Logs:Landlubbers
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| RL Date: 20 December, 2014 |
| Who: Farideh, Drex |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Drex throws Farideh in the deep end. |
| Where: Diving Cliff, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Weather: Warm. |
| Mentions: Itsy/Mentions, Wulfan/Mentions, Daroda/Mentions |
| Error creating thumbnail: /bin/bash: /usr/bin/convert: No such file or directory Error code: 127 |
>---< Diving Cliff, High Reaches Weyr >--------------------------------------<
Thrusting out from the shadow of the mountain, this long and narrow
clifftop might once have been a ledge, but a pile of bramble-strewn,
graffiti-chiseled boulders where a weyr's mouth would have been suggests a
reason for its abandonment long ago. Though its views of the eastern bowl
are grand, particularly the lake itself and the yawning air entrance to
the hatching sands, its location makes the diving cliff unique: jutting
some ten or twelve feet above the deepest part of the cool, clear lake.
Especially in summertime, many climb up the narrow stairs to seek the
thrill of a swift fall into the water, but those who just want to enjoy
the view can take those same stairs back down: carved directly into the
bowl wall, worn and crumbling and slick from use, but enough for the
careful to get the job done.
Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly
warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the
air.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Drex M 17 6'2 muscled, black hair, brown eyes 4s
Farideh F 18 5'5 Skinny, Brown hair, Hazel eyes 0s
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Lake Shore
>--------------------------------------< 4D 8M 36T I10, summer afternoon >---< It's been a pleasantly warm day -- enough so that the precarious steps of the diving cliff and the challenging leap into the lake has drawn many a daring rider and resident alike to the heights. As afternoon turns into evening, though, the numbers drop off, as the drop into growing gloominess turns from daring to frightening. There's still enough light to see up here, though, and Drex has taken up a perch on some of the boulders that have fallen away from the weyr's mouth, giving him an additional height. His black outfit might stand out against the stone, though he's relatively still, surveying the Weyr at large from his (sort of) lofty perch. Unhurried steps, up the slick stairs carved into the bowl wall, bring a certain brunette to the diving cliff late in the afternoon; and her purpose is most certainly not to heave herself off and into the water either. It's with a resigned expression and hair mussed, like someone who slept on it, only to wake in a hurry, that she walks gingerly up to the edge and stares down towards the placid lake beneath. Her eyes don't pull to the - what most would call beauteous view - Weyr's ridges limned against the sunlight, but stay on the blue waters, her hands crossing behind her back. Thinking. That's what it looks like she's doing, which is, albeit, not a past time she indulges in often. The brunette is left to her own devices, for now, though dark eyes watch her as contemplatively as she watches the water. Slow, careful steps carry Drex down from his precarious perch, in her direction, near soundless under careful treads of his boot. There's a whisper of sound before a quiet, "Thinking too hard," sounds in her ear, and a firm hand settles in the middle of her back. If she's quick, she might have time to twist enough to grab hold of the pirate before he gives her a push. A sharp inhale precedes Farideh's descent - she's neither keen nor fast - and then she's falling, downwards, into the water she had been so avidly viewing moments before. Everything that happens after her fall is swift: plunge, rise, walk to shore, and make for the stairs, where presumably she's coming for the pirate's head, or at least his balls. She squelches her way up the steps, leaving a wet trail in her wake, until she gets to the top. "You," is all she shouts at Drex, taking a moment to catch her breath, the puddle around her feet growing increasingly in size the longer she stands. Hair is matted to her head, water running in rivulets down her face, but her eyes radiate her anger, as does the deeply imprinted frown she wears. Perhaps, in those moments of falling, she might've glimpsed the pale oval of Drex's face peering after her with something like satisfaction. By the time she climbs all the way back up, he's returned to his perch on the rocks, feet planted wide, elbow resting on knee and palm propping up his chin. He takes in her shout with a grin, one of those gotcha grins definitely not designed to soothe the savage beast. "You were doing it wrong," he tells her, casually, "You're supposed to jump before you can think about it." He did her a favor, see? Water sloshes out of her boots, still, with every step that brings her closer to the boulders and the cocky pirate perched on top of them. "I didn't want to jump. I wanted to look. You did me no favors." Farideh's hands come to settle on her hips, fingers pressing into wet leather in an unpleasant way, but her perturbed expression never wavers, with her chin tipped up to stare up at Drex. "Apologize." "You're one of those girls that taunts and teases and never follows through. It's about time you did," Drex says, which seems to sum up his answer to her latter challenge with a clear no in smirking expression. He straightens, and the spread of his hands seems to invite her up. Or maybe it's Drex-ese for make me, since there's a hint of superciliousness in his gaze. "I am not any kind of girl that you've known," the laundress shoots back with a little bounce on her toes. She counters his smirk with a sarcastic twist of her lips. "It couldn't have been you that drowned in that storm or whatever it was." Her hand waves, dismissing the notion, and, hitching up the waist of her britches, puts on foot on the boulder and tries to leverage her way up - this could.. unfortunately, take a while. "Oh, ho. Well, that's true. You certainly haven't got Itsy's looks, or talent, or... anything," Drex says, after a pointed looking-over. Her barb about the storm earns a momentary tightening of expression, before he gives a brief shrug as if to gloss over it, or maybe just to shrug aside that momentary discomfort at the reminder. His expression stays hard as he watches her attempts to climb, though at least he's not ribbing her about that. "The only thing I'd want of hers is her hair, and even that, I could do without." Since they're trading words - and honesty? Farideh drags herself up a foot or so, holding on stubbornly, and glaring all the while at Drex, or what she can see of him from her poor vantage. "You hold such high esteem for a woman whom, I imagine, can't even the difference between linen and cambric?" she says, in the interim, while she's awkwardly trying to wrap one arm around the side of the boulder and get a better foothold whilst climbing up. Climbing is hard. "Not even the hat? She wears a hat like nobody's business," counters Drex. His brow furrows at the material reference, clearly not getting it either. "Really? You're deriding a woman who commanded a ship full of men, earned their respect and loyalty, for not knowing the difference between two materials that probably only people with nothing better to do care about?" He snorts, dismissive, giving a brief kick of his boot, which sends a rock flying down to the left of her. Farideh has her own scoff. "I doubt it. Lady Shalisse wears a hat like nobody's business. I highly doubt your friend, who probably doesn't own a brush, looks anything close to good in one." She gets up another inch or so in the meantime, bowing her head to watch her feet; until, there's a rock raining down and she shoots Drex an accusing glare. "Would you say the same to a weaver? They spend their lives differentiating between materials. I'd rather know that than-" She rolls her eyes skyward. "How to run a ship full of dirty sailors. What good is that? Do you even trade?" "Weaver," he snorts, "Yet another worthless profession. Give me a thousand seamstresses for one of your waste-of-a-life weavers." He doesn't look in the least apologetic about that rock. "Trade? Of course we do. The Pirate Queen was High Reaches Hold's flagship." And yet there's a grimace when he says it, like it's not something he's especially proud of. "Bet you'd puke your guts out the moment you had to stand on a ship in high seas." An indignant squeak follows his statement. Weavers useless? Farideh's mouth moves with wordless distaste, settling on a displeased purse that reflects in the crinkles between her eyebrows. "You have obviously never worn premium velvet or slept on silk sheets, or you wouldn't be so careless with your words." She is almost there, giving a little shimmy and putting weight on her elbows to pull herself up higher. Out of breath, even-- "I would not. I've been on a ship." But she doesn't specify if that ship was actually moving on open water. A roll of eyes is Drex's response to that. "Next you're going to tell me you have servants who dress you and go to the toilet for you." He does go silent a moment, watching her steadily climb, a hint of grudging respect in his expression for a moment. Soon after, though, the sailor snorts, disbelievingly. "Sure you have," he says in a tone that's clearly humoring her. "How could someone go to the-" Even with their snarky-banter, there are some things she won't say, and the faltering comes with a pink tint to her cheeks that she breezes through, after a brief pause, like it never happened. "There's nothing wrong with wanting the finer things in life," just as she hauls herself up next to Drex, using her palms now, until she's panting on her knees, giving him a sideways look. "I have," with another chin-lift. "I can't say I've ever seen you on a boat, though you sure boast about it." A brief bark of laughter escapes Drex. "Give me a ship," he corrects her, "And I'll show you. You keep talking about fancy hair and hats and clothes, surely you can afford one?" He might be mocking her. But then again, his expression seems oddly serious as dark eyes examine her now she's reached his height. "Shall we go to Tillek? There's plenty of ships. You can have your pick," and she spreads her hand to the side, as if offering him a buffet-style of boats to pick from -- imaginary ones. "No," Farideh agrees, affecting a decidedly saddened mien, "not anymore, but once. I could. If I wanted to." She slants him a considering glance while she starts to comb the tangles out of her wet hair. "Sure. And you can command the Lady Tillek to just hand one over." Drex gives her the kind of up-and-down look that suggests he certainly doesn't believe that to be the case. "Besides, everyone knows they lost so many in the storm, they don't have enough for even their own." With a snort. "Oh, so you're secretly a Weyrwoman. Or Igen's heir? No, no. You're a little bit of fluff on the side." "If," Farideh is busy staring at the wet strands of her hair, pointedly not looking at the pirate, "you're as good a sailor as you say you are, and your little friend so great at commanding men and respect, why wouldn't you just be able to commandeer one?" She rolls her eyes and huffs a little impatient sigh at him, finally (dis)gracing him with a sideways look and an arch of brow. "Hardly. Igen is-" Her words come to a complete halt, and when she starts up again, she sounds more defensive than before. "I'm not a bit of fluff, and Lord Wulfan is happily married." "I'm not a pirate," Drex says, with a not-very-convincing grin: "If I was, I'd steal you away and make you scrub the decks of my ship." But since he's not, well... "Besides, we're getting a bigger, better ship built for us." It's the pause that makes him look at her. "Uh-huh." He stands, abruptly, looking down at her intently, contemplatively, and not in a nice way. More eye rolling commences. "Sure. You've been supposed to be on some big, better ship, but it's been sevendays and you're still here," Farideh says in a reproachful manner, obviously meaning to antagonize. "I don't think it's coming. You'll be stuck here like the rest of us." She looks startled when he stands up, turning her face up to give him a suspicious, what stare, her fingers still nimbly raking through damp curls. "Do you think ships are just," Drex snaps his fingers, "Summoned like one of your servants? It takes months, sometimes a whole turn to build something that large, that good. But the investment is worth it. Even if I have to get stuck with landlubbers," and it's clear from the derisive look he gives her, that she's included in that designation. Another moment of contemplation, and then he's bending to reach for her, with the intention of throwing her over his shoulder. It's completely undignified. "You're going to be here a whole turn?" Farideh has time to say, turning her head to blink at him innocently; she's trying to prick his pride, again. She would protest or perhaps put up more of a fight if she even thought he would do what he's currently about - she's being thrown over his shoulder and having the breath knocked out of her. Her feet wiggle and she slaps her open palm against his back, which is unlikely to hurt. "What," in a low hiss, "are you doing? Don't throw me over again. I'll-- I take it back. I take everything back." While one hand traps her in place, holding her legs firmly, Drex uses the other for balance as he climbs down the rocks with a surefootedness that suggests he's used to precarious climbs. Despite Farideh's hissing, he makes no attempt to reassure her. It's only once they reach the relative safety of the cliff itself that the sailor stoops to set her down. On the bright side, he doesn't try and push her off the cliff again. "I'll remember that," he says, with a smug grin, presumably about her taking it all back. And then he's sauntering towards the stairs, whistling. Fists dig into the back of his shirt, clinging to the fabric lest he throw her, then they can both go over! But shockingly enough, Farideh is set down, and her face reflects her surprise, in the widened eyes and the small 'o' her mouth forms. She's still silent and staring at him - or his back - when he's walking away, and only finds her voice again when he's at the stairs. "Thank-- you. But this doesn't make us even or anything!" Her words don't hold the same fight as before. She crosses her arms over her chest, trying, as it would seem, to look more intimidating than she ever could truly be. There's not even the twitch of shoulders to indicate Drex hears her, and yet he surely does, disappearing down the stairs. |
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