Logs:Proper
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| RL Date: 13 October, 2014 |
| Who: Farideh, Weylaughn |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Farideh and Weylaughn act proper at Benden's Gather. |
| Where: Benden Hold |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Weather: Cold, snowy. |
| OOC Notes: Backdated. |
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| Benden Hold The Hold's cliff rises high above the courtyard, its impassive stone face studded with Threadfall shutters thrown wide, surmounted by the fireheights where the Gather flag snaps in the wind. A symbol of its Lady's public belief in the Interval, the Hold's grand doors are barely ajar for once, the Gather a sprawling and wholly outside affair. Food and drink are served in the upper court, its central fountain performing double duty as a place to keep ale kegs and wineskins cool, away from the porcine roasting on its spit. While the side nearest the greenhouse is lined with tables bearing platters of simple party food, the side opposite has long trestle tables and benches brought out from the Hold itself, with festive lanterns to light the scene as the sun goes down. A few steps down in the much larger main courtyard, a regular rotation of harpers entertains the masses from a dais next to the dancing square. The vintners are doing good business at the entrance to their Hall, but the booths of other tradespeople are down the ramp in Crafter Row. Benden! Oh, great Hold full of glorious wine! Everyone is going to flock to this locale when there is free-flowing red and white. It might be as cold as between and stark even in the midst of a sunset, but there are people crawling all over the Hold's grounds: chatting, eating, merrymaking. Reachians amongst them. Less notably than others - Farideh, wearing her typical unassuming clothing choices with a large jacket overtop that reaches to her knees. Her hair has been swept up in an attempt at elegant, with intertwined braids that coalesce into a chignon at the crown of her head. She's moving silently through the booths, stopping at some, and occasionally, breaking to chat with a familiar face. In one hand, she's got a mug filled with - uncharacteristically, for a mug anyway - wine, and the other is tucked neatly into one of her coat pockets. It's after a bit of walking and chatting that she pauses over one of the weaver booths, this one boasting fine cloaks and other wintry accessories. Here, she'll stop to check out the fur lining on a neckline, running her fingers carefully over the neatly-hidden stitches, while the booth-owner is busy chatting up a harper off to the side. And along comes a Holder, one whose previously intermittent visits to High Reaches Weyr have abruptly ceased. Weylaughn's clad in Gather finery fit for any Lord's son - rich blue and white for the most part, with black gloves and a matching cloak with fur-lined hood. But, the knot at his shoulder seems to be a burden, declaring him as of Crom Hold despite the truth; Seven Echoes might be a fine Hold on its own, but it has no knot of its own. The lad is alone for the moment, though backward glances might betray he's not truly alone, and he's procured for himself a proper glass of some fine red or another. A satchel slung crosswise over his torso seems full of a few things, but there's room yet to spare within it. He's in mid sip of his glass when his attention snags at some vendor or another - only to hold properly at the sight of something most unexpected. One eyebrow wings sharply upward and he veers toward that booth of cloaks and the like, his steps measured and purposeful. "Farideh? Is that you?" The calling of her name gets Farideh's attention, grabbing it away from the clothing and up to the approaching holder. Color her surprised - her own brows lifting in compliment to her surprised voice. "Waylan, wasn't it? What are you doing here?" She returns her free hand to her coat pocket and takes a sip of her wine, letting her gaze travel from his knot all the way down to his fancy boots. "I thought you were back at the Reaches, making false claims and burdening the Weyrleaders." Shocker, she's still not impressed by his claim to the Crom seat, but at least she's allowing some dry humor invade her words now. This was clearly a mistake. Wey's features swiftly shift from something amiable to a rather more hardened expression, with the set of his mouth frozen into a flat line. He doesn't even bother correcting the slight distortion of his name; it's hardly important in the greater scheme of things. "What do you care," he wants to know. The humor, dry or otherwise, is plainly lost on a youth whose nerves are starting to show signs of fraying. "I was just coming over to say hello - and offer wine, but I see you have some already. So, I suppose, in the spirit of that-" he lifts his glass in a faux toast "-enjoy the rest of the Gather." "My, my, so testy." Humor imbues the girlish timbre of her voice, making its way to the corners of her mouth, which lift as he lifts his glass in toast. "In the spirit of the Gather," with a slight dip of her shoulders, "should I apologize? If you promise not to speak of Holds and heirs for the duration. I don't think I can take it." Farideh even goes far as to correct herself, with a little grin that speaks as much as the next name out of her mouth: "Weylaughn." Doubtless, she's been 'getting' his name wrong on purpose these couple times. She sighs quietly and gives him a nod. "I'm sorry, I won't-" beat "mock you anymore.. or, here. We can enjoy the.. wine." There, that's her attempt at not being a bitch, take it or leave it. "Then I suppose telling you that I won't be darkening the entrance of your Weyr is out of the question, if those are the terms you're requesting." Just a bit on edge still, Weylaughn nonetheless accepts the apology for what it is, if with a stiff half-bow at the waist and a mostly flat, "I will accept your apology, on the condition that you do enjoy the wine." It can't be helped that his irritation is as quick to dissolve as it is to manifest; his manner is mercurial at best when outside the strange realm of the Weyr. His chin lifts to indicate the booth nearby. "Is there anything worth having at that one? Those cloaks look fine enough, but I've no eye for the stitching." "You don't have to leave the Reaches on my account. That is a little severe, even for you." Vague concern, an emotion that dissipates as they switch from talk of home to the safer topic of wine and clothing. "Benden wine is always the best. What isn't there to enjoy?" just as she takes a slow sip from her mug, and turns assessing hazel eyes on the booth with its various displays. "I've no doubt the stitching is done with a practiced hand. It is quite lovely. But, I worry about the fur trimmings. It's not.." and Farideh skips her eyes to the booth owner, who isn't paying them any attention, "..of the quality I would expect given the stitches." She shrugs and turns her avid stare on the holder once more. "How are you enjoying the gather so far? Have you been here long?" "Is it?" Weylaughn doesn't seem to care, nor does he assauge any concerns that he might be leaving because of her. Instead, it's off to other matters that are more pressing or, at least, more appropriate given the situation. "Ah," says he of her assessment. "That's a disappointment. They look rather nice from a distance, but it's no good if they start to shed the moment you put them on." He takes a sip of his wine, swishes it in his mouth, and swallows. She may look at him, but he's looking elsewhere, skimming the other booths in the area. "It's lovely enough," he concedes. "But I've not been here all that long. We arrived just a short while ago. And you?" His gaze centers on her again. "How long have you been here? Have you been enjoying yourself?" Farideh's lips come together to purse, her brows knitting too. She silently watches his not-watching-her and seems to find it bothersome; enough to cause her frown, anyway. How the tables have turned. "I've been here for some time, since after lunch. I just started drinking though. I wanted to," casting a glance about their vicinity, "enjoy the gather, see some things, meet some people, before.." She gestures with the mug and offers another shrug, as if it needs no more explanation than that half-hearted one she kind of gave just now. "It's getting busier the closer to dark it gets. I suppose the drunks will come out now and the dancers too. They save the best sets for later, I'm told." One foot crosses the other, posture swaying back and forth, in a girl-with-too-much-energy-to-stay-still sort of way. "Aye, that's usually the way of it, isn't it?" Wey offers her a tilted, boyish grin that's still lacking in its usual verve; something seems to be eating at him and he's not yet able to shake it. Perhaps another drink of wine will resolve it. And, if not, draining the glass surely will. "The better music, the dancing, all of that seems to come far too late, doesn't it?" He sucks his teeth thoughtfully for a moment, then motions with his newly emptied glass at nothing in particular, "Do you dance at all, Farideh? Or, I suppose I should ask if you enjoy it." There's that grin again, brief as it may be. "A lot of people will dance, but liking it... that's something else entirely." And if he's started to drift in the direction of a fresh source of wine, so be it; he needs a refill and, like as not, the laundress will, too! "It does," the laundress sighs, conceding that point to the holder. Her attention flickers upwards, to Weylaughn's face, with slim brows lifting again. "Do I enjoy dancing? It depends on the set and the partner, I would have to say. I like the lively dances better than the slower ones, and if I'm matched with someone who wants to walk all over my toes or talk my ear off, it is not nearly as fun as it should be." Farideh has no real choice but to follow, walking in Weylaughn's stead with a much slower stride that puts her a step or two behind. "Are you, as many men, a proponent of sitting this one out?" she asks curiously, regarding him askance as they move to the wine booths. He's not content for a mere refill. Rather, Wey slides over the marks for a couple of bottles, one of which is stowed in the bag and the other? The other's opened on the spot to refill his glass. He offers to pour for Farideh as well, brows lifted in silent inquiry if the motion isn't enough. "I would say you're right on all points. It's so difficult to dance if a partner's just not enjoying themselves or they have wherry's feet. Unlike most men, I prefer to be out on the floor - especially with a lively partner. If I wanted to dance with cold fish," he muses with a tilted grin, "I'd have run off to become a seacrafter." Impressive - that's what the continued lifting of her brows means this time. Bottle are bought and wine is offered, and Farideh nods in the affirmative; she'll take some of the free stuff. "Not many people have the inclination to learn or they can't afford to learn well." His quip about the seacraft earns him a laugh and a smile from the laundress. "Did you hear they're holding a masquerade at the Weyr for turnover? I'm trembling, just thinking about it. Weyrfolk, in masks! As if they needed any more reason to act reckless." She exhales heartily, as she takes steps away from the wine booth, and slants him a mischievous look. "Any great Turnover plans?" Besides gathers, of course. So shall it be. She'll have a refilled mug to match his glass and Weylaughn lingers just a spell to savor the taste. "No, they don't. More's the pity, really." Her laughter is enough to coax a brighter smile from him and he switches the glass from one hand to the other, freeing up that arm to offer it to her. "Really? I'd not heard anything about that," he admits with a brief lifting of brows. "That sounds," and, here, he digs a bit for words, but comes up short with, "peculiar." It'll just have to do. His nose wrinkles at the choice regardless and he's forced to shake his head in dismay. Her question is met with another shake of his head and another wrinkle of his nose. "Ah- no, not really. Terrible, I know. Like as not, we'll spend it as we have every Turn - and that's terribly dull." Curious: "Do you? I'm sure you must." Weyrfolk and their pecuiar diversions, they can agree on that score. Farideh hesitates for the briefest of seconds before settling her hand in the crook of his offered arm, and falls in step with his stride. They can now move as one through the crowded thoroughfare. "Someone has to stay behind and wash all the soiled clothing," she says forlornly, with a little pout, but it's dispelled by her next laugh, a laugh that reaches her eyes. "If I had my choice, something spectacular - diving off a cliff in the South, walking the orchards at Fort Hold by glowlight, or," and the laughter in her voice wavers a touch, "relaxing at Igen's Turnover gather. On the night before the next Turn, at Big Bay, they throw a lavish party - sometimes it's a masquerade, and there are harpers, so much food you can eat until you burst, and everyone is just.." Her breath catches, only releasing as she says, "happy." He's silent for a short time after she finishes speaking, though it might only seem it's because he's occupied with his wine. In truth, however, Weylaughn finds himself saying, "I was supposed to attend the party at the 'Reaches with someone, but it seems that will not be happening." See also: his aforementioned comments about not darkening the Weyr's entrance with his person. Nevermind just how awful that might sound when paired with his next words: "Would you care to go to Big Bay with me at Turnover?" His tone, however, is serious; weighty, even, and he tilts his head to look at her properly. "I've never been there, but it sound perfect. And if you'd like to go, then I don't see why you shouldn't. There are other laundresses at the Weyr - and I'm sure they'll not notice your absence for an evening." He looks away and adds, "Or we can go South. Or to Igen. Or to Fort, as you like." A questioning look is given to Weylaughn, though Farideh doesn't push the subject. His next words might be the cause for the hitch in her step, or the slight pinking of her cheeks - which could just as easily be from the cold and wind. Whatever the reason, she's quick to negate Big Bay as an option. "No, not Big Bay. It is an invite only event.. from what I've been told." She glosses that over and waits a space to answer his following suggestions. "I might be able to. Might. I'm already on thin ice with Giorda, so I'm not sure if she would let me, but-" chewing one corner of her bottom lip "I can try. Fort's turnover festivities have always been enjoyable." That last is a suggestion of her own, hazel eyes sliding to the side, to eye Weylaughn with interest. Her assertions are met with a sidelong look and a pursing of his lips, but Weylaughn doesn't press the matter. "Fort," he settles on, rolling the name around on his tongue. "I'm fairly certain," he hazards, "that Giorda's favor could be bought in some way." He's not about to mince about the idea, frankly; bribery is just a fact of life, so far as he's concerned. "We'll go to Fort," he continues, head tilted to keep her in the corner of his sight - gray eyes obliquely meeting hazel. "And we'll have a fine time, filled with wine and dancing - and if we have too much of either, then we'll just have to stay 'til Rukbat rises." Plan in motion- "Fort." One nod suffices for Farideh's agreement, her smile resurfacing along with it. She tries to hide that smile behind the edge of her mug, settled as it is against her mouth so she can take a hearty swallow. Delicate brows hike, and her laughter bubbles over again. "And here I thought it was only dragonriders I had to worry about trying to steal my virtue. Asking me to spend an overnight with you already.. and this is only the third time we've met." She clucks her tongue in a poor imitation of chastisement, but this time, doesn't try to hide the grin that shows a large amount of teeth. "Who said anything about your virtue," Weylaughn wonders with a laugh. "That's not what I'm interested in, not in the slightest." Lies? Doubtful. The lad has trouble lying - he's just too earnest about the things he says. Too dedicated. "But, if it would make you feel more comfortable, I can certainly pretend to be a dragonrider...?" Teasing, that - and poorly done, since he can't keep a straight face. The very idea is laughable and he does laugh at it. As for where he's leading her? Soon enough, it's apparent: there are the Harpers and there's the dance floor and at least he has enough sense to stop them before they venture too far. "Do you like other men?" Farideh is being completely serious - if he's not interested in getting into her pants, then he must be, right!? She pulls a face when he suggests that he could pretend to be a dragonrider, saying, "No, thank you, I live with them, I do not need to spend even my turnover away pretending to be around them." But further words cease as she realizes they're right there, by the dance floor and the twirling dancers. Her eyes flick back to Weylaughn, mildly surprised. "You want to dance.. with me?" It's at this point that she looks down. Imagine: he's wearing his fancy getup and she's in worn out pants, a too-big jacket, and muddy boots. Not exactly the picture of perfection and dancing elegance. "What? No. That's obscene," Weylaughn looks aghast at the implication and never-you-mind any of those rumors that might have circulated about himself and a certain greenrider. "That's just- it's just not proper, that's all." He opens his mouth to add more - only to catch himself, perhaps in deference to her earlier requests. Let her talk about wanting to be away from the riders; his interest lies more in watching her mild surprise unfold. His grin is right back where it belongs, lopsided and a bit cocky, as he says, "Well, of course. I wouldn't bring you here just to leave you - unless you'd rather watch me try to dance alone?" The state of her clothing is clearly of no concern for him - despite any protestations of appearance being important. "Or," and this is spurred by her downward look at herself, "would you care to find a nice dress and shoes first?" That idea has his brow furrowing, concern existing more for her sake than his. Weylaughn's protestations are amusing, so much so Farideh laughs unrestrained. Trying to hold it back - no, stop it - she presses a finger to her lips, precariously holding her mug with the remaining fingers of the same hand. One of them has learned to accept sexual preferences in their time at the Weyr; it's not him. With the dance floor looming before them, all she can do is sigh and shake her head. "That would be a waste, and I don't have the marks to spare on a new dress. Not that I would want to. I don't like any of the weavers here, but," because there's always a but, "I'll be happy to dance in this as long as you promise not to laugh. Some of the elegance of the steps are lost on pants." He's patient enough; give him credit for that. In this, at least, he can be patient. While she decides on what she's going to do, he settles on unslinging his bag and tucking it in a safe place nearby. This requires him to pull his arm away from her hand, but he manages it gracefully enough. When he returns - though he's gone naught but a step or two away - he says, "Well then. I'll just have to use my imagination for the rest, won't I? I promise I won't laugh - and if I do," he adds most firmly, "you have permission to smack me until you're satisfied. Fair?" He'll wait, of course, for her to agree to the terms - or not, as she sees fit! - before offering his hand and starting for the dance floor. One song is still winding to a close, but that will give them plenty of time to set up for the next! While he's busy setting his things aside, Farideh is busy draining what's left of her wine. She'll set the mug down on a nearby table once Weylaughn returns and sets her hand on his, allowing him to lead them onto the dance floor. Even if it's wrapping up, even if other couples are gazing at this Cromese holder and Reachian girl with dislike, there's still the promise of dancing the night away. It makes the laundress somewhat giddy as she glances around. "I haven't danced in ages," which is subjective, and probably means a few months to the young woman. "Nor have I," he replies with a rueful note to his voice. But, that's about to change soon enough, or so one can only hope. Weylaughn moves with plenty of grace, at least - uncaring of the peculiar looks and outright stares from those already on the floor or soon to be. Once they're in position and the next song has started up, he gives it a beat or two to see if she knows the tune. In either case, he takes the lead, the melody familiar enough to him. "I was Harper-trained," he explains as he starts through the motions. "And well-trained at that. Mother insisted." For good reason. Music is all she needs - well, and a good partner, of course. They're moving soon enough in the typical steps to match the harper tune, one set amongst a sea of movement. "That's nice," Farideh replies politely, and perhaps less politely, "That you listen to your mother so resolutely." She flashes a smile in contrast to her words, all teeth, and continues the dance steps in as seamless a way as possible; not perfect, but with easy grace. And if he runs the tip of his tongue out at her less-than-polite observation, it can't quite be helped, can it? Weylaughn might not be considered professional - but he's good. Better than most, in fact, if not among the best. He lapses into silence, letting the music take the reins. It's easy enough to obey the instruments and the compelling tide they create; easier still to all but lose oneself to those melodic depths and close any distance yet left between bodies. It's a subtle thing, done unthinkingly, but any polite gap between is slowly, oh-so-slowly reduced bit by bit. Blame it on the music, if blame's to be placed at all! Everything falls into place and Farideh simply.. enjoys herself, letting Weylaughn take the lead so she can concentrate on moving and not thinking. It's how she doesn't notice the gap-shortening, until they're too close. She gives him a startled look, even if she doesn't say anything right away and continues to move within the perimeters of the set. "Should we.." Hmph, she stops and draws her lips together, chewing on whatever words she had been about to speak. It's a rare kind of pleasure, really. It's also a pleasure that's doomed to end too soon, as such things tend to do. Weylaughn is pulled out of his thoughts by the young woman's words and he, for but a moment, just blinks dumbly at her. His forehead furrows, just a little, and he slows the pace of their dance just a bit - ostensibly to match the musicians. "Should we... what?" Wey's voice is pitched a bit lower than usual, words just for her - much like that expression of mild concern. "You can tell me. I already promised not to laugh." Color rises to her cheeks once more, standing out lividly against her green-brown eyes. "Nothing," Farideh mutters as she moves mindlessly through the steps, trying to look at anywhere, anything, but at Weylaughn. And when the blush is gone, her brow is puckered and her lips don't quite reach a full, genuine smile, though she may try to throw in one here or there to match the mood of the dance. Nothing. That's a word that pulls his features into something akin to a pinch. She may strive to look anywhere but at him, but Wey's eyes rest keenly on her. Consider it an impulse that has him dipping his head in an attempt to press a chaste kiss to that puckered brow of hers. "I should go," he says, his tone laden with reluctance. Clearly, that's how he's going to interpret her sudden shift in mood; it's perhaps the safest way to go about things. "And you should go off and find some proper fun, hm?" The kiss comes as a surprise, and suddenly, they're not moving anymore. They're just standing there, on the dance floor, and a range of emotions crosses the laundress' face, favoring confusion in the end. Her brow stays puckered, her mouth tugging down into a frown. She lifts a hand and opens her mouth like she wants to say something else, but.. she doesn't. Farideh just looks at him with those eyes, bewilderment reading clear. At least it's confusion. It's a small thing, but one that Weylaughn is deeply grateful for. That she doesn't argue or reply, however; that's something else entirely. One of his hands slips free from the laundress' waist and lifts to cup her cheek. It's a fleeting thing, just a light drag of thumb across cheekbone, and then he's dipping down again to press a kiss to that selfsame cheek. Once it breaks, his head remains lowered, able to allow him to speak - and spill words directly into the curve of her ear. Those words are breath-warmed and wine-sweetened: "Or we can dance until Rukbat rises, if you like." Everything happens at once and Farideh is just standing there, looking dumbstruck while people are dancing around them. His hand on her cheek, followed by his lips, and then he's speaking by her ear-and her flush returns. It's not an easy thing to make the laundress blush, so he must be winning an award by doing it multiple times in one day. "My feet would hurt," is all she can murmur in response, weakly and without her usual verve. Her tone is plaintive next. "I think I need.. I'm thirsty. Wine." Because wine is definitely the thirst-quencher, or for this particular thirst anyway. "Of course, of course," and, just like that, Weylaughn's withdrawing with haste, breaking the moment by releasing her and breaking into a purposeful stride. His wine glass is retrieved, half-full as it is, and offered to her within scant seconds of her plea for a drink. "If you need more- ah. Should we sit? Would that be better?" Another song starts up in the meantime, but he remains grounded, concern writ on his features for the state of his blushing - and impromptu - date. Short jaunt that it is, one might consider using the walk back to the wine to sort out their confusion, but no, when they arrive and Weylaughn hands Farideh his unfinished glass, she is just as perplexed as on the dance floor. She mumbles a thank you and.. drains the whole glass. Next, she's fanning her face, which is comical since its all of thirty degrees outside. "Sorry, I don't feel well," is her excuse, complete with a wince and a sigh. She'll try looking at her feet, as if they might hold the answer to all of life's question - like why when that guy you thought you hated kisses you, you blush and stutter and freak out! Good one, shoes. And that concern just keeps on building. Weird, really, considering just who Weylaughn is and what he's known for - and being worried about someone who was previously fairly vocal about hating him is even more baffling. Of course, few would be quite as baffled as the lad himself, who finds himself briefly without words. "Sit, sit," he'll finally encourage - and whether she does or not, he'll attempt the time-honored 'back of the hand to forehead' maneuver to test her temperature. Which would work beautifully if he wasn't wearing gloves and if he had half a clue what he was doing. "I- are you- do you need anything else? Should I find someone to take you home?" Such fussing. There's also a brief, if wary, look about at the crowds that continue to build nearby as more and more people gather to dance and watch the dancing. Something snaps Farideh back to herself - it could be the fussing, or the hand to her head, or just.. time. "No, don't worry about.. stop," as she's pushing his hand away with a weak glare. "I'm fine. I just need some fresh air, is all." Because all of the fresh, wide open Benden gather grounds aren't good enough for her, apparently. "I'm going to go for a walk." Pause, wherein she casts about, trying not to look at Weylaughn, but it's inevitable that her eyes should meet his. "It was nice to see you again," spoken quietly. Then, she's on the move, separating herself from his presence. Just before she can get lost in the crowd - being so short does that - she stands on tippy-toes to call over the people passing by. "Don't forget about Fort on turnover!" And she's gone. "As you wish," he murmurs and withdraws his hand to give her the precious space she requests. It's well enough, in the end; she gets up to walk and Weylaughn's attention is pulled to a side by the vigorous waving of a hand - a hand attached to the woman that must surely be the (in)famous Mother. With her is an unfortunate-looking fellow and five children of assorted ages and genders; most take after the presumed father. He waves back and is wrenched back to Farideh's direction at her call. "I'll never forget! Be well!" And off he goes, not to follow in her wake, but to join the strange flock of his family, such as it is. |
Comments
Edyis (23:15, 13 October 2014 (EDT)) said...
<3 Farideh. She just loves to kick the hornet's nest.
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