Logs:Turnday Present
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| RL Date: 21 June, 2014 |
| Who: R'hin, Suireh |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Father and daughter have a lot of history to work through. Suireh has a request for her Turnday present. |
| Where: Harper Hall, Fort Area |
| When: Day 18, Month 1, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Satiet/Mentions, Riahla/Mentions |
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| The afternoon sun is unable to beat winter's chill in melting any of the snow banks shoveled into piles in the Harper Hall courtyard. Apprentices chat, loitering about the courtyard, on a rare (and likely cherished) afternoon off, no strings attached. This hasn't stopped the most ambitious of students from practicing, the sounds of gitars being plucked and voices rising up and down filtering from the high windows of the Hall. Even journeymen are on the receiving end of this day off: to enjoy the sunshine, to do their own work, or to take even rarer moments of quiet and do absolutely nothing. The latter describes Suireh, the slender woman having claimed an entire stone bench for herself. It's not that she's set anything onto the seat, she's merely centered herself and her Harper blue mantle on it. It may be her aloofness that keeps others at bay, or the fact she seems utterly lost in thought, eyes glazed and a lack of acknowledgement for any who pauses and passes by. It's not at all uncommon for visitors to come seeking the harper archives -- for clearer copies of their own records, or to track down an old song, or records from a past age. R'hin's dressed in his riding leathers, keeping pace with one of the archivists as they start to cross the courtyard. The taller rider's gaze flickers around, and pauses briefly on the figure on the bench. With a quiet word to his harper companion, they shake hands, and the Reachian changes direction, the crunch of boots against snow warning the Journeyman Harper of the approach of someone daring to challenge that aloof demeanor. Warnings are for naught for someone lost in thought, and once closer, it may become more apparent that there's a sheaf of papers getting crumpled in one hand, just visible between the opening of the cloak. Suireh's fingers are whitened, so tight is her clench of those sheets that even the cold can't redden the exposed skin. She is, also, not altogether silent the closer R'hin might get, a litany of mouthed 'fucks' given the barest flicker of audible life. "Has the paper been that naughty to deserve such treatment?" R'hin's low-pitched voice holds that light tone of amusement, though pale eyes have undoubtedly noted the white-knuckling, given his eyes are settled on Suireh's face. There's a hint of concern visible in the crinkle of his forehead as he looks down at the girl, rather than moving closer. There's no sign of Leiventh on the fireheights, or in the courtyard. In moments of vulnerability, it's always the first action afterwards that's the most real and this fact of human nature is one Suireh complies with in an involuntary flush of shame superseding the chill on her cheeks and startled eyes casting away from where the voice comes. It's only seconds really, a few breaths of discombobulation after which she seems to find her composure -- some semblance of presence once more. "The way you say that sometimes, father, makes me wonder if you forget I'm your daughter occasionally." Tart, with just the slightest wobble. "If these papers deserve this treatment, you can rest assured they were that naughty." There's a low, fond sort of chuckle from R'hin after a moment, taking the response in stride: "As if either of you would let me forget." The 'either' undoubtedly meaning her and Riahla. "Or would you prefer that I scoop you up into my arms and whirl you around in the air like when you were upset when you were little?" he tips his head, as if considering doing just that, even taking two steps to bring him within arms' reach, holding out his hands in offer. "Would that improve or destroy your reputation?" Suireh's breath catches, the fog of the warmth hitting and then being retracted from the air quite visible, even if it might not be heard as a frisbee and the giggling delight of an apprentice chasing after it coincides with her reaction. "Were we ever that young?" wonders the harper journeyman aloud. And more importantly, the look the daughter slants her father is one of complete dubiousness, "Were you ever that simple?" There's a long pause, during which R'hin's hands are tucked back into the pockets of his jacket. "It was simple to make you smile at me when you were little," the bronzerider says, his expression carefully neutral. "To make you happy." "It would make me happy now if you would sit," says Suireh. She'll even scoot down the bench so she's not quite smack dab center and while doing so, flattens the papers on her lap script side down and folds them before they're tucked into an inner pocket of her cloak. "Business or pleasure? Or," she pauses, considering the bronzerider by her side with far more dubiousness than before (who knew that was possible), "Me?" The brief hesitation might well depict his doubt of her statement, and yet her father takes a step over and sinks onto the bench next to her. R'hin takes in her folding and tucking away of the papers with a twitch of lips. Instead of answering her question, he exhales a breath before asking, "How many performances -- with invited guests -- would you say you've done since you've come to Harper?" The answer is prompt: "Two hundred sixty-one, not including pick up performances where I show up unannounced to perform. Then," Suireh's mouth shapes crookedly, reminiscent of her mother, "There's no invitation on either side at that point. Why?" It's clear once she's asked she wished she hadn't, but it's done. "Of those two-hundred and sixty-one performances, how many do you think I've seen?" R'hin is watching a pair of apprentices on the far side of the courtyard. Less prompt, but there is one nonetheless: "Seven." Except, unlike before, the harper lacks conviction in this. Suireh's pale eyes fix onto R'hin, unwavering in its quizzical, possibly even tentatively hopeful light. "Seven." R'hin echoes her tone almost precisely, rather than confirming. A low exhale escapes him as he tugs a hand through his hair. "Suireh, I know you always felt that your mother and I had... expectations of you. I never wanted you to feel the pressure of knowing I was out there. The harpers grew used to me sneaking into the back, and sneaking out before the end. Once, I'd gotten into some... trouble, and bled on the floor until one of the Journeyman noticed and ushered me over to Healer Hall. Sometimes, there wasn't enough time, and I won't claim I've seen every performance. But I saw your first performance, right here at Harper Hall. I saw the one when you and that gangly boy did a duet. When you sang Moreta's tale at the end of Turn performance at the Hold. When Master Vesik sang with you. When you sung the first song you wrote. When there was that gaffe with the lighting and you sang to a dark room. The day you were sick and losing your voice and all but fainted away at the end." He names only seven, by no coincidence, but with specific recall. The hopeful light dims at the litany of occurrences at her performances, some all but forgotten by even the performer. This revelation should give way to enlightenment or pleasure in Suireh's eyes, but instead, they remain flat. An involuntary hand lifts, tucking itself under her cloak and sliding it up along her other arm, or perhaps to pass over the sheets of paper folded so neatly in there. The details of what that hand does seems to matter little when her face finally reanimates, bringing her voice along for the ride: "So. Seven. I was right." Never mind the seven performances he was officially at. "And how many," she asks, her voice sardonic, "Do you think my mother's seen? Don't answer that, I don't think I'd want to know. Haunted from the grave to the end." There's a long pause, her arms twitching beneath her cloak, before an impulsiveness claims her and she's throwing her arms around R'hin's torso like the little girl she once was. Another, briefer pause, yet R'hin doesn't dispute the assertion. "My little girl is always right," is what he ends up saying, moments before she throws her arms around him. There's no pause this time; his own arm stretches around Suireh, his other hand reaching up to brush against her hair. Oh, how embarrassing. His little girl. Later, Suireh might beat her head in a wall for being in a position to be called that in public, but right now, just for this moment, she's basking in a very long postponed reconciliation. At least he doesn't pick up her and whirl her around like a rider on her dragon. A long pause, then R'hin murmurs: "You and Riahla's turnday is coming up in a few sevens. What do you want to do?" It's probably the first time he's asked -- normally there's just trinkets or gifts left in the nick of time. A long moment passes, a tangible surprise hanging in the air between them, and Suireh's pale eyes consider R'hin when she pulls away. "I-, I... I would like a pony." So much she could ask for and so much she must want to do for that day and she comes up with this: a long time childhood joking dream. "Then you shall have the finest one," R'hin replies, with a sudden curve of lips, his hand brushing some hair from her face as she pulls away. "What were you going to name it? Lady Suihoof?" "We never thought that far," says Suireh, a laugh threatening in the back of her throat. "Riahla and I, we just wanted a pony and it never... happened. Not when she was around, and not afterwards. "You'd never have been able to share. I would've had to have gotten two." There's a low chuckle from R'hin, tipping his head to regard her with pale eyes. "There's nothing to stop you having one, now. "No, there isn't. Not now, but life gets busy, I rarely would have time to ride and-, what I really want for my birthday I don't know you could get me." Suireh looks at R'hin. "There are impossibilities, even for you, Kingmaker," quoth the harper, perhaps from some script hidden in the archives. "Don't mock me for my request. I know you will in your hearts, but don't mock me right now and ruin this moment. I would like a name, which might be within your means. A dragonrider who was present at the Ruathan Lord's turnday concert a few turns back." R'hin scoffs, briefly -- not at the title she bestows on him so much as her indication there are things even he cannot discover. The glittering of pale eyes suggests he's interested in the why, but he doesn't ask. Instead, he leans forward: "Do you have a description? Did they come with any other people? Who did they talk to?" "He talked to me," is all Suireh can supply, a ghost of a sardonic smile surfacing. "It doesn't have to be for my birthday this year. It can be for my birthday next if you think this will be more troublesome than I thought it might be. Don't all you dragonrider folk know each other off the top of your head?" Tease and self-mocking for not being a dragonrider roll up into that one rhetorical inquiry. "I should go. The Masterharper requires a report of me before dinner of the situation at Igen Hold." "And... you had your eyes closed while you were doing so?" R'hin clucks his tongue, but he's smiling. "At least grace me with a description. If I know you, you took notes." Suireh's mouth presses down, almost in a pout with the lower lip protruding out as she considers R'hin's request. "I'll have Bit out at High Reaches later today with my sketch." Because yes, that is what she'd do: a sketch made from notes and memory. "Then you shall have a name for your Turnday," R'hin says, as he rises. Pausing a moment, he stoops to press a kiss to the top of Suireh's head, although there's no verbal farewell as he strides off across the courtyard. |
Comments
Alida said...
So sweet...and slightly bitter. Enjoyable mix/interaction. :)
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