Logs:Normal Is The Watchword
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| RL Date: 8 February, 2015 |
| Who: R'hin, Suireh, Bristia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: As is normal, things go well with father and daughter, until they don't. But they do manage to get down to business, eventually. |
| Where: Homestead Built For Two Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 13, Month 13, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Riahla/Mentions, Issedi/Mentions, Vesik/Mentions, Satiet/Mentions |
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The passageway leads between the two couches, the walls narrowing in until it's nothing but a corridor with darkness at the far end. A doorway leads off in each direction, the two rooms almost identical as far as size and shape are concerned: roughly oval, with aged tapestries covering raw stone almost the entire way around the room. They're easily large enough to house living quarters and bedroom each: to have both to one person would be pure luxury. Both rooms have doors with locks, as though occupants of this double weyr live together, but desire absolute privacy nonetheless. It's early on the morning of the thirteenth when a Fortian dragon appears from between and drops a harper off on this particular ledge. The woman who slides off gives her thanks, and a curt shake of her head when asked if she needs a ride back later, her slim body angling towards the passageway that leads past the two couches and into the rider's living quarters. Dark circles are ill-concealed by smattering of powder and fatigue etches lines deep about her eyes. There isn't a glance back for the dragonpair who depart shortly, and with the air of knowing just which door to open, Suireh attempts to open the left one and push through. While Leiventh doesn't darken the ledge, he is up on his normal spot on the rim, taking in the pale, wintry morning sunlight. A rush of warm air greets the harper when she opens the door, the hearth burning low by now. There's an empty bottle and glasses on the table, a few clothes strewn here and there on the floor, some of the feminine in nature. It's early enough that R'hin's still in bed, but then his daughter likely knows him well enough to know that. That arm that's hanging off the edge of the bed though, is not his, pale blonde head turned away towards the wall. "Get dressed," says Suireh curtly, "And get out. You're done here and I'm sure you had the time of your life and he rocked your world but he's not going to look for you again cause you're just an easy mark." There's no hello, how are yous, none of those niceties as the harper begins to gather clothes -- any clothes, she's not picky. Could be his, could be hers. They all get thrown on the bed. "Get out." There's stirring from within the bed, and two pairs of pale eyes stare at Suireh; one bemused, the other indulgent. It's the latter that belongs to the once-harper Bristia, the greenrider stretching lithely. "I remember when you used to be such a sweet girl, Suireh," she says with a yawn, as she sits up, the furs falling off her. "All pigtails and cookies, and runners." R'hin's chuckling under his breath, and, perhaps wisely, doesn't intervene, though he does grab for that pair of shorts that's thrown towards the bed, a little less blithe than his companion about parading around naked in front of his daughter. So many things to say, so many things to look at, and Suireh chooses to fixate on Bristia's breasts with an arched brow and silence. Better her breasts than any glimpse of her father's- well, nakedness. Her arms fold over her chest and she jerks her chin to the hallway. Out. And what nice breasts they are, indeed, the greenrider grinning. "She's still all about the runners. The others, less so," R'hin says, as Bristia stands, ignoring all that tossed clothing. Instead, she'll saunter her way out, naked, towards the door, across the few paces of freezing corridor, towards her own half of the weyr. Shorts now firmly pulled on, R'hin swings his legs to the edge of the bed, running a hand through tangled hair. "Riahla?" he guesses, for what would bring his errant daughter to his weyr at such an early hour. Some of Suireh's schoolmarm lack of charm eases when Bristia walks out. "I thought for sure she'd shave, but apparently you like it all hanging out there like a southern jungle," is said in the most pleasant of blandest tones, much as you'd expect someone to discuss the weather. "I don't speak with Riahla anymore," is all the woman says on the subject. "So no. You'll have to try again omnipresent father of mine." "I don't judge. It's not what it looks like, it's how it's used." Which is probably not a line of topic he wants to get into with his daughter, and especially not when he's barely awake. The grimace that's visible fades swiftly as R'hin rises, and moves towards the hearth to begin add a log, using the poker to stir up the flames a bit. He pauses there, crouched, looking over in surprise at her the notion that his two daughters don't talk, brow furrowed. "Did you two have a falling out?" Really? There's a slanted look with that arched brow she's so good at this morning. But when it seems like it's a real question and not a fishing expedition, Suireh shifts from foot to foot, her gaze darting away to the wall. "How did her bra get up there? And no. She just found another calling. One I just can't understand." There's a, perhaps odd, unplaceable tone in her father's voice as his attention goes back to the fire, and he says, "She still loves you." "Mmmhmmm." Cause speaking might make her voice falter in a way she doesn't like it to in front of her father. She bobs her torso to go along with the of course nod of her head to something she's heard often and doesn't quite believe. It buys her time to recompose herself at the very least, however silly it might look. The fire's doing well enough on it's own, and yet he lingers a moment longer. Perhaps, like father, like daughter, she's not the only one that needs a moment. Finally, R'hin stands, walking towards the wardrobe, fishing out a clean shirt and pants and pulling them on, though he doesn't button up the shirt yet. Time passes, and thankful for the silence, Suireh finally eases a breath out and moves. She moves to the door first, shutting it firmly, and turns. "If I gave you something, could you track down who owned it. Who bought it. Who sold it? Where it was procured? Are there ways to do this?" R'hin moves over to the wash basin, splashing water across his face, slinging the towel over his shoulder after he's done with it. "Of course. Depending on how unique it is, it can take time. The maker is probably easier than who bought it -- traders generally don't keep records for a reason." Of course he's curious, but he's patient, too, waiting for her to provide the details. The first words that are uttered are quiet, rewarding his patience, with verbal diarrhea. "She bled so much. I didn't think a person could bleed so much, which is ridiculous since I've seen bodies at Healer Hall and sat in on classes there. But she bled so much and it was all over and I just stood there not knowing what to do. Not able to do anything other than do my duty. And her child, it was a boy, you know?" No, he doesn't. "He didn't make it. Oh, daddy." If she could move now, she'd probably hurtle herself in his arms, but she can't move so she just kind of bursts into tears right there. R'hin pulls the towel -- drops it -- to the floor, as he walks towards Suireh. He doesn't say anything, just pulls her into a tight embrace, his head dropping to press a kiss to her head, exhaling a long breath. Given reason to go limp, she does, dead weeping weight against her father's chest. "I couldn't do anything," she sobs miserably. Two days of pent up -- this -- relieves itself into R'hin's shirt. It's a good thing he got a fresh one for her to cry into. "Oh, Sui," R'hin murmurs, his arms tightening. "There wasn't anything you could've done. I'm just glad you're--" he doesn't finish it, falling off into silence, his hand lifting to brush her hair. This is how it is for a good while longer. Suireh crying. R'hin being a father. Random what ifs. Until she's finally cried out and just standing there, all fatigued. "My face hurts," is what she finally says after some silence post-cry. R'hin brushes hair back from her face, and gives her forehead a kiss. "You're all splotchy. Your mom could never cry pretty, either. It made her mad and sad at the same time," he smiles, for a moment, then glances over his shoulder. "There's water over there. I'll get a fresh towel." He walks towards the press for that. For once in her life, maybe twice, Suireh is obedient and gets herself some water. And even sits, without being told, in the spot Bristia vacated. If she were of more sound and sane mind, she wouldn't have touched that spot with a ten foot pole, but... circumstances being what they are, she's there. So she has that water, but isn't drinking. She flinches at the mention of her mother and sidesteps that whole subject with, "I can't let you keep it, but there was talk of having some wooden replicas made so those we know can look." R'hin is, perhaps, bemused at her choice of seat, and, after a pause, walks over to sit beside her on the bed. "Ok," he says, gaze turned towards her, what he can see of her, from beside her. The satchel, limp against her side is dug into and a towel wrapped blade is withdrawn. There's no more blood on it, long wiped off after sketches were made and samples taken by the Healers. "Is it too generic to find anything about it?" Suireh ventures, holding the towel gingerly, like a little hammock for the knife and guides it over R'hin's lap. Take it. The bronzerider accepts the towel-wrapped package, carefully, frowning as he sees what's inside, and shooting his daughter a quick glance. With a sharp exhale, R'hin lifts the knife, using the towel as a lever, holding it up, twisting it this way and that, pressing a nail against the metal and holding it almost to his nose. "No stamps, so it's not officially smith-made -- not that that means much. There's plenty of apprentices, and others, who make blades for day-to-day use that aren't stamped. The steel is decent quality, though, so I'd guess it came from a smith." He glances up from his examination. "Are the gather tents still set up at the Hold?" "We tried to keep as many people at the Hold. But," Suireh, now that the knife is not in her hand is free to wave ineffectually, "Without the Lord's authorization and order, it was difficult. We did take a count of names, stalls, locations, shifts for our records. All the official craft stalls have their own account books and time tables of who manned what when." With business at hand, it's easier for Suireh's voice to grow detached, foreign in its businesslike tone. "If it was done as a crime of anger -- the knife might've been procured at the stalls themselves. Otherwise--" R'hin spreads his hands, before carefully wrapping the knife back up in the towel. "--it could take some time. Especially if you," with somewhat of an oddly proud grin, "You have to get this back before anyone notices." Of course this makes him proud. Suireh catches the look, something in it making her suddenly guffaw and half-laugh in a disbelieving way. "Don't think so highly of me. I threw my rank around to get it away for a little bit. But yes, I need to return it before the guards badger my harpers to death looking for it." Certainly, R'hin's not any less proud for that. "My bossy daughter," he says in a strangely fond tone, as he hands the towel-wrapped knife into her care. "Do you need us to take you?" The towel is slipped into her satchel again, the flap clasped shut. "Yes. If I can steal you away from your busy schedule." Suireh can't help the glance that slips to the door and across the way where Bristia is. "I-," her toe scuffs, literally, before she gets to her feet. "I... You should know that I'm to be made a Master at Turnover." With a snort, R'hin stands, walking over to his wardrobe to find a drier shirt. "A lesser man would suspect you chose the crack of nothing to come here on purpose, Suireh." While he so does love to appear omniscient, it's clear from the fluttering surprise visible briefly in her father's expression that it's news to him, before he turns to find his boots. "Are you?" there's an odd note, not so much pride as a wariness. It's all taken in: the odd note, the fluttering, the surprise. Suireh ignores it all and holds the satchel closer by hoisting up the shoulder strap further along her shoulder. Succinctly, "Yes. Shall we?" Their old standby, ignoring the moment of discomfort, seems a plan well-taken by R'hin, too. Grabbing his jacket, he heads for the door, holding it open for Suireh. Outside, the rush of wings is audible, the scrape of claws against the ledge as Leiventh alights in anticipation of their emergence. To ruin this moment or not. "I'm not sleeping with him. He wouldn't. I'm not sleeping with anyone. I'm... not you." Ruined. The feel of movement from behind her, as R'hin follows her down the short passage, ceases for a moment. Whatever reaction her father might've had to that is, perhaps mercifully, concealed by the fact that she's not looking at him as she says it, and by the time the reaches the ledge, his expression is closed, neutral. Habit makes him climb Leiventh's side quickly, just as habit makes him offer that hand to her, albeit wordlessly. And they're back to the status quo, another awkward moment ignored. Suireh is silent the rest of the trip back to High Reaches Hold, but those arms of hers are actually holding him at his waist in an action reminiscent of the childhood Bristia spoke of earlier. And is that snoring? And her head against his back? Can someone really fall asleep that quickly? Maybe that's drool too. The cold of between might serve to determine whether it's fact or fiction, only a single wingbeat after Leiventh drops from the ledge. He circles, low, rumbling felt as he greets the watch dragon, Haibroth, before settling into the courtyard. He twists to look at Suireh -- to nudge her awake, if she needs it, to wordlessly help her down either way. The cold of between is enough to snap anyone awake and by the time they're at High Reaches Hold and in the courtyard, Suireh's awake. "Thanks. Sorry about, well no. Give Bristia my regards." For a half second, she looks like she might lean forward to give him a hug before she drops, but no, the moment passes and she's slipping down Leiventh's side and walks into the hold. Strangely, there's no immediate departure as is his habit. Instead, the bronze and rider wait, until the harper is safely inside the hold proper, before they depart. How fatherly! |
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Comments
K'del (02:34, 9 February 2015 (EST)) said...
Oh, man. I love this. Suireh showing vulnerability; R'hin being fatherly. <3
Roz (15:17, 9 February 2015 (EST)) said...
This was a really great read! /Southern jungle/. New favorite phrase~
Edyis (17:17, 9 February 2015 (EST)) said...
I almost feel sorry for him, but Surieh's attitude is just too much fun to read.
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