Difference between revisions of "Logs:What's Your Name"

Meadow, Fort Hold

Set apart from the main hold, this meadow offers an inviting respite from the bustle of Hold life. Lush and verdant grasses and grains grow rampant and abundant in this peaceful and tranquil meadow. Shaded by a copse of softwood and evergreen trees, the light is dappled and freckled where it warms the ground. At certain hours of the day, small woodland creatures emerge from the small forest and may be seen frolicking about in the grasses. Paths lead back toward the hold, winding their way along near the inner edge of the orchards before returning to the white stone so familiar to the Hold's courtyard and main halls.

The peace and tranquility have been shattered as the meadow has been taken over by the Travelling Show. Lush grasses have been trampled flat or cropped short by grazing runners. Those wagons not converted into stages for various shows have been pulled in amongst the trees at the meadow's edge, a private camp for the show's populace. The show area itself takes up the majority of open space, performance tents and wagons set up in a horse-shoe shape about the edge. The central area is dotted with smaller stands and stalls that house the various games available. Only two are devoted to food and beverage, one selling small cups of cheap liquor and juice, the other frying up strips of meat and tuber slices to be smothered in salt and sauce. An 'entryway' is marked with a simple, multi-coloured banner and ribbons attached to two tall poles, with a small platform set up to one side for a crier to announce shows about to begin and welcome patrons.

Morning at the traveling show is draped in a surreal, and somewhat elusive, quiet -- not silence, no; there's a constant sense of movement and upkeep, with nothing left to the next day what could be done today in the relative lull. More than ever, sets have been dismantled during show breaks and taken aside for some kind of maintenance. Some return with refreshed paint jobs, while others don't return at all but remain, near the private sector, waiting for continued changes. With the news of the wedding broke, speculation has turned to mostly fact: the touch-ups are in order to make things as presentable as possible for the occasion. If that means some minor inconveniences during shows, it doesn't seem to have much affected an already diminished crowd by this point anyways. So the air sits, anticipatory, but familial, as the first few people trickle by to see when things will go, and the performers spend their last few minutes out of character. On the outskirts, where any questioned roustabout could point out the path she took, Serah is separated from the pack by several yards. Tromping across the broken meadow ground, into a less populated area, she swings the sturdy bucket in her hand and lets a downpour of dirty water fly as majestically as soils can into the underbrush.

All that industry might cause the skies overhead to go unnoticed - the troupe must be used to the traffic above by now. Up high, there's a small sunburst spot that comes into being, turning into a young dragon as she wings down, angling to land on the Hold's fireheights instead of anywhere near the camp. How disappointing for her. At length after that, a tall, dark young woman makes her way out into that working quiet from the Hold's ramp, a jacket under her arm, turned round so the knot isn't visible, dressed casually otherwise. Easy and confident in her questioning, it takes little time to find Serah and her bucket; expecting little but a greeting, she offers one first once in earshot: "Serah!"

Under the sloshing of the water still left in the bucket from the throw, Brieli's voice seems to drown. Or is it that Serah, staring resolutely ahead, needs to cool herself off a second first. After, she turns across her shoulder, spotting the taller, similarly dark older woman with a strictly cold gaze. Anger, or others, fuel it, but her eyes don't speak quite yet. She glares. Then she turns roughly back to the front, hefts up the bucket, and tosses the dregs with a second swing that carries further in the new lightness of the bucket. A short burst, then a few dribbles, and the carrier is brought back around to her side.

That glare stops Brieli in her tracks - which is quite a feat. Few things do; fewer glares would even make a mark. There's a flicker of hurt, uncertainty, but that's all schooled away quickly into something closer to calm and neutral. She's not bothered, really. Dark eyes go flinty as Serah turns her back, and she takes her time in folding her arms with that jacket hanging over them, shifting her weight to a stance that's defensive on more than one level. "What?" It's clipped, in that non-accent of hers, with a lift of her chin. She might know, but she'd hear it.

She might be rolling her eyes. Whatever occupies a short pause, before Serah nudges the bucket more stably against her hip, above an unfitted belt keeping a clearly meant for chores tunic against her. It notches there, against her curve, with the same deliberate force as she turns on her heel -- somewhat poorly, thanks to the vast amount of mud after the heavy rains of previous days. Unsticking her foot with a slightly less ominous tug, she begins long, purposeful strides back along the path she came. Chin thrust up, she's clearly aflame with immaturity, though she manages to keep her usual petulance off her face in that cold facade that, if it weren't likely so true, may have been practiced.

If the other girl is rolling her eyes, Brieli just might be doing the same at the whole silent treatment, the way Serah tries to turn on her heel and walk off without so much as a word. There's something that colors her own cheeks, something between anger and embarrassment - and she's not so much older or more mature that she can just let it all go, not with someone who she grew up with, not now, not with everything she's been through. "I couldn't tell you in the middle of the crowd," she hisses as her cousin passes, trying to keep quiet. "What would you have done? I couldn't explain what I'm doing until we were able to talk! I couldn't risk it!"

So it /is/ true. A flash in her eye ruins her attempt at icing her cousin out. "'Case I freaked out?" snaps Serah, the latter two words threateningly louder than the first -- than the careful hiss. Not an entirely groundless concern, but the tremor of perceived betrayal clouds any possible embarrassment of her own; except the kind admitting that she was strung along. Pulling her shoulder up on Brieli's side, she marches a couple feet further and spins halfway. Her gaze, somewhat halted before fully reaching Brieli, has lost its distant edge. "M'sorry," she blithely gushes, a mockery of contrition, as she clasps her hands about the bucket's frame. "Where're m'manners, m'um weyrwoman. How's Iesaryth?" The loathsome dragon's name, done in sing-song to cover other feelings.

"Yes! Not because I don't /trust/ you, but because I'm trying to /do/ something here!" Well, not /here/, but. Brieli's frustration is of a level that it can't possibly be all for Serah, but there it is anyway, hanging over her like a shadow, or the dark little cloud that seems to follow her around these days. As the other girl begins her routine, well-trained, no doubt, her color is higher, it creeps down her neck; though her arms are tightly folded, her tone is low and dangerous. "Don't. She knows how to keep a secret." Implied: Does Serah? "Our family does too. Though..." Another flicker of hurt, a crack in her armor, "I don't think they're with the plan any longer. But they'd take /you/, that's all that really matters, yes? You can go home, congratulations. It's a wreck, and everyone's miserable, but - there you are." Despite her last, her voice is bitter.

"What? Become the thing that hunted us down? Congratulations!" A cloud that poisons both of them, spurring Serah on right until that low tone that strikes her abruptly still and cautious; cowed, too; Brieli's, absent, untrustworthy, and traiterous... but older, family, and kind of intimidating. It's a toss-up whether the immediate strong defense for the dragon or the implication against Serah hurts her more. Her lips flinch like she was, instead, smacked. The tide doesn't turn quite enough for her to see through to Brieli. When she raises her shoulders tensely and turns to the side, it's for her own continued discomfort. "M'not..." her chin falls, /now/ penitent -- but not towards Brieli -- and not without an ounce of stubbornness. "M'not going home."

"No! I..." Brieli stops at that accusation, the memory likely still clear enough to them both; a moment that turned their lives into something very different than what was intended. The goldrider - for that's what she is, now - takes a long moment, looking down at the mud, before she'll admit to Serah, "It's so hard. I didn't think it would be so hard." There's the tiniest waver in her otherwise smooth tones - trying to clear it out, "I thought it would just be a way in. But it takes little pieces of you." She blinks quickly, shaking her head, tucking long curls behind her ears - nothing to see here. Dismissing her vulnerability for confusion, "What? Why? I... it might be better, but..."

Hard, like the way Serah swallows in her bold attempt to ignore the sound of her cousin's voice. 'Little pieces' has her pulling her arms tighter. An awkward affair around the dirty water bucket, she shifts an elbow distressfully. With her chin so often trying to plant in her shoulder, it's hard to tell what she saw, if anything. Her eyes meeting the other girl flitter immediately away like a nervous animal. Unintentionally, she mirrors with a jerk of her hand up to her hair -- black sitting heaps less nicely. "I've-- " she starts then stops, biting at her lip, with her chin tipping up more bullishly. Her toe digs unhappily into the mud. "Got somethin' to fix here first," is admitted after a fight that could yet go either way. Each word is bitten reluctantly out. Head rising, then falling, she clearly mulls over a new struggle that, at its end, finds her taking a breath and lifting her eyes. "What's your name?"

The older of the pair might regret giving all that up, but there's so few people she can tell, perhaps fewer that might understand. She toes the mud idly as well as she looks down at it, her boots spattered, but still pretty nice, all things considered. Who knows how comfortably /that/ sits with her? Or any of the other things that come along with her position? When Serah speaks, she'll finally look up, dark eyes curious - but she doesn't pry, just notes softly, "This is a good thing. To have a place to be. Things with the caravan... it wouldn't be the same." After the last question, she only smiles - and though she'll glance around to see if anyone is in earshot, she'll tell her cousin, "I'm Aishani Vijay, Rajiv's daughter. My lover calls me Shani, and my dragon calls me Shan. I know who I am and why I'm here. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

Serah doesn't precisely smile, nor precisely look displeased. Before Brieli -- Aishani, truly -- spoke, a flame or a flicker of honest fear pierced out at her cousin, but it's faded invisibly at the sound of the names, finally familiar. But for an extended blink over a lover, and a flinch of the mouth and nostril flare for the dragon. "It's." A sentence unto itself. Serah looks all the way down to her muddied boots, up to those perfectly cloudless skies, off her shoulder, then forward. For all it, a widened, holding back, strain to her eye and in the cinch of her lips. "Fine." And she's trying to convince herself almost as much. A short wobbling nod that firms as it goes on into a few more. "I... may've mucked up at t'Weyr. Wanted to make sure I din' leave the show in any straits. I owe 'em as like family." Her wandering eye sneaks up at Aishani; family.

Aishani shrugs a little for the blink with a slight grin - what can you do? - and is perhaps secure enough to ignore that flinch, the one-word sentence. And finally, finally loosening her arms a little, relaxing her stance, she waits for Serah. She has patience, that's more than evident when she tells her cousin gently, "It doesn't need to be fine right away. It was frightening to me, being there, at first. But I did what I had to do. You can take your time." She just seems happy enough to have someone accept her, by the faint smile that plays around her lips. Fine brows drawing together, glancing up the road, "How do you think you mucked up? I can't think of much that would go over badly at a Weyr, to be honest." As for family, she glances back, nods. She understands.

There's the tide, slipping in, foamy and sunny-bright, sparkling on the waves. Iesaryth has the sense of relief about her, like holding one's breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop is all over. Not far from his lands, she sits above the nearby Hold, enjoying the crisp air and sun, wondering what he's up to, since she waits and thinks. (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth)

Smiles are still distant for Serah, though she's never appeared all that ready with them. Her freer hand scratches at the arm trapped around the bucket as she sidles her weight in an embarrassment full of bravado, then irritation. "Wouldn't bow t'their stupid Weyrleader," she slurs 'stupid, mumbling the rest, though some inflection allows for a looser translation of 'bow' than strictly physical. "Don't feel bad," is added more forcefully; cause she doesn't. Fair warning, before she sobers more, tightening her arms so her fingers can stray together, then part, with nails of one picking at the wooden container. "But if 'e found me out 'n it reflected bad on the others, I'd be miserable." Which she rather looks.

She's got brilliance sent back, that sunny sparkle mirrored over and over again for all that Fort's skies are gray and rainy: /he's/ pleased to hear from her, intrigued by that relief... even as he's playing, chasing and being chased by a clutchmate, refusing to let the dismals make them perch and drip and drip some more. If the smaller dragon tags his wing while he's Iesaryth-distracted, that just doesn't seem to be a problem. (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth)

Curious, "Does he expect it? Bowing?" Aishani doesn't look bothered by any aspersions cast toward the Fortian Weyrleader, which makes a lot of sense when she adds, "I haven't met their Weyrleaders at all. I've heard a little here and there. And well. I know they're willing to execute people." She purses her lips, glancing over at Serah significantly, though she really probably doesn't need to at all. Another shrug for feeling bad - she really, really doesn't, but; "I can see that. You owe them." She understands that too, all too well. "If there's anything I can do... I know people there."

It might not be a problem for /him/, but Iesaryth is all apology for that minor loss, given she's responsible for it... but she might be just a little, secretly pleased, beneath the water, with her fish, that Vhaeryth might be so distracted to shine back to her. For his interest, for once, information; the image of two similarly dark-haired, dark-skinned girls talking in the meadow near the performers' camp - not fighting, not shouting. Talking. « They have each other. » Thankfully. (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth)

Serah's eye aversion this time speaks slightly more of guilt. All aside a tremor of what is vivid familiarity with Fort's system of supposed justice. "Met them both," she finally admits, wooden chips getting stuck under her blunted nails. "Woman, she weren't wearin' her knot. But he took offense to me not havin' one. Don't know that I can go back without." She wouldn't seem altogether put out by this, except perhaps that thread of possible misery; some debt, imagined or otherwise. Sucking on her tongue, then pushing it up against the inside of her teeth, she bulges her cheeks in obvious thinking -- measuring. A tactic that has her prompting -- anything she can do; answer, "What are y'going to do?"

He overrides apology even without diving for her secrets: the game's the thing, after all. (And if Ryerith isn't as young as her human counterpart, she might as well be.) The game, and the image, accepted with relish. « Good. » Since Iesaryth seems to think so. « Will she keep her? » The first pronoun's colored by Aishani-sense, enameled vivid, swirling red. The second? Flatter, as yet plainer, matte with distance and rather less importance. (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth)

With a short laugh, "Typical. I'd bet he doesn't take offense to her not wearing a knot." Aishani herself doesn't seem to bother, though now that she's shifted, her jacket has opened enough to let spill what looks to be a primarily white binding of cords, with blue, black and gold wound in there somewhere. With a wry smirk, "There's a lot of that sort of thing. Do as I say, not as I do. Hypocrisy. Some of it's such a /joke/." It seems like she could go on at length, but that's not solving Serah's problem; tilting her head as she considers, regarding her cousin, "About this? I could get you a knot, but a High Reaches one isn't like to make anyone any friendlier. You could change it though, perhaps. They're asking people to stand for the clutch, but I doubt you want to do that just for a knot." Though she'll arch fine brows the younger girl's way - it could be arranged, maybe...

« It is good for her to have family. » Iesaryth thinks so, if only because Shan is so /sad/ about it otherwise - and she has little guilt in telling Vhaeryth that, given the givens. This vivid red is always pleasing to her; drops of water spray across the enameled surface, pretty! « I think so. She is happy, but cautious. » She seems to think this wise - the other girl, with the matted, unruly hair, seems unpredictable. From her wide experience of human behavior. (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth)

Solving, no, but assuaging; Serah's shoulders have since relaxed, except for the suggestion. "What? Wait on them, do all their chores, jus' so I can pretend it's n'honor?" She must've heard some of what candidates do-- the rest of is assumption. Though by the callouses of her hands, and the muscles even where she's fitfully skinny, she's no stranger, nor enemy, to hard work. "Cause it worked out so well for /you/?" The question is more an extension of her incredulity, said without thinking, and with scoffingly lowered eyebrows that leap the second she hears herself. A slight start -- she didn't mean -- it... but not a full retreat. Her hands tighten but stay, like the rest of her straightened stance, and her questioning but not expressly apologetic face.

"Just thinking out loud. Why doesn't your head or foreman get you knots, if you're going to be here so long anyway? If the Weyrleader is being suspicious?" Aishani's a little defensive, if only because she was trying to help. Giving Serah a flat, dark look for her last, she's at least observant enough to register that it wasn't meant to sound the way it did; she just shakes her head and sighs. "All right, first off - yes, if you ever do it, you /do/ have to pretend it's an honor, because otherwise, they'll know something is off about you. Secondly, it's just busy work, really - something to keep you out of the way until the eggs are ready. There's not much waiting on hand and foot." Pause. "Though I don't know about Fort. I'd think I'd have heard about it. And... It's been hard, yes. But she's... It's not something I'd do differently. I have a lot in my life because of it, and I have access to things I wouldn't otherwise." Quirking her lips into something of a smile, "Not that I'd say it's a good idea. It's just - that's what it is? We can fake you up a knot too."

Those droplets act as miniature lenses, enlarging the detail that lies beneath... but Vhaeryth doesn't linger there, surely it won't show anything Iesaryth doens't know already. « He and I have seen, » he agrees. And yes: so different, that hair a telltale marker given /his/ vast experience of human adornment. Could her rider have ever, herself, taken so little care? But before he forgets again: « This is the one with the knives? » (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth)

"I do need one." It's decided before she's truly decided, leading Serah to look briefly surprised, then determined over her words. "M'not-- anyway. I do." Picking of the bucket turns to scratching at the back of her own hand. She looks like she wants to fidget, but can't indulge, in order to keep her posture strong. A shadow of a thought has darkened already shaded eyes during Aishani's speech and they don't seem fit to lightening. Her lips move, embracing a question she won't bring herself to ask. They close. She breathes out instead of speaking and it makes her eyes wander down and about, tracing to the ground in front of her cousin, then up again. When she's eye to eye, "But what I meant was... what are /you/ goin' t'do." Beyond here.

For all Iesaryth might be curious just to /see/ if there's anything she might not know lurking there, as always, she's content enough to move on, to not pry. And she's glad that there's nothing she's said that /he/ hasn't seen, always concerned for her rider's secrets. As for her hair, NEVER. « Shan is very particular about that. Even when I was small. » For now, she's about his size. And: « Yes. She does not seem to have any. Tell him not to worry. » Easy for her to say! (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth)

As though thought of his rider might have summoned him, playtime is over: time to get toweled off, to get straps on, to /fly/... to an idyllic still-summer day, a vague sense of Adiulth in tow. Meanwhile, though: « Fine. » He'll pass it along, since Iesaryth asks. « She should look, to make sure. They might be hidden. » In the tangles, perhaps? (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth)

With a wryness about her, "Ah. Right." Aishani eyes Serah right back, uncertain before she settles on; "I'm working on a few different things. Mostly, I'm making my Weyrleader's life as difficult as possible. Eventually, I'll take everything I can from him." Said dispassionately, almost too much so - like she's convincing herself that it'll be that simple, right there along with her cousin. "He makes it almost too easy sometimes. And... there's other things. Politics. If you're around the Weyr for a bit longer, you might hear about some of it. I just want... I want to make sure they pay. Even them, sometimes." Her dark gaze drifts up towards the Weyr again. "Do you ever feel angry, like that?"

To Vhaeryth, Iesaryth rather likes summer days more, the brighter sun closer to the one that shines on her waves, for all the autumn breezes are pleasant enough. Flying is good, companionship is better, especially away from /rain/. And amused, she imagines tangled hair spikes with knives, shiny and dangerous. « She is looking. And I would not let anything happen besides. » She's awesome, remember?

Pride bolsters Serah's chest as she listens, as she perceives. Already straight shoulders lock, slightly back. Her fingers have stopped their fidgeting, twining one more fluidly around the other as she firms her grip, like her stance, sinking slightly in the mud. Eyes shift with uncharacteristically unreadable conflict. Not by any new grace of Serah's. The melting pot just makes it difficult to discern, even for her. Her lips, though chap as they must be by now, get another slick serving by her teeth, running over the bottom before they let go and her mouth drifts lightly open then shut. Eyebrows pinch in, barely. She breathes out, heavy through her nose. "All the time."

Well, then. Vhaeryth does not ask if she's /right/ /there/, not when he can superimpose a glimpse of Hraedhyth's wings, not when there's sunlight (did he mention sunlight?) striking off the ocean (did he mention waves?) (and that it's warm?) beneath the stretch of /his/. Not to gloat, or anything. (Much. More, to tease.) (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth)

Watching the other girl for a long few moments, her own brows drawing together in thought and some little concern, trying to read her, Aishani lets out a breath she wasn't aware she was holding as Serah speaks. She nods slowly, silent in her agreement for a time. Her own expression is calm, thoughtful, perhaps a little wistful as she notes, "We grew up very quickly. I sometimes think that wasn't fair. But sometimes, I'm grateful. I wouldn't be able to do what I have to otherwise." Tentatively sidling over, reaching out a hand to take her cousin's wrist in her hand, "You don't /have/ to do anything. Just think about what you want, and I'll help you." After a squeeze, "I shouldn't keep you. There's a lot to do, I'd guess."

It's all of Iesaryth's favorite things! Warmth and sun and ocean like hers (and maybe Vhaeryth to doze next to), how nice... for him. « Cruel. » As if she's atop a snowy mountain, freezing to death. Woe. (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth)

Atop that mountain, left there on her own. Abandoned! « Perhaps there will be even fish, » he muses in her direction as though over his shoulder, letting a flock of such silvery things play in the air instead of schooling down below. (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth)

It's not a gratitude Serah can currently understand. She wallows in her carefully locked shoulders, and her gently perturbed eyebrows, watching her cousin's grip come towards her. Fingers tense, squeeze in, then shuffle out to just touch the hand that holds. Not the warmest acceptance. But she nods with an easier readiness than before, silently acknowledging the help. "You-- too..." Hesitantly, she trails off, realizing she has only the barest grasp of what Aishani's current moves are -- like their hands; bare and gone. They've been out there long enough for a simple chore. There's a figure in the distance, at the edge of the camp, might be glancing over at them. A canine barks. Serah stirs, then pulls her foot from the mud and turns onto the relative path. After a couple of steps, she slows to glance over her shoulder.

Abandoned indeed, while people talk of plots that Iesaryth will undoubtedly be called upon to help with - such is her lot in life, solving silly issues for humans. With a spray of seafoam for his fish and taunting both, « We go soon, and we could come to you. Or we could go find better ocean with bigger fish. » Airily, and quite as if she hasn't consulted anyone else on her plans. (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth)

The seafoam /takes out/ the bird-fish. Who knew that Iesaryth could be so fierce? Vhaeryth, though, he hasn't entirely vanished for all that his reply comes disembodied, rolling with good humor, « You could. » Perhaps she should! « Afterward, I will take him to see his dam, but this is better. » Perhaps she should catch bigger fish, and /bring/ them here. (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth)

Maybe it's because Aishani was so invested in the conversation, so intent on making Serah listen that she didn't pay attention much beyond making sure no one was /listening/. Someone watching is easier to miss, until she's release her cousin's hands, glances toward the camp; as the other girl stirs, she steps back. Dark eyes sympathetic, she nods and just offers, "I'll come back another time." Instead of heading for the Hold, she'll let the other girl walk off and back to work first - presumably to put some time between them, and to put on her jacket, but when Serah looks back, it also seems it's to look deeply thoughtful and troubled, shoulders rounded briefly as if under a great weight, before she can straighten and walk on.

She's not surprised by taking /anything/ out - Iesaryth is awesome, remember? Though seafoam is an interesting weapon... « Do they need a bigger fish? I could find one. » It could take time, though - and at heart, Iesaryth really doesn't want to work /that/ hard. « Shan is done with her... » She's vague on the concept of relation, but. Family. « We will come. » With or without fish. (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth)