Difference between revisions of "Logs:A Placeholder"

With all the furniture covered in condensation and the view to the bowl obscured by that low fog that's become so common, it's no wonder the ledge is not densely packed with people; there are a couple Iceberg riders in the corner, and a loitering group of various knots milling about near the door to the Snowasis. Faryn's with neither group, knotless and with her chin in her hands as she stares out over the bleak bowl. At least it isn't raining. She's got a beer -- and a pitcher that looks untouched -- and seems wholly lost in thought, her gaze occasionally drifting to the faces of people as they amble up the stairs, or down them, as the case may be.

The fog is good for two things: dampening noise and obscuring visibility. At first, the movement in the fog might seem like a trick of light, the glows oddly reflecting off the fog, swirling it into strange patterns and movements. It hasn't the stride of a person, and yet, eventually, it forms itself into a figure, all normal, aside from the fact that the man's path is... oddly indecisive, taking two steps towards the patio ledge, then retreating into the fog for a time, then back again. Slowly, however, this absurd indecision appears to be carrying the increasingly familiar figure of Savannah's Wingleader to the ledge.

The light is funny this time of day and in this kind of weather, so it takes a while for Faryn to really pick up the oddity in the fog. She sips at her beer, following that figure's progress with an absent curiosity that becomes whole amusement as he coalesces into something recognizable. She looks especially smug when he gets within sight on those stairs, following him with her eyes and without a word, just...curious at that apparent indecision. If he's that distracted, maybe he won't pounce upon her, as is his wont.

Faryn just isn't quite that lucky, let's face it. R'hin does indeed appear to be making his way, once he's reached the ledge, in her direction, with slow, thoughtful steps, hooking out a chair from her table with his foot, before sinking into it with a huff of breath. He's not looking at her, though; instead, he reaches for her glass of beer.

Surprise. There are two glasses, since its standard to drink with a person when you buy a pitcher. Though Faryn sighs her most long-suffering sigh, she flips the second cup upright, pours some of the beer into it, and pushes it across the table to him. "I don't think I've ever seen you indecisive in where you're going," she observes, leaning back in her chair. "Or did you drop something back there?"

Even while she's preparing the second glass, he's still claiming hers, lifting it halfway to his lips before her words register, and he looks at her with an odd kind of surprise. "When did--" he stops, grimaces, and drops the glass to the table with enough force that some of it sloshes over the sides. "I'm never indecisive," R'hin declares, firmly, lounging back into his chair, gaze flickering towards the glass she's prepared for him without reaching for it. "So," with a deliberate forcefulness, "Tired of the Weyr yet? Ready to retreat to the wilds of Benden?"

Faryn sighs, watching him claim her glass, not quite relieved when he gives it back with such force. "No? Then you dropped something," she concludes, gesturing out towards the bowl. "Was it your mark pouch? Did you find it? Were you just working on your entrance, all badass from the fog?" The corner of her mouth twitches but she manages not to smile at the thought. And not to smile for his conclusion, at which she shrugs. "Not exactly."

"You're supposed to humor an old man and pretend like you didn't see me practicing," R'hin, playing along, waves it off. More important is her latter answer, earning a upward twitch of brows. "No?" He drums fingers against his knee for a moment. His, "Ahh," is all-knowing. "Love destroys all ambition, mm?"

"Your age, I would have thought you had that down pat," Faryn murmurs, not ignoring her own glass. In a coordination of movements, she pulls her legs up while her hands reach for the beer, and she ends up with her feet on the chair, her chin on her knees, and her beer between her palms like it's a mug of something warm. "Who said anything about love?" Faryn scoffs.

"One should never stop practicing an ever-relevant skill," is R'hin's take. When she reaches for her beer, he reaches for the glass she'd poured for him, by no coincidence. A quick shrug of shoulders, a brief noise of amusement, and: "I see very little of the Faryn who sat in this same spot seven months ago and professed her hunger -- her drive -- for something greater." He flickers a hand towards her as if her huddled posture is very demonstration of his point.

"I don't like to cling to things that are foolish," Faryn says carefully, and doesn't uncurl. It's cold; she's comfortable. Her eyebrows have lifted at his assessment. "Maybe the girl who sat here seven months ago learned discretion from a mean asshole of a bronzerider. It's safer not to have my heart on my sleeve. It gets me nowhere fast." She doesn't sound particularly bitter, or even angry or resigned. Her tone is level and conversational, and she is smiling, just a bit. "You even helped me find what I'm good at. And realize why I felt so discontent. I should probably thank you." That doesn't sound like a thank you, though.

"Foolish," R'hin echoes, with something like a sigh. "Foolish to want more is settling. It's giving up and conceding that you will never be great, that you are content at mediocrity. Are you that, oh great one? Content?" He takes a brief sip of beer, but his gaze and attention is fully on the woman across from him. His lips twist at her latter words, shaking his head as if perhaps dismissing it.

"I left the Hall," is her reply, another question dodged. "Today. Polis about shit himself when I gave him the letter to send off." Now she uncurls, because it's kind of hard to drink the way she's sitting. It takes adjustment to get her legs under her instead of in front of her, but Faryn draws deeply when she is settled again. "I'm going to Stand again." Beat. "I say with complete seriousness, don't tell me if you think it's stupid. I don't care."

That's news, if the tip of his head is any indication, the Wingleader taking a long draught, finally, of the beer. "Well," for a moment it might seem as if R'hin's going to say it, even if she asks him not to, but a smile twitches his lips, and instead he murmurs, "At least you made a decision. Which is more than you seemed able to do seven months ago." If anything, he sounds oddly pleased.

Her gaze is very sharp while she watches him, the tension in her jaw suggesting he'll get a face full of that beer if he's not careful. When he is, she relaxes enough to take another swallow, rolling it around her mouth. "I would have been transferred," she says with certainty, "if I stayed. I'm better at solving other people's problems, as it turns out. I can ride that decision for a turn or more." She clears her throat. "And I want to. I can't shake it. As much as I liked Ozwon, even considered going back -- " A shrug. Nah.

"There's other places. Other Ozwon's." R'hin's watching her avidly, taking account of her reaction as much as what she says. "Other people who could need problems solved."

"They're here too. In plain sight. Farideh, for one." Now she's gauging him, rolling the glass back and forth between her palms, betraying -- something.

And that earns a hearty -- and approving -- chuckle. "Yes," the Wingleader agrees. "Good, good." He seems oddly satisfied with that answer.

Faryn's not exactly trusting, there. She's quiet for a stretch, waiting for anything more, and then says, "That's it? Just good? No criticism? No blindfolding me and dropping me on a deserted island so I can learn to...be an architect, or how to catch fish with my bare hands or something?"

"The goal was to give you something you were good at, that challenged you, that gave you a purpose. If you've found that -- and it sounds like you have -- why would I criticize it?" A beat, as R'hin chuckles darkly, "Unless you enjoy being kidnapped irregularly, in which case, I can keep up that end now and then?" A rise of brows in query, above amused, pale eyes.

"Because, as established, you're an asshole," Faryn says, but she's grinning at him now, without reservation. Of kidnapping, "You could take me fun places, next time. Fewer goats, if I get a say. More drinks. Definitely more drinks. Better yet, you could just ask. Maybe we can dance."

"An asshole with a heart of gold, thank you," R'hin corrects her with a smugness that might not all be put on. With a wave of his hand, "Fine, then," he concedes, "You choose the location, and pay me in a dance. Deal?" he stretches forward to offer her a palm, no less amused than before.

"Deal," she says, snorting at his correction and leaning forward to take his hand -- unless he really is an evil bastard and yanks it away. Constant vigilance. "I think I'll need it, sooner or later," is meaningful. Then, because she did admit to its necessity, "Thanks, R'hin," as she reaches for the pitcher to refill her glass, and hold it in limbo to suggest she'll do the same for him.

There's a certain grin on the bronzerider's face, but he does meet the shake of palms with an apparent delight. "Undoubtedly," R'hin says. "I'll imagine Farideh will generate as much work as an entire craft," he observes with a low-throated chuckle. Of course he'll take the refill, and he's draining his glass in preparation for it, holding it out just as she holds it in his direction. "Ought to get some tips from Hana, if she's still around the Weyr. Might help you learn who the right people to talk to are, all that."

"Shards, I know. I could have become a nanny," she murmurs wanly pouring his refill like she's overjoyed to be doing it. "I'll make it through, somehow." Faryn tilts her head while she tries to plae a name, her gaze going a little distant until, "Azaylia's assistant, wasn't she? I barely saw her before Azaylia died," she says, her voice dropping respectfully near the end. "Maybe, though. If she's still here. But Azaylia and Farideh are not the same, by a long shot."

R'hin's snort is suggestive of his reaction to Faryn being a nanny, taking a deep gulp from his freshly refilled glass. "No, they are not. But it doesn't mean you can't learn anything from her, and discounting her knowledge completely throws away an opportunity to start ahead of the game, no? Given that Farideh will be as new to this as you are, it seems like you could use all the help you can get."

"Hey, I'm great with kids if I'm allowed to give them back to their parents!" Of Hana, Faryn doesn't sound particularly hopeful, "I'll see if I can find her, then. I wouldn't blame her if she left, after...all that. Maybe the caverns women know. I don't know if I'll be proper for it, honestly. It just feels like I'm the only one left who can help her like this. For now. Until she gets someone better."

R'hin tips his head to one side, suddenly curious. "Is that what you think this is? Just a placeholder?"

"Technically, it is," Faryn specifies, looking surprised. "I'm going to help her until I can Stand. If that...doesn't work out, I don't know what. She knows that. That's what we agreed to."

The Savannah Wingleader makes a sound, taking another gulp from his glass, leaning forward. "I hope you'll take a bit of advice from an old asshole," with a low-throated chuckle. "Even if it is a placeholder, and you've both agreed to it, treat it like it's not. Tell everyone it's not. You'll both benefit from it, regardless of the outcome."

"You haven't really led me wrong yet. I'd be amiss to act like you have." She doesn't take a gulp, and indeed puts her glass down entirely, beginning to finally uncurl from her chair. "I will."

"Good," this, too, seems to please R'hin. He drains the rest of his glass, eyes the pitcher for a moment, but pushes to his feet in apparent decision otherwise. "The first time you're forced to sit through a meeting with people who outrank you that you want to punch in the face but are forced to bite your tongue, come find me," he says, like it's going to be an inevitability, "And we'll get that drink somewhere warm."

There goes that smile, twitching up despite her efforts. Her affect is very wide-eyed, extremely innocent, and doesn't suit at all. She bats her lashes. "Oh, but that was what I was most looking forward to!" It falls away abruptly as she laughs. "That's like my life already, but deal. You'll be taking me all the nice, warm places soon enough, I imagine. When Farideh drives me to drink, when K'del drives me to drink, when I just need a drink...." It's a bit of a shame to leave that pitcher there, not quite finished, but Faryn is courteous enough to knock back the rest of her glass as she stands, too.

"I've been forewarned," R'hin says with a laugh, though he doesn't seem apt to put a conditional on it. Instead, he turns and makes his way back out towards the foggy bowl, presumably to try and find his pouch, or whatever had him so disjointedly approaching in the first place.