Difference between revisions of "Logs:Awkward Favors"

Autumnal woodsmoke provokes the homey desires of coming winter that has yet to be realized in the here-and-now but is a promise of what's to come. Daemon, finished for the day, has sought peace and quiet here in the Glass Fountain and perhaps to marvel at the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The stablehand has, at least, seen to a bath prior to finding a seat closest to the fountain. Far enough past the midday meal, the place is fairly empty except for Daemon, though a few people linger here and there.

Not generally a woman who spends much time in bars of her own accord, Mirinda's entrance causes a little stir; the barkeep straightens, and a few people glance her way. If she minds the attention, the goldrider makes no show of it: she crosses to the bar, making her order-- a glass of red wine-- in a quiet voice as her gaze lifts up to watch the fountain, the glimmer of a smile lingering about the corners of her mouth.

In this instance, Daemon has yet to order anything beyond a glass of water, which is half-way lifted to his lips when Mirinda enters the scene. Much like everyone else, he straightens and looks a little neater but also works to be a little more inconspicuous. Carefully, he sets down the glass and turns his eyes down to the table where he absently begins drawing in the moisture left by his drink. The few looks he casts her way from beneath the fringe of pale lashes are not subtle so much as distantly curious. Shoulders hunch just a tad bit.

With her wine delivered to her, Mirinda offers the bartender a quick smile, and then turns, considering the room at large for several long moments, as if she's at a loss for what to do next. It's happenstance that draws her attention towards Daemon in time to see one of his looks-- and perhaps something else altogether that draws her steps in his direction. Curiosity of her own? A desire not to sit alone? Perhaps. "Good afternoon," she says.

It's subtle, the arresting of his countenance when the Weyrwoman's picked him out of the meager crowd. Visibly, his adam's apple bobs just before he glances up and offers a crooked half-smile that reaches blue eyes and limns his countenance with an almost-rogue's air. "Good afternoon, ma'am." His tone is friendly, yet careful. "A red," he notes with a quick glance at the glass she holds, "Good choice." Standing on the cusp of socially awkward within the sphere of such a lofty knot, he tries to smooth it over with a bigger smile and duck of his head, that follows a belated, "Would you like to sit?" His table has plenty open!

"Not the best vintage," she says by of answer. "Not that I know my wines especially well, except that I know we're not really stocking excellent vintages at the moment." Mirinda gives Daemon a considering glance, as if she's attempting to ascertain something by looking at him. Whatever conclusion she reaches, it's not enough to avoid the obvious question: "If I sit, are you going to find yourself unable to enjoy yourself? I'd prefer not to interrupt your afternoon if that's the case."

"I can't say I can help," Daemon adds, brows lifting. "I've only ever had poor stock, I suppose. Wouldn't know a good vintage if it splashed me in the face." A touch self-depreciative this. Followed up hastily with, "Of course, ma'am. You're not interrupting." Not quite earnest, but the young man visibly works to push aside any potential discomfort that comes from Mirinda's presence. Maybe it's less her knot and more her gender? The conclusion is unclear. "You're not interruptin'. I just finished in the stables and am sitting here enjoying the fact that I can sit here and enjoy the fountain." A strange statement, to be sure, but sincere enough.

Mirinda's hesitation lasts a few beats more, and then she gives in, gracefully descending into a chair opposite Daemon. As she sets her wine glass down on the table in front of her, she lets her dark-eyed gaze return to the young man, her chin inclining just barely into a nod. "Knowing that the day's work is done," she supposes, "and, I hope, done well. And that now there is time to rest and enjoy some respite. I can't claim my day's work is done, but I understand the sentiment to the rest. You work in the stables? But," she concludes after a moment more, "I don't think you're a local."

"I hope it was done well enough to be acceptable," Daemon says with a slight shrug. "I did my best, but I'm still new enough to have made a few mistakes." He swipes up his water and lifts it to his lips, mirth touching blue eyes that watch her from over the rim when he tips it back for a drink. "But tomorrow's another day, isn't it?" Spoken like a oft-used motto. "I do, ma'am, work in the stables." He glances away, pulling his eyes from hers when she comments on his origins. Another swallow bobs the adam's apple when he murmurs, "Not a local, no. Just a man here to seek a better life." After that last, he sneaks another look at her from the corner of his eye. Water glass is pushed aside, fingers once again absently drawing shapes in the condensation left on the table.

"'A better life,'" repeats Mirinda, carefully; it's likely her intention is not for it to sound condescending, patronising, or otherwise negative in repetition, though intention is not always successful. "It's an interesting thing, that-- what ends up constituting a better life. Granted, I have no practical experience with life outside a Weyr, so I'd not be the best person to make any judgment or comparison. So: so far, has it lived up to your expectations?"

The way she repeats his words has Daemon shooting a different look towards her: shuttered and shielded. "It's better than it was," he adds after a moment of silence, wherein that slightly awkward countenance is dampened by this turn in the conversation. Recovery is swift, however, as Daemon shrugs and raises a hand in a visual representation of 'who knows'. "So that accounts for something, doesn't it?" Belatedly, he tacks on a quick, "Ma'am."

Mirinda's reaction is immediate and apologetic: she's aghast, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. That her apology is not made verbal is likely more to do with the fact that Daemon continues talking; that she's still feeling both embarrassment and apology is nonetheless plain from the sudden stiffness in her shoulders, and the clouded look upon her face. "I'm glad," is what she says, finally. "Yes, of course. Has... I'm sorry, this is probably impertinent. You're not over twenty-five, are you?"

Nothing brews awesome quite like awkwardness between two people navigating a potentially tricky conversation. Daemon looks a little shamed, too, by her visible reaction to his own reaction but seems to be at a loss to counter it, other than to attempt to offer a reassuring look that doesn't quite reach into a smile. Until she asks her question and he blinks. "Uh." That intelligent response comes first before he can stop himself. "No, I'm twenty three." Now he's eyeballing her a little. "Is that...," awkwardly drawled out as he reaches for his water like it must contain something stronger (it doesn't), "... uh, a problem, ma'am? I swear, I can do a good job as a stablehand."

"No!" Mirinda's reply is hasty; too hasty. She's flushing again. "No, no, the opposite. I--" She looks a little shame-faced, and reaches for her wine as if to try and cover this up, though it also prolongs the actual explanation for her question (sorry about that). "You'll know that Taeliyth has a clutch on the sands, and that we're... you're of an appropriate age, you're fit and healthy as far as I can see, and... that is to say, if it is a better life, opportunity, that you're after... you would be doing the Weyr a favour."

As the awkward level goes up, Daemon leans back and holds his hands up at her hasty reply, an apology sits on the edge of his tongue as his expression begins to shape around this hovering apology. However, instead of 'I'm sorry', what pops out is a surprised, "Me?" His hands fall heavily onto his thighs and the look he gives the Weyrwoman is nothing but astonished. "But, but, I'm just a simple stablehand." It's not a no; it's more shock. "No one special..."

This is awkward. This is so, so awkward. Mirinda makes a face, as much as a way to relieve the tension-- or try-- as to express herself. "My Zaisavyth's no Search dragon," she acknowledges, simply. "I've never met a queen who was, or even heard of such a thing. And so I honestly can't promise that a dragon might consider you; I have absolutely no idea. But I believe in giving dragons as much choice as we possibly can, and so..." She hesitates. "Think on it, at least."

It is a spur of the moment decision made before the weight of the ramifications is felt, that will come later. For now, Daemon sees something in Mirinda's question and in the opportunity given for his next is quick and sure. "Yes. I'll do it." A verbal grasp for that elusiveness of what constitutes a 'better life'. "I'll... what do I have ... to do?" This abrupt agreement is crumbling in the very acute awareness that Daemon knows as little of weyrlife as she has claimed to know of life outside the weyr. Throughout, the intensity of his attention has settled on the Weyrwoman unwaveringly, none of that social awkwardness of earlier present in this single grasp for change.

Mirinda's relief is obvious-- palpable, even. Her shoulders drop, her smile lifts, and she exhales. "Thank you," she says, in a low, genuine voice. "On behalf of the Weyr, thank you. It's quite simple, really. You'll report to the headwoman, and be assigned to chores for the duration. There will also be lessons-- everything will be explained. You may choose to move to the candidate barracks, or stay where you are, though you'll want to move in by the end; most do. And when the eggs hatch, you'll... be there. You'll be fine."

Daemon reaches across his chest to rub the bicep of his other arm, fingers pushing up the sleeve of his tunic while he rubs at the muscle - either nervously or to rub a residual soreness, that part isn't clear. What //is// clear is the fact that the young man is hanging onto every word and watching the woman's reaction keenly. When she relaxes, so does he. "Got it. I'll move in. One place to sleep is as good as any other," his answer has the ring of pragmatism to it. Again, he swallows and slowly hands after downing the last of his water. "I guess, I'll... see... about that." Awkwardly standing there for a moment longer than necessary, he adds with a frown of thought, "Thanks, for the offer." His demeanor suggests he's not sure he'll be fine, but he's still going for it at any rate!

Mirinda exhales a second time, giving Daemon a slow, thoughtful nod-- one that abruptly stops. "You'll have to do one more thing for me before you go," she says, and this time she sounds outright amused.

Now, Daemon is worried and it's etched into an expression that's bent on stoic and failing hardcore. "Uhhh," he drawls out slowly, clearly unsure, before finishing with a hasty, "Sure, anything. Whatever you need, ma'am."

It's possible that Mirinda, as formal and reserved as she is, is having far too much fun with this. She holds out for several more seconds, taking a moment to sip from her glass, then smiles up at Daemon. "Your name," she says, quite simply. "I need to know your name, Candidate."

Daemon stands there, dumbfounded. Embarrassment starts in the tips of his ears that slowly creeps down into the skin of his neck, emphasizing the adam's apple that lies prominent in the middle of his throat. He opens his mouth and manages, "Daemon," as if he's not entirely sure, but that is very likely because he's realizing this very large social faux pas. "My name is Daemon, ma'am." Stiff, stiff, stiff and formal. "Well met, Weyrwoman." Okay, he's giving her ground when he takes one step, then two steps back. That redness is nearly reaching his cheeks by now and the awkwardness is back. "Uh... if that's all... I'll," he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating a leave taking. Yeah, he'll totally be fleeing after this.

Oh, lovely. Mirinda looks aghast at that reaction; it's her turn to be apologetic all over again. Hastily, "It's very nice to meet you, Daemon. Congratulations. Best of luck." A quick gesture with her free hand encourages his departure: go! Before they both die of embarrassment.

No, Daemon doesn't run from the Weyrwoman (he does), but he certainly snaps off a sharp salute and turns and moves as fast as he can while not running. Later, he'll absolutely re-work history to be a lot less awkward, but for now, this is the end! Or rather, the beginning. (Possibly allowing for more awkwardness in the future).