Logs:Two Moody Teens
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| RL Date: 5 June, 2014 |
| Who: Evanthe, Rh'mis |
| Type: Log |
| What: Two teens, avoiding tasks, tell tales. Ish. |
| Where: Living Caverns, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 26, Month 12, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
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| Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet, and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's offerings. Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven -- only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed. It's late evening, well past the initial dinner rush with only those folks that really like to linger over their plates still left at the tables. One of those is Evanthe. She's at one of the center tables, which is otherwise empty, sitting with her chair twisted to the side so that her feet can be propped up on the one adjacent. In her hands she holds some shapeless pile of fabric... and a needle. On her face, she bears an expression of complete disgust. It's Rhey's habit to avoid the busy times in the caverns (and everywhere else), and so it's not surprising (to anyone who knows him, at least) that it's now that he chooses to slide on in, perfectly content to fill his plate with remnants. His decision to take a seat at Evanthe's table is likely deliberate: he's far enough away that he clearly doesn't need to talk to her, and yet close enough that he doesn't stand out as being on his own and thus in need of company. Perhaps he's not noticed the disgust, though, as wrapped up as he is in staking out his place and lowering his face towards his plate. Not noticed? That will soon be remedied. Only vaguely aware of another person at her table, Evanthe may as well be talking to herself - in fact, she may be, and Rh'mis just has the misfortune to have inadvertantly. "It isn't as though I meant to rip it, darn thing was so worn through that it's amazing that it... I mean, it's not that attractive either, I can't see that /me/ stitching it back up is going to particularly improve it." She jabs the needle half-heartedly through the fabric, succeeds mainly in stabbing her thumb, which makes her hiss and does little to improve her mood. "Ridiculous." Given the rate of her progress, she just /may/ have been sitting here since before dinner was even served. The sound of Evanthe's voice turns Rhey's attention from his dinner, at least briefly; blue eyes turn sidelong to study the other girl, his expression a mask of utter indifference that is clearly aimed to keep interest away from him. Except. Except. Somewhere beyond the girl, someone else has entered the caverns, and the brownrider has clearly noticed. His words are abrupt to the point of hurried: "You're not going to do any good like that. Maybe you should just spill something on it." Any and all comings and goings are completely beyond Evanthe's interest at this point. All that is on he rmind is the whatever-it-is she's been put in charge of mending, and... condolences... her new conversational partner. His suggestion gets her attention truly, and her eyes flick up to his face with a look of exasperation. "Well, what good would that do?" The cloth is bundled up and expressively tossed on the table - apparently she is done for hte moment. "That's how this whole thing started. I spilled something on her-" Her, mind, not /it/. "Then I had to clean it, then it ripped, just poor craftsmanship if you ask me, well worn out, and now I'm supposed to fix it. Why, why, why they think I should have anything else to do with it..." She shakes her head, crosses her arms across her chest, and /looks/ at Rh'mis. He's providing her a distraction. He's not getting out of it now. "Who are you?" Rh'mis is now occupied in conversation, and thus entirely unavailable to... whomever it was who just entered. Of course, he may well regret this momentarily - or indeed already. Too late. "You," he says, sounding utterly dubious, "Make absolutely no sense. Seriously." But he's stuck in this conversation now, even with his dinner to try and distract him. And so, "I'm Rhey. Who are you?" Evanthe's faces scrunches up just a touch at the accusation of senselessness, but after a moment's consideration she just nods. It's fair. She probably isn't. "Well, it doesn't matter anyways. I'll have to stitch it up, then she'll be all... arrrr, because it's not like it's going to look good." Grump, grump. She drops her feet from the chair next to her, and turns to thump her elbows down on the table and squint over at the dragonrider, giving him a proper evaluation now that her griping has drawn to a close. "That's not illuminating at all," she says to his introduction. OF course, she doesn't offer much more information in turn. "I'm Evanthe." No, that's not helping with the sense-making. Rhey... is pretty much at the point of staring, now, though he lifts his chin and manages not to scowl. "Who said I needed to be illuminating?" he counters, evenly. "Information is power." Actually, there's something akin to 'sulky teenager' in his expression as he says that last, his eyebrows drawing together like twin thunderclouds. "Evanthe. From Crom." Not a question. "Not very good with a needle, are you." Then they'll stare at each other. Stare and sulk at each other. "Didn't say you had to be, just said you weren't," Evanthe points out archly, playing a that game of pedantry that's fun for no one. "Knowledge is power?" She snorts. "You an evil mastermind in disguise or something?" The information he gleaned about /her/ gets an instant look of suspicion, and she mulls on it for a minute. Going back over her conversation with herself. Did she mention... nope, and she's just foolish enough to bite. "How'd you know that?" Pause. "Where are you from?" Pause. A dark glower is thrown towards the crumpled garment. "I'm shit with a needle. You?" Teenagers! So useless. "If I were an evil mastermind in disguise, I'd disguise my intentions much better," Rhey points out, dismissively, not bothering to disguise the disdain he obviously feels. He pauses, as if deciding whether to actually give her any information, or hold it over her, perhaps, all smug and self-righteous. Ultimately, however, he explains: "You sound like you're from Crom. It's in the vowels." Or maybe the consonants. In contrast, his accent is almost too neutral: he sounds like he could come from anywhere, or possibly nowhere. "Around," he says. "We're all High Reachian now, don't you know?" He sounds bitter. "And I was using hyperbole to make fun of your dramatic pronouncement," Evanthe says belligerently - she's not going to go and let someone talk down to her without going and doing it right back - that's how healthy relationships get started, right? His explanation about her accent gets a disgruntled sort of snort, and she leans back in her chair. "Fine. Good trick," she says - and don't think she doesn't try to play it back on him, but indeed, comes up with nothing. That tone at the end though, that perks her interest. "Woo, yeah, weyr pride," she says very convincingly. "Don't like it here?" "Big word for a little girl," says Rhey. He stabs his fork at a piece of tuber, mashing it rather than actually making any effort to eat; eating is clearly overrated, making him rather an unusual teenage boy. "It doesn't matter whether I like it here or not," he tells her, looking at his food rather than the blonde. "I can't leave." A carrot gets mashed into the tuber, gravy sloshed over the top of it. Very serious business. Evanthe bristles. It's noticeable, really, the way she tenses up. If she had fur it would be standing on end. "I'm /not/ a little girl," she says sharply. "And how old are you, anyway? Can't be much older'n me." She scowls fiercely at the tabletop, arms tight crossed over her chest - but despite her piquedness she still persists in conversing. Distraction, after all, so she doesn't have to go back to doing what she was doing. "Didn't ask if it mattered, just asked if you did. And why not? Why can't you leave? Doesn't look like you have armed guards following you around, evil mastermind." It's noticeable, and certainly noticed, though Rhey's expression barely shifts. "You're still littler than me." Trust a short man to pay attention to these things. As seems to be his wont, he bypasses the question about his age, focusing instead upon that last question, which does rather seem to be an overwhelmingly important piece of the puzzle. This time, he really does scowl. Something about the mention of armed guards has him flinching, too, despite himself. "Dragonriders," he announces, "Live in Weyrs. Whether they damn well want to or not." For such a secretive guy, he's being altogether too interesting to escape curiosity. Evanthe is examining him again now, lips pursed, and has for the moment abandoned the little argument. "Why?" she asks again, this time with a note of actual interest rather than just being a general pain-in-the-buttedness. "Why do they /have/ to? And, for that matter, why this one? Dragonriders transfer, don't they?" She frowns. "Wait, you're a rider? What's that like?" "I don't know, they just do." Rhey walked into this, and now that he's stuck under the headlights of Evanthe's questioning, he is very clearly regretting it. "Why would some other Weyr be any better? What's the fucking point?" The brownrider shoves his plate away from him, now, letting it slide dangerously close to the other side of the table. "It's a pain in the ass. He is a pain in the ass. That's what it's like." "Why would anywhere else be better either?" Evanthe persists, as persistant people are wont to do, completely ignoring his obvious reluctance to talk about it. "Everywhere's the bloody same." Are they agreeing? Arguing? So hard to tell. Something about that last answer seems, improbably, to please her. There's a flicker of a smile that lightens that sullen expression, if only for a moment. "Well. That's honest." Rh'mis studies Evanthe, now, making no bones about it: he steeples his fingers, then uses them to create a bridge for his chin to rest upon. "I used to have purpose," he says, coolly. "And now I don't." It would no doubt help if he explained that further, but he doesn't seem inclined to do so. How unsurprising. "You asked. I told. I'm allegedly an unusual case, though." Evanthe straightens unconsciously under the blatant scrutiny, lifting her chin just a touch, all little automatic gestures to try to make herself look a little less... small. She doesn't buy his complaint, though. It's obvious, see, in the wrinkling of her nose. "If you had purpose before, why can't you have the same purpose now? Thought riders were allowed to do... crafts... and stuff." Stuff and things. "'Course, I've never had any purpose, use, or general function, so. I know it damn well sucks." She shrugs, reaching absently for the rumpled cloth now that she's given enough time for her ire to wane a bit. "Didn't say it was bad, said it was honest. Not all the whimsy and flutteriness that I would have expected. I mean, even if you're an unusual case, c'mon... there's no body I've ever met that I'd /enjoy/ having around All The Time." And most probably would feel the same about her. "I'm not a crafter." Rhey delivers that blandly, without moving his chin from his hands. "And my cover is blown." He actually smiles as he says that, like it's all some colossal joke; it's hard to tell if it's intended to be anything more than that. More serious is his, "Dragons are... different." Except that with this, too, it's hard to tell if he's actually being serious, or just poker-faced. Perhaps it's not surprising that he makes no effort to insist that Evanthe just needs to find her purpose: he just gives her a long, sad look. It's back to condescending, at least in one interpretation of it. "Why are you here, anyway?" Evanthe narrows her eyes at that sudden change of demeanor, trying to determine just that - how serious is he, was he, and how much is he pulling her leg? Evidence inconclusive, she settles back with blatant suspicion on her face. Her response to his question of her is... well, not nearly as combative as it could be. She just looks at the sewing project in her hands, and mutters, "Fuck if I know." Something catches her eye this time, something in the direction of the inner caverns, and she gives a low groan. "I gotta go." Poor him. Rh'mis is, no doubt, deeply disappointed. Really. Actually, the way he blinks? He's a little taken aback by Evanthe's sudden desire - or at least decision - to depart. "Oh," he says, straightening, hands dropping back to the tabletop. "Well then. Go." See if he cares! Evanthe pushes her chair back from the table with a loud scrape, shoves the sewing bits under her arm - managing to poke herself with the needle again, prompting a muttered curse, and starts to just walk away. She stops though. Just real briefly, for a glance over her shoulder. "Hey. Thanks." Watch out, his tolerance may be construed as burgeoning friendship. "Hope things work out for you." Then a somewhat impatient voice calls her name, Evvy grits her teeth, and with a last long-suffering look at her barely willing conversational partner... she goes. |
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