Logs:I'll Follow You
| |
|---|
| RL Date: 3 July, 2011 |
| Who: Devaki, Iolene |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Iolene is studying but is not doing a good job. Dev is a great distraction. |
| Where: Harper Classroom, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
  |
| It is a winter night, 20:27 of day 14, month 2, turn 26 of Interval 10. It's the end of the world. At leat for some unlucky harper who has had the unfortunate task of wrangling in all the stray exiles who have somehow avoided their 'catch up' classes for weeks now, and while most of the class has skedaddled, Iolene is left slumped at a desk playing with a pencil between her fingers. Far more adept at twirling it like a baton in and out of her fingers, than she is answering the history questions before her, Iolene's gaze is clouded and distant as it stares a hole into the chalkboard. Even the harper's run away by now for a long postponed dinner, though it doesn't seem like the daydreaming once exile has noticed yet. It's no coincidence at all that Devaki pushes his way into the classroom, long after lessons are over, and long past when anyone would be in here. He carries some hides with him, casually, as he absently bumps the door shut behind him with his shoulder, not seeing Iolene at first, since she's quiet. And still. A few steps in, and his gaze sweeps the room and stops. The temptation to scare her out of the daydream is fought, and eventually won -- just. "Io," he says, quietly. "Dreaming of the island?" Iolene's daydream is of the sort that make it impossible to be scared out of. It is, instead, a slow recession, visible in the clouds that retreat from her dark blue eyes, clearing them in a succession of blinks that then turn her head lazily to the familiar, though unrecognized, voice. It's with those dark blue eyes that she looks to Devaki, the sudden owlish widening of them preceded only by a splotch of pink to her cheeks and it's with those dark eyes that she drinks her fellow exile in. "I- I- I-...," but the eloquent silence that her gaze is capable of fails her completely when it comes to speaking and the first pronoun is stammered. "Um. No. Not really. I just don't like being shut up in here. I don't really need to-," her found voice glances at the sheets of hides before her and frowns, "Know which goldrider was Weyrwoman during the Crom insurrection. Or how they hung a raider just outside the walls. I don't care." Deliberate petulance aims to mask her earlier reaction. Accompanied by a scraping noise, Devaki shifts the desk in front of Iolene's around so that, when he slides into it, he's facing her, the span of their desks between them. He sets his hides on his side of the desk, then leans forward, gaze fixed on her, silent a moment in his careful study. Her talk of the history of the Weyr earns a twitch of lips. And then, "Did you then, decide what you what to do? Did you find a rider to ask about Rhaelyn's grand plans for the exiles?" His manner could be taken as mocking, except that there's an earnest curiosity in his steady gaze. "De-ev," is Iolene's elongated two-syllable reply, filled with a 'really? You're asking me what I want?' sort of tone. As for Rhaelyn, there's a twitch when he mentions the other islander's name and a parting of her lips, but no explanation of what she discovered. "Iiiioooo," comes the taunting reply, though he's not so adept at infusing a question so much as merely echoing her own tone. There is, however, a smile to soften it, and Devaki props an elbow on the desk, and his chin on his hand. "Are you going to leave me hanging, then?" Sixteen. So close to seventeen she can likely taste the turning of age, but instead of that age just around the corner, Iolene takes a sudden knee to her chair, which allows her to more easily lean forward to taste his lips. It's not a hesitant kiss, as much as it is testing in its light press and then its quick parting that still leaves her face inches away. "I just wanted to see. What it felt like without-..." Her little shrug might not be able to be seen, but it's almost tangible in her trailing off voice; the complications of their long earlier first kiss. "What do you want to do?" No, she hasn't answered him, a fact she's well-aware of, if given the sudden guilty drop of her eyes to the desk. He's surprised, that much is clear -- but he's also a guy, so he's not about to refuse a kiss. Devaki is, however, cognizant enough to let her guide the type of kiss, and doesn't press for more, though his lips twitch upwards as she draws back and his hand, unbidden, drops from where it had reached to brush her hair, briefly. There's a beat, and his gaze remains on her, despite her downcast look. "I want to get married," he says, plainly. "I want to -- uphold the traditions of our island. Of our heritage." There's a slight pause, and now he's the one that's looking away, taking a slow breath. "I don't want to -- throw my life away. To live here, with a dragon." There's no animosity in the words, exactly, just a pointed neutrality. The girly answer would be: 'Then I'll follow you. I'll marry you.' And it almost seems as if Iolene wants to say that when her gaze returns to find his. But then, a sharp breath is taken inward, then exhaled far more slowly into the desk. Paced breathing as she does, the blonde teenager uses the time to sink back onto her knee and then onto her bottom as her leg falls back to the ground. "That'll be good. I always did tell you you needed to find a good girl to marry and quick. Boys like you shouldn't stay unmarried. You'll break too many hearts." The tease carries only the slightest hint of hollow, and it's too bad her harpers aren't training her vocally, cause it could almost be plausible for an actor. Almost. But she's smiling again, her trademark silvered smile that lights up her, still, far too thin face. "I don't want to stay here either. I feel trapped. Like, we don't have an option to leave. I feel-... I feel like Shimana and Rilka aren't actually crazy. I feel like a prisoner." "Io," Devaki breathes her name, now, and it's kind of -- sad. Reluctant and just, sad. He knows her too well to miss her tone. He's silent after she speaks, his gaze faraway, now. Gathering himself, and, with a half smile, mostly succeeding. "It's funny. I said about the same thing just the other night, to Ri. I don't think they're that crazy. But, if you really wanted to get away, you could. Just find a -- sympathetic rider. You could, you have a way of... you'd be able to find someone." He doesn't finish that sentence, and, with heave, pushes himself to his feet. Not to leave, but to put distance between them now, pacing over to the wall to study one of the maps. "Or," the younger exile begins by speaking into her unfinished exam, the pencil doodling some random lines along the edge. "Ooooor," she drawls before flicking those long lashes up to study Devaki and the distance he's put between them, watching his back now that he studies a map instead of her, "I could help. I could. I have a way of. You know." Now she is actually teasing, the humor of what he implies carrying with it an irony for the teenager. "I can help. I can try to learn things and hear things and see if people will tell me anything?" There's a sudden light to her face that's more genuine than the smile before, as purpose is given to her life, if only in her pretty little head, and eager to fulfill her self-designated role of helping Dev with his goals, she notes, "The Weyrleader thinks that someone important must have not liked our ancestors. Someone important to make sure no one ever knew we were exiled." It takes a while for her words to draw Devaki's gaze back, but they do, eventually. There's a hint of consideration in his regard, but he shakes his head, a grimace crossing his features. "You are not that person, Io. You shouldn't be," he clarifies. "You should just be -- you. You should be happy. Find a nice boy to settle down with, if that's what you want." But whatever he says is stalled further by the look in her gaze, the shift of her posture at her determination. His irresolute expression makes it clear he doesn't like the idea of Iolene... spying. Yes, that's what it is. But, but. Her words prompt him, and he can't help it: "The Weyrleader, then, probably knows more than he's letting on." He takes a step towards her, then rocks back on his heels. "There was always knowledge that would be passed through the Council, or father to son or mother to daughter. Weyrleader to Weyrleader too, I expect." Is he aware he sets her a task? Hard to say. There's that look in his eyes, that sadness, but there's more than one reason for that. "Maybe." Is she aware she's now Devaki's little spy? Nothing in those guileless, eager-to-help eyes indicates as such, though there's a sudden flicker of unrelated dubiousness. "Though he promised to never lie to me and he seemed sincere. Appalled. He seemed sad when I accused him of killing us off with his promises of a better life." Iolene's teeth worry against her lower lip as her leggy limbs move away from her desk. "I liked talking to him. He reminds me of-," her words pause, her chin jerking up to find Dev in a sudden tangent, "How is Xoami?" The question of who the Weyrleader reminds her of is on his lips, but forestalled, as perhaps intended, by her latter question. "He's adjusting better than most of us, I think. He seems to enjoy the... freedoms of Weyr life." There's a twist of lips, as if Devaki doesn't exactly approve, but it's hard to be judgemental of your lifelong friend, all the same. "I think he has plans to ask for a dragon." He does not like that; that much is clear in his gaze. But neither does he want to turn his friend from what he wants. "Oh. That's nice." Already, the exiles are fragmenting: finding their own niches and clearly, Iolene has not kept up with most of them. Somehow, the idea of her fellow islanders settling in nicely doesn't sit well with Io, or else it brings a light bulb into her head, for shortly, the blonde girl is up and pacing as well. Her pace, however, has purpose, as it brings her near Devaki. "Marry me. You're a nice boy. I'm a nice girl. You make me happy. So I'm telling you. You should marry me. Or-," there's another option there, a suggestion that tosses the rules and restrictions of their previous life away and brings a slower smile to her lips, "Just kiss me for now, and hold me, and then kiss me some more. I like being kissed. I like being kissed by you. I didn't think I would," is her frank confession with no explanation as to why not. "But I like it and you're so mean to not kiss me this whole time and just leave /me/ hanging." Devaki is... confused. Yes. "You just said you didn't want to. On the island--" but she's begging him to kiss her and, well, it would be hard for anyone, let alone Devaki, to refuse her charms. A single step closes the distance between them, and a hand slides around her back, guiding her near as he leans to kiss her. It's gentle, almost chaste at first. The kiss of a friend. And then it is something more, the kiss of something more than a friend. And that's about where he pauses, draws away enough to look at her. "You don't want to marry me," he finally says, though his voice is soft and entirely unconvincing. It's here that Iolene melts, first forward into Devaki's embrace and then her lips into his. Her poor exam will probably never get complete at this rate; not that there was a chance even before the kissing. And then the kissing stops and he talks, and the girl's face twists into annoyance. Her, "Oh shut up," is a command she's more than happy to help him follow with with more kissing. And kissing and kissing. She's a riveted student when it comes to learning how to do this right, particularly as she's apparently aiming to make up for the lost month and a half with no kissing. Fortunately, later, the bruised lips from all her practicing will only serve as a reminder for her new purpose in life: find out the Weyr's tribal knowledge. But that's later. Just now, it's unlikely she's willing to do or talk about anything else. Oh lucky her and possibly, lucky him. |
Leave A Comment