Logs:Wasted Time
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| RL Date: 17 September, 2014 |
| Who: Farideh, Weylaughn |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Weylaughn finds the laundry to do his laundry. Farideh doesn't see eye to eye with him. |
| Where: Inner Caverns, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Weather: Clear. Autumn |
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| Another day at the Weyr, another dirty deed gets a couple of errant teenagers in trouble. "Don't even be thinkin about runnin off either. I've got me eyes on you two," the head laundress gruffs at the two girls, whom she's gotten on sock sorting and matching duty. They're situated near the laundry, each with a large basket full of socks in various shapes and sizes. It might take them all day to find the appropriate matches. Farideh is squatting next to her basket, grumbling under her breath. Her hair has been knotted on top of her head, her usual clothing exchanged for a skirt and apron; her cheeks are flushed, one would assume from the heated laundry cavern. Her companion looks likewise annoyed, but keeps her comments to herself, avoiding the brunette's gaze altogether. Enter... someone who really should not be in the laundry caverns at all, ever. Least of all in an unsupervised capacity. Weylaughn steps in with a bag full of clothes - presumably - hugged to his chest and with a terribly grim look on his face. Of course hes dressed as elegantly as he can be - today is a day of deep blues contrasted with white accents, from tunic and cloak to shirt and trousers. "Excuse me, ladies.." is generally announced, while his gaze roams about the cavern in what would seem to be an aimless search, "but could- ah. Ah-ha! Farideh, is it?" Of course it is. He might not be looking -at- her, but he's looking in her general direction and thats good enough, right? His imperiousness swiftly turns into a positively purred: "I could use some assistance, if youve a moment." A foreign face in the laundry cavern is not rare, but given the general state and condition of Weylaughn, he draws more than a few stares. Farideh gets a forceful nudge from the girl on sock-sorting duty with her, and that is what draws her hazel eyes from their inspection of the assorted pieces in her basket. Slim brows lifting in question, she wipes her hands down the front of her apron and stands to her full five-feet-five-inches, so she can say, "Yes, my name is Farideh and you are.. Wayland?" Close, so close. His high-handedness earns him an aggravated stare, but he is here in the laundry and she is a laundress - "What do you need?" No one minds that full bag of clothes. When Farideh stands, Weylaughn's grin goes absolutely tilted. Shameless? That's him. "Weylaughn," is a gentle correction, though he's generous enough to add, "Just call me Wey." He shifts the bag in his arms slightly, just enough to allow him to offer the laundress a half-bow. Then he's right back up to -his- full height - and presenting that bag to her as if it were a precious gift. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Farideh," he continues, ever-so-sweetly. Still, that dangerously sweet Cromese croon could be considered wasted on the words that follow: "I don't suppose you'd be able to help me with this? I must admit, I'm not -too- familiar with how laundry is handled in a Weyr - and you are the only laundress I've made the acquaintance of." Shamelessness and flirting belong in a place other than the laundry- someplace like the Snowasis. Rather than encourage the grinning, Farideh folds her arms over her middle and gives him her best scowl-and-lip-purse. "Weylaughn," she corrects herself, but does not bring herself to use his nickname. She does, however, drop her eyes to the bag he's pushing towards her, her lips drawing into a disgruntled frown. "Such a please that you want me to wash your pants," she says through her teeth, not good-will or humor evident. Frankly, she looks downright annoyed! "Give it." Hands secure the bag and she draws it to herself, her face continuing to be pinched in dislike. "I do hope there is nothing embarrassing in here." She gives him an up-and-down for good measure; let him think of that what he will. He releases the bag into her care, but there's a distinct lifting of one eyebrow at her response. "My dearest Farideh," Wey points out ever-so-gently, "I was just wondering how this is -done-. I didn't say -you- had to wash my trousers." And, oh, that smoothness! That placating spread of newly freed hands! "But if you insist, then I suppose I'd be -terrible- to deny you the pleasure." His hands drop and his impeccably straight posture -somehow- manages to become even straighter. "I would presume, being a laundress, that you have seen everything. What could possibly be embarrassing in a place of debauchery like this?" The bag, if she should open it, is indeed full of a healthy variety of fine clothing - and all of it lightly used, gauging by the smell. Faint cologne? Check. Beyond that, it's clear this fellow doesn't have the hard life of many residents. Weylaughn is the more clever of the two. All she has up her sleeve is a haughty stare and then she is dropping the bag on the floor to pull out its contents. Her consternation turns to surprise as she starts pulling out the finer-than-average cloth. It is only after she has her hands full of a few items that she turns that incredulous look back on the holder. "Who are you?" she asks, plainly, giving her handful of sophisticated craftmanship a shake. "No one.." with an apprehensive glance around and then hurried steps forward, where she lowers her voice, "..around here has these kinds of marks to spend." All of her suspicion comes home to roost on the Cromese, her eyes narrowed significantly. "And like anyone in here knows what to do with anything like this. You will end up with a pile of rags after they are done with them." And, while the laundress guts his bag of clothing, Weylaughn looks on with that perpetual smile poised on his lips. It's not exactly smug, that smile, but it has some quality akin to it. It's imperiously patronizing, but muted to tolerable levels. Mostly. One shoulder rises and falls in a lopsided shrug at her questions. "Those old things? Those are just my traveling clothes," he explains. He takes a step closer and folds his hands behind his back. "The things I have at home are much nicer, I assure you." That whispering just draws him in closer, the better to deliver his own, nigh conspiratorial murmuring, "And you're wrong. There is someone here with those kinds of marks to spend." His smile turns positively Cheshire. "I do." There's a slight clicking of his tongue behind his teeth and he wonders, "Can you keep a secret? I'm sure you -can-," he corrects himself. "But will you?" Old things? Farideh looks positively murderous, her eyes shining with restrained anger. Her fingers curl around the fabric to form fists that drop to her sides limply; after all, she is just a laundress, just a seventeen year old girl without the height or strength to deck Weylaughn like he deserves to be for that smugness. Leave it to one holder to get annoyed by the other holder. "I am sure," she says faux-sweetly, teeth flashing in a too-toothy smile. Her chin lifts, which does not do much for her given how he is over half a foot taller than she is. But, pride willing. His suggestion of a secret he holds only fuels her anger more - likely, she thinks his secret is something highly insignificant. "It depends," she enunciates slowly, not without a steely edge to the words, "what the secret is." Funny. That impotent anger of hers only seems to fuel Weylaughn's smile all the more. He leans in, fearless as ever, and seems to trust - or, more accurately, expect - that she won't take a swing at him. And if she does? Well. He might be a gentleman, but just how far does that go? "Well," he begins, drawing the word out just a bit. "I'm here to speak with the Weyrleaders and get a bit of much needed reading in. I'm going to see if they would support an improvement to their standing with Crom." He straightens up, but his voice remains low-pitched. "If they do, and I am sure they will support such a thing, then I'm to speak to a few members of the Conclave." The tip of his tongue pokes out briefly to wet his lips. "I'm going to try to properly stake my claim as an heir to Crom Hold, you see? Lord Aughan's my father - and I intend to make amends for his crimes against High Reaches." And there is no mistaking the earnest pride in his voice or stance. Either he's a fine actor - or he genuinely believes it. As Weylaughn speaks, all Farideh can do is listen. Each words is given equal share of her attention, but it is the bits about Crom and Lord Aughan that earn further reaction. Her eyes frantically search his face, looking for.. something. "You.." Breathless sounding. Confused looking. Shock as plain as day. She reaches to place a hand on his upper arm, moving to shield him further from any prying eyes in the laundry; and there are quite a few! "You cannot be his heir. Lord Aughan does not have a son named Weylaughn." It appears she is completely ignoring the ideal of a bastard son, or no, she does not even deign to consider such a thing. His laundry bag is forgotten on the floor, only one shirt still held loosely from limp fingers. For once, all of his imperiousness and haughtiness bleeds away completely. Wey lifts a hand to touch hers, only to gently guide her a few steps away from the heap of laundry - and away from the nosy gits nearby. His other hand reaches to gingerly pluck that shirt from her grip and drop it with the rest of his clothes. "He claims he doesn't," Wey explains. "And he always will. But, Mother has letters from him. Letters that prove he had... relations with her. That he would deny her - and that he ultimately did when she became pregnant." The words come slowly, more for her sake than his own. The better to mentally digest, of course; the better to make sense of it all. "It is a terrible mess, but it is one that I'm hoping can be fixed. It may take time, but so be it. I have some time before Mother decides to match me with someone." Farideh is transfixed on Weylaughn's face, but allows herself to be ushered and her hand plucked from the fabric of his sleeve. She nods once, twice, and simply: "What?" There is some power behind the word, it comes out a tad too loud, which draws more attention to their little chitchat. "You are saying you are Crom's illegitimate son?" Forgive her, but she does not look in the least bit convinced. There is a tiny 'v' budding between her brows as she looks up at him, lips drawn together and pursed. "A bastard does not make an heir," she supplies quietly, simply, and turns her head in a dismissive way. "Many more before you have tried. Go back where you came from, stop wasting everyone's time." When she turns her head back, her features once more arrogant and contemptuous. "I'm saying that's what I am." Wey's conviction is bone-deep and it shows, right down to the slight quaver in his voice. "We have proof. Signed confessions. I am not an heir -now-, I'm not so daft to think that's so, but I -can- be." He releases his hold on her hand and pulls back a step. "The way people act around here," he adds, his voice lifting just a little, "it's as if you are more than willing to accept Crom's past activities and seek no compensation at all for what -should- be yours. How many of those others offered to -correct- things for the sake of the -Weyr-, Farideh?" His jaw tightens. "If the Weyr will not have those wrongs righted, then I will be more than happy to return to the Hold of my birth." "You can say," and her voice is testy, "what you want to say, it has no bearing on the truth." Farideh sounds just as convinced about that fact. She takes her own step back, arms settling snugly across her chest and her chin lifting just a notch higher. "Lord Crom is that by birthright. Who are you to rock that boat? It has nothing to do with agreeing with him. It is what it is. You may be his bastard," she says it like it is gives her a bad taste in her mouth, "I do not know, but you were not born to be his heir, clearly." And that is her stance on it, one she will not back off of, no matter his argument. For a silly little teenager with an immature streak, she knows a lot about Hold politics. "Or maybe he couldn't bear the scandal of having a child out of wedlock. Perhaps he couldn't bear the shame of having had relations with someone who sympathized with the Weyr." Weylaughn taps his chest gently with the knuckles of a hand. "I can't say I know his thoughts or what he felt when he dismissed my mother with a healthy sum of marks," he replies, "but I know he did some things that are very wrong." His shoulders square up and he's at his full height again, with his hands splayed in a palm-up gesture. "Unless you're saying -you- know the truth, in which case, please, illuminate the situation for me. Until then, Farideh, tell me who -else- ought to rock the boat? Or do you think the direction you're sailing in is a -good- one?" There is something she wants to say, but she chooses to tamp it down and instead jerks her shoulders in an unconcerned shrug. "Honestly? I don't know and I don't care," she says, with a piercing stare to make sure he understands, that he sees the lack of giving in her eyes. Sparing him one more superior, up-and-down look, she squats down and starts gathering the clothes that she pulled out of his laundry bag, stuffing them back in. Fewer eyes turn their way now - probably a presumed lover's quarrel. "You certainly seem to care," Weylaughn replies stiffly as he crosses the space between them. Oddly, it's not to loom over her while she works; rather, he's reaching to gather bits and pieces of stray clothing to be added to the bag when she's done using it. "And if you don't, then what does it matter whose time I'm wasting? It's their waste - and mine. Not yours. Your time," he adds with a jerk of his chin to the bag, "is being wasted on doing -this-." Laundry in general? Or, perhaps just -his- laundry? Hard to say, really, and no elaboration is given. Between the two of them, they might the laundry picked up by next turn. Farideh turns so their faces are close, and does not seem bothered by the distance. "I care about you wasting your time, Crom's time, the Conclave's time." She gives him a long look, clamping down on her tongue; it is angry, jerky movements that continue to shove the clothes in the bag. With a humorless laugh, "What I do or do not do is not your business, and surely, me doing laundry is much more useful than you chasing some idiotic dream to be like every other spoiled Holder's heir." Her aversion rings true in the words. "It's -their- choice in the end, Farideh." That fact is pointed out rather bluntly. "They do not -need- to entertain me. They do not -need- to listen to me. If they -do-, it's their choice. Theirs and theirs alone." Wey reaches to take the bag whenever she seems done with it, purely so he can shove his fistfuls of fine clothing into it. "And what should it matter what -I- do, if that's your logic? Even if it is idiotic," though that word is said with a roll of the eyes, "it's what I'm here to do and see through to the end. No matter what that end may be. This, the laundry, the work that you do is useful - but what I'm here to do can be just as useful. If nothing else, perhaps it may stir renewed interest in the area. Even if I do fail," though he doubts this heavily, of course, "then perhaps it will make the way clearer for the next of Aughan's bastards." With all of the items returned to their bag and their conversation drifting off into dangerous territory, Farideh takes the lead to stand up and address him loud enough for the nearby laundry workers to hear. "Very well, sir. I will make sure you're taken care of. You can always drop off your laundry in the residential hall like the rest of the weyrfolk, so you don't have to waste your time in here," she says excessively sweet, though her smile is hostile. Hint: drop it, go away, do not come back. For his part, Weylaughn knows when to leave well enough alone. He straightens, adjusts the hang of his shirt and tunic, and addresses Farideh with a much more formal, "My thanks to you." There is, however, the barest twitch of his jaw and mouth and, as he turns to leave, he tosses back, "If you -do- feel inclined to waste your time after hours, find me. I'll be more than happy to sacrifice mine for your amusement." His departure is swift, if measured, and he doesn't look back. |
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