Difference between revisions of "Logs:Honest Impressions"

The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former
  weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its       
  convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from   
  the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor,   
  and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick   
  and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.               
                                                                            
  Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth
  tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a  
  low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery
  and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light      
  colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm        
  autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter   
  the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools
  stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window  
  to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear   
  view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light  
  of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.

The Snowasis is busy tonight, the night cool, but not frigid and free of precipitation. There's a lively dart game in the corner, some poker going on at a large table, and a few people sitting alone at the bar. Though a few people approach the Weyrwoman, and she seems cheerful and welcoming, most aren't invited to stay too long, and ultimately leaves Irianke alone, nursing her drink and chatting idly with the bartender when she's not busy filling orders. A plate of cheese and thin sliced meats sits in front of the goldrider, barely touched.

"I'll have wine, please. Dry red, if there's anything good." Odrick smiles charmingly at the bartender as he sits in a seat one down from Irianke, leaving that polite space between them while it can be managed. "Nice night, isn't it?" is an offhand comment to the woman, probably, as he settles the messenger bag he'd been wearing in his lap to pull out a small notebook and pencil. It's only once he's lower the bag to the floor between his feet and the counter that the harper looks at the woman properly, clears his throat, and promptly sits up a little straighter. "Weyrwoman, my apologies. I didn't mean to--" Not recognize her immediately? Impose? Sit so close to her?

"Didn't mean to...?" Irianke doesn't let that comment fade off, but her head tilts to one side, her dark curls hanging loose and flashes Odrick a slow, if crooked, smile. "Impose? Sit by someone of such great esteem?" She must be mocking herself, the self-deprecation in her voice light and jocular. "No apologies are needed, harper. I hope you are better conversation than all the others who have tried tonight. I am," the older woman purses her lips and glances back at some of the failed contenders, "Apparently difficult to please tonight when it comes to small talk."

"Imposition covers all wrongdoings in this case, I believe, so I'll go with that one." Odrick's smile mirrors some of that self-deprecation, but it fades for the most part when he has his glass of wine by the stem. "If you're not wanting to sit by yourself, I'll be happy to provide you with--" He glances at his wine. "I'd say my best conversation, but I intend on having at least one more of these tonight, so I probably shouldn't go overselling myself. Would you prefer to be alone, Weyrwoman?" Despite the fact that they're ultimately strangers to each other, there's genuine empathy, perhaps even a note of concern, in the way the harper asks it, entirely willing to give the woman her space should she wish it.

"No." This much Irianke is certain of, for the answer is quick. "I don't wish to be alone, but most nights, when I feel this restlessness in my soul, I go dancing somewhere else, somewhere where people don't see me and apologize for the crime of sitting next to me and somehow imposing on my night." Odrick's stranger, this woman he does not know, suddenly sighs. "I'm sorry, it's been a rough few months, you're not a mindhealer and don't deserve this. Let's start again? Would you like to share my dinner?" She pushes the plate in front of the empty seat between them.

The young man frowns, concern in his brow. Uncertainty, too, but no clear intention to leave for now. "No apologies are necessary," he repeats her sentiment in his own way. "I may not be a mindhealer, it's true, but my father is. So if you need an ear, I can assure you that he raised me with every intention of my joining his craft." That's his own take on self-mocking. He obviously didn't join that craft and it must not have been on the very best of terms. "Thank you," he says as he reaches for a bit of cheese and meet to wrap it in, adding before he eats it, "I'm Odrick."

Irianke's finger lifts, the single digit waggling in the air between them and the return of her smile, a more genuine, if tired, affair. "Don't you know the saying? Never trust the child of a mindhealer. Newly posted? I don't believe I've seen you around, though any one could tell you, I'm particularly awful with names and faces until I've had a few weeks, even months, interacting with someone." The goldrider refrains from food, nursing her drink slowly still. "Well met, Odrick."

He laughs once his mouthful is gone. The sound is quiet, but he means it sincerely. "That may very well be the reason I chose to work with people who've generally not yet learned to be suspicious of me. But, yes. It's been just short of two sevens since I've been posted." Odrick's smile is warm as he continues with, "You're under no obligation to remember my name, Weyrwoman. Or my face, for that matter. It's not often that you get to make a first impression more than once."

"You called me Weyrwoman. I consider that my obligation to know as many names and faces as I can. It just," Irianke shrugs one slim shoulder and finally reaches for a wedge of cheese to nibble at, "Does not come as easily for me as others of my rank. Unless the rest of them just fake it well, which I wouldn't doubt." Her smile grows, a little more with each word Odrick says, and some of that aforementioned restlessness, that's betrayed in the shake of one leg and the tense hold of her shoulders, seems to relax marginally. "I don't think I'd have thought of it that way. An opportunity for someone to make a first impression again until that unfortunate day when I remember their name and face. Clever."

"That I call you Weyrwoman means - from my perspective, mind you - that you could call me whatever you sharding well liked. I'd almost certainly go along with it, a smile on my face for the opportunity to be of service to you." Odrick has something of that smile on now, in fact. He's enjoying himself and his unexpected company. "It could backfire on me, of course. If you leave here with nothing but good thoughts of me, and I hope that you do, either of us could be having a particularly bad day the next time we speak and, well. You get the idea." He's still smiling, more subdued now, but friendly all the same.

Irianke's head tilts, her eyes narrowing in thought. "I... can't quite tell if you're clever or if you're just confusing a simple minded girl deliberately so I'm more open to continue chatting with you. Either way," she confides with a low laugh, "It's working." The Weyrwoman, as she is and has so been designated by Odrick, finishes her cheese and takes another sip. "I don't feel like I've laughed in weeks now. A few friends of mine," her voice stops suddenly and a shadow crosses her eyes, "No. I don't think they'd like to be called friends. People I knew and cared for once, have died in succession. I am reminded of my own mortality daily. You have, I presume, heard of the curse of the High Reaches goldriders?"

"Simple minded is definitely not the word I'd use to describe you." Odrick reaches for another piece of cheese, skipping the meat this time. His smile turn toward sympathy as Irianke continues, however. "I'm sorry to hear of your losses. It's painful to lose those we're familiar with, even if you aren't very close to them when they're lost." As for the rest? "I have heard of High Reaches' difficulties with goldriders, yes. But I can't say I'm the sort of man who believes in things like curses."

"That's reassuring that someone here doesn't believe in curses." Irianke tips her head back for a longer gulp of her whisky. "See, I'm afraid that a chain of events have transferred the curse from the goldriders to the bronzeriders. Eventually, it'll hit every dragonrider in the Weyr and what will be left with? Nothing. Absolutely nothing." The woman's Igen drawl is heavier for this statement. "Traders and dragonriders both, superstitious lots. Lucky for me, I carry both with me and it's hard to tell when I'm being irrational."

Odrick nods along as he listens to what she has to say on the matter, eating his cheese and taking a drink in the meanwhile. After he's considered it, he asks, "If there is truly some sort of curse, is there any information on where it may have originated?" The harper doesn't sound judgmental. He sounds as though he's going to consider the idea with an open mind.

"I am," Irianke spreads out her hands, her glass now on the table, "Probably the last person to tell you the origins of such as an interloper here in spite of being the Weyrwoman. You should speak with another harper who may have been here longer, or a dragonrider who's been here for a while." Bereft of her drink, the goldrider now focuses better on the food and puts together a cheese and meat stack to chew through. "What kind of harper are you, Odrick?"

Again he nods, even more thoughtful now. But he refocuses, gesturing at his own glass, "Do you enjoy wine? This one's quite nice. Would you allow me to get a glass for you?" Odrick finishes off the last of his glass, lifting a hand to catch the bartender's attention to at least fill his own again. "I'm a teacher, primarily. I enjoy spending time with the younger children. They're so... brutally honest. It can be quite humbling." And it makes him smile fondly at the thought of it. "I strive to follow their example in my day to day affairs. I believe it makes me a better writer. My other passion."

"I drink it," says the woman, though her tone doesn't suggest either passion or distaste. Irianke is far more interested, rather than the wine he might get for her, in what he says. "Do you? I'd welcome some brutal honesty. I should spend more time with children it seems. Or... you?" Lilting upwards, the goldrider flashes Odrick a charmed smile with brows quirked upward in invitation.

That she drinks it is enough for Odrick. Surely he can finish off whatever she doesn't should the need arise. "If I'm being brutally honest," says the harper, doing a stand up job of keeping a straight face through that choice of wording, "I'd much rather you spent time with me than them. Though, from your perspective, it might seem as though my life experiences aren't so very different from theirs." That earns a quiet laugh, but a more sober question. "Do you truly consider yourself an interloper here?"

"A goldrider just Impressed a few sevens ago. She's born, bred, and now rides for High Reaches Weyr." Irianke begins her answer with this and finishes off her whisky while she waits for that wine. "I am not deaf. I hear what people say and I recognize that no matter how long I live here, those of High Reaches will probably not consider me one of them. Oh, Faranth. I doubt you expected such a sob story from a Weyrwoman on a night like this. I promise, I am normally not like this. Just the last few months have been pretty terrible."

"It's okay, Irianke." Odrick is capable of using her name, it seems. "I mean it. I wouldn't suggest that I'm a good replacement for a mindhealer, if you feel as though you might benefit from speaking to one, but they would no doubt tell you that it's healthy, even healing, to give voice to your thoughts and to your feelings." The harper turns a smile to the bartender when their wine comes, and waits for them to move on again before continuing. "I've never quite understood why Weyr of birth seems to matter so much to dragonriders, with all the stories we hear about ambitious bronze- and brownriders crashing foreign senior flights. Does it matter to the dragons where they're from? It seems it would be a cruelty to ever transfer them anywhere, were that the case." He's done some reading.

Irianke startles, her name being used so casually somehow causing this sort of reaction. The woman blinks a few times and then looks at the glass of wine that's now appeared. "You'd think," she says, electing to respond only to the last bit of what Odrick says. "That it shouldn't matter so, but to some, it apparently does. This is good wine," she remarks, taking a sip and then another.

"I'd think the Weyrs would support more inter-Weyr movement, honestly. There's a reason Journeymen journey. And it's not because our Masters would rather we not be around. Or because they think we'll take their Mastery from them if we are." Odrick is being purposefully facetious. "Knowing other people, other ways of life, it tends to make people better versions of themselves. You have a different perspective than any Reachian could have. And this Weyr is profoundly fortunate to be in the care of a Weyrwoman who has journeyed."

It is a rare night for Irianke to be taken so off guard more than once and this is the second time already in the short span of a few breaths. "I...," her dark blue eyes, shaded grayer for the shadows as she dips her head a little, look at Odrick. Words fail her again and she just releases a paah sound into the air, takes a moment to hard swallow, and sips from her wine instead. Eventually, she says, "Thank you. I think I needed to hear that tonight more than the cathartic release of dancing."

Odrick must be aware of the fact that he's saying things the woman wasn't properly prepared to hear him say. But instead of feeling good about catching a powerful woman off guard, there's something tense in the way he smiles to her thanks. "It's my pleasure, truly, to be of service to you." It's sincere, despite the tension. But his wine will sweep that away before long. "Not that I have anything against dancing," he says with a small laugh. He's a harper. That might be close to blasphemous, were it the case.

"Your father taught you well." Irianke says after a spell, where she's drinking that wine slowly. "I'm glad the others ran off, unwilling to put up with my dour mood. You've been a welcome interlude to my night." The Weyrwoman swirls her glass, watching the red liquid swish. "How have you liked High Reaches thus far?"

While his father's praise doesn't earn more than a polite smile, the rest seems to be taken as a more relevant and meaningful compliment. "It's been pleasant so far. Beyond a brief run in with some rude weyrlings. But I quite respect another of your teachers. I think we'll work well together. I've never been around dragons this much. They're noisier than I'd thought." He won't talk about the keening specifically, but he takes a drink that hides some of his expression just long enough for it to dissipate.

Irianke does not inquire further of those weyrlings, but her brow puckers then narrows briefly at that. "I can't promise I will remember your name the next time we meet, but I am fairly certain I'll remember your face. Just don't hold it against me if I forget your name. Odrick. Odrick. Odrick." Even thrice, it's not likely it's committed to memory. "Good night, Odrick. Thank you for the company and the blunt honesty." She's left a little bit of wine in that cup.

"I promise you that I won't," Odrick assures her, good humor making his words less serious. "Good night, Irianke. I hope you'll rest somewhat lighter tonight." He'll stay here until he's finished his wine, and hers, and taken the time to write down a handful of notes in that little journal of his. But until she's out of sight in the crowd, his dark eyes follow the Weyrwoman thoughtfully.