't very well love them, can I? And isn't that the opposite of what love is supposed to be about? Of course, I've never been in love, so I don't know if I can say for sure. I just know that I don't love Matthias or Lord Astivan or Lord Devaki or Lord Cendon."

"Like being cutthroat, for example," J'taryn provides helpfully in answer to her first question - the very thing that must have made him ask the question to begin with. "Can a person love someone they're made to marry?" This is another important one, and he looks at Farideh with a fairly intense look to his light eyes. "Do you need to marry for love to still be happy?" He wonders this too, though why it should matter to a dragonrider... well.

"Sometimes." That, an answer to his original question, and a quiet exhale, her hands coming to rest on her hips in an exaggerated example of annoyance. "I'd worry that he'd be cutthroat in his marriage as well. Being a Lord doesn't stop you from being mean." Farideh does, however, look thoughtful at the subsequent questions. "I don't know? I've never been married either. But just look at Wulfan and Daroda, they've never even had kids. Maybe they don't even have sex," whispering the last sentence. "I think the big question is: do you need to marry? Why can't you have love independent of marriage? Bloods marry without love all the time, but should they? I don't think any amount of marks or pretty dresses are worth it."

"Nothing stops a person from being mean, not even all the kindness in the world." J'taryn sighs at this, his expression clouding, but he doesn't elaborate. His fingers rake again through his hair, a habit, to be sure. "I think some would disagree with you. Either about the love part or about the dresses and marks being worth it." He's frowning now but the hand that went through his hair rubs across his face, "They probably have sex, pretty much everyone does. Especially the married. If, perhaps, not with one another." This much he'll allow and he shifts their path to take them back toward the fire and the figures there. After all, he doesn't have a jacket. "So you'll be a free-loving laundress all your days and be happier for it, Farideh?"

"Why did you ask me if you have all the answers," the brunette replies sardonically, but follows at a sedate pace, thoughtfulness puckering her brow. "I might. It's a possibility, isn't it? Unless they drag me back." But that's, surely, not in reference to him, because Farideh's not that smart.

"I don't," admitted with a shake of his head. The fact that J'taryn's making a rumbly noise of consideration and not asking might be telling, but then, he might also have used up his quota of words for the day. "We can stay a while," he manages to offer, but we have dawn drills, so we can't stay forever." Especially since it's already later here than it was in 'Reaches.

"Don't you know nothing lasts forever?" her voice colored with a considerable amount of disquietude, and just short of a sad smile. "I wouldn't mind staying a little bit longer, but you're right, they'll be looking for me in the morning. Thanks--" But she won't utter his name, or spare anymore words as they head back to the fire and the momentary lull in her newfound reality.