Logs:Off the Grid
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| RL Date: 26 December, 2014 |
| Who: Suireh, K'del |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: After her grandfather's death, Suireh goes off the grid, only to reemerge somewhere near Igen Hold. |
| Where: Western to Central Pern |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| OOC Notes: Thanks to K'del/ST for running this indulgent scene for me. |
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| The first few days, wandering inland from Sea's Peak and away from Tillek, aren't so bad; there's some rain, but it's mostly just a cold drizzle, and one that comes and goes rather than sticking around. It's not so bad, really. Most people are glad for a song, of an evening. It's not hard to find somewhere to stay, even if it's just on a rug in front of the hearth. A hayloft, maybe, in places so small someone's already claimed the rug. No one asks questions, really. They clamour for a song, for news, for anything that might break the winter monotony, but none of it's personal. Suireh's a harper; no one pays attention to the person behind the strings. At each place along the way, Suireh plays as asked, happy songs, sad songs, ballads, dancing songs. Her repertoire has breadth and she's not unpleasant to listen to, but there's a distinct lack of something in her singing. Not enough for anyone untrained to notice, but here and there, in those small holds not graced by the presence of a regular harper, there's an ear that can pick it out: that even when singing something jovial, there's a marked sadness beneath it all. "Thank you," says the journeying harper, managing at least a little genuine grace in her voice as she accepts her payment of a stale loaf of bread, some cheese and a hand-me-down pair of shoes. It's payment for an evening of singing and telling of tales, and teaching for a few days for the little ones. Trading out her worn shoes for the new ones, she begins to walk again into the drizzle. How much meaning does time have, on the road? Dates don't mean much, to some of these people; the season matters, the weather. Not the date. By the calendar, it's half-way through the second month when the weather changes. It's a cold night, even in front of the hearth (and one shared with a somewhat less-than-clean dog, to boot), and no wonder, really: come morning, there's a blanket of snow in the yard, a layer of frost upon the dormant vines, laid out row-upon-row. You'd be welcome to stay a few days," ventures the cotholder's wife, a thin, reedy woman who wheezes, never seen without one child another attached to hip, or breast, or leg. "Grandpa's always felt the weather in his knee; he thinks it'll stay a while. Look - it's still falling. Pretty, isn't it?" "I-," but where, really, does she have to go and what opinions could she have that could deny the fact of snow on the ground. Suireh's mouth shuts as quickly as it open and those pale eyes of her focus on the following flakes. Dropping her chin, the young harper musters a rueful chuckle and shake of her head. When she next looks up, it's with a smile, a gracious one that doesn't climb to her eyes. "It's beautiful, and I will stay, if you don't mind me taking advantage of your hospitality as such." A cold-calloused hand, fingers brittle from more than a seven spent traveling, catch on the fabric of her pants as she smooths them down. "I...," she looks awkwardly at the child at the woman's hip. "Shall I help with dinner?" It's the expected answer, just like it was the expected offer; the woman - Eskia - smiles that weary, drawn smile, gesturing towards the stove. "I won't say no. But nothing that will ruin your hands worse than they have been. They're your livelihood, aren't they?" The boy on her hip begins to cry, burying his head into his mother's chest as she sighs, adjusting his position. "I bet you've seen lots of places," she says, over potato chopping and stew-stirring. "Seen lots of interesting things?" Suri, as she's introduced herself as, flexes her fingers at her side. "Cooking," she decides to say, in lieu of the things she's seen, "Is the least I can do. I can probably manage that," she nods to the potato chopping, "Without cutting myself. I promise. I even know how to fry fish, though you'd have to ask my sister to gut them." There's a better smile for that, one of recollection. "Here," she gently nudges Eskia to the side, and claims the knife for herself. "What would you like to know?" It's a rare pleasure for Eskia to hand over duties of any kind to anyone else, and she does so with a grateful smile, visibly latching on to this reference to a sister, to fish, to anything remote from this life that she leads. "Oh, I don't know," she says, rocking the child at her hip. "Anything, really. I've not been further than half a day's walk from here. I've not even seen the sea, or tasted fish. Is it much like chicken?" She leans in, pressing a kiss to her toddler's rumpled hair. "I want better for him. For all of them. But then, isn't that what all parents want, Suri?" "I... wouldn't know." The statement is drawn out, more thoughtful than startled, though there's a small pinch of the latter in her expression. "I don't really have parents, and no children yet." Suireh begins methodically chopping the potatoes into precise, neat cubes, visibly spacing out her cuts with little nods. "And fish tastes nothing like chicken. It's hard to explain without sounding disgusting and maybe, one day, you'll get the chance to try it and I wouldn't want to have colored your opinion. Once I'm done, do these go in there?" The stew is nodded at. Eskia is startled, first, and then sympathetic: imagine not really having parents! "One day," she says, firmly, and with a certain amount of false bravado; obviously, this must be one of Suri's great ambitions! "Yes, put them in. It'll be more potato than meat, but..." A shrug. What can you do? Tomorrow's will be even more potato, and almost no meat at all, but finally, on the day after that, the sun will shine, the snow will clear, and the road will be open again. It's probably for the best; Eskia's wistful questions grow more pointed by the day. "Go south," Eskia's husband advises, seeing her out (or is it... guiding her out, kicking her out?). "Snow's not melted, yet, north, as I hear it, and there's nothing for you, eastwards. Nothing for anyone." Song's not much for payment, and even doing work isn't enough when food's dwindling in the winter: this Suireh (and her belly) understand all too well by now. "Aye," agrees the harper, having absorbed some of the accent of this region during her short-lived stay. "South. And... thank you." But before she's completely gone, as she gathers up her meager belongings and slung the gitar over her shoulders, a hand reaches out to give Eskia a spontaneous hug. Later, the woman might find a few quarter mark pieces in her pocket and a small length of a pretty ribbon. Can Suireh/Suri know what that means to the holder woman? Perhaps she can guess. Southwards, the road broadens and clears. It's two days later when, as afternoon fades towards evening, darkness encroaching, Suireh's steps bring her to a small cluster of wagons, circled around each other on the side of the road. There's a fire - smoke, rising - and music around it; laughter, too, as someone beats at a drum, and someone else hums along. They've a rich stew, going, the smell of which wafts over the road, and the man on guard, sitting on the back of one of those wagons? His gaze tracks her as she walks. Still, with food supplies dwindling and a cold aching in her bones, the harper's approach to the caravan doesn't deviate and once she's within earshot (and noseshot of the stew) of the guard, she lifts an arm, with her gitar in it and hails the man. "A song, a story, or news for a place by your fire?" It's become her standard greeting. She doesn't look much: tired, circles about her eyes, and the clothing she's attired in stained, though serviceable for the weather. The man's long since noticed the gitar at her back, and his expression turns considering at Suireh's offer. "Aye," he says, gesturing towards the inner circle, the fire. "Tell 'em I sent you in. We've had no strings in a turn or more, and no news in days. Come, traveller. Make yourself at home. We've no pretensions, here, but what we've got..." She'll get a few glances, as she approaches the fire, but they're no more than that; their stew has more meat than most people's, this time of turn, and their eagerness for her music is no less profound. "Your choice," suggests the man with the drum, later, once they've eaten. "Play what you feel. We'll accompany you." She's shared her news; of High Reaches having lost a queen, of how spring seems to be coming slow this turn, of a little hold that lost one of its patriarchs. It's in that last, that keen eyes might note the story as her own, her own loss and extrapolate as they will. Pale eyes, gleaming above the fire that has only just started to warm her to her bones, considers her crowd, the location, and the stillness of this winter-to-spring night. She idly tunes her instrument, playing chords this way and that until she finds the one she wants and begins to sing, accompanied by herself softly at first, that song in its harmonic minor key, with its unpolished, haunting words. Though it's a song for seafolk, evoking the images of the ocean, the winds, the seaspray, and that utter stillness of a night out in the middle of nowhere, the latter might tug at the hearts of wanderers anywhere. Travelling folk, traders; they're entranced by the music, silent in a way they weren't for the sharing of news. The young man with the drum may have promised accompaniment, but his hands falter, instead, smoothing the tanned hide of his instruments with calloused fingers and, instead, simply listening. "You've a fine voice," he tells her, afterwards, in that low, rolling voice of his. "A performer's voice. A performer's gift. Whatever you're run-- no. I take that back. Instead: will you travel with us, for a time? We've a spring gather to head for, but it's only a small one. We've food... company... We'll ask no questions, I promise." Two days between seeing people, and sevendays worth of living in this fashion, have curbed some of Suireh's pride. Or a lot of it. She doesn't even flinch at his slip of tongue, and instead offers a quiet gratitude in her gaze. "Suri," is her introduction, followed by a low quip paired with a lopsided smirk, "Is my running so obvious?" A cough, the kind that echos deep in her chest, ruins the would be flirtation and causes her to turn her head with a hand to chest to still it. A slow exhale releases the pain into the air, before she's turning to catch the drummer's eyes, with a slow, teasing smile, "Tomorrow night, try to keep up." "To a man who's been running most of his adult life?" He can't be more than a handful of turns older than she is, but there's a wryness to his voice; he knows, because he's been there, or perhaps still is, even if he seems - seems! - to have found peace, here. "Jaspen. You've a nasty cough, there, Suri. Look after it. Let Mariny dose you up before you sleep, mm? Maybe we can practice, some, tomorrow. Just to make sure I can keep it." It's flirtation in return, though there's no sense of pressure to it; it's what he does, take it or leave it, he won't mind. "I'll find you some blankets. And-- Suri? You're safe here." Safe. It isn't until he says the words that Suireh relaxes, and it's in the next instant surprise sketches visible lines on her face; that the realization that this was a concern sinks in. This realization spurs a flush to her cheeks and a sudden drop of her eyes, as if embarrassed at what she might have betrayed. "Thanks," says the harper awkwardly and takes a few steps away, only to come back and ask, again embarrassed, "Which one's Mariny?" There's no judgement in Jaspen's smile, and no pity, either; if he's sympathetic, it's only in an understanding way. Suireh's return has him rising, dusting off his trousers, and then his hands, before he offers the harper his arm. "I'll take you to her," is his gentlemanly offer. Take her, yes - and then leave her to the herb-woman's cheery presence. "You need to keep warm," is her warning, provided along with a bottle of remedy. "You can sleep next to me, if you'd like. My husband's on watch until late, and he'll not want to interrupt my sleep. Unless you and Jas...? He wouldn't turn you away." Suireh's cheeks turn a very deep shade of red and there isn't even an attempt to school her embarrassment as she catches sight of her feet. Her mouth opens even more awkwardly than before, gaping really, and she finally stammers out, "Here's fine. If you don't mind." Mariny only laughs, and it's probably not intended to be at Suireh, whether or not it comes across that way. "I don't mind," she promises. "I wouldn't offer if I did." She's kind enough not to comment further on Jaspen (or his dubious(?) charms); instead, there are only blankets and pillows, and a few cheerful words before she offers her good nights. In the morning, there's food and laughter and more music; true to Jaspen's words, no one asks too many questions, and, for a few days, perhaps it's easy to blend. To belong. "We'll hit the coast again, tomorrow," one of the women tells Suireh, a few days in. "We've bypassed Sattle, but only just. There's a gather; that's where we're headed. You staying on? It'll be on towards Fort, after that. East; as far as we can. Now that it's getting warmer... spring. You can almost feel it, can't you?" Up north, it's still a ways off, but headed east, headed south, the first signs are certainly there. Belonging is a strange feeling for Suireh, not having truly belonged anywhere till now and the camaraderie of this feeling has her responding with an immediate, "I'm here," and a quick scan to find where Jaspen is. Where once she might have announced she'd help with a let me, now she merely pitches in, a hand reaching up to help secure a load, tying deft sailor's knots and testing the strength of them. "Onward ho?" she inquires of the woman, merrily enough, and once settled into her spot in this moving train, begins to sing lighthearted songs, around the better-but... persistently lingering cough, to pass the time. Jaspen's here; he's always here, tending to this and that, with a friendly smile and a warm word for everyone. For Suireh, too-- indeed, it's alongside her, today, that he clambers for a seat once they're in motion, the friendly woman opposite them both. Both join in with the singing, offering harmony to counterpoint Suireh's melody; their voices might not be harper-trained, but it's nonetheless a sweet sound. "We're so lucky," exhales the woman, Haisha, between songs. She's got a small child, a girl who plays with a doll on the wagon floor. "When I was a little girl, this life wouldn't've been possible. My parents, they had wandering feet and nowhere to wander. My girl, she'll never know that." "Thread," begins Suireh, but thinking better of it turns the one word into a harper song of Thread and how dragonriders fight it. Her words falter over a stanza that speaks of gold dragons, but picks up again quickly. "There are those," she says after she finishes, "That braved the roads in spite of Thread. Foolish or adventurous?" The question is posed to Jaspen and her hand moves, beyond Haisha's notice, to slip under his daring. "Foolish," interjects Haisha, albeit with a laugh. "I love this life, but I'm not stupid." "Daring," counters Jaspen, as his hand seeks, idly, to squeeze Suireh's in answer, fingers curving over and under. "You can't give everything up over a bit of danger. You can't... give up. Not if something matters. You just have to be smart about it. What do you think, Suri?" His dark, almond-eyed gaze turns on her, eyebrows raised quizzically. Suireh watches the terrain go by, however slowly, then looks down upon Haisha's daughter. "Adventurous, but only if there's someone to share that journey with," she decides. Abruptly, her hand stilling beneath Jaspen's: "Are we going all the way to Fort? Hold?" Jaspen's hand does not withdraw, but nor does it push; it lingers, a solid presence that doesn't ask too much. "Everything's better with someone to share it with," he agrees. "I wouldn't want to travel alone. Too much time with my thoughts, and I turn into a person I don't like much." His gaze slides past Suireh, past Haisha, past the solid runners that pull their conveyance. "Mm. We don't tend to stay long - they've entertainment enough of their own, of course, and too many competing wares. But it's a good place to pick up new songs." It's as he says it that he glances back at Suireh, watching her. "Ah." It's no answer at all, but after a long moment, where Suireh is conspicuously silent and still, does her hand turn to entwine fingers with Jaspen's. Later, maybe that night, or perhaps the next, she'll follow him, instead of Mariny, and curl up next to him to sleep. The look Jaspen offers doesn't ask the questions he promised he wouldn't, but it's clear he's caught something in that syllable, and perhaps it's for that that he squeezes her hand tighter-- or perhaps it's her entwining fingers, or just because he wants to. He doesn't say anything, when she follows him, and nor does he seem to expect anything. Instead, there's only a kiss to the forehead, a blanket tucked in, a warm body beside her all night. Tomorrow, there's the gather, and later, there'll be the road ahead, open to her for as long as she cares to stay; no questions asked. At the gather, she sings, but doesn't play, accompanied only by Jaspen's drums. That night too, and successive nights afterward, she slips into his bed to hold his hand and sleep. And this becomes a thing, one the traveling performers don't ask questions on but assume plenty and without judgment. It's the night before they approach Fort, that instead of sleeping, Suireh says into the darkness, "I'll rejoin when you leave the Hold. I have something I need to do." Jaspen doesn't encourage the assumptions of his peers, but nor does he enlighten then otherwise; nor, as the days pass, one by one, does he push or question or encourage. In the darkness, that night, he turns to look at her, in the direction of her, his expression unreadable by human eyes. "I'll miss you," he says, letting the words hang, simply. Before they've a chance to turn into a millstone, or become the declaration he surely doesn't mean, he adds, "Do what you need to do, Suri. We'll be on the east road out of Fort in three days. Is that long enough?" Too long? The smile that wraps around her words is audible. "You'll miss my songs." There's knowing that that's not solely it. "Three days." And by morning, she's awake before him or anyone else, and gone, leaving her gitar next to Jaspen. Three days later, she's found on the road east out of Fort Hold, waiting with a set of fresh clothing, some new things in her duffel, and clean. Very very clean. "I'll miss your songs," is agreement enough, coming as it does with a wry chuckle. She is missed, in the days that follow; by Jaspen, yes, but also others. There's no question of their pleasure in seeing her, those three days later. There's no question in the way Jaspen climbs down from the wagon and draws her into a hug, squeezing her shoulders firmly. "Ready to hit the road?" he wonders, gesturing up. "If we're lucky, we can hit Benden by high summer." And, with a teasing lilt, "You smell like soap." "I took a three day long shower," is her quip. While she's still in his hug, she leans up and gives him a kiss -- an incongruously expert one given how much she flushed in front of Mariny weeks and weeks before -- and brings his arms down from her shoulders to her waist. "Let's first make it to Five Mines in one piece." Any quip Jaspen might have made in answer is postponed by that kiss, and by the repositioning of his arms; he draws her snugly in, holding her there for long enough that more than one member of the group in the wagons catcalls, cheerfully. "Five Mines? Huh. Let's aim our sights a little higher than that, surely. C'mon." Not, in the end, that it seems to matter: they go where they go. Why not? That's the point, after all. "Five Mines. Then we see," says Suireh firmly. After the kiss, she doesn't make a pretense of Mariny's wagon anymore, not that everyone didn't already know, and wakes from and retires to Jaspen's. During the days, she says things like, "Let me teach you how to read music," and follows through on it with a patience not seen in her previous life. Nights start with kissing and more kissing, and eventually touching above and then beneath clothing and more kissing. She seems content with this, and watchful, as always, to see if he is. "Five Mines, then." There's no cry of 'I'm too old' in answer to her offers of teaching, and Jaspen's not the only one to pay mind, though he's clearly pleased and proud by his successes - first slow, and then, more rapid - in picking up what she has to offer. By night, Jaspen's patient in his attentions, though it's more than once (if far from always) that he sneaks out into the night - after he thinks (hopes?) she's asleep - to relieve the physical frustrations that perhaps inevitably follow. Five Mines comes and goes. With the weather getting progressively nicer, the freedom of going wherever they want to is all the more real, and there's no next destination in sight -- just traveling. Laughter bubbles more often from Suireh, much of the wearied sadness on her first encounter with this group fading. And it's on a night after some heavy petting, as he's about to sneak out, that her hand reaches out to catch his. "Don't leave me," the young woman murmurs, her pale, desirous eyes completely void of sleep. Some of their stops are more lucrative than others, but it's a simple life; they don't need much. It's often, during that day, that Jaspen can be caught simply smiling at Suireh-- sometimes to catch her eye, and sometimes, just because he can. That night, as her hand captures his, he stills himself. "Come with me," he suggests, with a gesture towards the star-filled night outside. "Unless you--" a pause, his gaze sliding away from hers, briefly, in a moment of unusual awkwardness. There's a small smile for his awkwardness, and an even more minute shake of her head. Her hand tugs gently, to bring him back to her while her other hand reaches up to unfasten the ties of her nightgown. "I'm sure," she says preemptively, an answer to a question she already surmises is coming. She's sure, and it catches Jaspen's breath, just for a moment, though it doesn't stop him from allowing her to draw him back in, his own free hand moving to assist her with the nightgown, and afterwards, with his own clothes. He's considerate, taking matters as slowly as he needs to; whatever she needs. After all, he's waited this long. There's petting and then there's nakedness and though the air is warm, she's suddenly just that little bit frigid. Uncertainty does that to you. So it's slow, and he's patient. Hands explore and re-explore, the tense set of her body easing slowly over time, and then it's done with only a very modest soundtrack to have accompanied the deed. The breathing afterwards might even be heavier than any sound Suireh might have made. Then, there's the very enlightened, "Oh," and then a series of semi-hysterical giggles and two arms that suddenly cling to Jaspen, in case he might take that laughter in an entirely unintended way. Luckily for Suireh, between Jaspen's own natural confidence, and those clinging arms, there's really nothing for him to do but laugh in return, and squeeze her tight against him, mouth seeking hers for (this time) a kiss that is not aiming to provoke anything but closeness. "I take it that's a good 'oh,'" he teases, through the semi-dark, fingers lifting to brush hair away from her face. "You're all right?" Between the laughter and the kiss that quiets the laughter, Suireh manages to get out some semblance of, "You build it up and build it up and build it up and you expect that when it happens you might explode. But I'm still here. You're still here." Quieter, a little more awed, is her, "Wow," said into the curve of his body where neck meets shoulders. It's the first time, but certainly not the last time they do this, and by the time they're well into Igen territory by summer's end, she even sheds the pretense of putting on pajamas for bed. Beyond singing and performing, Suireh teaches the children (and the adults who wish to learn more). Songs, arithmatic, reading. She teaches them the Holds, Crafts, and Weyrs, and sketches the heads of the ones she can recall by memory. Her drawings aren't great, but they're harper-trained passable enough. "Tell me about yourself," is finally asked of Jaspen, one sunny day as she wrings out her laundry. The wet rag lifts, "I'm not asking questions. Just... whatever you want to share." It's her 'wow' that makes him smile, the most; the thing that has him draw her closer still, to hold against him despite the sweatiness of their bodies and the summer night. No one comments on the scope of her knowledge; by now, it's simply an understood thing. Suri knows things. Suri can teach things. What did they do before Suri? Except that, really, she's become so much a part of their group that no one thinks to recall what it was like, then. She's here; she belongs. "Me?" Jaspen's sitting on the steps of his-- their-- wagon, repairing one of his boots with a surprisingly nimble needle and thread. He's silent for a few moments, ostensibly to line up the pieces of ageing leather, though perhaps it's more to do with his thoughts. "My father was a tanner, as it happens. He had a riding post; that's where these roaming feet came from, I guess. He wore out his own boots time and time again, before he died. I was ten. He always told me, 'A good pair of boots is the best friend you'll ever have, Jas.' Or... is it are the best friends? Well, whichever. He knew leather. Better than he knew women, or small boys, I guess." "My mother died when I was seven." She offers this without him asking. The way she speaks, however, doesn't make it seem like she's only sharing because he did. "I thought I knew her, what she was like, why everyone who knew her seemed to either love her or hate her, but I don't think I really knew anything. Nothing at all really." She sets the squeezed out laundry into her basket and inches over to Jaspen, eyes large and apologetic. It's the easiest way to distract from subjects that are too serious, too real, for this lifestyle. If her basket lies unattended for a few hours and his boot is pushed away (by her) to be lonely in the grass for a while, who really cares? She's not as inept at sex now compared to the beginning and can even manage to listen to the women (and men) make bawdy jokes without flushing. Sometime after Igen, things change, the beat of drums echo in the distance, and catching their meaning, Suireh suddenly goes still seated next to Haisha. The rest of the day and days thereafter, a tangible cloud of distraction unfocuses the young woman from the day to day tasks. "I'm not sure we can ever truly know our parents," he says, in reply, though it's plainly not an attempt to draw anything more out, or prolong the conversation. She doesn't need to offer apology, not really; it's not like he's unwilling to offer distraction, or to hold her, afterwards; it's only comfort if she needs it. It's just... it's just Jaspen. The drumbeats mean nothing to Haisha; nothing to anyone except Suireh, and it's not one of those things you ask about. Drums are harper business; drums are code. Traders and entertainers, they've got their own codes, and you just don't break them. You don't. But Jaspen, he keeps a watchful eye on her, not asking, not probing, and yet... perhaps, in a way, he already knows what the answer would be. Will be. He doesn't ask, nor does he grieve. But. It just is. One night, afterwards, she lies there, her head on his chest and arm slung over his torso, and says quietly, "I need to go back." It's not like she isn't aware he knows; it's been the pink herdbeast in the room for days now. His, "I know," is tainted with the sigh he doesn't quite release; it's full of sorrow, but not regret. "I'd say 'don't leave me,' but..." Those dark eyes look down at her, solemnly. "I've probably always known you couldn't stay forever. You're going to be okay, Suri. When you're back. No... you're going to be magnificent." "You always thought too highly of me." Some pieces of her old life have returned already, in little mannerisms, and in this response. It's not Suri's gracious acceptance of his pride in her, but Suireh's dubiousness. The harper exhales, tightening the hold of her arm over his chest and kisses his neck in apology for her words. "Thank you." She could say more. She wants to say more. By morning, she's saying her goodbyes to everyone else and then walks in the direction of Igen Hold. |
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