Difference between revisions of "Logs:Quint's Free Wagon Rides"

It's a pleasantly warm day, the sort that encourages outdoor activities of all sorts of varieties. Some distance outside of the Weyr, perhaps an hour's walk, the road is home to an odd sight: a wagon, apparently laden with all sorts of goods, but no animal in sight with which to pull it. Lounging on the driver's seat is a figure in harper blue, looking comfortable despite the heated air. Maybe he's taking a rest after the pulling the wagon thusfar?

Unhitched wagons and goldriders taking random strolls away from the Weyr are totally normal; nothing weird to see here. Casually dressed, hair swept back, cheeks pink perhaps from sun, Farideh comes up the same road from the opposite direction, with no dragon in sight. No dragons aside from the usual ones soaring up high in the sky, through the cloud coverage. It's easy to see when she takes note of the oddity there in the road, as her brow dips and her mouth forms an unpleasant frown. "Good afternoon," she greets the harper once she comes to a stop some paces away, hands settling determinedly on her waist. This close up, it might be more evident that she's been out for a run-turned-cool-down.

"Ma'am," comes the indolent response from the harper, as he regards the approaching woman from his not-so-lofty perch on the driver's seat. Straightening slightly, Quint reaches to tug at his tunic. "You aren't a bandit, are you? Raider? Up-to-no-good-er?"

"It depends," Farideh says, eyeing the blue-clad man suspiciously, "what you've got in your wagon and where it's headed. I don't make it a habit of stealing my own Weyr's tithes, but I'm not opposed to skimming off someone else's." Her level tone makes it hard to distinguish if she's joking or.. serious. Expression isn't helping either.

And neither is Quint's demeanor clear on where he lands with his response: "You would take another's possessions? My, my, weyrwoman. Remind me not to leave a plate of sweets unattended around you," there's a hint of amusement to the harper's voice, all the same.

"You're surprised by that?" Farideh is still giving him the slanted, I'm-not-sure-what-you're-doing-here look, between questions and answers. "I do hope it's nothing for High Reaches," rings a little less.. unsure.

"I'd have thought you'd want to espouse the epitome of weyrwomanship, by being generous of nature and possessions both. No?" Quint's head tips to one side, lips twitching briefly. His head half turns, as if only just now remembering the wagon which he guards so assiduously. "Well, some -- if people choose to purchase it. Though until marks change by hands it's by rights most definitely not High Reaches'."

"I will happily loan you one of my gather dresses or a pair of slippers if it's what weyrwomen do. Being generous of nature and possession," is the goldrider's helpful suggestion. Kindness personified, one might say! Farideh doesn't even smile, though she's no doubt relishing her own sassy comebacks. "No?" She's curious at his denial, her eyes roving over the wagon in a more thorough inspection. "And, escorted by a harper? Is it a pile of instruments?" and yes, that's dismay in her voice.

"I'm sure my apprentice would appreciate your generosity. I could come up with a song in reward, yes?" The harper lifts the guitar that was resting on the seat beside him, strumming a jaunty tune, as he sings:

"The weyrwoman, generous of spirit
Gave of her dresses and slippers
Truth is her heart wasn't in it
Preferring to watch for her ship... ers."

A beat passes, and the harper grimaces. "Mm, no, needs some work."

Lips part and then purse together, holding back a stream of words until he's finished playing his impromptu ballad to her (lack of) generosity. "That's a terrible song," Farideh asserts, eyes narrowing in re-dawning suspicious. "I don't watch for ships. It's odd that you think that I do." She's boldly denying what everyone knows to be true, and tossing her ponytail petulantly, too. "None of that answers why you're sitting in a wagon without a runner or burden beast to pull it."

Rather than being offended, the harper chuckles at her assertion. "Isn't it though? Good thing you and I are the only ones to hear it." With a cluck of his tongue, Quint gives another strum of the guitar, though this time it isn't a prelude to any additional ditty. "No? Mm, well. We've already agreed it's a terrible song; may as well not decontruct the contents of something so clearly false." He leans forward, grinning, at her latter question. "No," he agrees, "No, it doesn't. Would you like to sit?" he offers, waving to the now empty space on the bench next to him. I parked it deliberately in a shady spot."

The whole thing is highly suspect, and the shifting faces of the weyrwoman are proof of her suspicions. "You park a wagon on the road outside of the Weyr. You let your animals run free, or you lost them somehow. You bring your gitar with you to serenade random passerbys with. Are you drunk? This early in the day?" Farideh queries, her gaze sliding from harper to empty seat. "It's quite odd, and I do wonder what our mutual friend Jocelyn would say about your-- habits." But, a seat is a seat, even a seat next to a crazy guy.

"No, indeed, I have not partaken of alcohol since two holdings ago." Quint is serious in that, bemused but also tolerant of Farideh's suspicious nature. "Perception is a strange thing, weyrwoman. As is assumptions. The truth is, honestly, quite innocuous, and will put to rest all your concerns, and yet your energy in defense of your Weyr is engaging and welcome." Does this mean he won't share? He doesn't elucidate, instead shifting the instrument over to offer a hand to Farideh. "I can't imagine your fellow weyrwoman has much if at all to say about my habits, weyrwoman."

"I have not yet met a harper quite as annoying," Farideh informs him, whilst taking his hand, whilst taking that proffered seat. "No? Does she still think you should be marooned on an island? Head stuck on a spike out on the star stones? I had quite hoped you two had moved past your tiresome quarrel by now," she sighs, looking further down the road before turning her head to stare at him suspiciously, up close now! "Are you going to tell me why you're here? We, now?"

And now, Quint's looking surprised. "Then, my lady, you must not have met very many harpers. Or I'm feeling especially frisky -- or you especially sensitive," he supposes, thoughtful gaze distant a moment as his hand resettles against his guitar once Farideh's settled herself. "I wouldn't know. Your fellow weyrwoman is taciturn at best, as surely you must know by now, having worked so closely with her." His head tilts, regarding the brunette beside him seriously. "If I do, you must swear to secrecy."

"Sensitive, you say. Did no one at the hall ever tell you that's the worst thing you can call a woman? Besides fat." Farideh gives him a disappointed glance askance, but waves her hand dismissively about the matter with Jocelyn. It's much more her speed to lean over, expectantly, one step away from salivating at the promise of the secret he's withholding. "I won't tell a single sole. Roszadyth might listen in, but she's not the chatty sort. What is it?"

"Yet you seem to have taken it in stride, weyrwoman," Quint points out, easily. "It's good to know you aren't so thin-skinned as to react to mere words." When she leans in, the harper grins, his demeanor changing in small, subtle ways -- a slight straightening of shoulders; a deepening of voice into a storytelling cadence; a glimmer of eyes as he judges the effect of his story on the audience. "I guard wares from Nidren's hold, just north of Keogh. Most of it's nothing big, really -- but it's accompanied by a pretty young woman looking to find herself a husband, and some of the items, mm -- let's say they incentivize a match. I believe she's going to stay here a couple of days before heading on to High Reaches Hold. In any case, earlier today one of the wagon's wheels broke, so I sent the girl, her overprotective cousin, and my apprentice on ahead to find some assistance." He gives a long sigh. "I fear, one being flighty, one far mistaken about their purpose and the third easily distracted," he doesn't say which is which, "I may well be spending the night here." His guitar sounds a disconsolate note, responding to the brush of his fingers across the strings.

"Only because I've been called worse," Farideh tells him, matter-of-factly, like it's not an unfortunate thing to be throwing around. She at least seems enthralled when he starts to unravel this mystery she's happened upon, but little by little-- or, more appropriately, at find herself a husband and heading on to High Reaches Hold-- her shoulders droop and her face lacks interest. "North of Keogh? Here I thought another holder was sending his tithes without paying proper respects to Lady Tevrane. Why do you have to sit out here all night, caterwauling into the wind? It is her wares? Not yours."

Quint tilts his head at that, regarding the weyrwoman silently for a moment. "And if it had been, what would you have done? Claimed the wares from the hands of the harper and delivered it triumphantly to Tevrane, for the purposes of goodwill?" He strums another note on the guitar, lighter this time, at her latter words. "Their father allowed Alysce and I to stay at their house; gave up their beds, their food, their company. What is it to give up a pleasant afternoon in the shade in return?"

Farideh draws back to give him another one of her disdainful stares, full on narrowed up and tight lips to go with an aggravated tone of voice. "We had to do what needed to be done. I would, now, seek counsel of the Weyrwoman. It is her decision whether those tithes be turned away or brought up to the Weyr," has an edge to it, however politic. Not all of the tension seeps away at her words, but she drags her eyes away from him to look down the road-- the long, deserted road. "You never mentioned that part. I suppose it's the only decent thing to do."

"Ahh," Quint gives a wry twitch of lips. "It's handy, isn't it, being able to hand the decision off to someone else to make. To never have to consider the people involved, only the politics of it." He waits a beat, but persists, curious: "What would you have done, if you were still acting?" He gives a small, almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders at the latter. "It was inconsequential. Even had her family not given us shelter, I would have done so."

"Quite," comes quickly, and after a petulant sigh, "I would have chased him back to whatever forsaken hovel he came from. I can appreciate their situation, truly, but to shove their problems at us, to solve-- well, there's enough to do without worrying about losing more candidates to a fickle lady or half our tithes." Farideh side glances at Quint. "Why? It's not your problem. You're only a harper. Say some thieves come running down the road to get their fill. What are you going to do? Strike them with your gitar?" Obviously, she's in disbelief.

"It doesn't actually sound to me like you do appreciate their situation, weyrwoman," the harper says in a bland tone. "That hovel has nice stock of llamas that supplies wool for your blankets, your coats, your woolens that get the Weyr through every winter." Quint strums some more on his guitar, turning the chords dramatic as if in response to her disbeliving words. "Clearly, I plan to wile them with my charm, invite them to sit beside me, and use a story to infuriate and distract them."

"Fine, if it fits more in line with your story that I don't, then I don't." By this point, it's obvious the weyrwoman's frustration level is quickly reaching its peak, but she's at least not throwing items off the wagon, or even lighting it on fire, so let's count it as a win. "Your charm as yet to appear, all the same, sir," Farideh returns, her smile not even remotely amused. "They may yet run for their lives when you start."

"True," those latter words evince a genuine laugh from the harper, posture at ease as he continues to strum on the guitar. After a beat: "You seem as if you could outpace me, so I wouldn't even attempt to chase." Quint's fingers move across the strings, now sounding a tune that's like as not familiar -- a bawdy sea song. "Now that your interrogation is done with, may I ask -- do you often take a constitutional by yourself far outside the Weyr?"

"They say riders are strong, don't they? You non-riders." That elicits amusement in her words, self-deprecating as it is. "I do sometimes. Running just in the bowl gets a lot of stares, and the scenery is nicer outside. Sometimes, I have a lot of thinking to do, and that leads me farther afield. Roszadyth can always meet me if I don't feel like going back by foot." Farideh's lift to the sky unprovoked, before they return to the man on the wagon seat at her side. "Don't you?"

"Do they?" Quint responds with a lilting query of his own, head tilted. "Mm." He shakes his head, slowly. "That must be... uncomfortable. Being watched. In our line of work it is what we want, what we expect." After a beat of silence, "Do you get used to it?" More strumming; the harper's gaze doesn't follow the rider's to the sky, instead concentrating on the lilting tune. Without looking over, he asks: "Don't I what, weyrwoman?"

"How am I supposed to know?" Farideh reacts, after a lengthy pause, her countenance once more bearing signs of annoyance. "I haven't yet, but Irianke seems less focused on it. With time, with experience," this last with a grimace. "It's not exactly the same you know, though I've seen a harper or two get undressed by someone's eyes. Really." Really! She gives him another annoyed flick of her eyes and moves to stand. "Run. Exercise. Do anything other than sit around in wagons or harass goldriders?"

The weyrwoman's initial reaction is taken in stride by Quint, not even his strumming altering, providing filler for the silence in between the goldrider's words. "Not the same, no. Though one could argue convincingly that -- the dragon aside -- there are similarities. We are recognized wherever we go," he glances down at his harper blue tunic, with a wry smile, "And there are expectations that come along with our profession. It is rare that I get to attend, and enjoy, gather or event without the expectation of performance, much as," he gestures briefly, "I am sure is expected of you, if in more the political side of things. People frequently seek out a harper's ear for advice, for sympathy, or just for someone to listen to. I am sure you have had much of the same demands placed on you." When she stands, the music fades as he does, too. "Of course, weyrwoman. I spent nearly six weeks walking the roads of the region. When I am in the Weyr I enjoy a good run, if that is, indeed, an invitation to harass you on the move...?" the amusement in his expression suggests that he rather thinks it isn't.

Similarities, trivialities, all swept under the rug as she adjusts her tunic prior to setting foot back on the road. "You need not worry yourself in the future. I will assuredly not seek you out for performance at any event. I'm much too accompanied to the free show," holds just a tiniest bit of dryness, there. "No-- no. I'll have to tell my weyrmate you're following me and then none of us will get any sleep forever more. It was entertaining, but there are still thoughts and ideas to work through. I'm sure you'll find something to keep you busy in my absence?" And finally, the quirk of a smile, thrown over her shoulder before she starts off at a light jog, her ponytail bounces with each step.

"I imagine I'll manage, weyrwoman," the harper reassures her, resuming his seat once the goldrider's stepped down. Quint's way of keeping himself amused is clear as the strumming notes of his guitar start up again. Moments later, as she's starting her jog, his voice drifts out:

"The weyrwoman came a'demanding
To the harper who likes grandstanding
They talked for a while
And each other did rile
And she left him with naught but her profile!"