Logs:Sweet
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 13 February, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Rafevan |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A smith and a laundress share thoughts at the bar. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 1, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Snowy. Windy. |
| Mentions: Tevrane/Mentions, Devaki/Mentions, Issedi/Mentions |
| |
The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former
weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its
convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from
the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor,
and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick
and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.
Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth
tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a
low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery
and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light
colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm
autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter
the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools
stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window
to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear
view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light
of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern. Early evening in the Snowasis is a picture of normalcy: wings gathered around tables, laughing and carrying on, weyrfolk intermingling, and there's always that annoying couple making out in the booth in the back. But at the bar, it's crowded and thick with bodies trying to be the first to get their drink order in. Towards the end of the bar, there's a couple of empty seats, and then there's Farideh, leaning forward with her arms on the bar top, cross-legged on top of her stool. She's twirling an empty shot glass between her fingers, eyeing the hurried movements of the bartenders as they try to pour drinks amid catcalls and shouts of "hey, over here!" And then there's a new person sliding in next to Farideh, smoothly filling a recently vacated opening there at the bar. Her empty glass is eyed first, then the crowd trying to get drinks; Rafevan sighs. "I expect I should have known turnover was a bad night to come out," he remarks. It's the sigh that brings her eyes around to Rafevan. "It isn't a terrible wait. They'll get down here, eventually. Of course, the better you tip them, the faster they come," Farideh notes, settling her chin on her balled up fist. "You could flash them a significant mark piece and see what happens," her mouth curling into a puckish smile. "Mm. I suppose that's one option," Rafevan agrees with that much, though he sounds a little dubious about it. He turns to lean against the bar and look over the woman next to him, from dark hair to worn clothing and back. "Is that what you normally do?" Slim brows lift in answer to his appraisal, Farideh's smile broadening into a teeth-filled grin. "I'm a laundress. I can barely afford the occasional drinks I do have, much less to tip extravagantly. No, I have to sit and wait like mostly everyone else. I still," with a purposeful glance down the bar, to the other patrons, "notice what other people do to get what they want, though." "Fair enough. I'm but a lowly apprentice," Rafevan concedes the point himself, glancing down the bar to its tenders. Then, around the bar. "How do you feel about other people's drinks?" he wonders, one brow arched curiously. It's hard to tell if that's a serious question or not, but he definitely does tip his head back to indicate a raucous, trashed group leaving from one table: they're leaving a host of half-finished drinks behind. The question earns a barely perceptible narrowing of her eyes. "Other people's drinks," the brunette repeats slowly, and then presses her lips together, gaze flicking to the newly-abandoned table. "I suppose it can't harm anything. We'd be keeping them from getting anymore drunk, and possibly taking unimaginable risks, wouldn't we?" But even as she speaks the words, Farideh's already trying to slip off her stool. She gives Rafevan an expectant look; it was his idea. "Excuse me, miss," Rafevan says then, drawing away from his place at the bar next to her. He slinks over to the table, swiping up a couple of the fullest mugs and then wandering back toward Farideh. He's either naturally that surreptitious or has done this before. He elbows his way back into his spot, and sets one down in front of Farideh. "An apprentice trick of ours," he explains then, as he eyes his own selection, swirls it a couple of times, and then drinks. "One learns to make do however you can when you're fourteen and your Masters are convinced drinking and blacksmithing is a poor combination." One foot has already made it to the floor, but that's all that gets down before her surprised eyes turn to watch the apprentice rob the table of its drinks and return to the bar. "I could have helped," Farideh half sighs, half laughs, and is still happy to rearrange herself on her stool. "I, for one, am happy your craft afforded you such experiences." She grabs the leftover mug he's gotten for her and holds it out, despite his already having drank from his. "We should toast. To--" Her nose wrinkles. "Opportunities?" Rafevan drawls, "Within those hallowed halls I have learned many secrets." He'll toast with her, though, as he leans against the bar--a stool, he hasn't managed to steal just yet. But rather than her brief one, he amends it to, "To making your own." Toast, and drink. "So, you're a smith apprentice? Here?" With the toasting complete and the first sip over with - and she hasn't died of communicable disease yet! - Farideh leans her elbows on the bar again, cradling her mug in one hand and her chin in the other. "I always thought smiths were so dull." She lifts her brows again, trying to silently communicating her wrongness. "What's your name? You look kind of familiar, but--" Trailing off, she resumes delicately sipping her drink. "Here," Rafe confirms with a nod. He takes another slow sip of his pilfered drink, still keeping half an eye on the bartender: this works to take the edge off, but it's not a permanent solution, apparently. "I've found the Woodcrafters the most dull, in my experience. Or the Tanners, though there's something about kneading animal brains into their skins that draws a very peculiar sort. --Rafevan," the latter for her question. "Rafe." "They're all a bit dull," the laundress says spritely, and promptly scrunches up her nose for his 'animal brains' comment. "Rafe-- hello, nice to meet you." Farideh looks entirely satisfied with her singular drink, but then again, she's been drinking at the bar since before the smith got there. "I'm Farideh. Just don't call me Fari," since he's into nicknames and all. "Where are you from?" She's makes assertions while she stares at him curiously over the rim of her mug. "False," is Rafe's smug rejoinder to that snipe. "We smiths are quite exciting. There's fire involved." As though this were the only qualification necessary for 'excitement.' When the woman next to him finally gets up for a few, he hooks a foot on the leg of her stool and tugs it over his way to sit down next to Farideh. "The Smith Hall, did we not just establish? Or did you mean originally? I'm assuming you to be weyrbred, of course, because who would come here to be a laundress." "I don't think of fire when I think of smiths. I think of lots of tools and figuring things out." That could be a compliment. "Originally," Farideh supplies, unfailingly pleasant. "I assume you weren't born there." And she might have had more opinions on Rafevan's birth, but she's bursting into bubbly laughter, using her hand to shield her mouth. "Weyrbred? Tragically, no. I'm from Igen, originally. A Hold, and I did come here to become a laundress. Not a laundress specifically, but then, I don't have any viable skills like you seem to have." Rafevan tips his head to that, and takes another drink; he's going to be finished with his pilfered beer shortly, but at least the bartender is finally headed their way. Rafe lifts a hand to hail his attention now. "Really, Igen." He sounds surprised, fair brows lifted when he looks back at Farideh again. "Did you come as the personal assistant to our new Weyrwoman, then?" he asks, dryly amused at the idea. "Really." Her expression is marked by confusion, perhaps at his surprise, but her amusement dissipates and is replaced by somberness. "No." Shifting on her stool, Farideh takes a long sip from her mug, and frowns at the bartender. "I've been here for at least a turn, and she's only just arrived." Rafevan's smile is mild, but somehow it's just the type that seems like it's hiding a laugh at someone's expense. But the bartender arrives then--finally--and he's putting in an order without asking for her thoughts: two whiskeys, please. Then, turning back to her, he notes, "Then you've been here as long as I have, and you have my deepest apologies for not introducing myself sooner." Farideh watches and listens, while Rafevan orders more drinks. "Whiskey." Her lips twist unpleasantly, but she doesn't refute the order; a drink is a drink, apparently. "It's not like we'd have many occasions to meet. I'm stuck in the laundry cleaning strange stains out of fabric and you're busy--" Her thumb and two forefingers rub together. "Playing with fire," coupled with a smile. "We've met now, and we've even toasted. It seems we're on the road to being such fast friends." Except that later bit is a tad sardonic, even if she's still smiling. For Farideh's revulsion, Rafevan gives her a funny look, as though he doesn't quite understand. Then, enlightenment: "Oh, I'm sorry, did you want something?" he wonders, head tilting just so in perfect innocence. "I thought it best to double up, if I can't be assured of when he might return again." Widened hazel eyes lift to Rafevan, bright pops of color blossoming in the apples of her cheeks, in accordance. "Oh. No." Farideh is quick to avert her gaze, plopping her chin back up on her fist, and seeking another topic to divert from her obvious embarrassment. "Where you're from. Originally. You never said," trying too hard to be casual. Rafevan, equally casual, "Nabol, originally. My family has some orchards in the region." Then the bartender is returning with the ordered drinks, setting them down in front of Rafe, who looks askance to Farideh then. "Did you want one, then? Or shall we order you something else while we have the barkeep captive." Other people might be clamoring for attention, too, but Rafe doesn't seem to mind keeping the man hanging for a few moments at least. "I hope they weren't harass by those thieves." Farideh can't help but sneak a little sideways glance to watch for a reaction. "I heard they were awful." She refocuses her eyes on the bartender, her blush not yet gone, and after a brief silence, nods her head. "I'll," distinction, "have something less hard. Sweet." Her order taken care of, her hand moves to prop up her cheek, her face turned towards the smith. "I would have picked you for a Benden man, with the fair hair," and a gesture, with her free hand, to her own. "We weathered the Troubles well, all things considered," is Rafevan's diplomatic answer to that. "Though we're not overly near the main Hold, and that helps. --Is Benden so fair? I've known a few from the area but I've never taken a census of their coloring, admittedly. I'll defer to your expertise. Did you glean the evidence from their pillows?" Rafeman's diplomatic answer gets a lingering stare, a single brow quirked, before Farideh's picking up her mug and draining the rest of its contents, in anticipation for whatever the bartender concocts next. "Benden is, and you would think High Reaches too if you took into account Devaki and Issedi's coloring, and their issue." She gives him a thoughtful smile, "No. Not from their pillows." By then, her attention's flown to the bartender again. Rafevan, of that, "High Reaches Hold. But the other areas of the Reaches, no. Tillek, of course, is very different; Crom, too. And my own Nabol, thanks to our previous Lord may he rest in piece, doesn't even know what it should be at this point." The idea twists his mouth wryly, just visible over his drink as he takes another sip. The bartender, returning, drops Farideh's off for her as well, something warm and sweet to turn back the bite of winter; the bill, Rafevan will apparently cover. "No, just High Reaches Hold, but you don't recognize Lady Tevrane?" Rather than be surprised, or angered, there's a contemplative furrow to her brow when she looks at Rafevan. "You don't have to pay for it. I can." Farideh studies the smith, as if trying to pick his angle, and hesitates on actually picking up her drink, though her fingers rest comfortably on the rim. "I recognize her, though I don't note the relevance as yet?" It lilts into a question, coupled with that arched brow he does so well, and then seques into another. "Don't I? After I've lured you to conversation, encouraged you to drink swill, and placed you on the spot to order your own?" His questions prompt her eyes into narrowing suspiciously, continuing that silent studying of him, like she's trying to figure something out. "You're very confusing," is what Farideh says in the end, picking up her glass and having a sip or three. Rafevan, meanwhile, seems almost ignorant of the scrutiny, busying himself with his drinking. One down, one to go. "I apologize," he says after a beat, cutting his eyes back her direction. He strives for a certain blandness of expression that's not entirely convincing. "I'll endeavor to be more straightforward in the future, as befits my gender. Shall that suffice, miss? I hope so, for my wardrobe's sake." "Do what you please." A long suffering sigh follows, and Farideh's grabbing her drink, unfolding in preparation for getting down from the bar stool. "I don't ruin clothes just because. I have a care for my job. Besides, if I wanted to prove a point, I'd probably throw my drink in your face. Fortunately--" She's happily holding onto said drink, on her own two feet, and wiggling her fingers at Rafevan in a wave. "Thank you for the drink." "Nonsense. That drink is far too good to waste in such a fashion." This, then, is what Rafe disapproves of: the waste of good liquor. Still, tab taken care of, he's sliding off his seat in an apparent gesture of politeness rather than intent to stalk her. "Have a good evening, Farideh, and thank you for indulging with me." Farideh's head tilts to the side at his politeness, but all she does is tip her chin to him, her smile vaguely quizzical. She lifts her glass, in a last silent toast, and then meanders her way away from the bar, into the thick of the crowd, eventually disappearing out of the Snowasis entrance. |
Leave A Comment